Fierce: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy
Author: Mercedes Lackey
Date: 2015-03-10 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Anthologies
Description: **USA Today Bestseller** Only available through April 2015!Join epic fantasy legend Mercedes Lackey and fifteen additional New York Times, USA Today, and Amazon bestselling authors on the adventure of a lifetime!Over one million words and sixteen realms of fantasy brought together for your reading pleasure. Discover courageous characters fighting for justice and order. Journey between kingdoms of dragons and lands of anarchy as tales of magic and mayhem unfold.
Publisher: Novel Bundle Services

Contents

FIERCE Copyright Page

Published by Novel Bundle Services, LLC

Cover page

- Moving Targets

- Story

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Mageborn: The Blacksmith’s Son

- Prologue

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Chosen

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Chapter XXVI

- Chapter XXVII

- Chapter XXVIII

- Chapter XXIX

- Chapter XXX

- Chapter XXXI

- Chapter XXXII

- Chapter XXXIII

- Chapter XXXIV

- Chapter XXXV

- Chapter XXXVI

- Chapter XXXVII

- Chapter XXXVIII

- Chapter XXXIX

- Chapter XL

- Chapter XLI

- Chapter XLII

- Chapter XLIII

- Chapter XLIV

- Chapter XLV

- Chapter XLVI

- Chapter XLVII

- Chapter XLVIII

- Chapter XLIX

- Chapter L

- Chapter LI

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- A Quest of Heroes - Book #1 in the Sorcerer’s Ring

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Chapter XXVI

- Chapter XXVII

- Chapter XXVIII

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Whill of Agora

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Chapter XXVI

- Chapter XXVII

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Requiem's Song - Dawn of Dragons, Book #1

- LAIRA

- RAEM

- LAIRA

- JEID

- RAEM

- TANIN

- ISSARI

- LAIRA

- MAEV

- ANGEL

- JEID

- LAIRA

- SENA

- ISSARI

- JEID

- LAIRA

- ANGEL

- TANIN

- ISSARI

- LAIRA

- ISSARI

- TANIN

- LAIRA

- RAEM

- TANIN

- LAIRA

- TANIN

- ISSARI

- LAIRA

- JEID

- LAIRA

- JEID

- MAEV

- LAIRA

- SENA

- JEID

- ISSARI

- RAEM

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Bound

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Chapter XXVI

- Chapter XXVII

- Chapter XXVIII

- Chapter XXIX

- Chapter XXX

- Chapter XXXI

- Chapter XXXII

- Chapter XXXIII

- Chapter XXXIV

- Chapter XXXV

- Chapter XXXVI

- Chapter XXXVII

- Chapter XXXVIII

- Chapter XLIX

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Pariahs

- Prologue

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Epilogue

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Fire Seer - A Coalition of Mages Novel

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Chapter XXVI

- Chapter XXVII

- Chapter XXVIII

- Chapter XXIX

- Chapter XXX

- Chapter XXXI

- Chapter XXXII

- Chapter XXXIII

- Chapter XXXIV

- Chapter XXXV

- Chapter XXXVI

- Chapter XXXVII

- Chapter XXXVIII

- Chapter XXXIX

- Chapter XL

- Chapter XLI

- Chapter XLII

- Chapter XLIII

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Legends of Dimmingwood, Book #1 - Magic of Thieves

- A Beginning

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Not An Ending, But A Resting Place

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Weight of Blood

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Epilogue

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Bear Heart

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Afterword

K.J. Colt Books

Future Bundles

- Poison - A Fate’s Forsaken Prequel

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Maskmaker’s Apprentice

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- The Dark Citadel

- Prologue

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Afterword

Future Bundles

- Blades of Magic: Book I

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

- Chapter V

- Chapter VI

- Chapter VII

- Chapter VIII

- Chapter IX

- Chapter X

- Chapter XI

- Chapter XII

- Chapter XIII

- Chapter XIV

- Chapter XV

- Chapter XVI

- Chapter XVII

- Chapter XVIII

- Chapter XIX

- Chapter XX

- Chapter XXI

- Chapter XXII

- Chapter XXIII

- Chapter XXIV

- Chapter XXV

- Afterword

Future Bundles

Published by Novel Bundle Services, LLC
www.novelbundles.com

Cover Copyright © 2015 Novel Bundle Services, LLC

FIERCE

16 Adventure Fantasy Books

Mercedes Lackey

Michael G. Manning

K. F. Breene

Morgan Rice

Michael James Ploof

Daniel Arenson

Kate Sparkes

David Adams

Amy Raby

C. Greenwood

David Dalglish

K. J. Colt

Shae Ford

Endi Webb

Michael Wallace

Terah Edun

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MOVING TARGETS

Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon

Story

HERALD ELYN REFRAINED FROM TEARING her hair out. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to these four. They’d been assigned to her in a bunch when they’d all first been Chosen. They’d gotten into trouble in and around Haven as a group, and now, four years later, it would have been reasonable to assume that this foursome was beyond being able to surprise her.

It would be reasonable to assume that. Reasonable, but unfortunately, wrong.

Elyn stared at the wagon, hoping it was an hallucination. It wasn’t.

It was a traders-caravan built to the specifications of a rich man with vague notions of “the romance of the open road.” So it was big; big enough that it took two stout horses to pull it. Expensive leaf springs sandwiched between wishbone axles peeked from behind carved, bentwood coachwork. It was luxuriously appointed within. And without—

It was yellow. Bright yellow. And there were flowers painted on it, scrolling around the windows and door. The roof was red.

Elyn groaned silently. Heralds were supposed to try to be inconspicuous. Hard enough when you were wearing a white uniform that screamed “I’m the Herald! Shoot me first!” But with this? They’d look like a lot of traveling actors. Or clowns. Would people even believe they were Heralds and not just entertainers dressed up as Heralds?

“We could have it repainted,” said Trainee Laurel helpfully, gleefully gesturing at the wagon and then standing with one hand on her hip. “In fact, we probably should. White, with a blue roof. And with the crest of Valdemar on the side. The people would love that!” Elyn had to admit that she was probably right about that last part. Laurel was a pretty thing with abundant red hair, kind hearted, with a formidable Gift that was from some place in the Empathy family. She could make anyone like her and want to do what she wanted. Fortunately, she had a strong code of ethics. Unfortunately, she tended to think the best of everyone. They’d quickly learned not to allow her any say in judgments after she pleaded in favor of a violent murderer who had been caught literally red-handed by saying that his mother didn’t think he’d do that kind of thing.

Repaint it white. As if that will make us less of a moving target? At least no enemy would ever take this wagon seriously. “We don’t have time,” Elyn said, truthfully. “It would have to be sanded down to the bare wood, otherwise everything else will bleed right through.”

“Blue. Dark blue. Solid dark blue, no decorations, and I already have the paint and rounded up the workmen,” Trainee Alma trotted up with two of the palace carpenters in tow, each of them carrying two buckets of dark blue paint. “I calculated it very carefully. One coat will do it. Night Blue cut one-to-three with Sky Blue has a drying index of six candlemarks, with a twelve-candlemark cure, and has an unprimed saturation well within limits. There will be plenty of time for it to dry before we leave tomorrow.” She waved a clipboard of papers, and punctuated her statement with a firm nod which proclaimed that questioning her figures was inadvisable under pain of explanation. Boyish, bookish Alma had been an Artificer-in-training before she had been Chosen; she made up for Laurel’s lack of practicality and then some. Strong-willed, rock-steady, and blindingly intelligent, she was always searching for the most ordinary explanation for the extraordinary. She also had no discernible Gift. Elyn sometimes wondered if that was because Alma herself had not yet mathematically proven she had one.

“Aww. Do we have to paint it?” Trainee Arville asked plaintively. “I think it’s nice.” He was the tallest young man Elyn had ever seen, but you would never know it, because he was always slouching. He always looked a little unkempt. Not dirty, but untidy. Except when in his Whites, he could only be found in faded earth-tone field-laborer clothes, none of which seemed to be his size even if they were. Elyn knew he didn’t do it out of carelessness, nor because he was slovenly. It was as if everything he put on immediately had a mind of its own, and that mind was half-asleep.

His Gift was as powerful as Laurel’s, and as odd. It was a rare Gift, and extremely difficult to train for. Luck. He could trip and fall and come up not only unhurt, but clutching something useful, important, or occasionally even valuable. He was almost never hit during fighting practice, not because he was good, but because his opponents always made inexplicable mistakes. Small children and animals adored him.

“Yes, Arville, we do,” Alma said firmly. “Otherwise no one will take us seriously.”

The fourth member of the quartet shrugged. “I doubt Father would care if we painted it pink,” Trainee Rod pointed out. Laurel opened her mouth to speak but when Elyn shot Laurel a look that said don’t even think it, she decided against it. Rod continued. “I doubt he even knows what color it is now. He probably just threw money at a bunch of coach-makers and said ‘Build me the best traveling van anyone has ever seen.’ What matters is that the horses he sent along are terrific.” Trainee Rod…or rather, Rod’s father…was wealthy enough that he could do things like that. Rod should have been spoiled rotten. He wasn’t. Rod’s father should have been livid that he was Chosen, but he wasn’t. Guildmaster Fredrich of the Goldsmith Guild was so proud of his son he nearly burst every time he looked at the young man. Then again, that handsome boy, blond and blue-eyed, certainly had a face and body that seemed created to wear a Herald’s Uniform.

And Rod certainly did not have the head to be a Goldsmith, much less a Master, and even less a Guildmaster. His younger brother had seemingly inherited all the real cunning in the family, as Rod had inherited the looks, so when the Big White Talking Horse showed up it was actually a relief all around.

Not that he was stupid, he just wasn’t nearly intelligent enough to succeed in the business as his father had; he was certainly no match for his brother or Alma when it came to feats of outright logic, and only had a casual consumer’s understanding of market forces. But he was clever about mechanical things, and most importantly for a Herald, absolutely determined to do the right thing, and doggedly persistent about seeing that it got done.

As more than one senior Herald had remarked to Elyn, together the four made one perfect Herald. But then again, how many “perfect” Heralds were there?

Most of us just bumble along trying to do the best we can.

She knew perfectly well why the four of them had been assigned to her. Her patience was legendary, and these four needed legendary patience.

“All right Alma, that solution will probably work. Please go ahead and repaint the wagon, gentlemen,” she continued, addressing the workmen, then turned to the four ill-assorted soon-to-be-Heralds. “And you lot, get packed, get your new Whites, and get some sleep. We have a long way to go and I doubt very much that any of you has ever had any experience in driving a wagon.”

They all shrugged sheepishly. She snorted. “Something Rod’s father did not think about. Fortunately, I have. And before this is over, each of you will be an expert in everything from harnessing to fixing a broken wheel single-handedly in the pouring rain.”

From the shocked looks on their faces she could tell that all they had considered was that they were going to have a nice, comfortable, warm place to sleep on this circuit, rather than having to camp in the open or find themselves crammed five into a Waystation made for two at most. It had never occurred to them that a wagon and its team were objects that required care-and-repair, which was one reason why Heralds seldom used them. Usually, when Heralds needed a wagon, they hired one on, driver and all.

The only reason she was even considering using this rolling house was because this circuit was all in farming country. Flat, level land for the most part; plenty of forage for the horses, and good roads. It was something of a choice circuit to get if you liked things to be mostly uneventful. She’d gotten it on this trip precisely because she had four, rather than one or two, to nursemaid through their first year in Whites.

And hopefully, by the time they got to the section of the circuit that bordered on the Pelagir Hills, it would be late enough in autumn that any trouble from there would be tucking itself up to hibernate for the winter.

And if it isn’t inclined to hibernate... She squared her shoulders and headed for the suite of rooms she shared with them. Well, that is when we find out what these four are made of—and if I did my job.

Elyn pulled at her earlobe a little and stared at the wagon. For once, Alma had miscalculated, it seemed—or else the pigment in that paint wasn’t what she had thought. A single coat of blue paint had indeed been applied evenly and thoroughly over the entire wagon yesterday, with the end result being that the wagon now was blue...more or less. Not so much a Heraldic blue as a shade resembling water, or a bird’s egg, or the sky under certain conditions. And the vines and flowers had bled through too. It was less garish than it had been, but the effect was still...

“Oh how pretty!” Laurel enthused. “I was afraid it was going to be dull!”

Alma passed both of them with her bags; she rolled her eyes but said nothing as she stowed her things in the storage boxes built into the side.

Elyn had taught them well enough that they got their gear put away and were in the wagon before a single candlemark had passed. Not without some minor bickering, but there was always minor bickering any time adolescents did anything. Elyn was used to that. The question looming largest in her mind, however, was “who to single out to learn how to drive first?”

She pondered that as she guided the horses down the road reserved for “trade,” which was a good bit wider than the one Heralds usually took out of Haven. She was glad they had gotten underway so early. She really did not want anyone to see her driving this...thing.

The Companions trotted alongside freely, with their stirrups hooked up onto the pommels of their saddles. No point in leaving them bare. The tack would take up too much space, and compared to the usual weight of a rider, the saddle was nothing. She saw to her amusement that Alma alone of all of them had done exactly what she had; Alma’s Companion, like Elyn’s, carried bulging saddlebags. After all, why not? Without the weight of a rider—

::You turn us into packmules.:: Mayar sounded more amused than annoyed.

::If you have become a “mule,” my dear, you should ask to see the farrier about your little problem before your ladyfriends complain. There may be special treatments.::

::Do get your mind out of the gutter, will you? I have to read it.::

Elyn snorted and gathered up the reins for the two-horse hitch. A wagon like this did not strictly need two horses, but having two would enable them to move along at a reasonable pace.

Once they were clear of Haven itself, she knocked on the little door behind her with her elbow. Alma opened it.

“Rod!” she called through into the interior of the wagon, “Get out here. Time to learn how to drive.” The wagon and horses were his father’s gifts, after all, so he might as well be the first one to learn the job. Alma cleared out and Rod’s sunny expression replaced hers.

As he squeezed through the little door and maneuvered himself onto the little sheltered spring-dampered bench where the driver sat, Elyn reflected that whoever had bought these horses definitely did know his horseflesh. They weren’t matched, but they were both solid and compact little draft horses of the sort known as “Zigans.” The right side was a bay gelding with a white nose, the left a chestnut mare with a white blaze. Both had one white foot, with heavily feathered fetlocks. Both had stocky bodies, about a hand taller than the average riding horse, and both were about six years old. Their manes and tails were shaggy and long, and their coats were too rough to ever be glossy, but they were mild tempered and willing, and disinclined to be spooked by anything they’d seen so far.

“This is how you hold the reins,” Elyn said, putting them into Rod’s hands. “Don’t haul on them, but don’t let them go slack, either, or the horses will amble to nothing and stop.” She gave him a few more instructions, then sat back and watched him drive. He wasn’t bad, and wasn’t nervous, so she said nothing, just let him give the beasts the minimal attention they needed for the relatively uncrowded road. Behind her, through the still-open door, she could hear the others chattering away.

This might not be so bad, after all.

Just kill me now, Elyn groaned silently. Beside her, in the minimal shelter provided by the wagon’s canvas awning, five Companions endured a cold downpour with varying attitudes from acceptance to disgust, bracketed by the two steaming draft horses, coats so dark they looked black in the uncertain light. Elyn had finished putting on the last of their feedbags—doing the chore herself because her four charges were currently struggling to pitch a larger shelter for them. Their second-to-last stop on the Circuit yielded them a gift of grain from the locals. That pushed the wagon’s weight capacity to brimming, and now the six bunks inside bore six dozen feedsacks, leaving almost no room for people to sleep inside. Arville had cheerfully accepted the gift, saying it’s important for people to accept gifts gracefully because it made the giver feel so good, and encouraged them to be generous. Besides, they had tents! And the mattresses from the bunks! The rest readily agreed, including the Companions. Elyn endured. They couldn’t just unload the grain and sleep inside, because it would attract vermin. Or get soaked. Or both. Elyn insisted, though, that one bunk nearest the driver’s bench be kept clear in case of emergency. Being the senior Herald, she slept in it. And now, here they were.

The rain wasn’t why she was groaning. Oh no. These sort of conditions were to be expected when traveling in the autumn. No, no, no. She was groaning because of why they were out here in the literal middle of nowhere.

Four moons into a planned circuit of twelve, they had been met by a series of increasingly frantic—and thus, increasingly incoherent—messages from a tiny hamlet on the edge of the Pelagir Hills about spirits “stalking” the place.

Now, in the first place, this little village—“Bastion’s Stone,” it was called—wasn’t even in Valdemar. So far as Elyn was concerned, they could go hire themselves a priestly exorcist, or petition whoever (or whatever, there was no telling out there) they paid their taxes to—they had no claim on help from Heralds. In the second place, dispelling ghosts, assuming this was ghosts, assuming such things even existed, was not what Heralds did. In the third place, this was right off their circuit, and answering the call would take them away from people who actually had a right to expect Heralds and their help.

But the four youngsters were all over the idea, to the point that, when Elyn pointed all those things out and flatly vetoed the excursion, they sent back to Haven and the Heralds of the Council for permission to deviate from the circuit and to answer a call outside the Border.

And much to Elyn’s disgust and their elation, the answer that came back was “yes.”

Of course, this was ever so much more exciting than the endless round of petty disputes they had been called on to settle, and the sad little band of pathetic “bandits” they’d chased down. Thus far, the circuit had been so entirely uneventful that the most they’d had to worry about had been the weather and the wild animals.

But that’s what it’s supposed to be like, Elyn thought resentfully. Most of the time, anyway. Property disputes, and ugly domestic quarrels, and minor criminals. And that’s important. We can be the impartial outside voice that settles things so that they stay settled. We are the ones that go away, so people don’t have to be angry with the neighbor that made the decision that they don’t like. We ride in on our pure white Companions, in our pure white uniforms, and people know that they can trust us to be impartial, because we haven’t taken a bribe, we aren’t friends with anyone, and we owe no one there anything. And if we didn’t do that, there would be no justice. That ought to be exciting enough for anyone. We can’t all be Herald Vanyels.

But of course, everyone wanted to be Herald Vanyel. Well, all but the part about dying horribly. Everyone wanted the happy noble bits, not the agony or drudgework, or the dying. But the glorious heroic stuff? Sign them up!

“We’ve got the shelter done, Elyn!” Rod called from the other side of the wagon. “We had to sort of improvise though!”

Kill me now, she thought again, steeling herself. Rod and his “improvisations” were going to drive her not-so-quietly mad. Oh, they generally worked, but they looked so precarious she could never see how and never quite trust them.

Ducking her head against the rain, which was coming down harder now, she made her way around the end of the wagon to where the four were supposed to have pitched the canvas half-tent.

Well, it wasn’t a half-tent anymore, and it hadn’t been pitched. Instead, it was a sort of improvised slanted roof, tied up to various tree branches. To keep the branches from tossing in the wind, they had been anchored with the ropes and stakes that should have been used to pitch the tent. And instead of a straightforward flat or slanted surface, the canvas had been tied into a sort of sloping, flattish v-shape, so that all the rain that fell on it ran into a channel in the center and that in turn poured into the canvas water-trough they carried to serve the horses and Companions.

“We already filled our water-barrel,” Rod said, beaming with pride. “Rigging it like this gives twice the rain-shelter too! If it gets any colder, we can put a fire at this end and the slanting roof will carry the smoke away instead of trapping it.”

“Good work,” she said, torn between relief that he hadn’t tried anything more complicated, and a kind of surprised pride that he’d come up with something so useful.

The Companions ambled up and tucked themselves in under the ample shelter with clear relief. Alma turned up in another moment, leading the draft horses, then hobbled them. They hadn’t bothered to actually tether the horses this entire trip. It wasn’t as if the Companions would let them wander off or get into trouble.

Laurel collected the now-empty feedbags and stowed them in the proper compartment. And now Elyn could go back under the awning to fire up the little cookstove, since it was her turn to cook.

“Where’s Arville?” she asked, suddenly realizing the fourth member of the inseparables was missing—and she was about to cook, which up until this moment had meant he was going to be at her elbow, waiting, with a look on his face like a starving puppy.

“He said he heard something out in the—“

“Look what I found!” Arville cried happily, bounding up to them, arms and legs flapping with happiness like a demented scarecrow. “Look what I found out in the forest!”

The thing bounding at his side was like no animal that Elyn had ever seen before. The head was something like a wolf’s, but the body was lean and had a curved back like the pictures of hunting cats she’d seen. When the shaggy soaked fur dried it would probably be a dark gray.

And it came up to Arville’s waist. It was huge.

If it hadn’t been wearing exactly the same puppy-eager expression that Arville was, she’d have been terrified of it. It wagged its tail merrily.

And then it talked. Or tried to. Its voice, if it could be called that, was a mix of bark and howl limited by the chops and cut occasionally to form words. And it tried enthusiastically to be understood.

“Reyra!” it said. “Rye Ryu! Ryer Ryeree!”

It skidded to a halt on the wet grass and plopped its haunches down, staring up at her expectantly, its bushy tail pounding on the grass and sending up a spray of drops each time it thumped.

She blinked at it.

“He said his name’s Ryu, and he’s a kyree,” Arville supplied hopefully.

“Of course he is.” She looked at the thing carefully. Well, it talked. So it probably wasn’t going to unexpectedly turn savage and tear out their throats. And it wagged its tail, which is something that hadn’t been covered in her Fear-The-Monster classes. “And what does Ryu want?” she asked, hoping that the answer was not going to be “dinner.” They didn’t have enough meat to satisfy something that large.

“Rum ree ru!” Ryu said, his tail thumping soggily. That didn’t need any translation.

“He’s kind of—uh—Chosen me,” Arville said, looking guilty. “Pelas says it’s all right with him.”

Chosen him—some weird beastie out of the Pelagirs, and it’s Chosen him. She wanted to thump her head against the side of the wagon. Why couldn’t anything these four did be straightforward? She wanted to tell both of them that this was absolutely out of the question, that the big soggy gray thing could just turn itself back around and lope into the forest where it had come from. But two sets of big brown begging eyes were boring holes in her soul, in exactly the clichéd way they’re supposed to in silly stories. And Arville’s Companion was all right with this…

“He’ll have to catch his own food!” she said sharply.

“Rall rye!”

“And he doesn’t sleep in the wagon! It’s cramped enough in there as it is, and he smells like wet dog. I don’t care if there’s a spare bunk when the grain is gone, he doesn’t get it. And he definitely doesn’t get my bunk.”

“Rall rye!” This didn’t seem to bother the thing at all. “Rye ree runner!”

“He’ll sleep under the wagon, he says,” Arville said happily. “When we get to the village I’ll buy him a blanket to sleep on. Won’t I, boy?”

The tail thumped soggily. Elyn gave up.

The creature managed to not get too much in the way, dutifully went out and presumably hunted himself some dinner, and settled in under the wagon to sleep as if he had done so all his life. It was all Elyn could do to persuade Arville not to settle in next to him. And that gave her some pause when she climbed into her own bunk for the night. The bond that had sprung up between the young man and what looked like some kind of savage beast seemed harmless enough—but it also was disturbingly strong, and clearly magical in nature.

So what if it wasn’t harmless?

::It’s harmless,:: Mayar said instantly into her mind. ::Really. The kyree are known to us. Yes, it’s a magical beast, like the Hawkbrother bondbirds. In fact, the Hawkbrothers know all about kyree.:: She sensed something like a chuckle from Mayar. ::Ryu is younger than he looks, a mere stripling. He’s been lonely. His sort are supposed to go out and find someone to attach themselves to. It’s a little like what we do, except that... well, never mind. Think of him as a congenital helper, and he’s been looking for the right someone to help for almost a year now.::

Elyn could only shake her head. Well if Mayar saw no problems, and Arville’s own Companion had no objections, who was she to interfere?

She only hoped she would have no cause to regret the decision.

And then, just as she was drifting off, she felt the wagon... vibrating.

At first she couldn’t imagine what it was. Thunder? Earthquake? Landslide? But if it was anything dangerous the Companions would be screaming their heads off-

The she realized what it was. It came from below.

Ryu was snoring.

Kill me now....

Oh, what a surprise. The most impressive thing about “Bastion’s Stone” was a stone. A great big stone that the cluster of little houses huddled against, like baby chicks up against their mother. It was too small to have a market. It was too small to have an inn—one of the locals who was apparently the only one capable of brewing drinkable beer sold it out of his house, and you either drank it in the yard or took it home to drink with your neighbors. So far as Elyn could tell, the only reason for the village existing in the first place was so that all the villagers could share farming equipment and the team of oxen required to pull it. And, of course, because they had a really big stone.

::It’s like a Heartstone, without the heart,:: Mayar commented.

Elyn sat down with the entire population of the village in the only structure big enough to hold them all, the communal threshing barn, and listened to what they had to tell her. Her four charges she told (a bit sternly) to stand and listen and not comment or ask questions themselves. She could tell that Alma was almost writhing with impatience at being muzzled, but that was too bad. At this point, these people didn’t need to have questions fired at them from five different people. One person had to be the voice of authority, and that person had better be her. Only when she was done would she give them leave to go question people on an individual basis, when it was clear that they were answering to her and not the other way around. Having multiple “authorities” only made for trouble.

As for the villagers, they all seemed to defer to the blacksmith, which was curious. Perhaps it was because he was the strongest, or just because, being in a trade that had “trade secrets,” he seemed the most important to them.

But when facing someone wearing a uniform and an air of unquestioned authority, he became almost comically deferential. Regrettably with that deference came being tongue-tied.

“Just start at the beginning,” she coaxed. “When you all first noticed something wrong, no matter how trivial it seems.”

He mumbled something. It was a little hard to understand his accent; although what he spoke was similar to Valdemaran, the way the words were pronounced wasn’t always the same. She thought it sounded like “I can’t remember.”

“Sure ye can, Benderk!” one of the others urged, studiously not looking at her. “Ye were the first t’say! ’Twere the Shadows.”

“Sounds like a wee laddie’s boggles,” Benderk mumbled. At least, that was what she thought he mumbled.

“Tell her, Benderk! Tell her ’bout them Shadows up at Stony Rill! How they was on’y there at twilight, lurkin’ like, but then they was them there rustlin’s and whisperin’s on’y no one was there, an that was by broad day! An’ then it weren’t jest whisperin’s but noises t’make the blood cawld, gibberin’s and gurglin’s an a mad laugh ’at made th’ dogs run away! Tell her!” The speaker was the fellow that sold the local ale; he had brought a barrel of it, and now he plied Benderk with a mug and a refill, and Benderk evidently found courage therein, for he finally raised his eyes to Elyn’s and pretty much repeated what the ale-seller had said.

“We mun know these parts, Lady,” he added. “We mun know every beast an’ bird in forest. Nothin’ never made no noise like that. Nor cast Shadows like the ones at night, neither. Nor man, nor beast we ever seen cast shadows like that. Half again as tall an’ broad as me, an’ I be no scrawny ’prentice. On’y hunched over, like. “ He rounded his shoulders and tucked his head down between them by way of illustration. “An’ we never saw the Things, on’y Shadows, an’ fer all their bigness, left no tracks we could find. So we left Stony Rill alone, an’ that seemed t’satisfy it. Reckoned we leave them alone, they leaves us alone.” He shrugged, shamefaced. “We bain’t fighters, Lady, and this be edge of Pelagir Hills. Uncanny things come out of there, but bain’t mean no harm, so—”

She nodded. “A sensible way to deal with things,” she said soothingly. “I take it there was nothing much any of you needed up at this Stony Rill?”

He shook his head. “Kids liked t’play there i’summer, but didn’ take but hearin’ that laugh once for ’em t’find ‘nother spot of cool water t’paddle in. We’re not lackin’ i’ water.”

Well that was the truth. They must have crossed thirty streams of varying width, depth, and strength to get here.

“But obviously something else happened?” she prompted.

The man nodded, and the others shuddered. “They’re comin’ into village, of nights.”

“You’ve seen them with your own eyes?” Somehow Elyn doubted they had. And sure enough, one and all, they shook their heads emphatically.

“But we hear them!” The words came out in a whisper. “Between th’ houses, howlin’ and gibberin’, and in the mornin’, not a sign of ’em. Not a footprint, nor hoofprint or pawprint. Th’ dogs an’ cats, they all hide when they hears it. An’ afore we started lockin’ ’em up at night, we lost some beasts to ’em. Heard ’em cry out, and in mornin’, was gone, an’ no trace of what took ’em.”

There wasn’t much else that Elyn could get that was useful out of them. Just “You’ll hear ’em fer y’self,” seemed to be the only answer.

Despite the fact that the youngsters were burning even more to question the villagers, Elyn let them go back to their homes. For one thing, the closer it got to sunset, the more nervous the villagers became, and she didn’t want to have to cope with a load of hysterical people wanting only to get behind their locked and barricaded doors. For another, she was curious to see if “They,” whatever “They” were, actually did turn up tonight. Their absence might well tell as much or more than their presence. There was no reason why something supernatural would hesitate to manifest with the Heralds here. But if “They” were not supernatural, then whatever or whoever it was that was doing this might well be cautious about showing itself—or themselves—right now.

Once everyone was cleared away, Elyn set about making sure that the wagon, the horses, and the Companions were all set up for a stay of some duration. The villagers had kindly moved in bedding straw and fodder; horses were not exactly housebroken, so before they could all get themselves involved in a long discussion of what might be going on, Elyn got them to work arranging things inside the threshing barn. She put Rod to maneuvering the wagon against one wall, and assigned Arville to making a stabling area for the horses against the opposite wall. Once the wagon was in place, Rod tied up the horses in their corner.

“We may be here a while,” Elyn pointed out. “And there’s enough room in here that anyone who would rather sleep outside the wagon certainly can. It might be a bit colder, but it won’t be as stuffy, and we can always set up the stove to keep a limited area warm at night.”

But Alma clearly wanted to talk about “haunting,” and she had already made up her mind about it; Elyn could see it in the set of her jaw and the furrowed brows. “We need to work out some way to trap these people,” she said.

“The villagers?” Elyn said, raising an eyebrow.

“No of course not! Whoever is running this deception on them!” Alma said crossly.

“And you’re so certain it’s a deception?” Elyn countered. “I’m not convinced one way or another. If it’s a deception, what’s the motive? And if it’s not—then what are these things? Their behavior matches some of the descriptions of the creatures controlled by the Karsite priesthood.”

“The D-d-demons?” Arville stammered.

Ryu’s ears went straight up and his eyes widened. “R-r-remons?” he echoed.

“But only some of those descriptions, Herald Elyn,” Rod said deferentially. “Not all of them. And we are an awfully long way from the Karsite Border. I can’t see any good reason for them being here, if that is what they are. And it could just be some new creature from the Pelagirs. Some things from there are friendly.”

Ryu thumped his tail, tongue lolling.

Elyn shrugged. “I am not convinced either way. What I am convinced of is that we need to proceed with great caution. The last thing we want to do is make things worse.”

Alma opened her mouth to protest, but never got so far as uttering a word. As if something had been listening outside, there came one of the strangest and most hair-raising noises that Elyn had ever heard in her life.

Not loud enough to be called a howl, and far too loud for a moan, it seemed to reach to some instinct deep inside Elyn and evoke a chill terror. It had a similar effect on the others too. Arville yelped and dove under the wagon, joined there by Ryu; Laurel screamed. Rod and Alma both went white to match their uniforms, but headed for the door of the barn with looks of determination on their faces.

“No! Leave the door alone!” Elyn ordered. Arville and the kyree hugged each other and shuddered. The noises multiplied, and Laurel looked around for a weapon, then clutched at her little dagger as if it was going to be adequate to defend herself with. Her sword and war gear were in storage in the wagon, still, along with everyone else’s, and only Elyn wore a sword at the moment since during the interview it’d been a sign of rank.

Alma and Rod had their hands on the door already and prepared to fling it open, only to find it had been shut tight, barred from the outside.

The noises were joined by maniacal laughter as Alma and Rod hammered on the door and tried to break it down, then tried the door opposite with the same results.

There were no windows or hatches in the upper part of the building, or they probably would have tried to go out that way. The two draft horses were thoroughly unnerved by now, straining at their tethers, tossing their heads, and rolling their eyes. Arville finally climbed out from under the wagon, shaking, to go and try to calm them down. Elyn joined him; eventually they had to resort to pulling bags over their heads; the horses stopped trying to bolt, but stood transfixed, shaking as hard as Arville.

The Companions were as unnerved as their Chosen.

::We can’t tell what it is,:: Mayar said to Elyn, as the four of the Companions arrayed themselves facing the two doors, preparing to fight anything that burst through. ::We’ve never heard anything that sounded like that before.::

“Let’s break the door down!” Rod shouted over the noise. “Let’s make a ram!”

But it was Alma who stopped him before he could wrench the wagon-tongue off the front, or try to pull down one of the interior supports. “I don’t think we can,” she said. “And it’s not our building to break down.”

“It’s just noises,” Elyn pointed out, fighting her own instincts to run, or fight, or both. “No one is calling for help, and nothing is trying to break in here. Alma’s correct, we haven’t the right to wreck this place just to confront what’s out there. Besides, breaking the door down will be noisy, and by the time we got out, whatever is making those sounds will probably be gone.”

“It’s j-j-just trying to scare us,” Laurel said, though her teeth were chattering.

“It’s doing a g-g-good job!” Arville replied.

And then, just as suddenly as the noise had begun, it stopped.

They waited a moment, and then another, before Rod and Alma rushed for the door.

It was still barred.

Alma kicked it in frustration, bruising her toe. She looked as if she would have liked to swear, but a glance at Elyn seemed to quell that idea.

They waited, but the noises didn’t resume, although the door remained barred from the outside. The moments crept by, then a candlemark; it felt like more, but they had a marked candle out and burning when the meeting started, and that was all it was. Finally Elyn spoke, making them all jump. “It’s entirely possible that the villagers locked us in themselves.”

Rod scratched his head. “We didn’t try the door after they left,” he admitted, “But why?”

“Remons!” said Ryu, impatiently, as if they were all feeble-minded. Arville nodded.

“But we’re supposed to be the ones getting rid of whatever it is!” Alma protested. “It makes no sense for them to lock us in!”

“It also makes no sense for a demon or a ghost or anything else like them to be stopped by mere walls,” Rod added.

“It may make no sense, but according to everything I’ve read, the Karsite demons clearly are stopped by walls.” Elyn could only shake her head at all the contradictory evidence. “Perhaps there is some magical boundary set about the buildings here.”

Her nerves were slowly settling, the horses were quiet again, enough so that she and Arville pulled the bags off their heads. But they were so soaked with sweat—as were the Companions—that they needed a thorough rubdown and blanketing, lest they get a chill. After that, failing anything else to do, since it seemed futile to keep trying the door, they went to lie on their bunks or bedrolls after blowing out the various lanterns and candles, leaving only the two night-lamps mounted on the front of the wagon burning with their wicks turned down. Elyn set the younger Heralds on short watches, and she was acutely aware of the stiff silence in the building, the sort of silence that meant everyone was staring up at the ceiling or the bottom of a bunk, listening with every fiber, waiting for a resumption of the horrible noises.

But nothing happened. And after what seemed like an eternity of staring into the darkness, she must have fallen asleep, because she woke with a start to hear the doors opening.

The doors!

She very nearly broke her neck scrambling out of her bunk and stumbling out the door at the rear of the wagon. The first thing she saw was Alma throwing open the doors on a grey dawn, frowning heavily. There was no one outside.

“I laid awake all night, listening, and finally I decided to get up and try the door,” the young Herald said, scowling. “There was no one there. And the door wasn’t barred anymore.”

Elyn turned her attention to the kyree, who, with his presumably keener senses, would have heard what Alma didn’t. “And did you hear anything?”

The kyree shook his head. Elyn chewed her lip thoughtfully. By this time the others were clambering out of the wagon, rubbing their eyes sleepily. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she pointed out. “Someone intimately familiar with this place could easily slip up to the doors and unbar them.”

“Maybe they could slip up to the doors, but slide the bar out without a noise?” Laurel asked doubtfully.

“Let’s find out,” replied Rod, and Alma nodded. “Look here,” he continued, examining it, “If you slide it, yes, it makes a noise.” He demonstrated; the bar was one that slid into four cast-metal carriers, rather than dropping down into them. “But if you lift it a little—“

This time the bar made not a whisper of noise as he moved it.

“That doesn’t rule out ghosts or demons,” Laurel protested.

“Maybe not, but my money is on common men.” Rod’s chin was set stubbornly, which did not at all surprise Elyn. Rod hated supernatural explanations and usually managed to avoid them entirely.

“Nevertheless, logic dictates that we go about this assuming that either could be true.” Elyn turned to the four Companions. “You lot are better suited to look for the supernatural than we are, so I suggest you pursue that, while we investigate human interference. Now, let’s get some breakfast going and discuss where to start.”

Since it had begun, as far as they could all tell, up at the little stream called Stony Rill, that was where the five of them headed. This time Rod and Alma were determined not to be caught off-guard. Well, so was Elyn, but she wasn’t making it as obvious as they were. If they got any more square-jawed with determination, she would be able to split logs with their chins. There were times when that was tempting.

Arville and Ryu slunk along like a pair of reluctant cats, heads swiveling this way and that with every sound in the woods. Laurel was the only one that looked normal, though that was superficial; Elyn knew her well enough to know that she was walking on eggs, so to speak, and the least little thing would set her off.

Elyn frankly did not know what to expect. They reached the spot where the villagers had told her that the “Shadows” were to be seen, and saw exactly nothing. She and Alma searched the area around the little pool that the Rill formed before it spilled over and went on its way, looking for swampy areas, odd plants, vents in the ground, any sign of anything that could account for hallucinations, and found nothing.

Alma even pulled off her boots, rolled up her trews, and went wading in the pool, peering into the water. Elyn wasn’t sure what she was looking for, although she did spent quite a long time at it, and gathered up some rocks and a sack of sand. Finally she clambered out, got dry and pulled her boots back on. “I think we should go upstream,” she said. “Maybe there’s something there. Swamp gas or something that only drifts this way when the wind is right.”

Rod nodded. “That seems like a good idea to me.”

Elyn gave Alma a close look. She had a notion that while Alma wasn’t saying anything, the young Herald thought she might have discovered something intriguing. But Alma wasn’t one to say anything until she was sure of herself. Annoying, but the girl was stubborn, and until she was ready, there would be no prying it out of her.

With a stifled sigh, Elyn motioned onwards, and the five of them, with their Companions and the kyree threading through the underbrush on either side of the stream, made their way along the banks of Stony Rill. A few times more, Alma paused as something seemed to catch her eye, stooped, and picked up what looked like some gravel from the streambed. But still she said nothing.

Meanwhile there still didn’t seem to be anything that could have been mistaken for these “Shadows,” and no wildlife making odd noises that could have been taken for maniacal laughter.

Elyn was busy trying to keep an eye out for plants and fungi she knew were poisonous and gave hallucinations, when Rod suddenly said, “Is that a boundary marker? No one said anything about anyone living up here—“

“That’d be because that worthless lot down at the Stone’d like to fergit I be still alive,” said a harsh voice.

It startled all of them. Ryu and Arville yelped in an almost identical pitch. The Companions all threw up their heads and snorted. Laurel squeaked, and Elyn jumped back just a little. Rod’s back stiffened, and Alma clutched the bag of rocks and sand she was holding as if she was prepared to use it as a weapon.

From between two trees, out of a shadow Elyn certainly had not suspected was holding a person, stepped a man. Balding, grey-haired, but powerfully built and clearly still fit, he had a bow with an arrow nocked to it, and although he was not yet aiming it at them, it was very obvious that he had no compunction about shooting them.

“Did that pack of scum send ye up here?” he spat. “I got no use fer them. I don’ need their help, and I don’ want their company. Did they send ye here because I run off their brats? I got my rights! They was tramplin’ all over my property! Thievin’ brats, stealin’ fruit, honey an’ shrooms, poachin’ my game, aye, I ran ’em off! I’ll do it again too, at th’ end of a pitchfork!”

“No one sent us here to disturb you, sir,” Elyn said soothingly. “We’re investigating some rather strange goings-on, and although the villagers did send for us, they don’t know we intended to come up here.”

“Ye want strange goings-on, ye look no futher than them brats o’ theirs!” he spat. “I don’ put no mischief past ’em!”

Rod and Elyn exchanged a look. ::We didn’t consider that it might have been the children,:: Mayar said thoughtfully. ::That sort of thing is known among younglings first coming into a Gift.::

::Yes,:: she thought back. ::And in those with no Gift at all.:: It would not be the first time that bored youngsters terrorized a community by manufacturing “supernatural” goings-on.

“Well, we won’t bother you any further sir,” Elyn said.

“An’ ye won’t be settin’ foot on my land neither!” he snapped. “Gerroff wi’ ye! An’ tell that lot down t’the Stone that they kin keep their devilment t’thesselves!”

There didn’t seem to be anything much more to say, so Elyn turned around and began picking her way back down the stream. Ryu and Arville were only too happy to do the same, quickly overtaking and passing her. Laurel shivered as she glanced back at the old man, still standing guard at his boundary-marker. Rod just shook his head.

But Alma looked very thoughtful.

“I don’t know why we didn’t consider the youngsters,” Rod said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the old man. “That should have been the first place we looked.”

“But don’t you think that if it was the younglings, that nasty old grump would have been the first target they went after?” Alma countered. “Instead, it was the youngsters themselves that were scared out of their favorite swimming place. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe it’s just one or two loners who were getting even for being left out of things,” Elyn suggested, as Alma stooped again, scooping something out of the stream bed.

“I dunno about you, but that stuff last night didn’t sound like a couple of kids!” Arville protested.

“Remons!” Ryu seconded. “Rosses!”

“Roses?” Rod exclaimed, looking askance.

“He means g-g-ghosts,” Arville stammered. “It s-s-sure sounded like that to me!”

Elyn pulled thoughtfully at her earlobe. “Still... I think we should concentrate on the villagers next. Especially the youngsters. Getting the entire village in an uproar—we’ve studied and heard of that sort of thing before.”

Rod nodded, with a satisfied look on his face. “Even if we can’t find out something directly, I bet I can find a way to catch the troublemakers,” he said.

“I don’t think it was kids,” Arville retorted weakly, scratching his head. “How could kids be making those... howls?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure it was youngsters either,” Alma said, with an enigmatic look. “I don’t think it was demons—but I don’t think it was youngsters.”

They argued about it all the way back to the village—where they finally shut up, belatedly realizing that whether Rod, Arville or Alma was right, it wouldn’t be very productive for them to be talking about it in front of the very people they were going to be investigating.

Elyn meanwhile separated herself from the rest, and with Mayar, went in search of the likeliest person to know everybody’s business, the village midwife.

She spent a good couple of candlemarks with that worthy, using the incident the night before as the opening wedge for conversation. “Well,” Granny Merton said, judiciously, “I’d be lying if I didn’ tell ye that fair curdles me blood’o’nights. An’ it’s been a nuisance too. The wimmin as is close t’ their time, they’ve taken t’ demandin’ I bide w’ them every night. Cause if babe should decide t’ come at night, ye ken, how’m I d’be fetched wi’ that howlin’ aroond th’ doors? ’Tis on’y been two, thus far, but a ’ooman my age likes th’ feel of her own bed benights!” She patted the thick stone walls of her tiny cottage complacently. “No demon be gettin’ through these walls, no, an’ I brung too many inter th’ world, and seen too many out of it too, to be afeared of ghosts.”

Gradually Elyn let the conversation drift, until it ended up as such conversations always did, with the Granny’s assessment of every soul in the village.

And that was where Elyn’s speculations and investigations ran aground. Because there were only five youngsters about the right age to be the one—or ones—behind the “haunting,” and none of them fit the pattern of the sort of child that did this sort of thing. Their personalities were all open, they were neither show-offs nor shy and withdrawn, they were not picked on or bullied, they were all five very close friends, and in general were happy youngsters. Or they had been until the “hauntings” began. Now they were just as terrified as the rest of the village.

And insofar as their ability to sneak out and perpetrate the hauntings as a group—that was impossible, because all five of them spent their nights huddled together in one or another of their respective houses, in the main room, with the rest of whichever family they were spending the night with. Out here, a house was just a place to sleep and eat between chores and no one thought much of private rooms or single beds. There were witnesses to every moment of their time when whatever it was howled outside the walls.

This was pretty much what all of the village youngsters were doing; the parents had discovered that if they could be with friends, they withstood it all better. So the children got rounded up after supper, divided up by age-groups, and bedded down in a huddle.

Nevertheless, she asked Mayar to go snooping about and see if he could detect any incipient stirrings of a Gift. The Companions in general were much better at that sort of thing than she was.

“Who’s the old man that lives up above the pond at Stony Rill?” she asked, as if it was an afterthought. “Shouldn’t he be brought down here for safety?”

Granny snorted. “Old man Hardaker? He has no friends down here. Stingiest old rooster that was ever born. Squeezes every groat till it squeaks, goes into a fury if a crow steals so much as a grain of his, counts everything, living or dead, on his land as ’is own property. Fights the squirrels for the nuts, ’e does. They say ’e killed his wife with overwork, treated her like a slave; that I can’t speak for, it was afore my time. Sure he got no children on ’er, so I suppose he reckoned t’get work out of ’er instead. If I was a haunt, I’d stay clear of ’im. Give half a chance, he’d find a way t’bind a spirit and make it work for him, and count himself lucky that ’e wouldna have to feed and clothe it!”

Elyn smiled wryly. “He didn’t seem to be aware that there was anything amiss here in the village.”

Granny made a face. “Never believe it. ’E knows. ’E knows and if he’s being haunted too, he’ll never let on. Gives nothin’ away, that one, not even a thought. But ’e can’t do wi’out us. We’re the only village near enough t’buy what ’e grows, an’ the only craftsmen near enough for him t’get what ’e needs. ’E’d never leave his land t’take ’is goods t’ market, an’ never trust one of ’is ’ands t’ do it for ’im.” She cackled a little. “No doubt, that makes ’im even more sour, the ald sack!”

Well so much for the old man. If he, too, was suffering from the haunts, he was probably blaming it on the village, and would not give them the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. Nor would he ever ask for help. And even if he did, it was unlikely anyone here would give it to him.

Elyn poked about the village a bit more, and found that Granny’s opinion of the old man was universal. No one liked him. Everyone had a story about his penny-pinching and attempts to cheat them. Everyone also admitted that they did their level best to cheat him back. It was a point of honor among the young men to try and steal fruit from his orchard or poach his fish or game. There was no way of telling who had begun the acrimony, but at this point there was going to be no putting an end to it.

She managed to meet the suspect striplings, and couldn’t make up her mind whether or not they would be capable of the sheer amount of work and ingenuity that the “haunting” would take. They weren’t stupid, but they also didn’t show the level of intelligence of, say, Rod, much less Alma—and that was what such a task would take, if it was a purely mischief-making endeavor and not the unconscious breaking out of some sort of Gift.

They also all seemed as genuinely terrified as their parents. Elyn was fairly good at telling when she was being lied to even without the use of the Truth Spell, and she didn’t get that impression now.

But when she met up with the rest back at the threshing barn, she discovered that Rod had already made up his mind about one thing.

“We can’t just huddle in here like a lot of scared children,” he said firmly. “And I don’t for a moment think that these are demons or ghosts. I think it’s people. In fact, I think it’s some of the villagers. Maybe some of the younger ones.”

“But Rod!” Laurel exclaimed indignantly. “I told you that story they told me, and you still don’t think it’s disturbed spirits?”

“Wait, wait, what story?” Elyn demanded.

Laurel looked both excited and apprehensive as she turned towards their mentor. “Some of the older boys told me that around early apple harvest time, they went up to the old man’s orchard to steal fruit, like always. They heard the sound of someone digging! At night! And then they didn’t think anything more about it, except that the next day, Stony Rill was as red as blood! And it was that night that the hauntings began! They think the old man was looking for treasure and dug up a burial mound! And now the spirits are angry!”

“All the more reason to think it’s them,” Rod snorted, as Alma got an extremely thoughtful look on her face. “What a ridiculous story!”

“It’s not ridiculous!” Laurel stamped her foot and crossed her arms angrily over her chest. “You just don’t like it because they didn’t tell you!”

“I don’t like it because it’s not logical.” Rod’s chin looked even more granite-like than usual. “If it was spirits that were disturbed because the old man was digging their bodies up, why haunt the village? What did the villagers do to them? Why not haunt the old man?”

“Well maybe they are! And they just spread out! Or maybe they are trying to get the villagers to do something about the old man!” Her eyes flashed with anger. “Just because you don’t believe in ghosts—”

Behind them, a couple of the Companions whickered as if laughing.

“Then they’ve got to be stupider in death than they are in life,” Rod countered. “Because you’d think it would be a lot easier to just appear in front of people and say politely ‘that old man is robbing our graves, and we’d hate to have to make you miserable because of what he is doing, but if you don’t make him leave us alone, we’ll just have to make all of you as unhappy as we are.’ Instead, they’re getting nothing done except to make people terrified at night!”

Arville’s head swiveled back and forth between them, as if he was watching a ball game. Ryu just lay flat on the ground with his ears over his paws.

“Oh!” Laurel said, driven to speechlessness with anger. “Oh!”

“Anyway, you just stay here in the barn and tell Elyn what you think of me,” Rod said ungallantly. “I’ll be outside with Arville and Ryu and the Companions laying a trap. Because it’s not ghosts, it’s people, and I am going to catch them!”

“Wait, what?” Arville replied, looking panicked.

“If you don’t need me,” Alma said carefully. “I do have something I need to check in here.”

::Mayar?:: Elyn thought.

::He asked us, and it’s a good plan. Certainly better than Laurel’s idea of holding a séance to find out what the spirits want. If it’s people, we will catch them. If it is demons, well, you will find us stampeding into the barn fast enough. And if it is spirits, we can try Laurel’s idea.:: Mayar seemed quite satisfied with whatever it was that Rod had decided.

Well, she was supposed to be getting them to think and plan for themselves, wasn’t she? And they had certainly plunged into this, not only with enthusiasm, but with some forethought.

“Go ahead and set your trap, Rod,” she said firmly, cutting short any protests. “Alma, Laurel, we three will try and make enough sounds in here to make it seem as if all of us are in here.” She glanced out the open door. “If you’re going to get things set up, Rod, you’d better do so now, and then you’ll be in hiding well before sunset. I want all of you that are going to be setting up the trap to go in and out several times so that if anyone is watching us they’ll likely lose count. Get water or wood, anything you think is a good excuse. Laurel, you and I will take care of the camp chores and make a lot of noise about it while Alma does her investigation.”

Laurel looked ready to burst with indignation, but didn’t protest. Alma dove into the storage compartments and assembled a mortar and pestle, a couple of buckets of water, some dishes, and some other apparatus and set to breaking up something in the mortar and pestle that made enough noise to cover just about anything.

Looking very unhappy, Arville and Ryu made several trips in and out of the doors carrying water and small amounts of wood, some odds and ends, before finally going out and not coming back again. The Companions made a more convincing job of it, bringing in quite a good deal of firewood before one by one vanishing. Elyn shut the door after them, lit all the lanterns, and she, with Laurel’s sulky help, began making noisy supper preparations. At this point, Alma was doing something inscrutable with the dishes and the water; whatever it was, it was making some sound too, so Elyn left her to it.

She stretched out the preparations as long as she could; it wasn’t easy to tell in here whether the sun had set or not. Since it was a threshing building, it was as sealed against vermin as could be managed. The food was ready in what seemed to her to be far too short a time, but there was no point in wasting it. She and Laurel ate; Alma came and fetched herself a bowl of the thick soup Elyn had made, then went back to her buckets. Halfway through the meal, she had stopped messing about with the buckets and was pounding again, this time using the pestle as a hammer against a stone, pounding something she had wrapped in a bit of cloth.

She unfolded the cloth, peered at what was in there, and then did something with it. “Aha!” Elyn heard her say.

And that was when everything exploded outside.

The long, moaning howl began. Elyn heard Ryu yelp, Arville burst out with a terrified exclamation of “G-ghosts!” and Rod shout “Got you!”

And that was the signal for what sounded like a battle royal.

She ran for the doors, but they were both bolted again. She and Alma and Laurel pounded on them fruitlessly for a while, while outside she could hear, not only Rod shouting, but the sounds of fighting, of other men shouting, of Arville and Ryu howling, of angry whinnies and hoofbeats.

::Get back!:: Mayar “shouted” in her mind.

She cleared Laurel and Alma away from the doors; there was a furious kick and a crash and the door burst open.

Through the now-open doors poured a tangled heap of people and nets, some free and fighting and some not, followed by all five Companions, relentlessly driving them all inside. Arville and Ryu were the most tangled up, but there were some strangers in there too, all of them masked and draped in tattered rags that smelled like mold and rotting wood.

Masked they might have been, but they were fighters; Elyn slashed Ryu and Arville free with her sword while Alma and Laurel joined in the fight. By now all the noise had brought the villagers out of their homes and up to the barn; several of the bravest grabbed pieces of firewood and waded into the affray while the Companions circled the outside of the mob and kept anyone from escaping—

—including one masked miscreant, who, alone among all of them, was not armed and not fighting. Mayar was the one who caught him by the scruff of the neck in his teeth as he tried to get away, and kept him dangling off the ground while the rest of the gang was subdued and trussed up.

With them was an assortment of noisemakers that had produced all the unearthly howls. There were bull-roarers, a set of several predator-calls strapped together so they could all be sounded at the same time, and a contraption with a rough piece of twine that could be pulled through something like a drumhead of rawhide, producing a truly uncanny moan.

“I told you it was just people!” Rod shouted in triumph, when the last of them—the fellow dangling from Mayar’s teeth—was firmly bound and set with the rest.

By now all of the village—most tellingly, including all of the youngsters, including the ones that Rod had suspected—had crowded into the barn. “Well it might not have been spirits,” Laurel sniffed, examining first her improvised club, which she then cast aside, and then her nails. “But it wasn’t who you thought it was.”

And hanging in the air was the unspoken, so there!

“Let’s find out who it is, then,” Elyn said evenly, before they could start fighting again. She pulled the mask off the one nearest her, revealing a fellow with a lot of bruises, a black eye, and a surly expression. She looked at the villagers. “Anyone you know?”

Baffled, they all shook their heads. She continued to pull off masks to similar bafflement, until she came to the last. Then came the gasps.

“Old man Hardaker!” shouted someone. The old man snarled, but said nothing. “Why would you do this to us?”

“I think I know,” Alma said in a hard voice, and came forward with that bit of cloth. “Look.”

She opened it up, and a small piece of something yellow and shining glimmered in the lamplight.

They all stared. “Great Havens,” Elyn finally said. “Is that gold?”

The villagers gasped as Alma nodded. “You know how Herald Bevins always says ‘Find the motive and you find the criminal?’ I went looking for a motive. When we were up at Stony Rill I thought I saw a little bit of gold-sand, so I started gathering up what I thought were likely bits of sand and rock. I panned this out of what I crushed up.” She grinned in triumph. “When Rod told me the story the boys had told him, I was pretty sure I was right, anyway. The old man here was digging for treasure, all right, but it wasn’t in a burial mound. And when Stony Rill turned red, it was just because he’d been washing the gold-rock. Right, old man?”

Hardaker spat in her direction.

“I made sure it was real gold by pounding it into a flake and testing it against a touchstone. It’s real, all right.” Alma beamed on the villagers. “You folks have a nice little gold mine here. And before we leave, we’ll draw you up a charter so you can all share alike in the work and the profits.”

Oh well done! Elyn thought with pride. Get them to agree to a charter now, so that there are no quarrels about it after we’re long gone. Good thinking, Alma!

“It’s on my land!” Hardaker spat. “Ye’ve got no rights! And it weren’t me! ’Twas them! ’Twas all their ideer!”

“Oh really?” Rod drawled.

And that was when one of the strangers finally caved in. “You demmed old bastard!” he snarled. “Sell us out, ye think?” He struggled a bit with his bonds, then gave up. “We heerd about ye Heralds. Ye’re hard, but fair. Lemme tell ye what this old coot had up ’is sleeve. ’E found the gold, aye, an’ mined out ’nuff t’ pay us with, but wouldn’ tell us where it was. Just told us to scare these turnip-heads out. An’ if’n he couldn’t scare ’em out, we was t’get rid of ’em—however.” There was a flicker of uncertainty in the man’s face then. “We nivver really reckon’d on hurtin’ no one, we figgered these clodhoppers would scare out right easy. But... well, he was getting’ impatient, an’ talkin’ ’bout getting’ some’un else in here t’get rougher...”

Now Hardaker looked both furious and alarmed. “Was just talk! Meant t’give ye layabouts reason t’do what I paid ye fer!”

“That will be enough, old man,” Elyn said impassively. “What we’ve heard is enough for us.” She looked about at the villagers. “Do you consent to giving us the same rights of judgment as we would have in Valdemar?”

They looked at one another and then back at Elyn. “Put it in that there charter,” said Benderk, finally. “I’fact...” He scratched his head. “Reckon it’d be better all around if—c’n ye make us part of Valdemar?”

Elyn blinked. “Well,” she said cautiously, “Yes. You folk aren’t actually part of any other Kingdom. But the Crown would take a percentage from the gold from your mine—five percent, if I recall correctly—in exchange for things like a Guard detachment to keep it and you safe, and for twice-yearly visits from Heralds, and—”

“And we mostly trade with Valdemar an’ the Crown’d take more than that fer trade taxes,” Benderk said shrewdly. “Aye, that’ll work.” He looked at Alma. “Draw up yer charter, missy. We’ll all sign it. What’s t’be done with this lot?”

He toed Hardaker.

“As subjects of Valdemar, I can declare his land and goods confiscated and turned over to you. He and these men will be taken to the nearest Guardpost—“

::I have already passed the news up the line. Guards will be on the way in the morning. We need only stay here long enough to keep this lot locked up until they arrive.::

“—and men are on the way,” she continued smoothly, thanking the Havens for the swift mental communication between Companions. “Meanwhile we will see to—everything, including guarding these men for you.” She looked sternly down at Hardaker. “You, I am afraid, are going to be subjected to the Truth Spell to find out exactly how far your intentions towards these people were going to go. And we will find out exactly how many wrongs were originally on both sides.”

Some of the villagers had the grace to look embarrassed and a little guilty. But not so much so that Elyn feared anything terribly ugly was going to come out of the investigation.

“Nevertheless, I do not think it excuses the intent to drive people out of their homes,” she concluded. “That was an entirely immoral plan. Clever, but immoral.”

“And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling Heralds!” the old man spat.

Elyn could only shake her head. “Let’s find a good place to lock this lot up,” she only said. “I want him confined away from the rest for his own safety.” She nodded at Rod. “Take charge of that, will you?”

“Gladly.” Rod prodded them to their feet with a toe. “ Get going, you.”

“And well done, all of you.” She finally allowed herself to smile.

And then felt a nudging at her shoulder-blade, and turned to look into Ryu’s big brown eyes.

“Ru-rer row?” the kyree asked plaintively.

“Supper!” Arville said, his expression identical to Ryu’s. “We’re starving!”

Oh, kill me now, Elyn sighed.

Afterword

MERCEDES LACKEY IS THE ACCLAIMED author of over fifty novels and many works of short fiction. In her “spare” time she is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator. Mercedes lives in Oklahoma with her husband and frequent collaborator, artist Larry Dixon, and their flock of parrots.

Websites:

Mercedes Lackey

Larry Dixon

MZB Literary Works Trust

Recommendations for other works by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon can be found here:

Shipscat Collection, (SKitty, A Tail of Two Skittys, Scat, A Better Mousetrap)

Aliens Ate My Pickup, 1998

Balance, 1986

Dragon in Distress, 1995

Grey, 1997

Grey’s Ghost, 1997

On the Other Side, 2003

Poetic License, 1994

The Simple Gifts, 2011

Stolen Silver, 1991

Strike a Pose, 2007

Sword Sworn, 1986

Copyright

Copyright © 2008 by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

All rights reserved.

The distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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MAGEBORN: THE BLACKSMITH’S SON

Michael G. Manning

Prologue

ELENA DI’CAMERON WAS WORRIED ABOUT her husband. He seemed fine when he returned from dinner that evening, but now he was ill. They were visiting her parents, the Count and Countess di’Cameron. Normally she would have dined in the hall with him and her family, but her baby had been fussy. Rather than drag him downstairs, she had fed him in her room and taken a light meal there for herself.

Tyndal, her husband, and counselor to the King of Lothion, had returned right after dinner complaining of tiredness and had gone to bed early. A few hours later she woke to the sound of him retching violently. “Tyndal? What’s wrong?” She sat up and lit a lamp. He sat on the floor, holding the chamber pot as he heaved. She was shocked at his appearance. His face was pale, and his black hair was damp with sweat. As she looked on, he convulsed again, but his stomach was already empty.

She went to him and wiped his face with a towel, “You don’t look good. Let me get the physician.”

He waved his hands, “I just want some water. I don’t need a healer.”

“I’ll get some for you.” There was no use arguing with him, she would call for the physician while she got the water. He could complain later, the stubborn fool. She crossed the antechamber and stepped out into the hallway. Her parent’s rooms were across from hers, and the door was slightly ajar. That’s odd, she thought, but she continued down the hall, intent on her goal.

As she rounded the corner she saw two men in black garb entering one of the empty rooms. Stepping back quickly, she knew things were very badly wrong. Then she remembered her parents’ door. Rushing, she was back to it within seconds, and thrusting it open she burst into the room. The doorway led into a small sitting room, similar to her own rooms. It was empty. A scream came from the bedroom, and the opposite door flew open as her mother struggled to get through. She was held from behind by another of the black garbed men, and the front of her nightdress was soaked with blood. In the space of a heartbeat, Elena saw her mother’s head jerked back, and smoothly the man drew a short blade across her neck in a circular motion.

Blood fountained from her ruined neck, and the Countess di’Cameron sagged to the floor. In Elena’s heart a voice was screaming, but no sound came from her lips; her teeth were clenched and her jaw set. The assassin looked at her grinning, the woman before him was no challenge, barehanded and still in her nightgown. Two short strides and he was to her, his open hand reaching for her hair. He barely lived long enough to regret his mistake.

Elena was one of the Anath’Meridum, the secretive guardians that protected the line of Illeniel; a lethal warrior with or without weapons. She stepped into him, and her palm struck him in the chin, snapping his head back. The force of it caused him to topple backward, off balance. She stayed close, giving him no space as he stumbled. Holding his shirt, she ripped his other dagger from its sheath and pushed him to the floor while sliding the blade into his chest, just under the sternum. A second thrust under his chin made sure he would not rise again.

Her mother was dead; she knew that before she got to her. Her father, the Count, was dead on the floor of his bedroom. The blood pooling around him shone blackly in the candlelight. Elena came close to collapsing then as the sight overwhelmed her, but a flash from behind kept her from giving in to her emotions. Returning the way she had come, she saw the hallway fill with incandescent fire, and the screams of dying men found her ears.

The flames vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and she ducked her head out, scanning the hall. Two men lay smouldering on the floor outside her own room, and Tyndal stood there clutching the door frame. He was having difficulty staying upright. Gradually he sagged downward holding his stomach. More men ran past, one leaping over Tyndal to enter her bedroom, while the other two paused to finish the dying wizard. They never saw her stepping out from the other bedroom.

One raised his sword to strike Tyndal, while the other looked on. Behind them an angel of death rose up in a white nightgown, blond hair framed flashing blue eyes as Elena struck. The dagger went into the kidney of the man watching her husband, while her free hand jerked backward on the collar of the one raising his sword. Her bare foot was planted behind his right boot, and he fell backwards. He never got the chance to get up; the dagger was back and in his throat before he had finished striking the ground.

Tyndal was staring at her as she raised her head, loose hair hanging like a golden cloak over her shoulders. Her eyes met his, and he tried to speak, “Our son...” his voice was dry and weak. She took up the dead man’s sword and raced past Tyndal without a sound. The nursery door was open, and within she could see a dark form, the third man, holding a sword over the crib.

This one heard her coming and faced her head on, forgetting his target momentarily. Steel flashed in the dim room for tense seconds, seconds that felt like hours. He was good, few swordsmen could have held her at bay so long, but he knew he was losing. A moment more and she would have him. Desperate, he stepped to the side and feinted, not at her, swinging instead for the crib with its tiny occupant. Elena made the choice every mother would make, not that it was a choice, for there was no thought in it. The instinct of every woman in history that had ever held babe to breast made this choice for her, not that she would have changed it. She lunged, seeking to block the sword that sought her son’s life, and barely made it, but it left her off balance and exposed. The assassin’s riposte took her in the stomach, steel ripping her gown and the flesh beneath. Her own sword whipped back as she retreated, slicing into his face.

The assassin screamed, blood running from his right eye. The pain and blood disoriented him for just a moment, and he tried to defend himself as Elena came back. She was clutching her gaping stomach with her left hand, while her right drove him mercilessly backward with the sword. Her face was lit with rage and fury as she struck at him. “You will not have my son!” She struck again, and this time his response was too slow. She batted his clumsy defense aside and pierced his heart; driving the sword between his ribs and out between his shoulder blades, pinning the dead man to the wall.

Elena had no time for dying. She went to the crib, still trying to keep herself together. Because of the injury, she only had the use of one hand, so she dropped the sword and tried to comfort her son with her free hand. She heard a noise behind her and if it had been another assassin she might have been undone, but it was Tyndal. He looked like death warmed over as he made his way into the small room. “Your belly...” he said as he gasped for air.

“Never mind that, you look worse than me, and that’s saying something.” She smiled at him; the same smile that had won his heart years before, then she leaned back against the wall and slid down. Loss of blood had begun to make her dizzy.

Tyndal sat down beside her and tried to ease her flat onto the floor, but the skin of her stomach separated as she straightened out, drawing a choked cry from her. “Dear gods Lena! I can’t fix this... it’s too much...” Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel was the most powerful wizard of his time, but his knowledge of the healing arts was limited, and his own body was dying. The meal at Castle Cameron had been poisoned, and every man woman and child within the keep that had eaten it was dying as well.

He put aside his pain, focusing as he drew his finger across her belly like a knife. The skin drew together and closed at his touch, and within a moment, only a silver line remained to show where she had been cut. Elena’s pain subsided, and she looked into Tyndal’s face. It was covered in sweat and drawn by pain and exhaustion. Still his brilliant blue eyes looked on her with the same sharp intellect that had always fascinated her. This man, her husband, was dying and she could do nothing.

Able to sit up now, she drew him to her, tears brimming in her eyes. They held each other for a long minute, ‘till he began heaving again and pushed her away. He was bringing up blood now. After an eternity he stopped and managed to speak, “You’ve got to take our son and go.”

Some women might have argued or wept, but Elena di’Cameron did not. She was Anath’Meridum, and she knew what had to be done. Nodding she rose and tested her wound. The skin and muscle seemed whole, but a deeper burning told her that more was yet wrong within her. Tyndal leaned over the crib and picked up their son. He swayed a bit as he stood there, making her concerned he might fall with the tiny child, but he kept his feet. “Grow strong my son, live and make me proud.” He kissed his son on the cheek and handed him to Elena. “I love you both.”

“Forever,” she replied and kissed him quickly.

Taking her free hand Tyndal led her into the bedroom. She left him for a moment and gathered a few things. Dressing quickly she put on simple breeches and a plain tunic, then she slipped her surcoat over it. She buckled on her sword and joined her husband; he had gone out onto the balcony.

Standing there, she looked at the man she had pledged her life to protect. The man she had to leave behind. Doubt assailed her, “Are you sure?”

“There is no other way. I am dying already; you must break your vow. You have to escape if our son is to live,” he replied. Tears stood out in his eyes.

Elena looked away, and then she went back inside. She pushed the furniture in the anteroom against the door, and went to reclaim the assassin’s sword. Pulling it from his body, she wiped it and put it in her scabbard, keeping her own sword in her hand; then she returned to Tyndal. Holding out the blade, their eyes met. “I, Elena di’Cameron forsake my bond, and I ask for your release.” She spoke the words no Anath’Meridum had ever spoken.

Tyndal reached out placing his hand over the blade, “I, Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel release you.” As he spoke, the blade glowed for a moment before going dark, and then it shattered like glass. “My strength is almost gone, Elena. You have to hurry.”

Dropping the hilt she embraced him and then took their child from his arms. “How is this going to work?” She wasn’t sure how he planned to get her down, the balcony stood nearly a hundred feet above the courtyard below.

“You will be light, like thistledown. You’ll have to jump, but my magic will keep you safe ‘till you reach the ground. I’m sorry, it’s all I have strength for...” he said. He spoke a few words in the ancient tongue and put his hand on her brow.”

I love you,” she said, and put her hand to the rail, holding their son close with the other.

“I know. You carry my heart in you and my life in your arms. I do not die tonight, so long as you live.” He kissed her, and then she jumped, drifting down like a feather in a light wind. As she floated downward she heard a noise come from the room above, and Tyndal turned back to the bedroom. Men were forcing the door inward, pushing the furniture aside. Tyndal walked toward them with fire dripping from his hands. A second later he was lost to her sight as she drifted lower.

The night grew bright for a moment as flames shot from the balcony. The fire grew brighter and brighter till it seemed as bright as the sun, consuming their bedroom and a large portion of that floor of the keep. Then it dimmed, fading back to an orange glow as the keep began to burn from within. Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel, the last wizard of Lothion, was no more.

Elena reached the ground and gazed upward a moment longer. Then she looked away and began running for the stables. She wept silently as she ran, holding her infant son. It would have been shameful for someone to have seen one of her order crying, but then she was Anath’Meridum no longer.

She reached the stable in less than a minute and ducked inside. Amazingly, the place was empty. Wasting no time, she saddled one of her father’s coursers; fast horses bred for the hunt. It wasn’t easy to mount carrying her baby, but she managed it somehow, and then they were out, racing away with the wind whipping her hair.

They rode across the castle yard and through the gatehouse. There were men and horses gathered outside but she caught them by surprise and was past before they could try to stop her. Looking back over her shoulder she could see them mounting to follow, shouting at her to stop. She paid them no heed and rode on, flying headlong into the night.

She rode through shadows and darkness, pushing her mount, hoping to outdistance her pursuers. Sometime near dawn her horse faltered and nearly fell, forcing her to stop. She dismounted hastily before her mount collapsed; she had ridden it to death. The horse was blowing and its mouth was covered in froth, but she had no time to mourn it. It sank to its knees, and trying hard not to think, Elena opened the artery in its neck, giving it a quick release.

I have seen nothing but death this night, and I have nothing but more of it ahead of me, she thought. Another day she might have shed tears to have slain such a beautiful animal, but there were none left in her. She lifted her son and began to walk. As the hours drew on, the pain in her belly grew worse, ‘till it felt as though her stomach was on fire. Something was broken inside, but she could only hope it wasn’t enough to kill her before she reached Lancaster.

The Duke of Lancaster was her father’s liege-lord and the closest place she could hope to find refuge. Eventually she found herself on the road again, and she walked eastward into the rising sun. She was uncertain where she had met the road, so she couldn’t be sure how many more miles it was to reach Lancaster. She kept walking. She could see smoke rising beyond the next hill, so there must be a dwelling nearby.

An hour later she was having trouble thinking clearly. Her mouth was dry, and her body was hot. Fever had set in, and she feared that she would collapse before reaching help. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a man following a hundred yards back. By his clothes, she could tell he was one of the assassins from the night before.

Adrenaline gave her a moment of clarity, and she sped up. He was afoot so she figured he must have ridden his horse to death trying to catch her during the night. She felt a moment’s pity for the animal. Her body was weak, too weak now, and even the adrenaline failed to give her enough strength. The man drew steadily closer, and she knew the result was inevitable.

He was only twenty yards back now, and she could hear him breathing hard as he approached. Neither of them had the strength to run, making their competition into a grotesque parody of a sportsman’s race. He was striding heavily while she stumbled along. “Goddammit just stop!” he shouted at her. “Quit now bitch and I’ll make your last minutes pleasant before you die.”

Elena di’Cameron was no fool. She could not continue, and she had no strength to fight. Setting her son down, she turned back. Five steps, then ten, she collapsed as he approached. She lay face down with the sword she had taken cradled beneath her. She would not think of it as her own sword, that sword had been broken. She heaved great lungfuls of air and dust from the road as she tried to get some strength back. Her only hope was that he was stupid enough to have some sport of her before he killed her.

She waited till he stood above her, hoping he would pause. She seemed helpless, which was almost the full truth. Standing there, he decided he was too tired for fun and drew his sword. Elena rolled and thrust upward, trying to impale him either in the groin or stomach. It very nearly succeeded, but her arms failed her and the strike was too slow. He kicked her sword aside and then came down hard, planting his knees on her shoulders. She felt her collarbone snap and screamed with what air she had left.

Pinning her to the ground, he drew out a small knife, “I’ll finish your kid with this after you’re dead witch!” His eyes held no trace of sanity. She tried to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry and there was nothing left. Then an arrow sprouted in his chest. He seemed surprised, looking at it in astonishment. Dropping the knife, he started to try to pull it out, when the second arrow appeared in his throat. Then he fell off of her, dead before his head found the road. Elena tried to get up, but nothing worked. She could hear her son crying as her sight grew dim. Darkness closed around her, and she sank into oblivion.

Some nameless time later she awoke. She attempted to move, and her collarbone shifted, grinding. The pain forced her into stillness, and she lay there taking stock of her surroundings. “Don’t try to move. Your body has been through too much,” a voice said.

A woman sat beside the bed. They were in a small room, some farmer’s cottage perhaps by the look of it. She rinsed a cloth and placed it back on Elena’s forehead. “Your body is taken with a terrible fever. I thought for a while you might never awaken.”

Elena stared at her; the woman had a kind face, with strong features, “My baby...”

“Shhhh, don’t worry he’s ok. He’s right here. A good strong boy you have, he’s been crying lustily since Royce brought you in.” She leaned over and lifted Elena’s son from a makeshift bed they had set up in the room. Elena wasn’t able to hold him, so the woman settled him beside her, where she could feel him with her hand.

“I need to tell you some things,” she started.

“Nah nah, don’t work yourself up. Your body is working hard to fight the fever, you need to rest. There will be plenty of time later,” the woman reassured her.

“No, there won’t.” Elena said, “I’m hurt deep inside. Down here...” She tried to gesture to her stomach, but it hurt too much to move. She was tired, bone tired, but she kept talking, and slowly she explained who she was to the woman caring for her.

After a time she learned that the woman was named Meredith Eldridge, Miri for short, and her husband Royce had found Elena on the road. He was a blacksmith and had been headed out to take a cask of nails and other sundries to the castle at Lancaster. Fortunately he always took his bow with him on such trips. The two women spoke for over an hour before Elena could no longer continue and lapsed into a troubled sleep.

The next day her fever was worse, but Miri still held out hope for her. Elena convinced them to let her have pen and paper, but the struggle to sit up and write was almost too much for her. She fought her pain and weariness, and eventually she found a position, sitting at the table which didn’t hurt as much. Her left arm was useless, but she could still grip the pen in her right hand as long as she didn’t move it too far while writing.

She wrote two letters; one for her son, and a much shorter note to the Duke of Lancaster. At last Miri helped her back to bed exhausted. “Don’t tell him Miri... not till he’s older.”

“What’s that, love?” Miri tried to sooth her.

“Don’t tell him about me, till he’s older. Let him be happy. When he must know, give him my letter.” She was emphatic.

“Shush now, you can tell him yourself when you’re better. You’ll stay here with us, and when you get your strength you can help me with the place,” Miri smiled and stroked Elena’s hair. “You just rest yourself, and someday soon we’ll have a picnic. Spring is here and it’s so lovely out. The flowers are blooming, and the air is full of sweet smells.” Elena fell softly asleep while Miri talked. She felt like a girl again, with her own mother singing her to sleep. After a while Miri got up and went to start dinner.

Elena never woke. She passed quietly away that night. Her son woke the Eldridge’s the next morning with his crying. It seemed he knew somehow that she was gone.

Chapter I

THE IDEAS EXAMINED WITHIN THESE pages were originally meant to explore the nature of magic alone, until deeper examination revealed the connection between the ‘aythar’ that is spoken of by wizards, and the miracles and supernatural occurrences found in all faiths and religions. No one was more surprised than I was, at this connection between the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural’, and it formed the basis of my loss of faith and the beginning of my fall into heresy. Therefore be warned, if you are a man of faith or religion, a cleric, monk, priest, or holy man of any type, stop here. Read no further, for the ideas and science presented within, will doubtless erode the very necessary foundations required for any sincere connection with the gods.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I never felt like an unusual child, which I suppose is true of everyone, at least up to a point. Growing up I was inquisitive and adventurous as most boys are, but as I grew my mother made some observations, “He’s a very quiet child.” I don’t remember the first time she said that, but it immediately struck me as true. In fact I was very introspective, despite my amiable nature and easy smile. As I got older, she went so far as to describe me as someone born with an “old soul”, whatever that meant. Mostly I just thought a lot, which set me apart from the other children a bit, but not enough that I felt a difference or a gap. Looking back it seems clear that my native caution and introspective nature are probably what kept me alive.

My father’s name is Royce, Royce Eldridge, and he is a blacksmith by trade. I’ve often wondered if he regrets his vocation, since it seems he loves horses more than metal and will use any excuse to slip away to the city to see the races. He has also spent a bit more money than was wise, purchasing highly bred horses of his own. My mother, Meredith is her name, chided him about that, but she didn’t really mind. In truth she loved horses just as much, and it was during one of his trips to see the races as a younger man, that he had met her. After they married, they were unable to have children, but as fate would have it, years later, on another trip to the city, my father found me. As he tells the story, I was just a lone babe, abandoned on the roadside not far outside of town. Most likely my young mother had put me there, where I could easily be seen and heard, in hopes that some farmer’s wife might happen upon me. I’ll probably never know exactly why she chose to do so, but things worked out well for me, so I have never borne her any ill will.

Royce and Meredith were happy to have a child of their own, and I, being an only child, got a bit more attention than most children. If my parents had been wealthy, I would have probably been completely spoiled, but as it was I was simply happy. Most of our neighbors didn’t realize I was adopted, but my parents never kept it a secret from me. I was proud to be an Eldridge, and I worked hard to please my father. He made a point of letting me watch him work in the smithy, familiarizing me with the tools and methods of his trade. I found the ruddy glow of hot iron fascinating, watching it slowly take shape under his patient hands. Being a smith’s son, it was naturally assumed that someday I would follow him in the craft, and I had no objection. If things had turned out differently, I might be working at a forge even now, happily shaping metal to make my living.

As I grew from a curious boy, into an awkward adolescent, it became apparent that I might have some difficulty with the work. I had many natural talents. I was unusually intelligent, something that most adults noticed within minutes of talking to me. I had a good eye for metal and a natural gift when it came to crafting or building. My hands were sure and skilled, an artist’s hands my mother called them. That lay at the heart of the problem. Although I was long of limb, I was not particularly stout. I worked hard helping my father at the bellows, but no matter how much my mother fed me, I never seemed to fill out. It seemed I was doomed to remain a gangly youth forever. Still, I was skillful enough that, given time, I would probably have managed to become a competent smith, if not for what happened that spring, when the rivers were swollen with rain.

The day had dawned bright and full of promise, as spring days are wont to do. The rains had been especially heavy that year, my sixteenth year, but they had ended a few days ago, and the whole world seemed alive and shining. The sun was warm while the air still held a crisp chill left over from winter. All in all it seemed a terrible waste to be cooped up in the smithy with my father. I suspect that is why my mother sent me out to look for herbs. She had always been kind, and I think even then, she knew my youthful spirit was too large to be bounded by the orderly confines of the smithy. So it was with a spring in my step and a wicker basket in my hands that I went out to explore the fields and woods near our home. I knew the area well of course, but I enjoyed every chance I got to roam about, and I knew my mother wouldn’t expect me back very soon.

I spent the morning roaming about the fields, picking a variety of greens and dandelions that I knew my mother liked to use in her cooking, but as noon neared I decided to venture down to the river in search of angelica, a medicinal herb. I had no notion of what I would find there that day. I passed through a heavily wooded area that was close to the Glenmae River. The land rose before reaching the river, so I was still unable to see the banks when I heard the sound of a horse in distress. The horse was blowing and nickering loudly, with a pitch that indicated it was fully in the throes of panic. If you have spent much time around horses, you probably have an idea what I mean. I immediately broke into a run, youthful daydreams forgotten. I still don’t regret what I did that day, but looking back, I wonder how things might have turned out if I had taken a different path and avoided the river.

Coming over the rise, I saw a young man about my own age standing at the bank of the river, swearing loudly at the surging waters. I suppose it might be more correct to say he stood at the ‘new’ bank of the river, for it appeared that a large portion of the former bank had been swept away, undercut by the rushing water. I still could not see the horse, but the boy I knew, for he was my best friend, Marcus. Even at this distance, I could see his face was white with fear. Within half a minute I had reached him, and though I shook his shoulder, he looked at me blankly as if he didn’t know me. It took him a moment to recognize me and collect his wits enough to speak coherently, “Mort!” (I should probably mention at this point that my name is Mordecai, but most of my friends at this age had taken to calling me ‘Mort’.) “I’ll never get her out of there Mort! She’s going to die, and it’s my fault!”

The ‘she’ he was referring to, was his father’s prized mare, Dawnstar, although we just called her Star. She was a beautiful roan, with a star-like blaze on her forehead. She was also one of the most expensive acquisitions in his father’s large stable of horses. His father, the Duke of Lancaster, had bought her expressly for her bloodline, to improve his stock, for she came from a famous line of racehorses. I was sure that Marcus wasn’t supposed to be riding her, but little things like rules rarely stopped my friend when he had a notion to do something.

It was easy to guess at the rough details of what had happened. He had ridden her close, to watch the river as it raced along. He had gotten off and led her close to the bank, the mare having had enough sense to balk at being ridden so close to the roaring water. That was when disaster struck. The weakened river bank had collapsed under the weight of the horse, and while Marcus had managed to scramble back out of the way, the mare had not been so lucky. She was trapped in the river, struggling to keep her head above the water. The torrent had swept her up against a fallen tree where she was trapped, unable to climb up the steep muddy bank. Star’s panicked cries wrenched at my heart as she desperately strove to keep her head above water.

Without thinking, I began scrambling down the slippery embankment, trying to get close. It should be readily apparent that my thinking at this point was not clear, because there was no possible way I could free the trapped horse. The crumbling bank was steep and narrow at the water’s edge, which would make it impossible to get the horse out of the water, even if I were strong enough to accomplish such a thing. She was near to being swept under the lower edge of the fallen oak. That would lead to a swift drowning if she became entangled in the large limbs dipping into the water. Still I approached her without a clear plan, drawn by her plight.

“Mort! You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Marcus was usually the more reckless of the two of us, but today he was showing a lot more intelligence than I seemed to possess. “Get back up here before I have to explain your death as well!” For a moment I considered his words, and I realized he was right. I started to turn, to make my way back, common sense finally overcoming my foolishness, but then I met Star’s eyes. That was when my life changed, that was the moment that swept everything before it aside and set me and my friends on a course from which we could never turn back. The historians would have much less to write about, if I had not looked into that frightened mare’s eyes.

At this point I’m not sure how to describe what I experienced. Probably some of you who read this have been through moments of crisis and felt the surge of emotions that sweep over you in an instant; the timeless moment of clarity in which you can think a thousand things in the blink of an eye. This was one of those moments, and as I looked into that noble creature’s eyes, I felt as if a window had opened into my own soul. My world shrank, until it contained nothing, nothing at all but Star and myself. Her eyes were wild with fear, and her breathing was loud as her lungs heaved, despite the rushing water. My own body seemed light and insubstantial, and soon I lost all sensation of it, falling into her gaze. Now there was only Star, and Mordecai was gone as if he had never existed. My body and indeed my very ‘self’ were no more, everything had been replaced. I should rephrase that; my body still existed, but it was different now, much heavier, and it was cold. I could feel my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. I was mostly submerged in the cold river, and I could feel it chilling me, sapping my strength as it pushed me against the tree, drawing me downward with an inexorable pull.

I could see a young man on the river bank, slowly sinking, like a puppet with its strings cut. He was slipping into the water as well, and I wondered who he was. I fought to stay above the water, and in my desperation I had one clear thought. If I just had something firm to stand upon, I might be able to get myself up and out of that freezing water. My hands hit something hard; next my feet found it as well, and I began to rise. Stepping up I found something else solid to stand on and I began to walk out of the river. As I emerged, my hands felt strange. Looking down I realized they were now hooves. That seemed rather silly; since I was quite sure I wouldn’t be able to climb up the embankment without hands. Instead I walked up the river until I came to a place where the bank rose at a gentler slope, and I chose that spot to walk out.

Looking back I saw a second man, and I recognized him; it was Marcus. He was trying to drag the other boy out of the river and back up the embankment, although he wasn’t having much success. The mud was steep and crumbling. It would be impossible for him to carry the other person back up it. Instead he was trying to get under the stranger and push him up and over the edge where it had crumbled away. It was obvious that he would never be able to get him up high enough, so I decided to help him. Walking up the rise I got close to the edge and looked over at him struggling with the young man’s limp body. He pushed him up again, and since my hands seemed to be useless, I stretched my head down and grabbed the teen by the collar, using my teeth. Had my neck always been this long? Pulling back, I got him awkwardly onto the grass and dragged him until I was sure the ground was firm.

By now Marc had gotten himself up as well, and he was shouting something at me. Looking at him, I realized the colors were strange. It was definitely my friend, but he looked different to me. Glancing down I stared at the unconscious stranger. There was something familiar about his face. He had long gangly arms and legs, and his head was covered with thick black hair. At last it hit me, and a cold shock ran through me as I recognized myself lying there upon the ground. With that realization, I experienced a surging sensation and felt myself rushing toward my empty body. Then there was only darkness.

Sunlight filtered in through my closed eyelids, which made me wonder how I could have slept so late. Normally my mother would have wakened me with the dawn to start my daily chores. The bed was comfortable however, so I decided to sleep a little longer and see how long I could manage before she came to rouse me. Then I felt warm breath on my face and heard a snort, as if one of my father’s horses had somehow gotten into my room, but that couldn’t be… could it? I cracked one eye and was startled to see Star looming over me, with Marc sitting on the other side of me.

“Thank the gods you’ve woken,” he said. “I had begun to think you were going to pass over to the other side.” His face held a slight smile, though I could see tension written in his expression.

“Why am I lying on the ground?” Even as I said this, I realized it was true. I was lying on the damp grass, not far from the river. I started to sit up and everything began to twist and turn around me as waves of dizziness washed over me. I have a stubborn streak though, so I sat up anyway and stayed that way till the world quit whirling about.

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” he replied. “For some reason, you felt you could drag an entire horse out of the river by yourself. Even worse, when you got to the edge of the water, you promptly passed out. You nearly drowned.”

“How did Star get out?” I had a strong suspicion that I knew exactly how she’d escaped the river, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“The best I can tell, she’s been possessed by a water spirit.” Marc stared pointedly at me as he said that, and I knew him well enough to tell he had a different opinion. “Right after you passed out, she walked up and out of the water, walking over the top of it, as if it were solid ground, for about thirty yards before she made her way to the bank,” he paused then, as if to see what I might say, but I held my tongue. “Then she made her way back here and proceeded to drag you up and over the edge of the embankment with her teeth. All in all, I’d say her behavior was rather unhorse-like.”

I looked down, unsure what to say, “Well…”

“You might as well tell me, I’ve already seen several unbelievable things today, I’m not likely to call you a liar at this point.” Marc and I had been friends since we were small children, so trust wasn’t an issue; it was simply that I couldn’t understand what had occurred either. I gave up attempting to understand, and just described my experience as best I could. It took a while, but Marc was a good listener. After a while I ran out of words and just sat there, looking at Star grazing nearby.

Marc looked pensive. He had a brilliant mind, when he chose to employ it, and I could see the gears turning as I watched. Finally he spoke, “Let’s lay it out in plain view. You sent your spirit into the horse and took control of her body. Then you used some sort of magic to allow Star to walk on top of the water…”

“Now hold up,” I interrupted, “I didn’t use any magic, nor would I know how to!”

“What else would you call it, Mort?” He stared at me. His gaze was direct and unwavering.

“Ok, well obviously something amazing happened, but that doesn’t mean that I was the cause, source or principle agent behind the...” I had lapsed into our most familiar form of speech, the type we used when discussing matters of science or philosophy. He wasn’t buying into my circumlocutions though.

“Bullshit,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“You heard me, bullshit. Don’t try to talk your way around it. You’re not talking to your parents, or any of the dullards we know, so don’t try to feed me a bunch of crap. You need to own up to it and face what happened head on. You did it. You did something miraculous, and that makes you either a saint or a wizard. Given your general lack of piety, I’m leaning toward the latter.”

“You’re crazy,” I replied intelligently, “I don’t know the first thing about magic.”

Marc smiled, “I don’t either, but I do know one thing.”

“Such as?”

“Wizards are born not taught, so lack of knowledge is no defense.” Deep down I suspected he might be right. We were both full of questions, but the experience with the river had left us cold, wet and tired. We agreed to keep the details of what had happened secret, at least until we could figure things out.

“Come to the keep tomorrow, and we’ll go through Father’s library,” he said. Marcus’ father was the Duke of Lancaster, a fact I frequently tried to forget.

“I can’t, I’m supposed to help Dad with a load of pig-iron tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow evening then. In fact, tell your parents you’ll be staying with me for a few days,” he replied.

“I can’t do that, what will they think?”

“They’ll think it’s wonderful that their son is hobnobbing with the nobility.” Marcus never held his higher social station against me, but he had no qualms about making full use of its advantages either. “Listen, I’ll send a runner over this evening with a fancy invitation. Your father will be so impressed he won’t even consider refusing.” Marcus grinned at me with his usual irrepressible smile.

“I think your plan leaves a bit to be desired,” I replied. “Don’t you need some sort of excuse or reason for the invitation?” My parents knew about our odd friendship, as it had never been a secret. Marcus and I had met when we were boys, playing in the courtyard of the Duke’s keep during one of my father’s delivery trips. We hit it off immediately, although I’ve never been sure why. I suspect it was because he was the first child my own age with enough imagination and wit to keep up with my elaborate games of pretend. Soon after that, my parents began getting ‘requests’ from the Duchess for my presence to help entertain her son. The Duke and his wife were remarkably forward thinking when it came to the ‘mingling’ of the classes, but still as we entered our teenage years I had seen less and less of Marcus while he was required to spend more time with people of proper breeding.

“Hah! You’re coming over for a social gathering and boar hunt my father has arranged for this week.” Marcus had an incredibly smug expression on his face as if he had impressed himself with his own cleverness. The idea wasn’t that clever so I knew he was hiding something.

“You just made that up didn’t you,” I accused.

“Not a chance!” He had a definite glimmer in his eye. “Father planned this party two months ago. Young men and ladies of gentle breeding from all over the realm will be descending on our noble duchy this week.”

That gave him away. “Young...oh wait! You sneaky bastard! This is one of those ‘mixers’ your parents have been sending you to in order to properly socialize you with the gentry!” In point of fact Marcus resented the social gatherings his parents forced him to attend. He would describe them to me as dull occasions, attended by dimwitted fops obsessed with their own self-importance. I was sure he secretly enjoyed them, at least somewhat; he merely presented them in a negative light to make me feel better since I couldn’t attend. Which raised a question, “Wait, wait, I’m confused. How do you intend to bring a commoner along for this thing?” The ‘commoner’ of course was me; I had no illusions about my social standing.

Marc snickered, “Ah my friend, this time is different! My father is hosting this event, and since it is my home I can bring anyone I wish.” That effectively ended my last good argument. He got up and began leading Star away. He could have ridden her, but he was an excellent horseman, and it never even occurred to him to do so after her ordeal in the river. “I’ll have the invitation over in a couple of hours. I’ll send a coach for you tomorrow evening.”

I shook my head, embarrassed and tried to think of a good parting remark. My wit failed me however, so I had to settle for a simple, “See you tomorrow.” I began walking home, trying to figure out how I was going to explain this to my parents.

Chapter II

ANY MEANINGFUL STUDY OF MAGIC must begin with those most proficient in its use: mages, or wizards, as those more educated in its use are called. Those individuals who, for uncounted generations have been passing knowledge, from master to apprentice, regarding how to effectively use and shape the forces of magic, or as they refer to it, the ‘aythar’. According to their teachings, aythar is the vital force present in all living things, and in some part also in inanimate objects, although to a lesser degree. It is the core force behind things we describe with many different names such as: energy, spirit, life-force, élan, passion, magic, and faith.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

The next evening arrived more quickly than I would have imagined, and there was the coach, pulling up near our house. My father had actually been rather pleased by my news. He had a fair opinion of the Duke already, and I’m sure he saw this as an opportunity to acquire more favorable terms and business for the smithy. It certainly can’t hurt, having your son be friends with the next Duke. Mother was a bit more anxious. She seemed certain I would commit some serious breach of etiquette and get myself and possibly the family into trouble. I tried my best to reassure her, but looking back I see now she was much wiser than I had ever given her credit for.

Stepping into the coach, I was surprised to see Marc within. He gave me a wide grin, “Hullo! Ready to start your adventures?”

I answered in a sour tone, “This isn’t some romance where we’re off to slay dragons and rescue damsels you know.”

“Says you, but I have a rather more optimistic view on these matters. Besides which, there will indeed be some fair damsels at Castle Lancaster over the next few days, some of whom may well need a rescue,” he replied.

“From what?”

“Not what, who!”

I sighed, my friend had developed a definite talent with women over the past year, or so I had heard. “You’d best be careful; tupping the town girls is a far cry from besmirching the honor of a nobleman’s daughter.”

He didn’t answer that, just grinned at me. We rode in silence for a while, ‘till the bailey came into sight and the outer walls drew closer. I was staring out the coach window when something caught my eye. “Marc! Look at that.” I pointed out the window, toward the nearing archway.

Marc poked his head out the window to look in the direction I had pointed, “What?”

“The wall, what are those odd symbols? See them glowing like phosphor?” I was pointing again, trying to show him the glowing runes limning the archway ahead of us.

“I don’t see a thing,” he said as he sat back down, “describe them to me.” I did the best I could, and by the time I was done we were through the gate and heading for the stables. “Oh! Of course!” he said.

“Of course what!? Don’t leave me wondering dammit.” The glowing runes had put me on edge.

“You saw the castle wards. Father told me about them, but apparently only people with the ‘sight’ can see them. I’m guessing that includes wizards,” he answered, rolling his eyes up and to the side, as if to indicate he didn’t know any wizards.

“I’m not a.... Anyway! Wait, they weren’t there last week when I came to town. Did your father hire some sorcerer to enspell the walls these past few days?”

Marc stared back at me, “No. The wards are old. They were placed decades ago by some wizard my grandfather employed for a short time.”

“Then why couldn’t I see them before now?”

“Well you didn’t used to possess livestock and walk on water either. Ah! I know! Did you just finish puberty? I noticed the other day you don’t look quite as girly any more...check your balls, are you getting fuzzy down there?” He ducked, laughing, as I threw my travel sack at him.

The coach stopped, and a footman held the door for us to step down, so we tabled our discussion for later. Stepping into the courtyard I saw a familiar face. “Dorian!” I called out to a stalwart looking man crossing over to us. Dorian Thornbear was actually the same age as Marc and I. He was not quite as tall as me, standing about five foot ten inches, but he had quite a bit more muscle than either of us. He was the son of the Duke’s seneschal, and because of his martial prowess, he had already been accepted into the lord’s service as a man at arms. The stiff leathers he wore along with the spear in his hands were visible evidence of this.

“Ho! Master Marcus! Who let this ragamuffin in here?” Dorian said this with a light tone; we had all been friends since I had begun visiting the keep as a child.

Marc spoke, “I’ve invited Mort to spend the week.”

“You going to bunk with me again, Mort?” asked Dorian. Usually in the past I’d stay with Dorian’s family if I was sleeping at the keep. Technically his family was minor gentry, but they were a lot less intimidating than the Duke’s family. Plus, our fathers were close friends.

I started to reply with a yes, but Marc interrupted me with a hand on my shoulder, “Not this time Dorian, I’ve convinced him to let me put him up in one of the guest rooms.”

Dorian frowned, “Will there be enough room with all the visiting peers this week?”

“Certainly,” Marc replied.

“But...” I started to object.

“Shhh! Don’t argue, besides you need to be in the main keep if we’re to visit the library at night without creating a lot of questions among the castle guard,” Marc glanced at Dorian who’s eyebrows had gone up at this. “We’re on a secret mission!” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

“Really?” Dorian Thornbear was one of the bravest and most loyal friends I had ever known, but he had a certain lack of guile built into him. He was honest to a fault, perhaps that’s what made him a bit gullible. Not that the young lord of Lancaster was trying to fool him, it was just that Dorian tended to take such things over-seriously. We wound up standing in a sort of huddle near the back of the coach as Marc and I filled Dorian in on the events of the past couple of days. The three of us had always been as thick as thieves, but I had some concern that Dorian might give away my secret. Deception had never been his strong suit.

“Now what would you lads be conspiring at!?” The loud voice of Marc’s father, Lord James, the Duke of Lancaster, came booming from behind us. He was a man of moderate build, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He laughed as Dorian whirled to look back at him.

“Nothing, Your Grace!” Dorian ducked his head as he replied.

“You look well, Your Grace. Thank you for the invitation.” I gave a formal bow; I have always had a knack for keeping a cool head.

“You are welcome, young Eldridge. Please give your father my best wishes when you see him again. I trust you will enjoy your stay with us.” The Duke was unusual among most of the peerage, in that he treated all his vassals, and even yeomen, with courtesy and respect, though he had no requirement to do so. It was a fact that had made him extremely well liked among the people of Lancaster.

“Father! Why do you insist on scaring my friends?” Marc was a bit annoyed with the Duke.

“Hah!” The duke exclaimed, “It’s every man’s right to embarrass his son. Would you deny me the simple pleasures of life in my dotage?”

James Lancaster was still in his late thirties, and still quite hale, which his son was quick to point out, “When you’ve actually gone senile, Father you’ll know it, because we’ll have you put out to pasture.” They spoke for a bit more before the duke finally relented and left us to our own devices. Dorian had to report for duty, something he remembered rather quickly after the duke had surprised us, so he excused himself and we were on our own again.

“Let me show you the room I’ve got picked out. You’ll love it.” Marc led the way through the keep and up the stairs. I followed, curious despite myself. Although I had visited many times over the years, I had never been given a room inside the keep itself. When we finally came to a stop outside the door, I realized we were extremely close to the Lancaster family quarter.

“Are you sure this is right? Isn’t this near your family’s rooms?” I asked.

“Indeed, my door is right over there,” Marc pointed across the hall. He opened the door and shoved me in before I could start objecting. The room itself was ostentatious, at least by my standards. It held a large four poster bed, dressing table, chair, a desk, and some sort of odd couch-like piece. I had no idea what it was, but I discovered later it was called a ‘divan’.

“There’s no way you can put me in this room,” I said, looking over at my friend. “You’ve got nobility from all over the realm coming tomorrow, and every one of them rates higher than I do. If someone finds out you’ve put the smith’s son in this sort of room it’ll create all sorts of hell.”

“Bah, you’re right of course, but we have to place them in rooms according to their rank and status. Do you know who our most distinguished guest is going to be?”

“Not a clue, I’m common remember?”

“No you’re not, but the world hasn’t realized it yet. His Lordship, Devon Tremont, son and heir of the Duke of Tremont will be our most privileged guest. Protocol would dictate that he should have the best room we have to offer.”

“So let me stay with the Thornbears like I usually do.”

“Not possible,” he remarked, “Gregory Pern, son of Admiral Pern will be staying with them.”

“I’ll be fine in a broom closet then.” I was being sarcastic, but I actually meant what I said.

Marcus looked at me seriously, “Listen, Devon Tremont is the biggest prat I’ve ever met. I absolutely refuse to have that asshole sleeping across the hall from me. You on the other hand, are my best friend and infinitely more worthy, in my humble opinion.”

“You wouldn’t know humble if it walked up and kicked you in the shins. But thanks for the compliment. You still can’t put me in here, it’ll cause an incident.” I knew I was right, and surely he realized it as well.

“You’re right, it would. If anyone knew you were a complete nobody. As it stands, your rank and status are unknown, and you were already in residence when they arrived. It would be rude to relocate you unless you were some common lout with no standing.” He was smirking at me now.

“I am a common lout with no standing.”

“I know that, and you know that, but no one else does,” he answered.

“Most everyone living in this castle knows me!”

“I talked to Mother last night. She’s agreed that for this week, you are Master Eldridge, a scholar and distant cousin. No one needs to know more than that, and she’ll make sure everyone plays along.”

“What about the servants?” I said.

“People of breeding do not talk to the servants,” he said with an aristocratic tone and tilted his head back slightly. “Besides, I already let them know as well, just to be sure.” He winked at me.

After that I gave up. I had known Marc long enough to realize there was no dissuading him from his wild schemes once he had made up his mind. I only hoped it didn’t turn out badly. We talked for a while longer and made plans to start searching the library that night after dinner. Once we had talked it all out, he left and I had the room to myself, so I promptly lay down and took a nap. I had to admit, it was the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept upon.

Sometime later I woke; someone was standing at the bedside. I was slightly confused and it took me a moment to remember where I was. Looking around I realized there was a young woman looking at me with a somewhat embarrassed expression. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind getting up, dinner will be served in half an hour.”

Still groggy I sat up and collected my wits as best I could. I glanced at the maid again. She was beautiful in a healthy and unpretentious way that few possess. Soft brown curls creeping down her slender neck framed a delicate face with faintly rosy cheeks. Then I felt stupid, I knew her! “Penny! What are you doing here?” Penelope was her name, but in town we all knew her as Penny. She was the cooper’s daughter and one of the most sought after girls in Lancaster. Not that any of the boys had caught her eye yet; she was as discerning as she was beautiful.

“Pardon me sir; I just took service with the Duke’s household this past winter.” She lowered her eyes meekly. The Penny I knew was anything but meek; amiable yes, sweet-spirited certainly, kind usually, but not always.

“That’s two ‘sirs’ now Penny, one more and I’ll tell the Lady Genevieve who was stealing her roses a few years back.” When we were eleven or so, she and I had been playing in the garden behind the keep. Her Grace, the Duchess of Lancaster, or Lady Ginny as we knew her then, kept a beautiful flower garden. Dorian had been with us, and when Penny proposed we steal some roses for her, I had thought he might die of fright. Dorian had been a big worrier even then. In the end I picked three roses, one for each of us, although Dorian was too nervous to keep his.

“I never! You took those roses!” she exclaimed.

“Well, you put me up to it,” I answered dryly.

“Mort, they might fire me if you tell that story.” She looked nervous, but I could see her natural spirit starting to reassert itself.

“Relax, I was just kidding. Now explain to me how you wound up as a retainer for the Lancasters.” Actually, if I had paused to give it thought, it wasn’t hard to figure out. The servants in the keep were generally well compensated, and the work was usually better than what you could find in town. All things considered, a job here was a stroke of luck for anyone that managed to get one. The pay was generous, and whoever she married someday would be blessed with a second income.

“My Da’s business hasn’t been going well lately. He hurt his back last year, and we were having trouble making enough to keep food on the table, much less pay the tax man. So when I heard the castle had a position come open, I put in for it. Anyway! Stop distracting me; you’ll get me in trouble for sure. And don’t you dare mention that story about the roses again!” She said this with a tone of annoyance, but her eyes held a smile in them. “I’m supposed to tell you that your clothes are laid out for you at the dressing table, and you’d best get moving if you expect to be dressed in time for dinner.”

Now I was off balance again, “Clothes?” I said stupidly.

“You can’t be wearing those if you expect to rub elbows with the Duke’s family, much less the guests who’ll arrive tomorrow.” She wrinkled her nose as she indicated my simple attire. I had worn my best tunic which only had a few patched spots. Mother had even washed it for me this morning, so there weren’t any stains.

“There’s nothing wrong with my clothes,” I replied grumpily.

“Not if you’re planning to muck out the stables,” she retorted, “but for Master Eldridge, scholar and gentleman, they simply won’t do.” She indicated the clothes laid out for me with a sweep of her hand. There on the dressing table was a fine dark grey doublet and hose, accented with black lacing and ebony buttons. Soft cloth shoes completed the outfit.

Oh hell no. I thought to myself.

Penny was something of a mind reader it seems, or my face gave away my thoughts. She tried another tactic, “Please Master Eldridge! You simply must be properly dressed, or else I’ll get in ever so much trouble.” She looked at me with large brown eyes that seemed about to brim over with tears. Had she always had such large eyes?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I growled.

“Please Master Eldridge; I would be so grateful if you would just deign to wear these garments,” she begged.

I was thoroughly confused, the Penny I knew never acted like this. In fact I remembered her being more of a tomboy. Glancing down, I could see she had developed in more ways than one. I blushed a bit then. “Fine dammit, just get out and let me get dressed.” I was angrier at my own reaction than I was at her.

Her face lit up happily, in that annoying way women have when they get what they want. “I’ll just wait in the hall.”

“Damn right you will,” I muttered to myself. I stripped off my common garb and began struggling with the unfamiliar clothes. The hose and shoes I managed without a problem. The white under tunic was simple enough, but when I got to the doublet, things got complicated. It had entirely too many buttons and laces, and soon I was hopelessly lost.

“Penny,” I called, “are you still there? I think I need some help.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she teased as she peeked into the room. “I knew you’d be calling for help before too long. Here now, stand up straight! Face the mirror… no not there; I need light from the window to see properly.” She took charge and began sorting out the mess I’d made of the doublet. Standing behind, me she reached around me to draw up the laces holding the front together, looking over my shoulder to see her hands in the mirror.

I could feel her hair tickling my neck as she worked to tighten up the laces, something which caused me to develop all sorts of unwelcome thoughts. She didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. “When did you get so tall Mordecai?” she said, her breath warm beside my ear. I was pretty sure the softness behind me was a product of the development I’d noticed in her before. My cheeks flushed. “What were you thinking?” she continued without waiting for me to answer, “You have to tuck your shirt before you tie up the hose.” She slipped her hands in around my waist and deftly began tucking the shirt in. I yelped in an entirely manly manner and jumped away.

“I can do that!” I said, and then continued by putting my foot in my mouth. “I hope you don’t dress all the guests like that.”

“Of course not, you dolt! That’s what valets are for!” She looked angry and perhaps a little embarrassed, although I wasn’t sure.

“Well then why are you here?” My clever wit was in fine form this evening.

“Marcus thought you might like to see a friendly face rather than deal with a stranger! Honestly Mort, what do you think I am? Some sort of doxy?” she said, rebuking me. Some men claim angry women are attractive, but I’ve never been one of them. Penny was scowling at me as I tried to figure out how she had gotten from what I had said, to the idea that she was some sort of prostitute.

“Wait Penny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was startled, and I feel out of place here. I spoke out of turn.” At last my legendary charms were returning to save me. She glared at me for a second longer, and then her features softened a bit.

“I guess I can understand that, this place can be intimidating.” She relaxed, and then when I wasn’t expecting it she punched me on the shoulder. “There, we’re even now.” For a moment things felt like they did when we were kids, back when things were simpler. “What startled you, though?” she asked.

Sometimes you can be too comfortable expressing yourself around your friends, “Well last time I saw you, you were just this big gap-toothed tomboy and now you’re… well… you…” Yep, I had done it again. Did I mention I’m a genius?

“Tomboy?” she said, as her mind sorted through my reply, trying to figure out if I had insulted her again. “I guess I was, but what does that have to do with anything? I’m still the same for the most part. We’re both taller after all. Are you trying to say I look funny?”

“No, no… you look great! I mean really, really great, beautiful in fact, so much so that I feel a bit awkward.” I turned red as my inner voice replayed what I had just said, back to me. By now she understood what I was getting at, and I swear for an instant I saw her smile, before she blushed and turned her back on me. I’m sure I imagined it.

“Apology accepted,” she replied, “and thank you for the compliment.” She walked to the door before looking back, “You’d best hurry, or you’ll be late for dinner, Master Eldridge.” I snatched up a pillow and threw it at her, but she shut the door before it got there. I’ll never understand women, but I guess having one for a friend isn’t so bad.

I gave myself a last look over in the mirror. The change was astonishing. A tall dark haired man stared back at me, blue eyes standing out in stark contrast. I was still a bit lanky, but the doublet did a lot to address that, and I had to admit the grey looked good on me. There was a knock at the door, and I found a small boy outside the room.

“An’ it please you sir, it’s time for dinner. Master Marcus said you’d be wanting to know.” He was a scruffy young boy somewhere between eight and ten years old. One of his front teeth was missing, giving him an off-kilter grin.

“What’s your name boy?” I said, sounding so much like an adult I almost believed it myself.

His answer came with a faint lisp, “Timothy, sir.”

“Lead the way Timothy,” I replied, and gave him a deep bow. Sensing my mood, Timothy put on airs himself, and we strode down the corridors and hallways like great lords. At least until we encountered the Duchess along the way. We dropped our act then, and I gave Timothy a wink as he left. I walked with Her Grace from that point, in a much more somber mood.

I felt awkward walking beside Genevieve, though I had met Marcus’ mother many times. I would have seated myself at the servants table, where I obviously belonged, but Marc caught me as I entered and steered me to the high table. It felt like everyone in the room was staring at me as I sat down. The duke occupied the head of the table, with his lady wife sitting at the first seat on his right. Across from her, Lord and Lady Thornbear were placed, and I wound up seated next to her, with Marcus to my left. The duke’s other children, Ariadne and Roland sat across from me and Father Tonnsdale, the castle chaplain sat at the foot of the table. This being the first time I had ever sat at the high table, I felt distinctly conspicuous.

The dinner conversation was quiet and revolved entirely around the arrival of their guests the next day. Thankfully no one expected me to give an opinion for I was quite out of my depth. I did keep my ears open and learned a bit however. It seemed the events of the coming week were primarily being staged in order to familiarize Marcus, and to a lesser degree his siblings with other notables around their age. Given that the estates of the landed nobility were separated by great distances, each nobleman would host events such as this to allow the young to socialize with their peers. Hopefully this would help them form important friendships that would serve them in the politics of later life, not to mention the possibility of finding a marriage partner. None of this was stated directly of course, but I’m a quick learner, and I managed to pick up on the undercurrents.

Things were going well, the soup course was done, and I was mostly finished with the second course, a lovely fish and parsnips dish, when Father Tonnsdale leaned forward. He was pontificating on the lack of merit to be found in some of the heathen religions many noble houses still held to, when his silver star slipped out of his robes and came into view. Unlike the last time I had seen it, now it was glowing with a soft gold radiance. Surprised, I choked and then coughed, getting some of the parsnips into my nose. They were seasoned with a bit of horseradish, so the resulting burn made my eyes water, and I fought to keep from spitting out my food.

Marc thumped me on the back while I regained my composure. Father Tonnsdale addressed me, “Are you all right Master Eldridge?”

“Yes Father, I’m sorry. Your necklace caught me off guard. I never noticed it glowing like that before.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had said too much.

“How unusual! I have heard that certain individuals can see the light granted by our Lady, but it is a rare gift. Do you by chance have the sight, Master Eldridge?” He was staring at me intently.

Ariadne, Marc’s younger sister, spoke then, “Don’t be silly Father, we’ve known Mort for years, and he’s never shown any sign of having the sight.” The duchess glared at her daughter for using my nickname at the table.

Marc interrupted, “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about it Father Tonnsdale. This past week Mordecai has begun seeing things, like the castle wards.” Nice, he’d managed to tell everyone at the high table. At least he hadn’t mentioned the incident with the horse, but then I rather doubted he’d want his father knowing he had nearly lost his prize brood mare.

“How old are you Mordecai?” the priest asked me.

“Sixteen, sir. I turn seventeen later this month,” I answered.

“Peculiar, in most cases the sight manifests itself around age twelve or thirteen at the latest, during the tempestuous period around puberty. It’s fairly rare in itself, but of the few dozen cases I’ve heard of, none were later than that.”

“I’m sure it’s just a temporary phase, Father.” I was beginning to wish I could make myself invisible.

“I doubt that. You might consider a career in the Church. A gift such as yours is highly prized, and its use in the service of our Lady is helpful to avoid accusations of witchcraft and sorcery later on.”

The duchess rescued me then, “Let the lad enjoy his dinner, Father. You’re frightening him with talk of witchcraft. It is hardly a fit topic for the dinner table.” Lord Thornbear grunted in agreement with her, and the dinner conversation gradually turned away from me and onto more comfortable matters.

Things went smoothly after that. Dessert was a berry tart with sweet cream, a treat I hadn’t expected, but of which I heartily approved. When they began to serve the after dinner drinks, Marc signaled me quietly that it was time to leave, so we made our excuses and rose from the table.

“Mordecai,” the Duke stopped me, “please call on me in the morning. I’d like to discuss some things with you before the guests arrive tomorrow.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I bowed and kept my features neutral. I managed to get the rest of the way from the great hall without having a heart attack.

“Don’t fret about it Mort, he just wants to make sure everything is clear concerning your identity this week,” my friend reassured me.

“Speak for yourself,” I replied, “he’s not my father, to me he’s the grand and powerful Duke of Lancaster.

Chapter III

OF PARTICULAR IMPORTANCE TO THOSE who work with aythar, is a full understanding of its interactions with human beings. Accordingly, several characteristics have been described and named in order to understand this interaction. The first and most important characteristic is ‘capacitance’, which refers to the amount of aythar present or stored within a given person. The amount is not fixed and varies from moment to moment but never exceeds a certain limit. That limit varies greatly from person to person, but in most humans is quite small. Let me add here, that all ‘living’ beings contain some amount of aythar, or else they would be dead, and even corpses contain some amount, although much less by many orders of magnitude.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I had been to the library before, when Marc first undertook to improve my education. My parents had taught me to read at a young age, but the finer arts of geometry and grammar were beyond them. I think he dragged me along at first to provide a distraction from the work his tutor had set for him, but over time it became clear I had a real knack for language and mathematics. Later the Duchess encouraged Marc to invite me, since his progress greatly improved when I was involved. As a result, I was probably the best educated peasant ever to emerge from Lancaster.

Still, the Duke’s library was one of the best in the kingdom, and neither of us really knew the extent and breadth of the volumes it contained. Being young, we just started searching titles hoping to find something relevant. Marc started thumbing through histories hoping to find some mention of past wizards, while I wound up getting bogged down in an herbal compendium. I always had a weakness for plants. Eventually I broke away from that and began searching again. Then Marc called me back.

“Hey Mort, I found something!” It turned out to be a history of the university at Albamarl, which is the capital of Lothion. “According to this, the university used to have a college of magic,” he said.

“Is it still there?” I asked.

“No, apparently there was a plague, and rumors got around that the wizards had something to do with it. The college was destroyed by an angry mob. Looks like most of the faculty were burned at the stake.”

“Why do I want to be a wizard again?”

“Because it’s terribly impressive! And otherwise how will I ever find a magical counselor when I become duke?” He gave me one of his famously charming grins.

“Your father doesn’t have a ‘magical counselor’” I replied.

“Only because there are none to be found anymore, my grandfather had one though. Oh, look here! You aren’t a wizard after all!” That got my attention. “According to this you’re a mage,” explained Marc.

“What’s the difference?”

“Anyone with a moderate amount of latent ability is a mage, a wizard is a mage who’s been educated and has learned to harness his powers properly.”

I laughed, “So I’m ignorant! We knew that already.” We skimmed through the rest of the book but as to the fate of the wizards who survived the burning of the college, there was nothing to be found.

“Let’s keep looking, I know Vestrius kept some books here somewhere,” Marc said.

“Vestrius?” I asked.

“Grandfather’s pet wizard,” Marc answered.

I was making a slow tour of the shelves, when I noticed something odd. Back near the corner, beside one of the wooden bookcases, was a faintly glowing symbol. “Hey come check this out,” I called. Then I reached forward to touch it. A moment later I found myself sitting at a reading table back in the front room of the library. Marc was looking at me oddly.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he said.

“Why?”

Exasperated he went on, “A moment ago you called me over to that side room where the grammars are kept, and then you just walked out and sat down over here with nary a word of explanation, that’s why!”

“I did?” Confusion had become my regular companion these past few days.

“The legends of absentminded wizards are seeming truer every day,” he replied. “Come on, let’s see what you forgot, professor dimwit.” We got up and went back into the small side chamber that he said I had called to him from.

Looking around for a few minutes, I spotted the glowing rune again, “Hello what’s this?” I reached out to touch it again. A moment later I found myself sitting at the reading table again. Marc was sitting across from me with a bemused expression.

“I’ll start by saying you are never going to cut it as a mage or whatever if you keep touching strange wards,” he said.

“Weren’t we just in here a bit ago?”

“There’s the great mind I’ve come to respect. Welcome back Mordecai, master of the obvious!” Sarcasm was not one of his more becoming qualities. Now that I think on it, it’s probably not one of mine either. He quickly explained what had happened, so we went back to take another look.

This time I didn’t touch the rune, “Can you see it?” I asked him.

“No.”

“Try touching it and see what happens,” I suggested.

“Not a chance, what if I forgot something important!”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe the first time I lay with a woman!” Marc answered.

“What the heck? When did that happen? You’re not a virgin anymore?” I was stunned.

“And you are?” he replied, arching his eyebrows.

“Shut up, let’s get back to business.” I stared at the rune while he chuckled behind me. Finally I tried something different. Holding my hand out, I brought it near the rune but didn’t touch it. As it came near to the glow, I could feel a pressure growing in my mind. Forget. A faint whispering came to me, but I held firm. Taking a deep breath, I tried to exert a pressure similar to the one I felt, only directed outward, back at the rune. For several long moments I could feel a tension building, not only in my mind but in the air around me, then the world exploded.

I found myself lying on my back with Marc looming over me holding a pry bar. “You are either the stupidest or the luckiest bastard I’ve ever known,” he said. I sat up and looked at the spot where the symbol had been. It was notably absent, but a scorched area marred the wall now.

“Where’d you get the pry bar?”

“I went to get it before I knew you were trying to blow yourself up. Give me a hand, there’s an iron ring behind the spot where that magical doodad was.” He let me put my hand on it first, and then when it was apparent that nothing else was going to explode, he helped me to pull. We tugged for a few seconds, and then the paneling opened along a seam, revealing a small cupboard. Inside were three leather bound books. The first two were about ten inches on a side and about an inch thick. The third was massive, fully eighteen inches tall and three or four inches thick. It was covered in glowing symbols and the only part of it I could read was the title, A Grammar of Lycian. The other two were untitled.

Marc started to reach in, but I put my hand on his arm, “Don’t.” He glanced at me then withdrew his hand. Carefully I reached in and pulled out the two smaller books; since they weren’t glowing I guessed they might be safe. I left the other behind.

“Is it warded?” Marc asked.

“It has something all over it, and it glows like a bonfire.” After some discussion, we closed the panel and left the larger book inside. Hopefully I would learn enough to peruse it safely later. It was getting late, so we decided to quit for the evening. I took the two books with me to my room.

“Promise me you won’t look at them without me.” Marc had a serious expression. “If something happens while you’re reading one of them, someone should be around to drag you away or put out the fire.”

I met his gaze and tried to be serious, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait.” A dozen smart ass comments ran through my head, but for a change I kept them to myself.

Once I was safely ensconced in my room I began examining the books. I had initially intended to keep my promise, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. Since nothing had happened after opening the covers I figured I might as well see what I could discover. The first book turned out to be a journal, written by Vestrius himself. The second seemed to be some sort of book of spells. Most of it was written in the common tongue, but interspersed were glowing words and symbols I had no experience with. It also contained a lot of diagrams. As soon as I saw the glowing parts I decided it should wait, so I returned to the journal.

My decision turned out to be the correct one. Unlike most journals in which someone writes their daily thoughts and such, this one turned out to be more like a lab notebook. Vestrius had been apprenticed as a teenager to another wizard, named Grummond. The first task he had been given was the keeping of a journal to record what he learned each day. I could not imagine anything more useful to me at this point. I began to read.

Vestrius’ first days as an apprentice were quite illuminating for me, and made it clear to me what the importance of the third book was. A Grammar of Lycian was exactly that, a book detailing the grammar and vocabulary of Lycian, a long extinct language. The journal also made clear why the book glowed. Wizards are taught to use language, written and verbal, to manifest their power. Since using one’s native tongue would be dangerous in the extreme, the custom was to use a dead language. Lycian had become the de facto language of magic hundreds of years ago and knowledge of it was maintained for that purpose only. Because of its long use, even the writing had acquired a sort of residual power, which could prove dangerous sometimes, even in the hands of those without the gift, but to a much lesser degree.

I resolved to collect the third book the next day; I would need to study it if I was to follow along with Vestrius’ journal.

Chapter IV

THE SECOND CHARACTERISTIC IS CALLED ‘emittance’ and refers to the rate or ability of a person to channel a given quantity of aythar. Unlike capacitance, emittance is not a universal trait in all human beings. Some persons, popularly called ‘stoics’, have no emittance whatsoever, and as a result are unable to use, sense or manipulate magic in any way. Luckily such persons are rare, most likely occurring at a rate of no more than one or two persons per hundred. One beneficial side effect of this is that stoics are impossible to manipulate in more subtle ways, such as via enchantments or other magics affecting the mind or spirit. This makes them invaluable in certain roles, particularly in judicial settings. They are of course, still susceptible to other forms of magic, but no more so than any other physical being or object would be.

The vast majority of humanity has a very low emittance, such that, without extensive training or exposure, they are largely unable to manipulate aythar to any significant extent. Similarly, they have difficulty even perceiving things which are purely magical in nature. Such persons are able to use magical devices, and with extensive training even use some aythar directly, but to a very limited degree.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I awoke to sunshine streaming in through the open window. Squinting at the bright light, I attempted to cover my head with one of the decorative pillows that I had shoved to the side the night before. Someone snatched it away from me.

“For the love of all that’s holy!” I burrowed under the covers, seeking to hide from the light. I had never been a particularly late sleeper, but I had stayed up till nearly dawn the night before. Someone else had different ideas, and I found myself struggling to keep the covers up while my assailant tried to peel them back.

“Oh no you don’t! Mordecai Eldridge you wake up this instant! I’m done covering for you this morning, you’ve already missed your meeting with the Duke, and if you think…”

“What?” I let go of the blankets and sat up. My attacker, Penny, abruptly fell backward and tripped over the chair, taking the covers with her.

“Ow!” she exclaimed as she came down hard on her derriere. At this point a few things require explanation. In those days most people slept naked, as I was now, pajamas and night clothes being a luxury. As Penny stood back up, I became uncomfortably aware of this, not to mention the fact that my little soldier was giving his best morning salute. I was suddenly grateful for the abundance of decorative pillows and made quick use of one to hide my condition. Penny was kind enough to look away.

“Listen Penny, I know we’ve been friends a long time, but don’t you think it would be better to knock next time?” I’d be damned it I was going to be embarrassed. I was clearly the victim in this situation.

“I did knock! I knocked at seven; I came back and knocked at eight and again at nine! You were called to meet with the Duke at nine thirty, but I told him you were ill. I don’t think he believed me at first, but Marcus told him he’d kept you up late drinking.” She looked extremely put out, but I noticed she hadn’t offered the covers back to me. Instead she kept darting glances at my legs; well I presumed it was my legs. I repositioned the pillow to make sure I was covered. “Finally, I just came in at ten,” she continued, “to clean and air out the room. You were sleeping like one of the dead.”

She was determined to ruin my righteous indignation. “What time is it now?” I asked a bit sheepishly.

“Midday.” Her raised eyebrow and pursed lips informed me that she thought noon was entirely too late to be waking.

“Noon?” My earlier resolve to not be embarrassed deserted me. “I’m sorry Penny. Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but would you mind leaving so I can get dressed?” I glanced over at the dressing table. The night before, scratch that, the morning before I had gotten into an epic struggle escaping the devilish clutches of the doublet. It appeared she had sorted out the tangled mess I had victoriously left at the foot of the bed.

“You’re going to need my help, but I’ll wait over here till you’ve got your hose and shirt on.” She turned her back to me and faced the dressing table, so I got busy putting on the clothes I could safely manage. Too late I remembered that the dressing table had a large mirror on it, looking over my shoulder I could see her surreptitiously watching me in it. I’m not sure why, but I kept my mouth shut and finished dressing, probably I’d had enough of embarrassing conversations. I made sure to tuck my shirt in this time.

Minutes later she was helping me to lace up the doublet. Despite our prior experience, I still found her closeness unsettling. I remembered Marc’s admission regarding his lack of virginity, and I couldn’t help but wonder. Could it have been Penny? I kept my idiot mouth closed this time. The thought bothered me anyway.

“What kept you up all night?” The words startled me, coming as they did from right next to my ear. I’m going to have to get Benchley to help me dress tomorrow. I thought to myself. Benchley was the valet that assisted Marc with his own wardrobe. Shutting my eyes for a moment, I organized my thoughts.

“Pardon?” Sometimes my cleverness amazes even me.

“Don’t,” she answered.

“Don’t what?” Having settled on the ‘dumb’ defense I figured I’d keep going.

She finished up the laces and stepped away, eyeing my clothes critically. “Keep shutting me out, Mort, and you’ll regret it one day.”

I decided that I might still have a chance with feigning ignorance, “Honestly Penny, I don’t know what you’re referring to. You heard Marcus, we stayed up late drinking and I had more than might be wise…” I never got to finish, her hand caught me with a stinging slap that left my cheek tingling and turned my head half way around.

“Goddammit Mordecai! I’ll put up with a lot, but don’t stand there and lie to my face! You tell Marc and Dorian everything but you can’t be bothered to trust me! Why? Is it the tits?” She was gesticulating wildly and she punctuated this remark by lifting the anatomy in question. “You think I’m some empty headed girl you can’t confide in?”

I was backpedalling quickly, caught completely off-guard by the unbridled fury in her voice. “No of course not, Penny! I trust you. I mean, we grew up together; you being a woman has nothing to do with this. We’ve always been close friends if…”

“Close!?” she interrupted. “That’s why you went out of your way to visit when you came to town the past two years? That’s why you knew my Ma died last year of the consumption? That’s why you knew Da wasn’t able to work anymore and that I had taken a job here? You came to see Dorian. You made countless trips to talk to Marcus! I just wasn’t good enough to bother talking to?”

The scope of our conversation had grown to encompass a lot more than my secret research. In truth I had avoided Penny the last couple of years, mostly because things had gotten increasingly awkward with the onset of puberty. She had changed in ways that set us apart, and as she blossomed, she had only gotten more popular with the men in town. I had never liked competition, and truthfully, she was way out of my league.

She continued, “Did you think maybe I didn’t need a friend too?” She was winding down now, and I could see tears in her eyes.

“Penny I’m sorry, you’re right.” Our conversations were developing a definite pattern, “I figured you had plenty of friends. Every boy in town has been trying to court you, surely…”

“I didn’t need suitors, I needed a friend.” She looked directly at me as she said this, and for a moment I wanted to hold her. Stupid! She tells you she needs a friend, and the first thing you think of is making a pass at her. Being born male truly is a curse sometimes.

“Fair enough, I agree with you. If I were you, I’d be somewhere else. I obviously don’t merit your friendship, so why are you here, Penelope?” She was right, but I was tired of arguing. I couldn’t possibly apologize for not being there for her during her hardships. Besides, she’d probably be better off if she stopped worrying about me.

“Asshole! I’m here because you’re the only true friend I have! And don’t think you’re going to run me out of here like that. We’re friends until I say we’re not! Even if I have to beat you into telling me what’s going on with you!”

I gave up. “What do you want to know?”

She looked at me suspiciously, “No tricks, I already know more than you think, so you’d better be honest.”

“Deal.”

“Why were you in the library last night?” That surprised me, she obviously didn’t miss much.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“You weren’t drinking, and I found two strange books in the reading desk. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were in league with dark gods; the stuff in one of those books looked suspicious,” she explained. “Now stop dissembling and tell me what you’ve been whispering about with Marc and Dorian.”

Remind me never to underestimate women.

“I doubt you’d believe it. Maybe it would be better if I showed you,” I replied. “Go close the curtains; this will be easier to see if it’s darker.” To her credit she didn’t ask any questions, although she did look at me oddly as she pulled the drapes shut. “Come sit on the bed with me, this will take a moment.”

“I saw that earlier if that’s what you want to show me,” she said sarcastically.

“Just hush for a second, and let me concentrate.” I had read through the first few days of Vestrius’ apprenticeship last night, and although I hadn’t studied the Lycian vocabulary yet, his journal included the first few words he had learned, and their application. I closed my eyes and tried to relax my mind. I held up my hand and cupped my palm. “Lyet” I vocalized and focused on the empty air in my hand. A warm glow formed there, dim but visible, rather disappointing. “Lyet!” I said again, putting more force into it. The light flared, becoming a brilliant incandescent ball too bright to look at. I closed my eyes, but the glare was strong enough to show through my eyelids. Penny’s response was more interesting.

“Shit!” She leapt backwards across the bed and fell over onto the floor on the other side. That made twice she’d landed on her backside in less than an hour. I left the ball of light hovering there in the air and moved to help her up. Truth be told, I hadn’t figured out how to move it yet, I’d had enough trouble working out how to turn it off last night when I tried it the first time.

Everything looked bizarre in the harsh white light. It cast shadows that made her face seem strange. The worst part was the fear I saw in her eyes. I could only imagine what I must look like in the glare. “Now you see why I had such trouble telling you?” I tried to smile, and put a familiar face on to reassure her, but that only made it worse. She was backing away, edging toward the door.

“Wait Penny, this isn’t as bad as you think. Here, let me put out this light, and then I’ll try to explain better.” I gestured at the light, “Haseth” The light went out abruptly, plunging the room into relative darkness since our eyes were still accustomed to the glare.

I heard her give out a yelp, and then there was a loud thump. That would be the divan I’ll wager. There was a loud knock, and the door flew open.

Marc stomped into the room, “Alright you slugabed, it’s high time you got up! If you sleep any longer… huh?” Penny ducked past him and ran from the room. My eyes were finally adjusting to the dimmer light, and I could see Marc staring at me from the doorway. I’ll be the first to admit things didn’t look good. The bed was a complete mess, with blankets still on the floor. The divan had flipped over onto its side. I knew it was the divan, I thought to myself.

“Was that Penny?” he asked turning in a circle.

Oh damn! I knew it had to be her he was talking about last night, and this looks bad. My thoughts were racing, “It isn’t what it appears.”

“And what would that be? That you’re chasing the staff around your bedroom with the curtains drawn in the middle of the day?” He seemed a bit miffed but not nearly as much as I would have been if I thought someone was poaching my game. “Listen Mort, I know we’ve both known Penny a long time, but she’s been through a lot recently. You shouldn’t give her a hard time. I meant to tell you this earlier, but she lost her Ma not long back and since then…”

Obviously I was destined to travel from one misunderstanding to the next in this life. “No, no, no! I was explaining my situation and it upset her.” It took almost ten minutes to describe what had happened. It would have been quicker, but Marc has a bad habit of interrupting.

“So you came straight back here and immediately ignored our promise to wait?” He was shaking his head.

“That pretty well sums it up,” I said this with my most charming smile.

“You understand I had to tell my father that we were up drinking late last night, and you passed out from an excess of wine?” he replied, pointedly ignoring my overwhelming charisma.

That took the wind out of my sails, “He probably thinks I’m a drunkard now, eh?”

“I doubt that Mort, but he certainly thinks you can’t handle your wine,” he gave me an evil grin. “Come on, I told Father I’d fetch you before our noble guests start arriving.” Since I was already dressed we headed for the door, but I did pause to set the divan back on its legs.

As we left he turned to me, “And if I ever find you chasing Penny around your chambers again, I’ll toss you out on your ass. The other maids I might forgive, but Penny is special.”

“Dammit! I told you that’s not what happened!”

Marc winked at me, “I know. It’s just fun to see you get flustered. You know, now that I think on it… if it had been some other maid, I don’t think the misunderstanding would have bothered you nearly as much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” I snapped back.

“Nothing, my friend, nothing at all.” He put his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the hall. Well he tried; I’m still taller, so he had to settle for thumping me between the shoulders.

Chapter V

RARELY, SOME ARE BORN WITH a moderate to high emittance but with a low capacitance. This trait occurs with no more frequency than one in a hundred. Those born with it usually do not become aware of it until puberty, when their bodies begin to mature, although occasionally it becomes active even earlier. The primary trait found in those with a high emittance is known to the common folk as ‘the sight’. This refers to their ability to sense and see things of a purely magical nature. They sometimes manifest precognitive abilities or other forms of prescience and clairvoyance. Most become mystics, soothsayers, and fortune tellers. Some enter the clergy or priesthoods of various religions as their ability allows them to channel the powers of their gods. Thus are born the legends of ‘saints’. Such would likely have been my own destiny if fate and my own intellectual curiosity had not interfered.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

My audience with the Duke had gone much as I’d expected. He made light of my late sleeping, passing it off as the ‘excess of youth’, but I was still sure I had disappointed him. In any case, he made sure that I was aware that he and the Duchess both were colluding in misrepresenting my social status. As Marc had said earlier, I was to represent myself as a traveling scholar and avoid questions regarding my exact place in society; they for their part would divert questions by remarking that I was a distant cousin of some sort.

Looking back, I cannot help but wonder at their nonchalance at deceiving so many people as to my social standing. It seems incredible from the standpoint of a lowly blacksmith’s son, but when I consider it from their lofty station, it makes a bit more sense. It quite literally was no big deal to them; the Lancasters were second in rank only to the royal family itself. Who would gainsay them? Who would bother to question the rank of an unknown scholar? And if the truth should out, what of it? They could pass it off as a minor joke, and the worst consequence might be some ruffled feathers. For my part, it scared the living shit out of me, and I felt as if I had my neck on the executioners block.

I took a free moment that afternoon to continue reading and do some experimentation. One of the more interesting things Vestrius had learned early in his apprenticeship was a spell to put others into a magical slumber. Apparently it was a simple feat and one taught early because of its general usefulness. It could be used defensively against men and beasts or to escape from delicate situations. It also had the advantage of plausible deniability, assuming that all the witnesses were included in the effect. Grummond made a point of telling Vestrius that it would have no effect on stoics, but I had yet to find out what that meant.

I set out to find a suitable target for experimentation. I initially considered Marcus or Dorian, but I put that idea aside. I was still uncertain of my abilities, and I didn’t want to risk putting them into some sort of permanent coma. I settled for sitting at the window and attempting to put birds to sleep. My first target was a blackbird that was kind enough to land on the windowsill.

I focused my will and looked at the bird, “Shibal.” It collapsed as though someone had struck it with a well-aimed stone. I watched it for several minutes to see if it would awaken. It didn’t. The spell was supposed to last a while, depending upon how much power the caster put into it, but I had no idea if the size of the creature was a factor. I tried waking the bird with loud noises, but it remained stubbornly asleep. I was pretty sure that was not normally the case with sleeping birds. Finally I picked it up and made sure it was still breathing. It seemed to be fine, with the exception of being a very sound sleeper. I tried shaking it a bit and then I poked it with my finger.

“Ow! Shit!” the bird had wakened and promptly bitten my finger. It flew around the room for several minutes while I chased it, trying to herd it toward the open window. Eventually it found the exit, and I sat down to consider what I had learned. I definitely wouldn’t be bringing more birds into the room; my finger was still throbbing painfully.

I decided to try again, this time on something further away. I spotted a hawk circling overhead. “Shibal.” The bird faltered for a moment but quickly recovered. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the distance or whether it was more difficult to put it to sleep because it was flying. I drew myself inward mentally and focused my intention on the bird, “Shibal!” The hawk dropped from the sky like a stone. I felt more than heard the hard ‘whump’ as it hit the stone courtyard. Bollocks! I killed it. I quickly drew back from the window, lest someone see me and make the connection. The story of the burning of the college in Albamarl had left an impression on me.

A knock sounded on my door, and I started. Surely no one could have seen the hawk and gotten up here already? I opened it and found Dorian standing there.

“You need to come down in a few minutes, Mort. The first of the guests are here, and Marc wants you there to greet them with him.” He glanced around the room. The bed was still in disarray, and the pillows were scattered. “Looks like you’ve been making friends with the cleaning staff already.”

I wondered for a moment if he had been talking to Marc. “Dorian you trust me, right?” I tugged him into the room and shut the door.

“Well sure. You remember that time you and Marc dragged me out to old man Wilkin’s farm to help you steal pumpkins?” He had an endearing habit of repeating our childhood stories every time he got the chance, or an annoying habit, depending on the circumstances.

“Yeah, yeah, here come sit down for a second.” I hustled him over to the divan.

“You and Marc told me you were gonna use the pumpkins to scare the crap out of…” he started to continue the story. Normally I wouldn’t have minded, but I had heard it a dozen times already, and I had other things on my mind.

“Shibal,” I intoned seriously. Nothing happened.

“…Sir Kelton while he was standing watch that night,” Dorian continued without missing a beat. It might have been because I was staring at him intently. He probably thought I was listening. A second knock interrupted my thoughts.

Benchley, Marc’s valet stood in the doorway, “His Lordship thought you might need some help getting ready,” he said. I guess Penny had changed her mind about dressing me, or perhaps Marc had.

A sudden thought occurred to me, “Actually Benchley, I’m already properly dressed, but you could give me a hand with the bed. I haven’t a clue how to get the sheets and pillows back the way they were.” I waved in the general direction of the disaster zone I was calling a bed.

Benchley stood a bit straighter, and I realized I had probably insulted him since such tasks were usually the domain of the chamber maids. He was a ‘gentleman’s gentleman’ after all. He kept his tongue though, and walked over to pick up the coverlets. I watched him carefully, biding my time. Meanwhile, Dorian had stopped his story and was looking at me with an odd expression; he knew I was up to something now.

As soon as Benchley leaned over the bed to smooth the sheets I spoke, “Shibal.” He collapsed across the mattress as if he had been poleaxed.

“Sweet Mother!” Dorian stood up and stared at Benchley, then looked at me, his mouth agape. Then he silently mouthed, “What did you do?” as if we were in danger of being overheard. Honestly, his overly serious expressions are half the reason I love Dorian.

I spent the next few minutes explaining what I had done. One nice thing about Dorian, as opposed to Marc, is that he doesn’t interrupt. He listened intently, his eyes growing wider as I talked. My demonstration had definitely sent him into a state of high anxiety, but the other thing I love about Dorian is his intense loyalty.

“I better go stand guard in the hallway to make sure no one comes in.” He spoke in a hushed tone. I tried to convince him that wouldn’t be necessary, since there was nothing more incriminating in the room than a sleeping manservant, but you can’t shake these ideas from him once he gets his mind set on them.

Once he had left the room, I stepped over to Benchley. My first thought was to awaken him with a shake, since that was what had worked with the bird, but then I figured I should use the opportunity to get more information from my experiment. I tried shouting first, that didn’t work, but it did draw a worried Dorian back in from the hallway. “What are you doing?” he silently mouthed at me.

“Nothing, go back to the hall,” I silently mouthed back. Lord, now he had me doing it too! He went back out, so I decided to try gently shaking the sleeping valet. After a moment, I had to get more vigorous, for it seemed I had put Benchley into a deep slumber. That didn’t work either. Finally I went and got a slender straight pin from the dressing table. I’ve never been sure why they keep those there, but it came in handy.

“Gah!” Benchley uttered a most ungentlemanly sound and sat straight up from the bed. I quickly hid the pin I had just plunged into his posterior. “What happened to me?” He seemed very confused.

“It appears that you fainted, Benchley. Do you think perhaps you might be working too hard lately? You might do well to get some more rest.” I did my best to look concerned for his well-being as I gently ushered him to the door.

“What about the bed sir?” he asked.

“Never mind that,” I replied, “the chamber maids can get it in the morning.”

“Very good sir,” he ambled down the corridor while I watched him go.

Dorian nudged me, “If we don’t get moving, you’re going to miss greeting the Duke’s guests.”

“Oh, right!” I shut the door, and we headed down.

As we walked, he looked over at me, “We’re going to need to talk about this later.”

“Be sure to invite Penny to the meeting,” I muttered sarcastically to myself.

“What? I didn’t hear you,” he said.

“Nothing, I was talking to myself.” Inwardly I did resolve to try to make sure I included her more in the future. Her speech earlier had made me feel like a complete jerk. All of this assumed of course that she didn’t think I was an agent of the dark gods. The last I had seen her, she had been putting as much distance between us as possible.

I wound up standing at the steps leading into the main keep with the Duke and his family. The Lord and Lady Thornbear were there as well, which left me feeling distinctly out of place. While the coaches drew up, the Duchess was kind enough to explain my role.

She was a striking woman in appearance despite her middling years, and she placed her hand over mine as she spoke, “As the guests get out of the carriages, James and I will greet them one by one. Each person standing here will escort one of the guests into the front hall and then show them to the sun room upstairs.” In case you’ve forgotten, James was her husband, the Duke; although she was the only person I had ever heard refer to him by his given name. The sun room was a brightly lit parlor upstairs near the Duke’s rooms. “Mordecai, you will escort Rose Hightower.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Do you remember how to address her?” the Duchess had some qualities that reminded me of my own mother.

“I address her as Lady Hightower,” I said confidently.

“No, Mordecai. Lady Hightower is her mother, you address her simply as Lady Rose,” she remonstrated.

“Yes, Your Grace, Lady Rose.” I had known that, but I was nervous.

By then the first coach had drawn up, and the occupants were getting out. Naturally the first was Devon Tremont, the son of Duke Tremont. The Duke of Tremont was the only peer of the realm who had equal standing with the Duke of Lancaster; accordingly his son and heir had equivalent standing to Marcus. I took that to mean I should be exceedingly polite. The Duke and his wife greeted him warmly, and Marc stepped forward to escort him upstairs.

Knowing Marc as well as I did, I could tell he didn’t like Devon. He tipped his head slightly in greeting, “Devon, it is good to see you again.” Something told me that was exactly the opposite of how he felt, but he hid it so well I doubt anyone else could have discerned it.

“Marcus, well met. I see you are in good health…still.” Devon replied. The slight pause before the word ‘still’ made it abundantly clear he wished it were otherwise. I watched him intently as they mounted the steps. He was of middling height with a lean athletic build and light brown hair. The moment I laid eyes upon the young lord I nearly gasped. He carried about him a strange radiance, almost a purplish aura, and something about it made me feel mildly ill. I had never encountered anything like it before. For a moment his eyes met mine and they narrowed, I wondered what he might be seeing. Did I have a similar aura, and if so… could the young nobleman see it?

The moment passed, and he continued up the stairs. My reverie was interrupted by the next guest, Stephen Airedale, the son of Count Airedale. He was an impressive looking young man with light blond hair and steel grey eyes. He was also the first person to emerge who was my equal in height. In fact, he might possibly be taller. Marc’s sister, Ariadne, offered him her arm, and the two of them proceeded up the stairs chatting amiably. Her mother had trained her well, and I could see she would someday be a formidable socialite.

The next to get out was Master Gregory Pern, the son of the famous Admiral Pern. As the son of a military commander his standing within aristocratic circles was minor, his father had originally been a commoner after all. Regardless, his father’s powerful shadow had a long reach, and there were rumors that Gregory might be granted a minor title in the future.

Before we go on I have to confess, if I sounded knowledgeable about the aristocracy, it was not through any great knowledge of my own. Marcus had tutored me on our guests that afternoon with some help from his sister.

Master Pern was being led away by Lady Thornbear, who seemed quite comfortable on the arm of a handsome young man. She winked at me as they went by. Meanwhile her husband, Lord Thornbear had stepped up to escort Lady Elizabeth Balistair, daughter of Earl Balistair. She was lovely in her own right, although I would have said her nose was a bit too long and her green eyes were unsettling. She was also excessively tall for a woman, probably near five feet eleven inches. Not that that was a bad thing, but being as tall or taller than most men would make finding a husband difficult, and finding a husband would be important to Lady Elizabeth. The Balistair family was rumored to be having financial difficulties.

I had little time to think on that though; my turn had come. Lady Rose stepped out of her carriage and greeted the ducal couple warmly, and then she turned to me. I offered my arm as I had seen done, and she slipped her gloved hand across it. Truthfully she was one of the most beautiful women I could recall, with long dark tresses and warm blue eyes. Well, she might not be quite as pretty as Penny, certainly her figure was a bit slighter, but she had a definite presence. Her father, Lord Hightower, was the nominal head of the royal guard and commander of the garrison in Albamarl. Reputedly their family name came from the tall bailey their family occupied in the capitol.

We walked up the steps carefully. I felt awkward walking next to such a graceful lady, but I did my best to cover it. “Lady Rose, I understand this is not your first trip to Lancaster?” I said. You would never guess I had a note card hidden in my pocket with a list of similar conversational phrases, thanks to Ariadne. Marc’s sister was very thoughtful.

“Oh! Yes, yes I have visited twice before, when my father came to discuss matters with the Duke.” She seemed distracted, her eyes scanning the crowd when I asked my question. I wondered briefly who she might be looking for.

“I hope your previous stays were pleasant. Did you make any friends of note while you were here?” That question wasn’t on my list of approved topics, but I figured I could improvise.

She looked at me carefully, and I could see a sharp intelligence behind her blue eyes, “Why yes I did. I was just a girl at the time, but I was quite charmed with young Ariadne.” Her eyes slipped away from me again, and it seemed to me that they lit upon Dorian for a moment as he stood duty by the front doors. It might have been my imagination though, for she returned her glance to me but a second later. “How long have you lived in Lancaster, Master Eldridge?” she said.

I nearly answered, ‘All my life,’ but I caught myself, “Not long, but I’ve visited many times before.” She was no longer looking directly at me, but it still felt as if she were looking at me intently. As we passed through the doorway I gave Dorian a quick wink to let him know things were going well, but he didn’t notice. His attention seemed fixed on my companion. My curiosity was definitely piqued.

“Her grace introduced you to me as a scholar, Master Eldridge… might I inquire what it is that you study?” she queried me.

I thought I could detect a subtle undercurrent of humor in her question. Worse, I had let too much time lapse, and she had turned the questioning back upon me. I was definitely getting into murky waters here. “Mathematics, Lady Rose,” I answered. “Although I fear the term ‘scholar’ does me too much credit. I still feel myself a novice compared to the great mathematicians of old.” See, I can be quite erudite when I try.

“You do not seem old enough to be so learned,” she remarked.

“In faith I am young, my lady. It is a fact which has done me no good service. I shall be glad when I will at last be able to display grey hair as proof of wisdom.” I was rather proud of that one, I might be a natural.

“You do not think we should revere the wisdom of the aged?” observed Lady Rose perceptively.

Ouch, she had neatly turned that one back upon me.

“That was not my intention at all,” I explained. “I merely imply that in matters of mathematics, advanced years are no guarantee of wisdom, nor does youth necessitate its lack.” We had reached the sun room, and I felt relieved that I might escape. I was beginning to doubt my ability to keep up with Lady Rose in the dueling dance of our conversation.

I started to excuse myself, but she held onto my arm for a moment, “Master Eldridge, relax. We’ve only just met. Let me give you some advice.” I looked down and her blue eyes caught me again. “You did well for a novice; in future, don’t let your opponent have so much time to turn the questions to topics you would prefer to avoid.”

“Opponent?” I sputtered.

“Shush” she said quietly, and then she smiled, a flash of white teeth under rose petal lips. “Don’t act so surprised, you’ll worry your friends.” She waved at Marcus for a moment. “Next time don’t let your eyes give away your thoughts so readily.”

Lord Thornbear came over suddenly, so she let me have an easy out, “It was nice meeting you Master Eldridge, and I hope we have a chance to talk more later.” She turned and began speaking with Lord Thornbear, seeming, for all the world as if she had completely forgotten me already.

I took my chance and began making my way across the room, looking for Marc. I found him talking with Stephen Airedale. He saw me coming and excused himself for a moment to pull me aside, “Do me a favor would you? Devon has Ariadne cornered over there, and I’m sure she could use a break. Would you mind distracting him for a moment?”

Me? It seemed that my friend was unaware of my status as a novice in the art of conversation, at least in these circles. But I couldn’t leave Ariadne without support; although she’d been a pain when we were younger, she was his sister.

I headed back the other way and spotted Ariadne. Sure enough, she was deep in conversation with Devon. I took a moment to remember the proper address, by which I mean I consulted the note card Ariadne had made for me earlier. Lord Devon it read. Although he wasn’t the Duke of Tremont yet, he had been granted a baronet already. Since ‘Tremont’ could be used to refer to the Duke of Tremont, his father, the usual way to call him was by his given name rather than his surname, hence, Lord Devon.

“Ariadne,” I called, and she looked at me gratefully. I faced Devon, “Please pardon my intrusion, Lord Devon, Her Grace asked me to see if she could be found, to assist with some arrangements.”

“Certainly,” he replied with a genial smile. Despite his friendly attitude, the aura around him still made me uncomfortable. Hopefully, the books we had found would help me to better understand these things. “I didn’t catch your name when we arrived...” he let the statement trail off, making it an obvious question.

“Ah, my fault, I should have introduced myself directly to you, Mordecai Eldridge, Your Lordship.” That pretty well exhausted the topics I was prepared to discuss with the future Duke of Tremont.

“Mordecai, what an unusual name, are you originally from Lothion? The name sounds foreign,” the young lord noted.

Wonderful. I didn’t even know the answer to that question; my father had found the name embroidered on the blanket I was wrapped in.

“Honestly I’m not sure where the name comes from either. My mother had a love of foreign romances, so she might have picked it up from one of her books. I was raised near Lancaster though, so I consider myself a true son of Lothion.” Practice was honing my skills in the art of dissembling. Lady Rose’s advice came to mind, so I attempted to retake the initiative, “My life must seem very boring to a man such as you. Tell me about your family, do you have any siblings?”

Devon’s eyes narrowed for a moment, “A brother, Eric, but he was lost in an unfortunate accident a year ago.”

I have a knack for uncomfortable topics. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to remind you of such a delicate subject,” I replied.

“No harm done. He and I never got along, and there was nothing delicate about his death either. Passed out drunk in a bath and drowned.” Devon spoke casually, but I could feel him watching my reactions carefully.

“Was there any suspicion of foul play?” I asked.

Devon’s face never moved, but I saw the purplish aura around him flash for a moment, “No, there was no cause for concern in that regard. Eric was well loved by all, and the girl who found him attested to the fact he had been drinking heavily before entering the bath. A few of the other women in the ‘establishment’ confirmed her story.”

“Establishment?” I was confused.

“He died in a brothel.” Lord Devon answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to refill my glass.”

“I would be happy to get that for you,” I said, glad to have something else to do. He proffered his glass, and I started looking for the fellow with the bottle. When I returned, I found him standing with Marc.

“We were just discussing you, Mordecai!” My friend said this enthusiastically but his eyes were full of warning.

“Yes, Marcus was telling me that you’re a student of mathematics and philosophy.” Devon added.

“I try, but I fear I will always be a humble scholar, rather than one of the pathfinders of reason,” I replied.

“You sound as though you might be well suited as a poet. Tell me what you think of Ramanujan and his work with the Riemann Zeta Function, I get so little interesting conversation at home.” The aura around him had gotten darker again, which made his smile ominous.

“I think no one took him seriously at first, but that was his own fault.” I said.

“How so?”

“He presented his ideas in such a way as to deliberately elicit a contrary reaction from others. If he had been open about his methods from the beginning, the fact he was using the Zeta function to arrive at his conclusions, there would have been a lot less controversy.” I could almost feel Devon’s disappointment. There was a very good reason we had chosen mathematics as my scholarly cover. It had become something of a hobby of mine as a result of my time studying with Marc. My parents thought it was useless abstraction of course, as did Marc, but I had found great enjoyment in the subject. Consequentlym I had spent a lot of time absorbing material from the Duke’s library that most folk would never have even heard of.

“The controversy is perhaps the only reason anyone still remembers his contributions. Possibly it was necessary to preserve his work,” Devon countered.

“I’m sure he is not the first person to hide his methods,” I was starting to get annoyed, so I probably emphasized that phrase too much. “He doubtless won’t be the last, but his motive was not controversy.”

“Do explain,” his teeth flashed as he spoke, and I found myself reminded of a fox.

“He kept his methods secret to embarrass his contemporaries. If they admitted they could not follow his work, it made them look ignorant, if they argued he was wrong, he revealed his methodology to make them look like fools. In essence, he was an egotistical ass.” Perhaps I was a bit too passionate about my subject. I might have insulted Devon, but I hadn’t intended to, at least not consciously. The purplish light around him was pulsing now.

“Pardon me, Your Lordship, no offense was intended,” I added.

“None taken,” he replied, although it was clear he felt otherwise, “You are passionate about your subject, a commendable quality in a scholar. If you’ll excuse me, I should mingle some more with the other guests.” I was relieved to watch him go.

Marc stepped closer to me and took me by the elbow, “Let’s retire for a moment. I need to get some air.” He steered me to the balcony which was currently empty. Once there, he spoke softly between clenched teeth, “What the hell was that?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied sipping my wine casually.

“Could you have chosen anyone in the world to make your enemy, that man is probably the worst you could have picked.” Marc seemed genuinely worried. “What did you say to get his attention so firmly fixed on you?” He was referring to my short conversation with Devon before Marc had joined us.

“Well I did stumble into an embarrassing topic quite by accident, I asked him about his siblings.” I quickly related the story of Devon’s brother and how he had died. “He didn’t seem particularly upset about it though.” I concluded.

“Of all the things you could have asked, that was the worst. His elder brother’s death has been the subject of many rumors. Quite a few suspect Devon of having a hand in it.”

I could see the problem but not my own relevance. “Surely he must know I wasn’t intentionally trying to upset him.”

Marc sighed, running his hands through his thick hair, “He knows nothing of the sort. You have to understand how people like him work. Let me give you a lesson in the aristocracy. First, he assumes that, because he’s so important, everyone else must be nearly as knowledgeable about his affairs as he is. Second, if he did have something to do with his brother’s death, he would have to be incredibly paranoid about it. Third, a complete stranger approaches him and starts questioning him about his brother’s ‘unfortunate’ demise. He will naturally assume that you are either trying to send him a message or embarrass him. In either case he will take it as a challenge.”

“Oh,” I answered adroitly. “Well thankfully I live here rather than in Tremont.”

“Idiot—like that matters to someone like him,” my friend was angry now.

“What do you mean?”

“The only person who can safely insult one of the greater peers is someone of equal rank or greater, such as my father, or someone from the royal family,” he explained, as if I were a child.

“Thankfully my best friend is his equal in rank.” I smiled, thinking that would make him feel a bit better.

“That only makes it worse, look over there.” he glanced behind me.

Turning so I could casually glance back into the room, I saw Devon looking our way. He raised his glass and nodded at me as if in greeting. “So what does that mean?” I asked.

“He’s already caught on that we’re friends, and he probably thinks I put you up to the questions about his brother. We were friendly before, but now he’ll mark me as his enemy. Rather than shielding you, that puts you in danger, Mort.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

“He can’t strike at me directly, so his obvious targets for retaliation will be my allies, particularly those who have limited resources of their own.” Marc looked at me intently as I finally understood what he had been trying to get across to me.

“But I don’t even know him! I certainly never intended to make an enemy of him.” How could things have gone so terribly wrong?

“In these circles, intentions don’t matter,” Marc answered glumly.

“So what do I do?” I was appropriately worried now.

“Avoid him if possible, and pray he doesn’t discover much about your family and friends. Let’s go back in; we’re only making him more suspicious chatting out here by ourselves.” Marc stepped back inside. I followed a moment after and made my separate way around the room.

I wound up trapped in conversation with Stephen Airedale, who was self-absorbed enough to refrain from asking me anything about myself. I got bored quickly though, since I had absolutely no interest in spice trading or how much money he had made investing in it. I was about to excuse myself to visit the privies, when I saw Penny enter the parlor with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She met my eye for a moment and then looked away uncomfortably.

I made my way to the privies with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. In the course of one short day, I had managed to become a political liability to my best friend, while at the same time convincing another friend I was in league with the powers of darkness. At least I hadn’t caused Dorian any trouble yet, but Marc’s comments had me worrying that he might become another of Devon’s targets if he learned of our friendship.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, and I finally managed to retire to my room without causing any more problems. I tried to take a nap as the social maneuverings earlier had left me tired, but I was restless. Instead I spent my time practicing the little bit I had learned. After a while I got fairly proficient at controlling the amount of light I produced. I had begun to get a feel for the flow of aythar as I created the light ball. ‘Aythar’, I had learned, was the proper name for the force mages use to produce magical effects.

There weren’t any handy subjects to practice my sleep spell on, and the hawk had made me cautious; I still felt a little bad about that. I resolved to retrieve that third book as soon as dinner was over. I couldn’t make much more headway with Vestrius’ journal without a better understanding of the Lycian language.

Eventually Benchley came to tell me that it was time to eat. Apparently Penny had arranged to have him handle me, to avoid any more difficulties. As dark as my mood was, I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t feeling up to facing more political intrigue so I begged him for mercy, claiming a sudden illness. Benchley had been a valet for many years, and he understood immediately.

“Say no more, sir. I’ll make your excuses for you,” he promptly left.

After an hour, a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and for a moment I was hopeful that perhaps Penny had forgiven me for frightening her. Opening the door, I found Dorian outside with a tray of food. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

The sight of fresh bread and cheese reminded me that I had missed breakfast. My stomach rumbled. “Dorian come in, I could use a friend about now.” I put my depression aside and put on my broadest smile for him.

I ate everything he had brought and soon found myself collecting the crumbs from the plate. Now that my belly was relatively more at ease, I felt more able to talk, so I spent some time describing my woes to Dorian. He was suitably impressed with the depths of my folly. “You sure don’t do things by halves, Mort,” he remarked.

I had to agree.

“At least you got to escort Lady Rose to the parlor,” he remarked. My friend has always been easy to read.

“Ok let’s hear it,” I said pointedly. “I saw you watching her as we came in. Do you know her somehow?”

He looked embarrassed, “You remember when I was fostered out last year?” It was a common practice for the sons and daughters of nobility to live for a year or two at another lord’s estate. It helped them learn more about the handling of the kingdom, gave them a broader experience of the world, and forged ties with other members of the ruling class.

“I do, someplace in Albamarl wasn’t it?” Then I remembered, Highcastle’s home was in the capitol. “Ohhh...,” I articulated. I have a remarkable vocabulary when I put my mind to it. Finally a concise sentence came to me. “You were smitten, huh?”

“Basically,” he replied. “We didn’t speak very much though, so I doubt she even remembers me.”

“You might be wrong there,” I said, remembering her glancing at him earlier, but I didn’t say anything more about it. We talked for a while longer before he left. But neither of us had any decent ideas regarding my problem with Devon Tremont.

Once he had gone, I headed to the library to retrieve the third book, A Grammar of Lycian.

Chapter VI

RAREST OF ALL ARE THOSE born with both a high emittance and a high capacitance. How many are born so is uncertain, probably no more than one among thousands, and few of those survive past adolescence. The reason for this is that their talents are extremely dangerous, more so to themselves than others. A good analogy for this would be a child given a razor blade or other dangerous implement; they are more likely to harm themselves than learn to use it properly. Those few who do survive to adulthood, find themselves alone with little guidance in the proper use of their gifts, unless they are lucky enough to be found by someone of knowledge. Due to these unfortunate facts, truly gifted mages, or wizards as they are often called, are quite rare, and usually solitary, except in some very populous cities.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

It was late as Penelope Cooper walked down the hallway. Her duties had kept her overlong, and she was tired. All she could think of was getting to her quarters and finding some much deserved rest. As chance would have it, she passed through the same corridor that led to the library. Had she passed through only five minutes earlier she would have encountered Mordecai, and things might have gone very differently.

As it was, she was alone in the hallway and wrapped in her thoughts. She felt guilty for her behavior earlier. She knew Mort hadn’t meant to frighten her, but she had been completely unprepared when that fiercely brilliant ball of light had blinded her in his room. That had not been what she had expected when he had her draw the curtains and sit next to him on the bed. Truthfully she was not certain how she would have reacted if he had made a pass at her; she had much less experience with men than he seemed to believe.

The subsequent darkness followed by Marcus’ abrupt appearance had thoroughly unnerved her and thrown her into a panic. Her reaction had left her abashed, and she hadn’t known how to respond when he had looked at her in the sun room earlier, which made her feel worse.

She was interrupted in her reverie by a door opening as she passed.

“Miss, would you mind helping me for a moment?” Lord Devon stood in the doorway looking upset and anxious. Terrific, she was exhausted already and now it seemed her sleep would be delayed even longer.

“Certainly, Your Lordship, how may I be of service?” she responded in her most pleasant tone. She took pride in her job and wouldn’t let something like fatigue spoil her performance.

“Did you clean my room earlier? After my bags were delivered?” he asked.

“No your lordship, I cleaned and aired all the rooms this morning before you and the other guests arrived.” She hoped this wasn’t leading up to some petulant insistence that the pillows or sheets weren’t fresh enough.

“Perhaps you could help me then, I seem to have lost something. Would you help me look?” Despite his reputation among the castle staff, he seemed exceptionally polite.

“I really shouldn’t be entering your chambers this time of night, sir,” she replied. He seemed harmless enough, but that sort of rumor could ruin a girl at her age.

“I understand. I’ll leave the door open if you prefer. It’s just that I’ve lost a necklace, and I’m beside myself trying to find it. It’s an heirloom you see.” He turned his back to her and went inside, leaving the door open. With an inward sigh she followed him and he began searching through the drawers of the dressing table. “Would you check the wardrobe for me? It’s dark in there and I can’t see very well,” he suggested.

She had no sooner opened the wardrobe and leaned in to look, when she heard the door shut, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. She whirled around. Devon was putting the key into his pocket. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she saw the look on his face. She had heard stories of maids abused by young lords before, but things like this had never happened within the walls of Lancaster Castle. Such was the Duke’s reputation that no one had dared affront his hospitality before.

“Sir if you think to spoil me, I’ll scream. The good duke won’t stand for treating the staff like this,” she tried to keep her voice level, but she could feel panic setting in. Devon had at least fifty pounds on her, and while she was no shrinking violet, she had little doubt he could overpower her. Her eyes scanned the room frantically, looking for anything she could use as a weapon to keep him at bay. It occurred to her that if she injured a peer of the realm, she might be put to death at worst, beaten and dismissed at best.

He chuckled, “Go ahead and scream if you like. Who will take your word over mine? I found you rifling through my possessions when I returned to my room.” As he said this, he idly reached over and knocked a jewelry case from the top of the dressing table. Rings and jewels worth more than she would ever earn scattered across the floor. “Looks like you were startled when I found you.”

Despair crashed over Penny in a dark wave. There was no escape left to her now, in an instant she knew her life was over, her dreams dashed by this pompous and spoiled lordling. The thought made her angry, and she determined to scream anyway. If she was to be driven into the mud she would make sure as much dirt rubbed off on the bastard who had done it as possible. She took a deep breath.

“Relax, I have no intention of harming you my dear, or deflowering you either, if that is what you fear. I simply want the answers to a few questions.” He was smiling reassuringly at her.

“What questions?” she asked. For a second, hope lit within her and she was ashamed at how easily he had manipulated her.

“Tell me about your friend, Master Eldridge.” That confused her utterly. Why is he interested in Mort? she thought to herself. As far as she knew, Mordecai should be completely beneath the notice of someone like Devon Tremont.

“Pardon sir, I don’t know him at all, he only recently arrived here and...” she started, but Devon stepped forward suddenly. She paused; he stood only inches from her now.

“What was your name girl?”

“Penelope sir, but folks here call me Penny,” she answered, hating how servile she sounded.

“Well, Penelope who goes by Penny, let me explain something. Are you listening?” He still sounded calm, but she could hear his breath coming more hoarsely now. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she managed to nod. If you’ve ever been confronted by a large wild animal when you were a child, you might understand how she felt. The menace was rolling off of him in waves.

“I absolutely abhor being lied to Penny. I hate it. And I think you’re lying to me now. I know it, because I saw you watching him earlier.” Penny’s heart was beating so rapidly she felt it would surely burst from her chest. “Do you think me a fool Penny?” She kept her head down, to avoid his eyes, but he was having none of it. “Look at me Penny.” He lifted her chin. Large tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, betraying her fear.

“Do you know Master Eldridge?”

“I told you sir, I don’t, and I only watched him because he seemed handsome...” Her head whipped back from a stinging slap, strong enough to hurt like hell, yet soft enough to avoid bruising. Something snapped and her fear turned to rage. She brought her hand up to strike him in return and so furious was she, that if it had connected, he most surely would have taken a bruise. He was ready for her though; strong and quick he caught her by the wrist and abruptly twisted her arm, spinning her around and pinning it behind her. Her arm felt near to breaking as he applied a steadily increasing pressure. Penny was helpless now, as he pressed her face first onto the mattress.

“Now you’re starting to piss me off. Which is too bad for you, Penny. I had wanted to keep this a nice friendly chat, but you just don’t seem to want to cooperate.” He was lying across her, using his weight to keep her pinned, and worse, she felt a disturbing bulge behind her. His voice was coarse and husky in her ear as he continued, “Nothing excites me more than a girl with a fiery disposition. I’ve learned to break girls like you. Just like a young mare, sometimes you have to ride them hard to tame them to the bit and bridle. I’m sure your husband will thank me someday.” His hand was under her skirt now, relentlessly moving up her leg.

Desperation robbed her of reason for a moment, “No wait, wait, I’ll tell you. Please stop! He’s the blacksmith’s son. He’s not important, please you can’t do this!” She was crying now, her voice thick with fear. His hand had reached the top of her thigh now and when she felt his fingers touch her there, she lost control. A primal scream of rage and terror ripped out of her throat, seeking to deny the injustice being done to her.

The sound of it was so great that for a moment he drew back, shocked at the volume of sound coming from such a young woman. “Grethak” he barked in a tone of command, and abruptly her scream was cut off, every muscle in her body locked rigidly in place. Devon let go of her arm and rolled her over on the bed so he could see her face.

“You really are something special aren’t you my dear? I don’t believe I have ever heard a maiden scream as loudly as you just did.” He smiled at her, “But then you won’t be a maiden for much longer will you?” Devon’s face was rapt with pleasure as he stared down at her. He reached out and began calmly trying to unlace her bodice, which soon proved to be too difficult. Taking hold of her neckline he ripped it wide, exposing her breasts.

Penny couldn’t breathe; her lungs were paralyzed just as surely as the rest of her muscles. The only movement left to her was that of her eyes, which rolled wildly as she looked for some means of escape. Her head was pounding in time with her heart as she fought to draw breath. Devon leaned down and slowly licked her face, leaving a trail of spittle from her neck to her lips. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a lovely shade of purple,” he mocked. “Keltis” he spoke and touched her throat, before running his hand down to pinch her nipple rudely. Her throat opened and she was suddenly able to draw breath. She drew air into her lungs, her breath coming in great heaving sobs. She prepared to scream again, but he put his finger to his lips, warning her. Fear stopped her.

“Now, now, let’s be a good girl. If you scream again, I might not let you have air next time. Besides, isn’t it so much nicer when you have some complicity in this? The knowledge that you could have screamed but didn’t? Sometimes it takes something like that to teach someone just how important life is; certainly it’s worth more than your maidenhead.” He leered as he began sliding her skirt up, exposing her nakedness to the light.

Penny closed her eyes, the awful reality of it being too much to look upon any longer. Then blessed unconsciousness overtook her, and she knew no more.

Chapter VII

THE SKILLED USE OF AYTHAR by a wizard relies on the last of the three important characteristics, called simply enough, ‘control’. Of the three attributes, it is the only one that is able to change significantly with practice or training. Mages that survive puberty generally learn to channel their aythar using some method of symbolism and ritual, generally through the use of one or more dead languages. Although aythar may be used without language or symbols, as it often is in the young, it is quite dangerous to do so. Wizards learn the use of a language or system of rituals in order to control not merely ‘how’ their power is released, but also ‘when’. An untrained mage whose power lies purely in his thoughts is dangerous indeed, as his power may come to the fore at any moment and lend deadly puissance to unbidden thoughts.

For the same reason mages eschew purely mental methods for channeling their abilities, use of their common tongue for the purpose is generally avoided. The best tool for the purpose is considered to be a dead language, one acquired by deliberate learning after reaching puberty. It is also believed that certain languages that have been used for this purpose over many generations serve best, as the words and phrases acquire a certain amount of power in their own right. Because of this, even individuals with a moderate to low emittance are sometimes able to effect minor spells by using language and symbols that have acquired some inherent power due to long use by mages past.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I got to the library without meeting anyone in the corridors, which was a relief. After the day I had had, I wasn’t really looking forward to seeing people. Once inside I retrieved the book and took a moment to weigh it in my hands. It was an impressive tome weighing several pounds and covered with arcane words and symbols that glowed in my sight. Having already read a substantial part of Vestrius’ journal, I felt sure it would make the remainder much easier to understand. Mastery of the Lycian tongue was quite literally the most important knowledge I could gain, it being the means for me to control my incipient abilities.

Feeling a little better, I tucked it under my arm and headed back toward my room. My life might be a mess in most respects, but here at least was a problem I could solve through honest application of effort. Wrapped in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the voices coming from one of the rooms along the hallway. I kept walking, wondering how late I could stay up studying and still be able to rise at the proper time in the morning, when a shrill scream cut through my ruminations. It was a sound I’ll never forget. A raw expression of fear and terror, the sort of scream you sometimes imagine but hope never to hear. The sort of sound someone might make falling to their death. It stopped abruptly, cut off before it could be completed.

I looked around anxiously, unsure which direction it had come from. The book distracted me so I set it down against the wall to free my hands and walked back the way I had come. There. I could hear someone talking behind a door. I checked the doors on both sides before I found the correct one, and leaning in I thought I could hear Devon’s voice, speaking calmly to someone else. I almost moved on at that point; surely the person that had given that blood curdling yell couldn’t be inside, not with Devon talking in such a composed manner.

I pulled my head back from the door frame, and then I felt a sudden release of power. My practice over the last few days had made me quite familiar with the sensation. That held my attention. I pressed my ear firmly to the door, straining to hear his voice through the thick wood. The words that finally came chilled my blood, “Sometimes it takes something like that to teach someone just how important life is; certainly it’s worth more than your maidenhead.” I couldn’t be sure who Devon was speaking to, but it was clear that whoever it was, they were in terrible trouble.

Unsure what to do, I drew a deep breath and used the only spell I knew that might help, “Shibal,” I intoned quietly with as much power as I had, directing my will beyond the door. I listened again, I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard someone slump to the floor, and Devon was no longer talking. Satisfied I tried the door handle.

It was locked, of course. I had no knowledge that would get me past locked doors, and the doors in Castle Lancaster were so sturdily constructed it would take two men and a ram to batter one down. I stared at the door, angry at my own ignorance. Surely if I were better educated there would be a simple way to bypass the lock. Thinking of the state the poor girl must be in gave urgency to my anger. Placing my hand on the door, I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I took a deep breath and drew my power up as I filled my lungs, pulling in ever more, ‘till it felt as if it would be a race to see which burst first, my mind or my chest. I had never tried to do something like this before, but I knew that without proper words it would take a lot of strength. Then I began to exhale slowly, building pressure in my hand as it pressed against the door. As my breath emptied, I began to feel the door give way, and I blew the rest of the air from my lungs in an explosive rush. The result was an explosion of wood and splinters as the door disintegrated, slivers of wood flying in every direction.

The vision I found within was one that still gives me nightmares. Devon lay slumped on the floor on the opposite side of bed, but I had no attention to spare for him. The figure on the bed riveted me in place. It was Penny, her long dark hair had come loose from the bun she usually kept it in when working, and it lay scattered about her head in dark ringlets. Her uniform was ripped open, from her neck to her belly, exposing flesh that I had previously imagined but never would have hoped to see. Her skirt was shoved up above her hips, and her legs were spread, one folded awkwardly under her, while the other was stretched out, her foot touching the floor. She looked dead. A long splinter stood out from her right thigh, blood dripping down onto the linen sheets. If I could describe the emotion that filled me then I would, but there were no words. The world went white, as if all the color had been leached from it, leaving a horror of stark white and black contrasts.

I was numb with horror and shock, while at the same time filled with a cold heartless rage. Walking over, I bent down to pull the dagger from Devon Tremont’s belt, which was already partly undone. From the looks of things he hadn’t had time to bring his crime to fruition. It hardly mattered, Penny was dead. Her virginity or lack thereof would not bring her back to life, would not make her smile at me again. I knelt beside the bed, and though I cannot remember feeling anything but a cold numbness, tears ran down my face.

Carefully, I brought the dagger to bear, directly over the bastard’s still beating heart, careful not to prick him with the point, lest it wake him before I made the final plunge. I held it there for a timeless moment. My only worry was that it was too clean a death, better than he deserved. That momentary debate was all that saved his life.

A sudden sound broke my train of thought, an incongruous noise, too improbable to belong there. Penny was snoring. If it had been a light snore I might have missed it, but this was no delicate thing, it was a deep rumbling vibration. The sort a fat farmer might make after having too much ale and passing out in his bed. It led me out of the dark place that had replaced my heart, and improbably I began to laugh.

It was an awful laugh as such things go; when it started it was terrible, a wretched gibbering sound. It was the sort of laugh to make townsfolk shutter their windows and lock their doors. As it stretched on though, my stomach relaxed, and I began to laugh more naturally, a deep belly laugh, interspersed with gasps as I struggled to catch my breath. Eventually the laughter faded into tears, and I cried quietly ‘till I got control of myself.

Easing myself up from the floor, I began to think. Carefully I drew the splinter from Penny’s leg, which caused it to start bleeding again. I watched her face to see if she might waken, but I had put a lot of power into the spell, and she hardly stirred. Reaching down I cut a long strip from the bed sheet and used it to bind her wound. Then I straightened up and surveyed the room.

It was a mess to say the least. Jewelry lay scattered on the floor, interspersed with oaken shards. The sheets were stained where Penny had bled upon them, and two people lay sleeping in varying degrees of disarray. It was too much to deal with all at once, so I did the most important thing first. Bending down, I slipped my arms underneath Penelope, easing one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. It was not the best angle to stand up from, and I staggered for a moment, nearly stepping on Devon’s head. Aww, that would have been a shame, to ruin those pretty features, I thought sarcastically. I couldn’t risk waking him though. Penny was not a slight girl, she was nearly as tall as I was, and hard work had given her plenty of muscle, yet she felt light as a feather in my arms. Adrenaline I supposed, but I didn’t bother to think about it.

I walked out into the hallway and made my way to my room as quickly as I could. Hers might have been better, but I had no idea where she kept her quarters. Gently I laid her upon my bed, taking a moment to cover her with the blankets. I returned to the hall and recovered the book where I had left it leaning against the wall and went back to stow it safely with the others in my room. Each trip took several minutes, and I worried constantly that I might meet someone in the halls. It was past midnight, and my luck held, the corridors were deserted. I still had several problems.

I needed help, and there was only one person I could trust at this hour. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside the door of the Thornbear household. Lord Thornbear was the seneschal for Castle Lancaster, and accordingly his family lived in the large bailey overlooking the main gate. The night air was damp and a light rain had begun, so I was a little wet when I got to their door, which suited my mood just fine. A sleepy servant opened the door, a man I knew from my previous stays with the Thornbear family. I’m not sure if he had a surname as I had only ever heard him addressed as ‘Remy’.

“Mort, what in the name of the gods are you doing out here at this hour?” He kept his voice lowered to keep from waking the family.

“Remy, I know this seems odd, but I want you to wake Dorian for me, quietly if you can. I need to speak with him.” I tried to put as much sincerity in my voice as possible.

“Fine, fine, let me see...” he turned and promptly ran into the door frame. “Damn!” he cursed quietly, “Nobody cares if Remy gets any sleep now do they? No, of course they don’t, Remy don’t need no sleep do he?” He was muttering to himself as he stumbled back into the Thornbear family rooms.

I waited anxiously for several minutes before Dorian appeared at the door. “Mort, I don’t mean to be rude, but it is really late...” he started. Then he saw my face. Something there must have tipped him to my desperation. “Hang on, let me get my cloak.”

A moment later we were hurrying back across the courtyard to the castle proper. I should mention that Dorian is one of those rare individuals who sleep wearing a long stocking cap. He had forgotten to remove it in his haste, and I didn’t have the heart to remind him. Some things are better left unsaid, and I needed all the humor I could find that dark night.

As we went, I tried to explain to him what had happened, but I don’t think it sank in properly ‘till he saw Penny sleeping in my bed. With the covers drawn, she looked like an angel lying there.

“Do you know where her chamber is? I need to get her back to her own room before she wakes.” I told him.

“Sure, but I doubt we can get her in there without waking the other maids,” he replied.

“Leave that to me.” I moved over to stand at the side of the bed, preparing myself to pick her up again.

“Do you need me to carry her?” he asked. I considered his offer for a moment, but something inside of me snarled at the thought of anyone else touching her. Something had broken inside when I found her in that room, and I didn’t yet even know to mourn for my lost innocence.

“No, no, I have her. If you could just help with the doors and lead the way.” I drew back the covers and lifted her from the bed. This time I could feel the strain in my back, exhaustion and lack of sleep were beginning to take their toll.

The air hissed between Dorian’s teeth as he drew a sharp breath, seeing her state. The torn dress, the blood, I couldn’t blame him. I felt much the same. I cradled her in my arms and looked into his gaze. Fury dwelled within him, and I wondered what he might do once we had put her safely in her bed. “Who did this Mordecai?” His voice held dark intent.

“Not yet Dorian, we have to take care of Penny first.” I prayed he could keep his calm.

“I said… who did this Mordecai?!” He wasn’t in a mood to wait.

“Listen Dorian,” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

“No you listen! I want to know who did this, and I want to know now!” He was shouting.

“Goddammit!” I yelled back, “Shut the fuck up and think for a second!” I believe that was the first time I had ever raised my voice to him. He closed his mouth, startled, so I went on, “What do you think will happen to Penny if someone sees her like this? She’ll be ruined! Her father is destitute, she has no dowry. She’d never be able to get married. No one would take her! Whether she’s been ‘spoiled’ or not won’t matter once the rumors start flying.” I took a deep breath and calmed down. Looking at Dorian, I could see he was still listening.

“Now are you going to help me get her to her room, or do I have to do it by myself?” I said, starting toward the door. Dorian was there before me and got it open.

He led me down several flights of stairs to the lowest floor of the keep; staying ahead of me the entire way, checking each doorway to see if anyone was up and about. We got to the maid’s quarters without incident, yet when he opened the door someone stirred. It was fairly dark, but a woman’s nervous voice called out, “Who’s there?” Dorian ducked back from the entryway quickly, and I didn’t waste any time.

“Shibal,” I put as much strength into it as I could still muster, not bothering to focus it in any particular direction. Again I noticed that Dorian was completely unfazed. I would really have to look into that one of these days, but now was not the time. I stepped inside and looked around.

It was too dark to see, so Dorian lit a lamp after I assured him none of the occupants would be waking up anytime soon. The room contained five small beds; all but one held sleeping women. Dorian drew the sheets back while I placed her carefully on the empty bed. Then I began the difficult process of getting her clothes off.

“What are you doing?” Dorian hissed at me.

“Turn around if it bothers you. I’ve got to get rid of the evidence. In fact, turn around anyway, it bothers me.” When had I developed this jealous streak?

I wasn’t having any luck with her dress, so I drew my knife and began cutting it away. It was already in tatters, so it didn’t matter. Once I had it off, I couldn’t help but look at her for a moment. Say what you will, but I’d like to see you pretend not to notice the most beautiful woman in the world lying naked in front of you. If you said you hadn’t stared, even for a moment, I’d call you a damn liar.

Regardless, I was very focused on making sure Penny was safe. I drew the covers over her and stood back up. Glancing around I noticed a plain nightdress neatly folded under her bedside table. I quickly dismissed the thought of dressing her in it. I didn’t see how I could manage it properly, so she would just have to figure that part out in the morning. I also took a moment to make sure she had a second uniform. It turns out she had three, well—two now. That was one thing less to worry about at least.

I balled up her ruined outfit and rummaged about the room for a moment till I found a scrap of parchment and a charcoal pencil. I hastily penned a note:

Say nothing. We’ll talk later.

~Mort

I tucked the note under her nightdress and hoped she would find it in the morning. Then we went, leaving the room much as we had found it. It was near three in the morning now, and I worried that Devon might have woken up while we were about our business. I needn’t have worried though. He was still sleeping like a babe when we got back to his room, the bastard.

I turned to find Dorian staring at the scene, “Where’s the door Mort?” He looked at the splintered wood on the ground and then saw the look in my eyes. I had never seen fear in my stalwart friend’s face before, but I saw it flicker there now. It made me feel old and tired; a strange sensation to have at sixteen. “Did you?” he motioned at the shattered wood with his hand.

“Yeah,” I answered. What else was I going to say? Then I heard Devon stir, as if he might wake. “Shibal” I put as much strength as remained to me into it. A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I nearly fainted then, but Dorian caught my shoulder as I swayed and helped me sit down on the bed.

I looked at the floor for a moment, trying to think, when I heard the sound of steel being drawn. Dorian was moving toward Devon now, cold murder on his face. “Wait!” I said.

“Why?” he asked in return.

“Honestly I don’t know, but if we kill him now we’re both dead men, and I don’t think that would make Penny very happy. If we’re going to give this bastard his comeuppance we’ll have to find another way, but not now, not tonight. We’re too tired to think straight,” I said. That sounded entirely too logical to be coming out of my mouth. Someone else must have been talking when I wasn’t looking.

Dorian struggled with himself for a moment before finally sheathing his sword, “Alright,” he said, “what do we do about the door?”

“Well there’s no way to fix it,” I replied. “Would one of the other doors fit?”

“Wait here,” he answered.

Dorian looked like he knew what he was doing, so I laid back on the bed and waited. I must have dozed off for a bit, because it seemed like only a moment before he returned carrying another door. He had a hammer and a couple of other tools tucked into his belt.

He soon had the new door on the hinges, and I had to admit it looked a lot like the original. I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice the difference, but I was too tired to care. Dorian went off again and came back with a broom. I swear he was getting positively domestic. He cleaned the floor without my help, but I like to think I supervised. He got all the wood up he could find, being careful to leave the jewelry where it lay; then in a stroke of pure genius, he plucked up a bottle of red wine from the credenza.

“Wha’?” I asked intelligently, as he smashed it on the floor next to Devon’s head.

“Maybe the fool will think she brained him with it. At the very least his clothes will be ruined, he should count himself lucky.” He helped me up and half carried me to my own room. You can never have enough friends like Dorian, but I was grateful for him. I never could have finished our night’s deception without his aid.

I sank slowly into the soft feather bed, but as I drifted off I couldn’t help but wonder, what would Devon think when he discovered his key no longer fit the lock on his chamber door? That made me chuckle for a second, then I was asleep.

Chapter VIII

FOR THE SAME REASON MAGES eschew purely mental methods for channeling their abilities, use of the common tongue for that purpose is generally avoided. The best tool for controlling aythar is usually considered to be a dead language, one acquired by deliberate learning after reaching puberty. It is also believed that languages which have been used for this purpose over many generations serve best, as the words and phrases gain a certain amount of power in their own right. Because of this, even individuals with a moderate to low emittance are sometimes able to effect minor spells by using language and symbols that have absorbed some inherent power due to long use by mages past.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

Devon woke early the next morning, only two hours after Mordecai had at last fallen asleep. He was careful not to move at first, uncertain what had happened. He was lying on the floor, fragments of glass scattered about around him. He listened for several minutes before deciding he must be alone, so he sat up and assessed himself.

It didn’t look good. His clothes were beyond saving, soaked through with dark stains. For a moment he thought he had been stabbed, ’til he realized it was wine rather than blood on his clothes. The door was closed, but the girl was gone. He was fairly sure he hadn’t finished his business with her... unless he had some memory loss. Had someone hit him with the wine bottle? Was it her—or someone else? Either possibility was disturbing.

He stripped his clothes and used some water from the pitcher to clean himself up before donning fresh attire. If someone else had struck him, then that meant he had an unknown enemy, one who had managed to get into his room while he was unaware. If the girl had done it, then he had a gap in his memory, for she had been quite beyond such things at his last recollection. It must have been someone else. He would not have been so incompetent as to let that slip of a girl get away so easily.

The door... he checked his pocket, the key was still there. If she had used his key she had replaced it. Unlikely, he thought. Her fear had been too great, she would have run, and kept the key. Devon Tremont knew a lot about fear and its effects. He checked the door, and sure enough it was unlocked.

“Someone’s been interfering,” he said to himself. The real question was who? What would they do with the knowledge they had? Nothing. If they were planning to use last night against him, they would have done so already, bringing guards and witnesses while he lay unconscious. If anyone accused him now, he could easily deny it. Why? That’s what he would have done. Whoever it was had sacrificed a large advantage. They took nothing, his money and possessions were intact, only the girl was missing.

The girl was the key. The only reason to hide last night’s crime would be to protect her reputation. But she was a common maid, he thought. No one would care about her. Almost everyone within the castle would be more concerned with justice; only a select few would care more for her than destroying him. What had she said last night? He’s the blacksmith’s son. “He’s also a mage,” muttered Devon. He had seen a strong golden aura about the man each time they had met. It was the first thing that had piqued his interest.

She had held out against fear for a remarkably long time, and still had told him little. She must have strong reasons to protect him; likely enough she was in love with him. “And his room is only a short walk from here... and one corridor over.” he said to himself.

Devon Tremont had always been decisive, he did not waver now. Rising, he buckled on his sword, left the room, and locked the door behind himself. At least he tried to... the key would not turn in the lock. Another mystery, he thought. He shook his head and headed for Mordecai’s room at a casual pace.

When he reached his destination, he was dismayed to see a large guard standing outside the room. What is his connection to the Lancasters? Nothing made sense; they were clearly complicit in his deception. The man was a commoner, yet they had given him a room fit for a king. Marcus was obviously quite attached to him. And he is a mage, he thought. That was the lynch pin, the key everything revolved around. The Lancaster family needed a mage. Did that mean they knew something regarding his plans for the future? If so, the Lancasters might well be seeking magical power to bolster their position.

He kept walking, nodding at the guard as he passed. Deep in thought, he began to carefully consider his next step.

Much lower in the castle Penny awoke. She had worked very late so Sarah, the head maid, had let her sleep in. Normally, the staff was up before dawn. Penny’s eyes snapped open, something was wrong. She had slept well, but now she was wide awake. Looking around the room, she was beset with confusion.

How did I get here? she thought, and then said it aloud, “What happened?” Suddenly she remembered, and her chest tightened with emotion. Fear, shame, and rage fought within her for dominance. A surging storm rose within, the fear and helpless terror of the night before washed over her, threatening her sanity. Mother, what should I do? That thought nearly brought her to tears; the helpless sorrow of a child who knows she can never go back, never go home. Her mother was dead, and her father was almost an invalid, unable to work. Caring for him had become her purpose; he was why she had taken this job.

Now it was gone, along with her hopes for the future. She doubted she could keep her job once her shame became public knowledge. The room was empty, so she drew the sheets back, afraid of what she might find.

She was naked, every stitch of clothing gone. There was blood on her thighs and a bandage around her right leg. The blood was to be expected, but she didn’t recall hurting her leg. He must have done that after I passed out. A vivid image rose in her mind, an ugly vision of what had been done to her. The only mercy was that she had passed out; at least she wouldn’t have to remember that. Except in my nightmares, she added mentally.

She got up and mechanically began putting on one of her spare uniforms. Her leg was stiff where it had been injured, but she felt alright otherwise. There was no soreness, no pain—down there, which seemed a bit unusual. She knew some girls had little pain, but she suspected Devon had not been gentle. “I guess I should count my blessings,” she said. Then it was too much, and she began crying. The tears poured out of her, and her body heaved with great wracking sobs. She hadn’t cried like this since she was a child.

Her mother had comforted her then, but there was no one now. After what seemed like hours, she ran out of tears. She was exhausted, too tired to care, too numb to feel anything. She finished dressing and decided she might as well report for duty. Before she left, she tidied up the bed and put her spare clothes away. A small slip of parchment fell behind the bedside table unnoticed as she picked up the nightgown.

She found Sarah and told her she was ready for work, hoping that the head maid wouldn’t be too angry about how late she had slept.

“No problem lass, you did well yesterday, and we had you running till well after everyone else was snug abed.” The older woman seemed genuinely grateful, “If you’ll run down to the laundry and give them a hand there for a bit, I’d be glad of it.” Sarah’s orders always sounded like requests, as superiors went, she was nicer than most.

Penny was glad to do it, anything to keep herself busy. She kept moving, working the rest of the day in a mad rush, desperate not to remember. However, no matter how she worked, her mind kept going back to it every time she let it stray. The worst came that afternoon, when she had to take fresh sheets up to the guests’ rooms. Every step filled her with dread, and she prayed that one particular occupant would be absent.

As luck would have it he was not in the room. She changed the sheets as quickly as possible, yet she could not help noticing the blood on them, as well as a torn section that must match her bandage. She was out of the room in less than five minutes, and her heart was still pounding when she reached the stairs. Thinking herself safe at last, she almost ran headlong into Devon as he came up the stairs.

She came close to dropping everything and bolting, but Penny was made of sterner mettle than that. She clenched her fists, gripping the bundle of linens and made her face a mask of indifference. She had already passed him on the stair when she heard his voice, “Penny.” She stopped, refusing to turn back toward him.

“Don’t think matters are finished between us,” Devon’s voice was like ice. “Last night was just the beginning. I’ll see your blacksmith’s son cold and dead before this is over. You have my word on that.” She could feel his eyes on her back, and fear held her heart in an iron grip. In her mind she saw Mordecai lying in a field, his body broken, with blood running from his nose and mouth as he struggled to breath. Devon stood over him smiling, murder in his eyes. The vision was so powerful it made her gasp, and she knew instinctively that it would come to pass. Rage built in her, a raw animal fury, and without thought she whirled, throwing the bundled laundry ahead of her. Perhaps it would distract him for a second. A second was all she needed, she would pull him down. If the fall didn’t kill him, she would finish the job herself.

“Hey now! There’s no call for that!” Devon was already gone, and standing where he had been was Marcus, looking surprised. The sheets had struck him full in the face and now lay scattered across the stairs. The anger that had filled her with strength drained away as speedily as it had appeared, leaving her empty. She almost lost her balance then, but Marc’s hand caught her shoulder, steadying her balance. “Are you ok, Penny?” His voice sounded concerned.

“Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m just not myself today.” Words were inadequate to describe just how ‘not herself today’ she truly was.

“I won’t ask about the laundry, then, I can guess who made you so angry,” he jerked his head in the direction that Devon must have left in. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, Penny. There are some things you need to know.”

She looked at his face, surprised at the seriousness she found there. Marc was normally the most easy-going of her friends. “What is it?”

Marc took a few minutes to describe what had happened at the reception the day before, detailing the trouble he felt was facing Mordecai. She nodded dumbly, it all made sense. He continued, “Penny, you have to understand how dangerous that man is... he doesn’t understand jokes, and he doesn’t tolerate insubordination. If he had been standing where I was when that laundry came flying at me, things would have gone ill for you. Worse, if he finds out you are associated with me or Mordecai, he will try to use you to get at us. Do you understand?”

He’s already used me Marcus, used me and tossed me away, she thought. “What can I do to help?” she said instead.

“Nothing Penny, I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. Just keep your head, and above all else, don’t let him find out about our friendship. As long as he doesn’t think you are connected to me or Mort you should be safe.” His earnestness almost brought her to tears again.

“Sure, I’ll try to avoid talking to you or Mort.” she answered.

“It’ll only be a few more days, then he’ll be on his way,” Marc tried to reassure her. He could see there were some deep emotions behind her face. He had probably offended her, but it would have to wait. He would apologize later, once Devon Tremont was safely away from Lancaster. Then they could all relax.

I woke early, well... in the early afternoon. I hadn’t gone to sleep ’til almost dawn, and I had completely exhausted my body’s reserves, both mental and physical. Thankful for not being awakened early, I sat up and stretched. Sleep had done much to repair my condition, although I still had a lingering ache in my lower back. It could have been worse, I supposed.

A knock at the door gave me an idea as to what had roused me from my slumber. Crossing the room, I opened it and looked out, wondering if I might find a hallway full of guards with Lord Devon behind them. Benchley stood there patiently.

“May I come in sir?” he said in his best ‘I may be a servant, but I’m still better than you’ tone. It’s amazing how much information some people can convey with simple inflections. I might ask him for lessons later. I stepped back so he could enter.

“I don’t suppose you have any food on you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Lunch is already over sir, but if you dress now you might persuade cook to let you have some leftovers.” he answered with a hint of a smile. The bastard knew full well what the cook thought of people who missed mealtimes. I wasn’t falling for it.

“Since you mentioned dressing, would you mind assisting me?” My native intelligence was working overtime.

“I believe that is what young Marcus intended when he asked me to check on you sir,” he replied. Fifteen minutes later I was dressed again. Benchley’s hands were surer than Penny’s when it came to doublet laces, but then I guess he had more experience dressing men. I also made note that he didn’t stand behind and reach around me to do up the laces. That should have told me something, but I was too preoccupied to think on it.

Once he was finished with me Benchley left, and frankly I was relieved to be alone. I needed to think. The valet had been his usual imperturbable self, so I inferred that no hue and cry had gone up this morning. Most likely, His Lordship, Devon Tremont was lying low wondering who had caught him with his pants down and whether retribution would be forthcoming. I was naive to think that, but I knew little of aristocrats.

Since I thought it might be safe, I ventured out to look for Penny, and perhaps steal some food if any happened to be lying about unattended. I had no luck finding Penny, or Marcus, or Dorian for that matter. Everyone seemed to have found better things to do than wait for me to get out of bed. Fortune was more kind when it came to food. I stumbled across young Timothy clearing tables in the great hall, and he let me take a large piece of roast pheasant that someone had left behind. I wrapped it in a piece of cloth and added a partial loaf of bread from another plate. Timothy gave me one of his gap-toothed grins. I winked at him, and spoils in hand, I retreated to my room to plot my next move.

Once I had eaten I decided to make use of my free time to study some more. I delved into ‘A Grammar of Lycian’. Two hours later and my head was spinning. I have a knack for languages, but Lycian seemed designed to twist a man’s tongue into knots. The verb tenses were also confusing. Why anyone needed a ‘past progressive’ or a ‘simple future perfect’ tense eluded me. I decided to focus on memorizing vocabulary since I thought it might be more useful to start there. Another hour and I had had enough, so I switched to Vestrius’ journal. With my slightly less ignorant grasp of Lycian, I began to comprehend a bit more of what he had learned in his first few weeks of training.

Most of it was not particularly pertinent to disposing of evil sons of rival dukedoms, but one piece did catch my eye as fairly useful. My use of the sleep spell on Devon the night before had made me acutely aware of how easily someone could be rendered helpless. I was more than a little worried that he might be able to do something similar to me in the future, since I half suspected him of being a wizard himself. I wasn’t the first mage to have such thoughts apparently. A lot of attention was given to the methods which could be used to shield a mage’s mind and body from harmful outside influences, or in some cases the results of his own mistakes.

The simplest method was to shutter the mind. Some men, I learned, were born with no ability to manipulate aythar at all. They were known as ‘stoics’, and I recognized the type in my friend Dorian. A mage could, with some practice, mimic their ability, or rather their lack of ability, and gain the same benefits. To do so would temporarily rob me of my ‘sight’ while shielding my mind from external influences. Because of its disadvantages, it was primarily used at night to protect oneself while sleeping since it required no active effort.

The hardest part of mastering it was finding a way to tell if I had successfully ‘shut’ my mind. Eventually I hit on the idea of staring at the book on Lycian. Since normal folk couldn’t see its glow I could use it to tell when I had properly closed myself off. It didn’t take long for me to manage it after that. The sensation was akin to shutting your eyes, and it unsettled me more than I thought it would. Without being aware of it, I had already begun to rely on subtle cues my magesight allowed me. Closing it off made me feel blind. I decided that I agreed with the mages of yore, sleep would be the best time for it.

The second method was to create a shield of aythar. The technique could be used in several ways depending on how much and what type of protection was desired. The least tiring was to create an internal shield that protected only the practitioner’s mind. The result was similar to the other method with the exception that you could still use your ‘sight’ and abilities without impairment. Slightly more involved was the creation of a shield covering the entire body to protect one from physical as well as magical assaults. According to the legends in Vestrius’ journal, some great wizards were able to manage this during all their waking hours. The legends made it clear that not only were the great wizards paranoid, but they were well justified in their paranoia. Sometimes even that protection was not enough to save them.

Lastly, in times of need, some wizards had been able to create shields extending much farther from their bodies, to protect friends and sometimes even buildings. It was considered risky, since the effort could exhaust the caster, and a particularly strong assault might even kill them if it used up more power than they had to give.

I practiced with both types, first trying to protect just my mind. Without someone to test it for me I couldn’t be sure I had done it properly, but the amount of energy it required was negligible. Producing a large shield to protect my entire body was easier, though it required more effort. Since it extended just beyond my body, I could actually see the energy as it enveloped me. It was nearly imperceptible, even to my sight, but by modifying the spell slightly I found I could color it with visible light, making it easier to see.

I found these exercises tiring, but they left me feeling better about my ability to protect myself. Still it was a relief when a knock interrupted me. I had shielded the divan (as a stand in for another person), and I was attempting to beat it to death with the chair. I failed to stop myself in time, and Marc opened the door just as I struck it for the final time. This was my third swing at it, and this time instead of simply rebounding, the chair had splintered with a resounding ‘crack’.

“If you are that upset with the room’s appointments I could have let you trade apartments with someone else,” he said in a droll tone.

“Ah... this isn’t what it looks like.” I said, giving him a sheepish look.

“If this was the first time you had said that to me, I might doubt you, but knowing you I honestly believe it,” he said with a laugh. “Seriously though, why are you hell bent on smashing up the furniture?”

I thought for a moment before I smiled, “Second law of magic.”

We had been bantering since we were kids, so he played along, “Which is?”

“Try new spells on the furniture before you risk other people or pets,” I rattled off.

He laughed, “So what’s the first law?”

I took a professorial pose and lifted my hand in an imperious manner, “Try new spells on other people or pets before you risk yourself.”

We laughed a bit, and it felt good. Things had been so tense lately, it was nice to be reminded of our younger days. “So why have you come in search of me, young supplicant? Love potions? A cure for the piles? All things are within the power of The Great Mordecai.”

“I thought you might want to take in the fireworks tonight. Father hired the illuminator’s guild to put on a show for our guests tonight,” he replied.

I was impressed, fireworks were expensive, and I had only seen them once before when we were younger. The illuminator’s guild was a secretive organization that guarded the secrets of producing pyrotechnics. They were often mistaken for magicians because of the dazzling nature of their shows, but their devices were made with the help of science and chemistry. Everyone within ten miles of Lancaster would show up to see it.

We talked about the impending show for several minutes before I got serious. “Have you spoken to Dorian or Penny yet today?”

His expression changed, “I haven’t seen Dorian, but I ran into Penny earlier.”

I immediately pressed him for the details of their exchange. After he had described their meeting I found myself more disturbed than ever. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You look angry.”

It was difficult, but starting slowly I related the events of the previous night to him. His face grew dark, and by the end he was swearing under his breath. “That explains a bit anyway,” he said.

“What?”

“Why Dorian pressed his father to put a guard on your door this morning. I never ran into him, but he talked Thornbear into setting a guard in the hall till you woke up this afternoon,” he explained. I was surprised; Dorian was more protective than I had thought.

“Do you think he told his father?” I asked.

“No, if he had, old Thornbear would have raised hell with my father.”

“You think so?”

“Most assuredly, and with Lord Thornbear pressing the case Father would have been forced to act, probably to expel Devon from his demesne,” he grimaced.

“What would that do?” I wondered aloud.

“Start a lot of trouble. Tremont would be honor bound to complain to the king. The Lancasters would have to present evidence at the king’s court to support our insult to Tremont.” He looked at me.

“And?”

“And we couldn’t prove anything. At the least, we would be fined to satisfy Tremont’s honor, at the worst, it would mean war.” Marc sat on the divan and put his head in his hands. He thought for a while, “Why didn’t you just expose the villain when you caught him red handed? The evidence would have been on our side then.”

“Penny,” I said simply, and I gave him a stare that spoke volumes about how I felt that he had even suggested it.

He apologized, “I’m sorry, you’re right Mort, and it was selfish of me to think that.”

In the end we came up with no good ideas, but made ourselves feel better by suggesting bad ones, mostly involving hot irons and blunt instruments. An hour later it was time to get moving, the fireworks were about to start. As we stepped into the corridor, I waved at him to wait a second. Muttering a short incantation, I set a shield around my body. No time like the present to start good habits.

“What did you do?” he eyed me quizzically.

“My latest trick,” I said, and since he couldn’t see it I added a few words to show off my new shield in a vivid blue.

“Holy!...” he started and took a step back. “That looks formidable.”

I spoke again, and the shield faded into invisibility.

“You should leave it blue,” he remarked.

“Why?” I didn’t like being so conspicuous.

“It might scare the crap out of Devon.”

I liked the sound of that, but discretion seemed wiser.

Chapter IX

THE GREATEST MYSTERY MAY LIE in the nature of aythar itself. Although it is present in much greater concentrations in living beings, it is also present in small amounts within all inanimate objects. The amount of aythar present seems to vary in direct proportion to the level of awareness possessed by an object. Sentient beings possess it in large quantity, relative to inanimate things, such as rocks. Animals possess varying amounts in proportion to their level of intelligence. Plants contain less, yet still more than non-living things. Since aythar is present within everything, so far as we can tell, it may well be a fundamental property, or even a necessity for existence. Because self-awareness is directly proportional to the amount of aythar within something, scholars conclude that even inanimate matter has some minimal level of awareness.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

The fireworks were every bit as spectacular as I had expected. We stood along the eastern parapet, looking across the lake that dominated the view on that side. Originally the lake had been separate, but when the castle was built it had been expanded to fill the moat which surrounded the castle walls. The main body still lay to the east. It made for a spectacular view with the pageantry of the fireworks reflected in its still surface. I found myself wishing Penny were watching with me, but I had been unable to spot her in the crowd.

I was sure she had to be here somewhere; even the servants had been given leave to lay aside their burdens and enjoy the display. The crowd was large, so it was unsurprising that I couldn’t find her. After a short time, I was separated from Marc as well. He had been drawn aside by a conversation with Gregory Pern. Not really wanting to be involved, I had kept moving. Truthfully I was looking for Penny. We still had not spoken since the incident of the previous night, and I was growing anxious, unsure what she might think about what had happened.

Moving through the crowd I saw Rose Hightower engaged in discourse with Stephen Airedale. He seemed very earnest about whatever he was telling her, so I kept my distance and tried to avoid distracting them. I passed by and she called my name, “Master Eldridge! I had hoped to see you again before now.” She spoke with more excitement than I would have thought necessary.

“My apologies, Lady Rose, if I had known, please be sure wild horses could not have kept me from your side.” I was in a good mood, so I figured I would play the game of words. Stephen seemed disappointed at my arrival, which made sense once I understood his intentions. Most likely he had been trying to woo the lady, and as everyone knows, wooing is not a game for three. “If I am interrupting, I can bother someone else,” I said, giving Stephen a sympathetic glance.

Lady Rose wouldn’t have that. Obviously she wanted a rescue, “Nonsense, we would be charmed to have you join us.” She put her hand on Stephen’s shoulder in a move that had to be calculated.

“Of course,” he assured me, “unfortunately, I need to excuse myself. You understand I’m sure.” Indeed I did, so I refrained from smiling, no need to rub salt in the wound.

He left graciously, and Rose gave me a look of gratitude, “Thank you, I was having trouble finding polite ways to deter him; any longer and I might have been unforgivably rude.”

“Your beauty drives reason even from men of culture; do not hold yourself to account for it. I have little doubt that you would eventually have turned him aside without injury to his pride.” I gave her a slight bow, intending to take leave myself. My part had already been played.

“Wait, I would speak with you,” she put her hand on my forearm. She was a woman who spoke with her hands and gestures, as well as her eyes and words. Despite the restrictions and limitations of her class, Rose Hightower was powerfully expressive, a natural communicator.

“Surely you have no need of my small words,” I answered her.

“Perhaps you have need of mine,” her eyes were full of hidden meaning.

Uncertain, I paused, “I’m sure I will be richer for hearing them.”

“Then we must agree to a trade; first answer my question, and then I will share what knowledge I have with you.” She made it sound like a game, but something in her face hinted at more.

“We have a deal then, what would you know?” I replied.

“Who were you looking for just now?” her eyes twinkled with amusement.

“A friend, no one of importance.”

“That is no answer at all,” she frowned and removed her hand from my arm, conveying her disapproval.

“Penelope Cooper, a childhood friend and one of the maids here. Is that satisfactory?” I was a little annoyed at having to disclose that. Lately Penny had become more important to me, and I found myself embarrassed to discuss her.

“A lady friend, how interesting. Well enough. You should know that you made your first enemy at the reception the other day.” She gauged my reaction.

“I knew that, but there is no remedy for it.” If I got any better at wordy dialogue, I’d be teaching classes in circumlocution soon.

“You are wise to accept that so readily. Your friend Marcus is lucky to have you, but his friendship puts you in grave danger.”

I knew that as well, but I wondered at her opinion, “How so?”

“A building’s strength lies in its foundation. Your enemy seeks to bring down the House of Lancaster. He will do so by undermining the foundation first, and you stand out as a key target in that pursuit.” I had heard this before, but I didn’t want to offend her.

“Lady Rose, I think you greatly overestimate my value.” Maybe she wasn’t as smart as I had initially thought.

“That may be, but I find it more likely that you underestimate yourself.” I could have argued, but didn’t bother. She would have gotten the last word anyway. A few more pointless exchanges and I pardoned myself to continue my search. This time she let me go without comment.

I wandered for a while, hunting for a woman with dark hair and eyes that could drink the moon. Lady luck didn’t see fit to help me though, damn her. Penny was elusive, like a dream you can’t remember on waking. Finally I gave up and devoted myself to enjoying the last of the show. A particularly impressive red bloom lit the sky above the lake, accompanied by a thundering boom. An idea struck me. Pure genius. I couldn’t wait to try it out.

Forgetting the light show, I hurried back to my room to search for the words I needed in the ‘Grammar’. If I wasn’t able to find Penny, at least I could prepare myself better for whatever lay ahead.

Penny stood in an embrasure, shadowed by a tall merlon. She was all but invisible there, which suited her just fine. She watched the colorful lights bursting overhead, but she found no joy in them. When Mordecai came striding by, she almost stepped out. He had a look of concentration on his face, and he walked with purpose. She had seen that look before, and she loved him for it. His mind was constantly in motion, and she could tell something had inspired him. The wind caught his hair, tossing it back, giving him the look of a hawk stooping to find its prey. She wanted to catch him, but her heart quailed at the thought, she couldn’t face him now. It was too soon.

She stood still, until he was past, then she turned back to watch the last of the show, a forgotten tear slowly tracing the line of her cheek. There were people everywhere, but she had never been so alone. A touch on her shoulder startled her, and she nearly screamed thinking Devon had found her.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, my dear.” Rose Hightower was there, with a concerned look.

“Forgive me, milady. I was caught up in my thoughts.” Penny self-consciously wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks. “Is there aught that you need of me?”

“Don’t apologize. Not all nobles are as heartless as Lord Devon,” Rose said this with a small grin, hoping to elicit a smile from the troubled maid. To her dismay, Penny began to cry, shoulders quaking with silent sobs.

Rose Hightower had been a lady and a peer of the realm since birth. She had addressed kings and been courted by every eligible bachelor in the realm, but she was much more than that. She was a woman of character and compassion first. Without a second thought, she stepped forward and embraced Penny, “There, there. It’s alright.”

At first Penny tried to pull away, certain that her weakness would lead to even more trouble for herself. “No, no, don’t worry, I’m a friend,” Rose said, and she meant it. She held onto Penny until the girl relaxed, smoothing her hair and speaking softly to calm her.

Penny hadn’t had anyone to hold her when she cried since her mother died. Even though Rose was nearly her age, she was reminded a bit of those days; days when she had felt safe. Eventually, she calmed herself and pulled back. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t know what would...”

“Hush girl. I am not so cruel as that. What happened here is between us, and if you’ll let me, I will help you as I am able,” Rose’s eyes were sympathetic. “Now tell me why you’re up here weeping while Mordecai searches high and low for you.”

“What? How do you know that...?” Penny was startled.

“I spoke to him just a bit ago. He was looking for you, and he seemed worried about you.” He hadn’t actually told her that, but she had read it in his voice when he had answered her question; very little escaped Rose Hightower’s keen ears.

“I wasn’t hiding from Mort; honestly, I just didn’t want to encounter Lord Dev...” Penny stopped, “He’s been making a lot of demands of the staff. I meant no disrespect, milady.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed, “None taken, I know all too well how unpleasant that putrescent man can be.” Rose stared at Penny for a moment, her mind working. She had heard rumors of Devon Tremont’s misdeeds before, and she had an idea of the sorts of things he was capable of. “Penelope, do you trust me?”

“I hardly know you, milady.” That remark could be construed as an insult, but she was in fact beginning to feel comfortable with Lady Rose.

“Fair enough. Listen to me. I know you are close friends with Dorian Thornbear. Do you trust him?” Penny nodded; Dorian was one of the most honorable men she knew, not to mention her childhood friend.

“I would trust him with anything milady. He’s a true gentleman,” she replied.

“Then accept me in his stead. I would trust Dorian with my life. If I can aid him by helping you, I would count myself happy.” Rose looked steadily into Penny’s eyes.

“Why are you telling me this?” Penny could sense the other woman’s sincerity, but she couldn’t fathom the reason behind it.

“Because I want to help you, and before I can do that, you have to answer me honestly, as one woman to another.” Rose paused.

“I don’t understand, but if you’re a true friend of Dorian’s I will answer you, if I am able.” Penelope felt silly answering like that, but Lady Rose seemed deadly serious.

“You mentioned Devon Tremont was hard on the staff, but I suspect you meant something more personal.” There was no easy way for Rose to broach the subject, but the look on Penny’s face answered her more quickly than words could have done. “Have you been ill-used Penny? Please tell me true, and if he has, I will do all in my power to see that tyrant pay for his crimes.”

“No, please, you can’t tell anyone. If they find out he’ll...” Her words were confirmation enough.

“Relax, I won’t go shouting it from the rooftops. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll make sure he can’t hurt you again. And eventually, I’ll make sure that man pays three times over for what he has done, or I am not a Hightower.” Her voice held a cold steel that made Penny shiver for a moment, yet it gave her hope as well.

“He’s the son of a duke—what can women do to such a man?” Penny was more interested in hope now than dissuading Rose.

“He’s the younger son of a duke, and his late brother Eric, was my friend.” Rose took her by the hand and began walking toward the stairs leading to the courtyard. “And you would be surprised what women can do.” The look in her eye would have even given pause to a king.

Chapter X

The Dark God

AT HEART, THE GODS AS we have come to know them are merely powerful sentient and incredibly dense concentrations of aythar. It is thought that many of them formed originally as the result of mankind’s innate need to worship a higher power, but this theory is unproven as some of the gods currently known certainly predate the existence of humanity. Whether they arose as a result of a prior sentient race similar to humankind is uncertain. They might well have developed from some purely natural phenomenon, independent of believers. The real question lies in what their ultimate goals are regarding mortal beings. Some have proven definitively malignant, while others still seem benign.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

The fireworks were of benefit to more than just the spectators. They proved to be a perfect distraction for Devon Tremont to do a little research. The puzzling events in his room the night before had left him troubled. Someone had made a fool of him, and given the circumstances, there was only one man that could possibly have done it.

He had shoved the furniture to one side, clearing the center of the room. Using a stick of charcoal he drew two black circles on the floor, one within the other. In the space between the two he traced a row of strange symbols. They glowed subtly as he finished and began his incantation. The summoning took several minutes, and during the invocation he repeated one name at regular intervals. As he finished, the light in the room dimmed, and shadows began to move strangely within the circle.

A dark form solidified within the center, a shape that moved and twisted like smoke trapped in a jar. “What do you seek of me little wizard? You have not yet paid what you owe.” The voice was deep and coarse, rumbling like thunder in a winter storm.

Devon kept his aspect calm, showing fear here would be a grave mistake, “You will get your payment when I am king. The Lancasters are but the first of many rewards you will receive.”

“You would do well to leave me undisturbed if you have no gift of blood, I am not some petty demon to be trifled with.” A black maw of twisted teeth appeared in the smoke for a moment before vanishing again.

“Perhaps if your information had been complete, I would be more likely to provide such gifts, Mal’goroth.” A bead of sweat ran down Devon’s brow, he was taking a risk here.

“You imply I have violated our pact?” The voice was curious.

“You told me that there are no living wizards,” he replied.

“All the ancient bloodlines have been severed, and the knowledge they kept is broken and scattered, there are none left. Do you dispute this?” Mal’goroth’s words were heavy with implicit threat.

“There is a wizard here, in the House of Lancaster. I would not think such a thing would have escaped your notice,” Devon answered.

Mal’goroth spoke, “The talent arises from time to time. You, yourself are proof of this. This mage can be no threat, without knowledge he is helpless. There are no more wizards.”

“His name is Mordecai, how would you explain that? A random mage appearing here among the Lancasters, bearing a name from the line of Illeniel?” Devon felt surer of himself now.

“Lies! The line of Illeniel is no more, the last of them died sixteen years ago at the hands of the Shaddoth Krys.” Mal’goroth had become still within the circle.

“Then the Shadow-Blades failed; even the Shaddoth Krys can make mistakes it would seem. Your information was flawed, like their mission.” Devon was baiting Mal’goroth now; he hoped to get more from their bargain.

After a long pause Mal’goroth answered, “Yes.”

“Then you must redress that mistake. I will require more assistance.” This was going better than Devon had hoped.

“The Shaddoth Krys are too far, it would be better if you allow me to help you directly.” Mal’goroth sounded eager.

“I am no fool, I will not bridge the gulf for you,” Devon snapped.

“I would not suggest that. Merely let me join with you, my power could make your task simple.” The dark god’s voice was almost friendly now. It was suggesting Devon open his mind to it, channeling the evil god’s power. The idea was tempting, but Devon shivered at the thought of letting the being into his mind. There was no surety he would ever be able to get it out again.

“That is unacceptable. What of your followers?” he was referring to the cult of Mal’goroth, a secret society worshipping in the shadows, hidden from the eyes of saner men.

“They could not reach here soon enough, wizard, unless you open a way for them. Are you capable of such a thing?” Mal’goroth sneered audibly.

“I can manage it, without need for your power,” Devon said. “How soon can they be ready?”

The dark form of Mal’goroth shifted in the circle, “Four nights from now. They will be waiting.”

Devon smiled. Creating a path to transport them would be difficult, but the result would be worth it. His original plan had been subtler, but sometimes bold strokes created a masterpiece. The Lancasters would be removed; they and their retainers would feed the dark god, and their absence would destabilize the kingdom, a necessary first step. He finished his discussion with Mal’goroth and ended the summoning spell. Once he was sure the creature had gone, he broke the circle and began planning.

First he would remove the blacksmith’s son. He represented a significant threat to the completion of his scheme. After that he would see the House of Lancaster expunged and their retainers brought to ruin. The House of Tremont would not benefit in the short term, but in the years to come, when the royal family suffered a great tragedy, there would be no rivals to contend for the throne. Tremont would be the only possible choice.

There was yet more to do, so Devon left his room and went below. He needed a quiet, isolated location within the keep, a place where something as conspicuous as a large transportation glyph would go unnoticed. Tonight would be the best time to find a place for it; while the servants were watching the pyrotechnics, he would be free to roam the cellars and tunnels beneath the keep.

Chapter XI

Return Home

REGARDING THE DIFFERENCES IN POWER between a mage and a channeler, otherwise known as a ‘saint’: A mage is, in most cases, a free agent, given that his power comes from within, while a channeler is beholden to the source of his power. Although both achieve their effects through the use of aythar, a mage must rely upon his own control and his own reserves. A channeler is partly controlled by his deity, therefore his control is provided in large degree by his god, and his reserves are much less limited. The channeler is largely restricted by two other factors: his credos, for he may not act against the wishes of his god, and his human frailty, a factor scholars refer to as ‘burnout’. If too much power is channeled, one may destroy one’s health and possibly the ability to channel as well. A wizard’s own power is rarely great enough for burnout to be a possibility, although some exceptions have been known.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I rose early for a change, and for the first time in days I felt as if my mind and body were in harmony. I have lived according to a dawn to dusk schedule for most of my life, so the late nights had really thrown my body out of whack. I also had a plan, things to be a’doing. The feeling of purpose gave me renewed vigor.

I hadn’t told anyone yet, but I had decided the night before to return home today. I had already begun to feel some homesickness. After all I was just the son of a humble blacksmith. The politics and intrigue of court life wore on my nerves; I had no stamina for it. I wasn’t going to spend the night. I intended to ride back before nightfall. The idea that I had had the night before, required a lot of wide open space, and I wanted a place where I wouldn’t create a panic with my experiment.

My home suited that purpose perfectly. Out in the country we had no close neighbors, and if anyone did happen to be in the vicinity, the smithy was often the source of odd noises. I would have to explain matters to my parents beforehand though. Even had I not planned my ‘test’, I needed to do that. My sudden departure had left my parents in the dark.

I borrowed a horse from Dorian’s father, there being fewer questions that way, and began riding home. It took me close to an hour, but the weather was nice, and the palfrey I was riding had a smooth gait. I was in a fine mood by the time I got there. My only worry was how my parents would react to my new abilities. I was pretty sure that it wasn’t every day your son comes home to tell you he’s developed a knack for magic. I guessed my mom would have the most trouble, she has difficulty with surprises. Dad would probably ask me if it would help with the metal somehow. He was very practical that way.

I found my father hard at work. He saw me come in and nodded at me, directing me to the bellows with a glance. I got to pumping. Half an hour later he set the piece he was working on aside to cool slowly. Annealing it was called, to take the temper out. “I didn’t think you were supposed to be back for a few more days,” he said.

“A lot has happened. I’m going back this evening, but I need to talk to you and mom,” I replied.

“She’s in the house I think, let me wash up and we’ll go in. She’ll probably want to feed you some of our leftovers.” His face was still, but his voice had a smile in it.

A while later, after some bacon and hash-browns, we sat at the table together. Slowly I began to tell them of the things that had happened to me. It took more time than I thought, even with me leaving out the parts about Penny. I didn’t feel it was my place to discuss what had happened to her. Through it all, my father sat quietly, his stern face deep in thought. Mother looked as though she might interrupt a few times, but he shushed her and she held her peace. When I finished she got up, “I have to hang the wash out. I’ll be back in a bit.” Her tone was tense.

“What’s wrong with mom?” I asked.

“She’s just having trouble facing the future. She’ll be ok in a little while,” he answered me. “Go on and do your ‘test’. Just make sure it’s far enough away from the cows that you don’t sour their milk.”

“I’ll try.”

He thumped me on the back, “Go on, I’ll talk to your mother. We’ll have more to say when you get back. We just need some time to chew on all this.” I had to love him. He might be quiet and taciturn, but it would take a lot more than learning his son was a mage to make my Dad lose his calm demeanor.

I walked away from the house, and when I looked back I could see them talking. Their discussion looked rather heated, at least for Mom. I kept walking, I’d find out what was wrong when I came back. Once I had gone a long way I checked around to make sure our few cows were elsewhere. After I had reassured myself of that, I thought about what I planned to do.

The fireworks had given me the idea. I would combine the spell for light with something to produce a loud noise. I thought of it as a ‘flashbang’. (Some people tell me I’m terrible with names.) I checked myself to make sure I was still shielded. Then I started.

I focused on a point about thirty yards away and gathered my will, “Lyet ni Bierek!” I used my aythar like a whip, snapping quickly at the point I had chosen. The result surprised me.

A flash of light blinded me, along with a sound like a cannon; a deep cracking boom so loud and sudden that it made me stumble back. Dad was right to worry about the cows, I thought to myself. What I had accomplished was creating an effect similar to an explosion, but without the damage. I repeated my experiment, this time placing it close to the ground, to see if it made any impression on the earth. It didn’t. I continued, making them further away each time, since my ears were already ringing. It seemed I could place them a great distance away. Possibly over a hundred yards or more, although it became more of a strain the further out I put them.

After an hour, I had thoroughly scared all the wildlife into finding more peaceful areas to relocate to. I returned to the house, wondering what Mom might think of my war against the quiet of the countryside. I found them sitting in the house, back at the table. It didn’t look good.

My mother was flushed, and her eyes were puffy. She had been crying. Dad looked tired, his eyes focused on a small box on the kitchen table. “Is everything ok?” I asked.

I expected Dad to answer, given how Mom looked, but she spoke instead, “No. It isn’t ok, but your Father has convinced me that it is time to show you this.” Her eyes looked at the box.

“Does this have something to do with my new abilities?” I was worried. Whatever was in that box had upset my mother in a way that I had never seen anything else do. The unknown that it contained might change everything.

“Well sort of...” my father started.

“Hush, Royce! She gave this to me. You may have decided for all of us, but it’s my responsibility!” Mom was in tears but she gave me a direct look, “Mordecai, this is from your mother, your real mother. She trusted this to me, to give to you when you were older, when you needed to know. She and I both hoped you would be grown before you saw it.” She glared at my father as if he had sprouted horns.

“What’s in it?” I asked uncertainly.

“A letter, from her to you. She wrote it here, in this room when you were just a baby. It’s the last thing she did before she died. It’s yours.” Her voice sounded as if the world were ending.

I reached for the box and my father put his hand over mine, “Son, what you’ll find in that box is your mother’s love for a son she couldn’t raise. You will also find her pain.” He uncovered my hand and looked away. I had never seen my father cry, but his eyes were wet when he told me that.

I lifted the wooden lid. It was attached by two delicate hinges, my father’s work. Inside, the box was lined with velvet and a heavy surcoat lay folded neatly. It was a dark maroon color, with golden trim and a golden hawk spreading its wings in the center. Later I would come to know that its posture was called, ‘rampant’.

“It’s your mother’s tabard,” said Mom. “She was a daughter of the House of Cameron.”

I nodded dumbly and pulled it out, letting it unfold. I tried to imagine the woman who had been wearing it.

“She was tall,” said my father. “Nearly as tall as I am, and strong limbed. She had blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes like yours son, though I guess you get your hair from your father.”

Underneath it was a folded piece of parchment. I lifted it carefully and unfolded it. Then I began to read:

My Son,

It pains me that these will be the only words you ever receive from me. Trust me when I tell you that your father and I loved you dearly and told you so often when you were yet a babe. I am entrusting you to Meredith Eldridge as I will not survive more than a few days at most. She is a good woman, and I have come to respect her while she has cared for me here. I hope that you grow loving her as I love you.

My name is Elena di’Cameron and I was married to a great man, your father, Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel. He was the last and best wizard of his line. Given your parentage, you may well inherit his powers, but he will not be there to guide you. What knowledge he might have shared is gone now, lost in the fire that consumed Castle Cameron, my childhood home.

The household was poisoned, and assassins came in the night; the Children of Mal’goroth, if I am right. A fanatical cult obsessed with one of the dark gods. Your father and I fought to preserve you that night, but we failed in protecting ourselves. I failed. I was bound by oath and bond to protect your father. I was Anath’Meridum, one of the special guards that have guarded the old lines of mageblood over the generations. That is how I met him, but our love could not be contained in a simple bond, and so we married. You are the result.

At your father’s request, I forsook my vows and left him that night, taking you to safety, or so I hope. There is so much more to say, but I have not the strength to write it all. I told Miri as much as I could in the time I have had. I have also informed James, the Duke of Lancaster, so that he might look over you from afar. Now that you have read this, you may wish to seek him out. He will know more than I could possibly write here.

Above all, do not be angry with Miri. I begged her not to tell you these things until you were older. None of this has been her fault. She and Royce were simply kind enough to care for a stranger, thinking nothing of the risk they put themselves into. They are good people, the salt of the earth, the sort of folk your father always sought to protect. Now they protect you, and for that I am eternally grateful.

All my love,

Elena di’Cameron

I stared into space. My world was coming apart and being reformed in ways that I could not recognize. There was much more in Elena’s letter than I ever hoped for, and much less. I cannot describe the emotions running through me at that time. I don’t even have names for them. “Is that it?” I asked finally.

“No Mordecai, there’s more.” My mother spoke now, “Your mother had very little time with us, but she told us of the night she sought to escape with you,” and she proceeded to tell me. Her words faltered a time or two as there were things in them that were hard to say. It isn’t easy to tell someone of the death of their parents, even if they never knew them.

As she went on I began to ask questions. We talked until late in the afternoon. At last there was nothing more she could tell me. Meredith Eldridge looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, unsure how I might view her now.

My feelings were such that I didn’t know how to express them, but a few things hadn’t changed. Meredith and Royce Eldridge were still my parents. “Mom, stop looking at me like that. I still love you. You will always be my mother; I just have an extra one now.” I looked at my father, “and I am still the blacksmith’s son.” There was a lot of hugging after that. My Dad, who is normally very reserved put his arms around both of us.

“I need to go.” I said.

“What will you do,” asked my father.

“Nothing, for now. I will talk to the Duke and see what he can add. I am not going to go mad seeking revenge if that’s what you’re afraid of; I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Yet, I added mentally. I put the letter back in the box, but I kept the tabard. I had plans for that. I went outside and started saddling the horse I had borrowed. My father walked behind me, and as I started to mount, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Wait, I have something for you,” he said, and he led me to the smithy.

“Your mother had a sword with her when I found her. She told me it was the blade of one of the men who slew your father. She wanted nothing to do with it, so I kept it. Her own sword was gone.” He walked to the back and drew out a long iron bound box.

“I am not a sword smith, but even I could tell the blade was poorly made. I took the metal and melted it down for bar stock.” That surprised me. Normally my father bought his stock iron from the foundries in Albamarl. It was difficult and expensive for a small smithy like ours to do its own smelting. He had taken a lot of trouble to do this. “I did not have the skills, so it took me years, but I thought you might want something like this one day.”

He opened the box and nestled inside was a sword. It was a simple thing, straight and true, the edges finely honed. The guard was plain, but the steel pommel was inset with the Cameron arms. The base of the blade carried the maker’s mark of Royce Eldridge. As far as I knew it was the only weapon he had ever crafted aside from knives and similar tools. He was not fond of violence.

“I did not make this for your vengeance. I did this to show that even from the ashes of wickedness and tragedy something of beauty can arise. I made this hoping the same for you. Use it for yourself, use it for defending those who cannot protect themselves, as your true father would have. Do not shame either of us.” Then he hugged me, again. Twice in one day, surely he must be getting senile. I didn’t complain though.

He sheathed it with a scabbard that had been stored alongside it in the box and gave it to me. I buckled it on, feeling awkward, for I had never worn a sword, much less learned to use one. Then at last I mounted and began to ride slowly away. Before I crossed the rise that would block the view of our house from my sight, I looked back. He still stood there in the yard, watching me. Royce Eldridge is a blacksmith, and his work had made him strong, but at that moment he seemed old to me.

I rode on to Lancaster with the twilight casting deep shadows about me.

Chapter XII

The Blacksmith’s Son

GODS AND WIZARDS HAVE HISTORICALLY been antithetical, given that they usually embody opposite philosophies; those being ‘submission’ and ‘free-will’, respectively. Wizards rarely have much to do with deities and higher powers, having little interest in sacrificing their own goals. The reverse is not true, however. The gods have always had a strong interest in wizards for their ability to provide something which no channeler can. The gods are restrained by the fact that they reside upon a different plane of existence. Although a channeler may provide them an outlet into our material world, he cannot offer them entry. The act of creating a portal, through which the planes may be connected, requires a great deal of power from both sides of the gulf between worlds. The only known case in which a wizard willfully conspired with a god to effect such a thing, led to the destruction historians call ‘The Sundering’. The dark god, Balinthor, was allowed to cross, and his actions here nearly destroyed our world. It is not clear how the ancients eventually stopped him, nor how he was forcibly banished to his proper plane.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I reached Lancaster with very little light to spare, but as chance would have it, Marc and some of the guests came riding in at the same time. They had gone hawking that afternoon after I had left, which suited me just fine. I had enjoyed enough of ‘polite’ society already, and the day with my parents had been a welcome respite. I was wrapped in my thoughts, still digesting what I had learned about my ‘other’ parents, so I gave them a casual wave and went to return Lord Thornbear’s horse.

As I came out of the stables, I encountered them again in the yard. Marc had a proud falcon on his arm, and he looked every inch the young nobleman in his hunting leathers. Stephen Airedale, Devon, and Elizabeth Balistair were still with him. I suppose the others had left their horses with the grooms already and gone to wash up.

“Ho! Mordecai! Come and see my catch!” As always, he embodied the exuberance of youth. I couldn’t help but find his enthusiasm catching. I walked over and let him show me the contents of his game bag. He had quite a collection of small birds, and gazing at the lethal beauty of the falcon he carried, I wasn’t surprised. Seeing that, I felt somewhat better about my accidental hawk ‘murder’ the other day. Birds everywhere, rejoice! Mordecai the hawk slayer works to even the scales on your behalf.

“Where did you get off to today, Mordecai? I couldn’t find you earlier,” my friend asked.

“My apologies, I felt a sudden need for fresh air and borrowed a horse from Lord Thornbear,” I replied innocently.

Devon chose then to make his presence felt, “Off to visit the blacksmith, Master Eldridge?”

That took me off-guard, “In fact, I did ride that way. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he replied with an audible sneer. “How was your father? Well, I trust?”

Stunned, I had no reply. Artful words would not suffice; it was lie or admit my deception. Marc didn’t suffer from my hesitation, “Where’s this coming from Devon, or are you just practicing at being a rude jackass as usual?”

Devon ignored the insult, “I was simply curious. I heard that our Master Eldridge here was actually the blacksmith’s son, I thought I’d see if it were true or not.”

Marc’s cheeks were flushed red, “I don’t appreciate your treatment of my guests, Tremont.” He put emphasis on the name, to remind Devon of the political implications of insulting him, I would guess.

Elizabeth Balistair tried to break the tension, “Devon you shouldn’t pay heed to servant’s gossip. It demeans you. Where did you hear such a thing?”

“From one of the serving girls, Penelope, I believe she said her name was.” He stared directly at me as he said this.

“Why would she tell you this?” Stephen asked.

“In my experience, a woman on her back will tell you anything you want to know,” Devon said with a leer. The man had no shame.

I was overcome with rage. The world turned red, and all I could see was Devon Tremont bloodied and torn beneath me. I raised my fists and advanced on him, ready to make my vision a reality. I heard a whisper of steel and felt a razor edge at my throat, stopping me cold in my tracks.

“I see you wear a sword, blacksmith. Why don’t you try that instead?” Devon’s eyes glittered triumphantly. The man had trained with the sword since childhood, whereas I had never held a blade in my life. There could be only one outcome.

“Planning to add murder to your list of sins, Devon? You know he cannot beat you with the sword,” Marc spoke now, his voice calm and sure. “Only a coward provokes a fight he cannot lose. Why don’t you try something more interesting?”

Devon’s sword never moved but his confidence wavered, “What do you suggest?”

Marc smiled, “Since you have challenged him, let Mordecai choose the contest.”

Devon considered for a moment, then answered, “What would you choose, boy?” He glared at me. I had the distinct impression that if I chose a sport he could not win, he would find an excuse to use the sword anyway.

“Chess,” I said. I could feel cold sweat dripping down my back, but my face was defiant.

“You think you can beat me at a gentleman’s game?”

“I think you are no gentleman,” I answered, but my more sensible side was screaming at me to shut up. Normally you don’t provoke a man holding a sharp instrument to your throat.

“Very well.” He sheathed his sword in a graceful motion. “But if there is no blood, honor cannot be satisfied. Why don’t we put a wager on the game?”

“What do you want to wager?” I asked.

“A hundred gold marks,” he replied with a grin, “and if you cannot pay the debt, I will take you as my bond servant.”

I was in deep now. That was more money than I would see if I worked ten lifetimes. Even a nobleman would fear to lose such a sum.

“No,” came a deep voice, “If he loses, I will pay his wager.” James, the Duke of Lancaster stood unnoticed behind us. “And if he wins, you will pay. I will make sure of that.”

Devon found his manners and gave a shallow bow, “It shall be as you say, Your Grace.” He did not dare insult his host.

After that we repaired to the sun room parlor, there were tables a plenty there. The Duke walked beside me as we went. “I trust you will teach that dog a lesson, Mordecai,” he said, in a tone meant just for us. I looked at him, and for the first time I considered how much he had done for me. As a boy, I had never questioned the fact that Marc’s family wanted me to spend time with their son. Now, knowing what I did about my origins, it made more sense. I resolved to make sure I won.

What Devon could not have known, was that I was perhaps the best chess player in Lancaster. Marc had planned on it when he suggested I choose the game. The biggest unknown was Devon’s own skills, which I suspected might not be insignificant. “I will do my best, Your Grace,” I answered him. “I would also ask that you grant me a private audience afterward.”

“No need to be so formal Mordecai, you are much like a son to me yourself, no matter your birth,” he answered courteously.

“It is about my birth that I would speak to you,” I said, and he looked at me with raised brows. Then he nodded.

“I expected this day would come,” he replied, “but let’s see to the matter at hand first.” Marc had gotten closer and looked at me questioningly. I shook my head in a way that told him this wasn’t the time.

Minutes later I was seated at a small table across from Devon Tremont. “Why don’t you set up the pieces, blacksmith?” he sneered, as if to suggest I might not know their proper placement. Without comment I obliged him.

“It appears you are a piece short, or don’t you know where the last piece goes?” he said when I had finished.

“I thought we might make this more interesting,” I replied. Honestly, I’m not sure what had come over me. His condescending attitude had gotten under my skin. “I’ll offer a handicap of one of my rooks.”

“You insult me. Taking such a handicap puts you at a disadvantage. I would rather beat you with an even board, that none can claim your foolishness gave me the win.” He was no longer sneering; his mind working to decide if I was being clever or a fool.

“Let’s sweeten the wager then, since my handicap might cheapen your victory.” A cold rage was on me now, and I wanted to see this petty lord-ling sweat. “Say two hundred marks? And I will be your bond-servant, even if the duke pays my debt.”

Devon almost flinched at the number, “You seek to bet with money not your own. Perhaps the good Duke has his own thoughts on your reckless disregard with his purse.” He glanced at James, “Your Grace?” he waited for a reply.

“My money is as safe as if it were in the king’s own storeroom. I have no objection,” his words were calculated to make Devon unsure. He gave no sign of worry.

“Very well then, I accept your offer,” Devon replied calmly, but I could see the purple aura around him wavering with uncertainty. Over the past few days my ability to sense things had become more acute. He opened with his queen pawn.

The next few minutes were quiet as we played, and I became aware that my opponent was quite skilled. The knowledge threatened to undo my concentration, but the anger within pushed my doubts aside. He offered a pawn sacrifice, a subtle gambit, but one that would cost him little given I was already down a major piece. If I took it, I would find myself pressed hard on the side of the board where I was already weak.

I refused to take it and spent the next few moves improving my control of the center board. Then I offered a gambit of my own, placing a pawn in a seemingly indefensible position. He took time studying the position, and while I waited, I noticed the room had filled with people. Every notable staying with the Lancasters was there, along with the Thornbears and Her Grace, the Duke’s wife.

Eventually Devon decided to ignore my gambit, and I smiled at him. His uncertainty had led him to believe it was a trap. A pawn sacrifice usually is, but I had counted on his fear; my gambit had been a bluff. If he had taken it, I would have been even further behind and at risk of losing completely. As it was, my pawn unbalanced his position and allowed me to take his defense apart.

He hadn’t seen it coming, but several moves later it became clear his position was fast becoming untenable. Sweat stood out on his brow, and he glared at the board, seeking some way to salvage the situation. I had pinned his king’s knight, and he was left with a choice of which piece to sacrifice. He responded by moving his bishop to put me in check, but the move exposed him further and I calmly countered, bringing up a pawn to defend my king. He was forced into an exchange of pieces that ended with my taking the knight. I was still behind in material on the board, but his position was scattered and indefensible.

A quarter of an hour later it was over. I slid my remaining rook into position, and it was check and mate. I smiled at him graciously. I would have sworn he was ready to spit nails, but he held his tongue. “I must concede,” he said.

“Then it is time to settle accounts,” Duke James spoke now.

Devon stood, “I’ll write a letter of credit on my accounts in Albamarl.”

“You’ll pay him in hard coin. You made no mention of papers and clerks when making your wager!” James was angry, but it was calculated. He had already known it to be highly improbable even Lord Devon would carry so much gold while traveling.

“I don’t have that much with me! What man carries a strongbox while traveling?” Devon Tremont was flustered now.

“Then you’ll pay what you have and write the letter of credit to me. Your banks and clerks would just as easily cheat another man, but they will pay when I call your account due!” Then he turned to me, “You’ll get your reward Mordecai, I will not see a man insulted and then cheated to boot.”

Devon was red faced now, “You dare imply my writ is no good?!”

James Lancaster stared him down, and I was reminded of two mastiff’s squaring off for a fight, “I have no love for bankers. If you come to Lancaster again and seek a quarrel, bring your strongbox with you, you will have need of it.” And then he laughed. It was a deep laugh, the sort that starts in the belly and makes its way all the way up. I’m not sure how he managed it, given how hot the emotions were running, but it worked.

Soon enough everyone in the room was laughing with him. Devon didn’t laugh though, not at first. He had been thoroughly humbled. Yet he was smart enough to see a way out when it was offered. He joined in at last, and a bitter laugh it was; it was not enough to cover his bruised pride. Devon left quickly after that, and I wondered who would suffer for his anger this time.

I found myself beset with people who wanted to clap me upon the back, and within a half an hour I felt I was near to being thumped to death. Devon wasn’t popular it seemed. Marc’s father finally rescued me, “Let the boy be! He’s had enough for one day.” He cleared a path for us through the crowd and got me into the hallway. “I’ll see you in my chambers in an hour, Mordecai. Try not to be late this time,” he joked.

I winced at the reminder of my previous blunder, “Yes, Your Grace.” He strode off down the hall, and I decided I’d best go to my room and get my head on straight. Since leaving that morning, I had had nothing but one surprise after another. I could still hear them laughing and carrying on in the room as I walked away. “Did you see Devon’s face?! Two hundred gold marks!”

I ran across Timothy on my way back. “Evenin’ sir,” he said to me, with his usual energy. “I heard you gave that Lord Devon a fine trouncing!” Word spread quickly, doubtless a crowd of the servants had been hovering outside the parlor while we played.

“Not as much as he deserves,” I replied, “but let’s keep that between us.” I gave him a conspiratorial grin.

“Don’t worry sir, Tim here would never sell out his friends!” he gestured to himself with his thumb.

“I would be honored to be counted among your friends, Master Timothy,” I said with mock exaggeration. That pleased him I think, even though he knew I was teasing him. For such a young lad, he was remarkably sharp. “Would you do me a favor, Timothy?”

“Sure sir!” he answered.

“Keep an eye out, and if you, or someone you know, see Devon Tremont doing anything odd or suspicious, come find me. Can you do that?” I might have only a few friends among the nobility, but perhaps I could turn the staff to my advantage.

“Glad to, sir. It’s nice to see one o’ them get their comeuppance at last. Meanin’ no disrespect to our own good Duke, o’ course!” he said.

“If you run into Penny, let her know I need to see her. I’ve had a devil of a time finding her the past two days,” I added. He assured me he would, and then we had reached my door. I said goodbye and stepped inside. The cool dark room was a welcome relief. I must be getting accustomed to the comforts of privacy and a feather bed.

That thought made me pause, the rooms I had been given were easily the size of my parent’s entire house. I felt lucky to have my own tiny room and bed there. What would happen when I spoke with the Duke? Would I be living like this from now on? What of my parents? Even aside from any possible largesse I might receive as part of my heritage, I was already rich. Two hundred gold marks would be enough to buy my parents anything they could conceive of.

What would that sort of money do to me—or them? I didn’t want to wind up like Devon Tremont, arrogant and uncaring. The Lancaster family was kind though, so perhaps nobility would not inevitably turn me into a pompous ass. I became aware that I was pacing the room, making a circle around the sitting chair and the divan.

…in the dark. I stopped and stood still. The room was pitch black. I could hardly see my own hand if I held it an inch from my nose. Yet I had been navigating easily around the furniture a moment before. I realized I could feel where everything in the room was, a sensation similar to seeing, but more visceral, like touching everything around me with feather soft fingers. Curious, I closed myself to my power, as I had recently learned to do before sleeping. The sensation ceased and I found myself trapped in the cloying dark. It felt as if the world was closing around me, and for a moment I was claustrophobic.

I hastily opened my mind, and I could see again—just not with my eyes. It was such a subtle thing I had not noticed it when I could see normally. I lit a lamp and sat on the bed. I had a lot to learn, and without a proper teacher, I had no idea what to expect. I wished Penny were there to talk to, but then again, the last time I had seen her she had been frightened senseless by my newborn power.

It was time to see the Duke, so I pulled out my mother’s surcoat, emblazoned with the Cameron arms. It was a loose garment, open at the sides so I was able to put it on, even though it was clear that I was a bit larger than Elena had been. She had been a tall woman, so it was only an inch or two shorter on me than it should have been. I belted it around the waist and went out to find James Lancaster.

I found him in his rooms, with Genevieve beside him. They had the look of two people who had been sharing secrets. James gestured for me to close the door behind me. After I had done so, I stood facing them.

“I am here at my mother’s request.” I said.

Genevieve burst into tears. It was so sudden and unexpected I had no idea how to react. She leapt from her seat to throw her arms around me. In the sixteen years I had been alive and the eleven or so I could actually remember, I had never seen Marc’s mother lose her composure. Laugh yes, angry occasionally, sorrowful perhaps... but I had never known her to weep like this. Worse she was clinging to me in a manner that should have been reserved for her own children or her husband.

Nervously I put my arms around her and patted her lightly on the back, looking to her husband to guide me. He merely nodded, as if to tell me it was alright. After a moment, Genevieve released me and returned to her seat. She was still sniffing and her face was a mess, red and puffy.

“I was certain when I saw you walk in here wearing that,” James said. “I have not seen her in over sixteen years, but you look much like your mother, although your coloring is your father’s.”

“You knew them?” I asked.

“I did. I met your father several times in Albamarl while he served the King. I knew your mother even better as she grew up in Castle Cameron not twenty miles from here. I met Ginny there,” he looked affectionately at Genevieve.

That confused me and I guess my face said as much. Genevieve answered my unspoken question, “I was there to visit my sister, Sarah, your grandmother.” Her eyes were still wet. I took a moment to work out what that meant. If she was my grandmother’s sister, that made Genevieve my mother’s aunt, and my grandaunt. She was family!

“But that means...”

“Your mother was my niece, and you are my great-nephew.” I guess her hugging me wasn’t such a breach of protocol after all. Then another thought struck me.

“So Marc is my...” I have never been very clear on the rules for calculating the various degrees of cousin-hood. Fortunately, I was in a room full of amateur genealogists; the nobility learn this stuff from the time they’re old enough to talk.

“Your first cousin, once removed,” she finished for me. It would take me some time to sort out the connections in my own mind. At first I wondered if this meant I was a relation of the Lancaster family, but that was not the case. I was related to Marcus through his mother, who had been a Drake before she married James.

“How well did you know my mother?” I asked, once we had gotten back on topic.

Genevieve answered, “Very well, she was my only niece. When she announced her intention to return to her family’s home for a visit, I wanted to go as well, but James and I were required to be in Albamarl that week. I would have liked to have seen you... with her,” she almost broke down again, but taking a deep breath, she regained her composure. “She was very young and full of life. When she decided to devote herself to the line of Illeniel and take the vow, I thought her father might go mad; so angry he was.”

“He didn’t want her to marry a wizard?” I had no idea what sort of issues being a wizard entailed in the circles of high society.

“No dear, that was later. I meant when she decided to become Anath’Meridum,” she replied. “Your mother was mad for fairy tales and adventure, that and her athletic nature led her to seek your father out.”

Now I was more confused, “What does Anath’Meridum mean?”

Genevieve explained as best she could, with occasional help from James. Neither of them understood it, but apparently certain wizards were bonded to a guardian, a warrior that would watch them, stay with them, and eventually die with them. At least that is what the legends implied, but I got the impression that James didn’t really believe their lives were linked in the physical sense.

“Why would a wizard allow himself to be bound in such a way that if his guardian died, he would die also? That never made sense to me, not that I don’t believe it is possible. I just don’t think they would set things up to work like that,” said the Duke.

Genevieve nodded, “In any case, her father was none too pleased about it. She was his heir, and the vow precluded her from inheriting. I don’t think he was too keen on passing the estate to her younger sister.”

“When did she marry my father, Tyndal?” Genevieve was proving to be a wealth of information and the past was coming to life before my eyes.

“About a year after that she and Tyndal were engaged. It was supposedly rare for a woman to become Anath’Meridum, but those that did frequently fell in love. I guess it is to be expected when a woman and man are forced to spend every day together,” she said.

“How many Anath’Meridum are there?” I asked.

“None now, I would assume. There was only one for each wizard, and the Illeniel family was the last of the recorded lines. You have to understand, I don’t know much about the traditions, only what Elena told us,” she seemed apologetic.

“So my name is Mordecai Ardeth’Illeniel, or should I call myself di’Cameron?”

James spoke up, “Properly your name is Mordecai Illeniel, although you could choose to carry your matrilineal name as well, Mordecai di’Cameron Illeniel in that case. Ardeth is a term added for a wizard who has been bound.”

I had no idea if I would or could be bound as Tyndal had. It sounded extremely awkward. Of course, I had no understanding of the true reasons for it at that time. We continued talking for a while, until the conversation turned to the future; a subject I was understandably nervous about.

James broached the topic, “Mordecai, you realize the Cameron estates are still in my hands don’t you?”

As a matter of fact I didn’t. I was so ignorant of the workings of the upper class; I wasn’t even sure what he meant. “No sir,” I said uncertainly.

“After the fire, the murders, none of the Camerons were left, other than some distant third cousins. I might have passed the estate to one of them, but your mother’s note made me aware of your survival, so I have held them in trust,” he paused, “for you.”

He had to explain a bit more to me then, but it seemed that the lands of the Cameron family were held by the Lancasters, and through them by the King. In other words, the Count of Cameron had been his vassal, and the Duke of Lancaster had the freedom of deciding to whom he would bestow the title and estate, if he chose not to keep it for himself. In short, he was offering the lands to me.

“If you intended all along to pass the land to me, why did you wait ’til now?” I had done nothing but ask questions since I came in.

“Your mother, and I as well, felt you would not be safe,” he said simply.

“Wouldn’t I have had guards and a castle?”

“They were not enough for your parents. Almost everyone in Castle Cameron died that night. I had no way to prevent something similar from occurring again. Even now, I worry that you might fall prey to a similar fate, but you cannot remain as you are anymore.”

For a moment I wished that I could remain a simple blacksmith’s son, the world he described was too big, too dangerous. Mort Eldridge didn’t belong in a place like that. “Why not?” I wished aloud.

James responded, “Your only protection until now, has been anonymity, and anonymity is no longer enough. You now have an enemy who will someday be one of the most powerful peers of the realm, rivaled only by myself and superseded only by the king. Your only protection now is that of rank and station.”

I had to admit the logic of his words, but something else occurred to me, “You said ‘almost’ everyone in the castle died. Who were the survivors?”

“The only ones that lived were those who were away or didn’t eat the meal that evening. Even those that didn’t partake were slaughtered when the assassins came. A handful of servants hiding in the cellars survived, as well as Father Tonnsdale, who was fasting and had locked himself within the chapel,” he answered.

“Who was the poisoner?”

“We never found out. There was nothing left to discover. The fire gutted the castle and the few that survived didn’t work in the kitchens,” he said. The lack of evidence obviously bothered him as much as it did me.

“What about the assassins? Surely something must be known about them, or who sent them...” I asked.

“We believe they were the Children of Mal’goroth, a cult to one of the dark gods. They overran the Kingdom of Gododdin many years before you were born. We thought they had plans to repeat their actions here, but there has been little sign of them in Lothion since that night. The few we found were already dead,” he sighed. “We won’t uncover the secrets of sixteen years ago tonight, and we have other things to accomplish.”

“Such as, Your Grace?” I was curious now.

“You reached your majority last year, I believe...,” he looked at his wife.

“Mordecai is sixteen and will turn seventeen in almost two weeks,” she answered. Genevieve was possessed of an excellent memory regarding birthdays apparently. The age of majority in Lothion is sixteen.

“Very good. Mordecai, I will confer your title and land upon you tomorrow evening, followed immediately by your commendation ceremony.” He smiled at me.

“I am overwhelmed, Your Grace.” I said, stunned. Who could have thought he would move so quickly?

“Please, call me James when we are in private. Now, you should go and get some rest. Marcus is planning a boar hunt in the morning, and you’ll want all your wits about you for that.” He clapped me upon the back and led me to the door. He leaned out and shouted, “Benchley! Fetch the scribes. We’ll be working late tonight!”

“Thank you, Your Gra—James,” I stumbled. He nodded at me and I found myself walking back toward my rooms in a state of profound shock. I was barely aware of my surroundings and nearly walked into Penny as I rounded a corner. She was accompanied by Rose Hightower.

Penny let out a most unladylike yelp when she saw me. At first it seemed she didn’t even want to meet my eyes. I had never known her to be shy before, but she had been through a lot lately, so I figured it might be understandable. “Penny! Thank the gods! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” I grabbed her hands with a sense of relief. “I need to talk to you.” I gave her my most serious look.

A slight cough caught my attention, and I realized my mistake, “Forgive me Lady Rose, I forgot myself. I hope you are well this evening.”

“No need to apologize. I cannot blame a gentleman who is so taken with the sight of his lady-fair.” She gave me a knowing smile, and I started to protest, but she continued, “What is this?” She was looking at my surcoat. Penny took notice as well.

“Mort?” she made my name a question.

“It’s complicated, and one more reason I need to talk to you, but not the most important one,” I was having trouble getting her attention. She looked to Rose.

“Unless I am mistaken those are the arms of the family Cameron, long thought defunct. It would seem that Master Eldridge has a surprise in store for us. You just left the Duke, did you not?” Fantastic, Lady Rose was an expert in heraldry as well. She would have made a fine detective.

“Lady please, I beg of you, keep this to yourself for now.” Surely she could see my desperation; I think she enjoyed tormenting men.

“Until the day of revelation I suppose?” She pursed her lips in a mock pout. The woman was entirely too perceptive.

“Indeed,” I replied. “If you will allow me a moment alone, I truly need to talk to Penny.” I tugged at Penelope’s hands and Lady Rose nodded her approval. We walked a short way down the hall. “Penny I’ve been trying to find you for two days, it’s about the other night...”

She flinched when I said that, “Whatever you heard is probably true Mort. I’d rather not be reminded.”

“No that’s not what I meant,” I was puzzled. “Did you get my note?”

“The one where you told me that you are a secret nobleman, biding his time to reclaim his ancestral home? Or the one where you told me that you’re a wizard with the powers of light and darkness at his command?” She had gone from curious to upset rather quickly.

“I tried to explain that to you the other day, but you ran off before I could finish!” My own frustration was bubbling up.

“And how long have you known about your illustrious heritage?” she countered.

“I just found out this afternoon when I went to see my parents. That’s where I got this tabard.” I held the fabric out as if it would support my tale.

“And yet, within just hours of finding out, you manage to challenge one of the most powerful men in the realm to a chess match and clean him out,” she said in a tone that implied she was not as mad as I thought.

“Yes, well he said something about you that I couldn’t forgive, and things just sort of went downhill from there.” I replied.

Penelope’s face went white and her entire demeanor changed, “I appreciate you defending my honor Mort, but you don’t understand.”

“I wasn’t defending your honor exactly. He said some things about my parents, and then he mentioned how he had learned them; which is why I need to talk to you, about the other night, when you were in his room. I know what happened, and I wanted...” I tried to say, I wanted to tell you what happened after you went to sleep, but I never got there.

Her hand struck me solidly across the cheek and left a ringing in my ears. “So you were upset that he insulted your parentage! Never mind that you think I’m a whore, that’s completely understandable. You are the world’s second biggest ass! And what did you say you wanted? Were you going to ask if you could pay for an evening as well? Now that you’re about to be a high and mighty lord yourself. Go to hell, Mordecai!”

She was walking away now, as I stood there trying to figure out where I had gone wrong, “Wait Penny...you’ve misunderstood me, and I still haven’t told you the full story yet!” I yelled after her.

She didn’t stop, and I didn’t chase her. After a minute Rose walked over to me, “You certainly handled that well.”

“Do you ever say anything helpful, anything sincere, to actually help someone? Or do you just sit there on your high society horse and play games with everyone?” I was mad, and Rose was near at hand.

“That actually stung. Despite what you believe, I care a great deal. That girl of yours has been through a lot, and if you love her you’ll be patient,” she actually looked sincere as she said this; her usual sly smile was gone.

“She’s not my girl,” I answered. “And she’s been through a lot more than you know. If she would talk to me, I could help her.”

“I know more than you realize, and I’m telling you to be patient. Simply put, you may think you know what she’s been through, but you haven’t the faintest clue. Keep barging around and you’ll only drive her away.” Rose Hightower had drawn herself up to her full height and she radiated a warning aura. I had well and truly pissed her off. “Good evening to you,” she finished and turned to head the same direction that Penny had stalked off. I might have said she ‘flounced’ away, but a woman as highly bred and well mannered as Rose Hightower never flounced.

Chapter XIII

The Hunt

AFTER THE NEAR DESTRUCTION OF the world by the dark god, Balinthor, the ancients established a system to prevent such an event from ever occurring again. All the known bloodlines that had produced powerful wizards were catalogued, and their heirs were carefully watched. Any mage born with sufficient power to create a world bridge was given a ‘protector’; although I use that term loosely. They were required to form a bond with someone, usually a trusted friend. The person bonded came to be referred to as Anath’Meridum, which meant ‘Final Pact’ in the old tongue. This guardian’s true purpose was to ensure that the mage they were bonded to would never forsake humanity and create a bridge to allow one of the gods to cross over, whether by choice or under duress. Wizards powerful enough to require bonding were called ‘Ardeth’.

The bond between a mage and their Anath’Meridum is poorly understood, but it is known to link the lives of both individuals, such that if one were to die, the other would immediately follow. Anath’Meridum were trained to kill their charges if they should be corrupted by the enemy or betray their oaths. Failing that, they would kill themselves, thus ensuring the safety of all.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

Getting into a fight with someone is an excellent way to ensure that you will get the worst possible sleep. Someone was knocking on the door. In my head I could hear a voice saying, please, please go away and let me sleep. Unfortunately, reason reared its ugly head and explained to that voice in no uncertain terms that I would have to get up, since they would not go away. Reason is a bitch sometimes. “Alright, hang on!” I shouted at the door.

Benchley stood outside, “If you had left the door unbarred, I could have woken you a bit more carefully sir.”

“People like you are exactly why I barred the door to begin with,” I grumbled to myself.

“Master Marcus told me to get you ready for the hunt this morning.” He had a set of riding leathers draped over one arm. I decided then and there, that if there were ever to be hunting on the Cameron estates, it would have to be an afternoon affair. The idea had merit. I should probably issue a proclamation requiring all the animals to stay in bed till noon as well, to even the playing field. I tried to explain my idea to Benchley, but he seemed to be related to the voice of reason that had made me answer the door in the first place. Both of them ignored me.

A quarter of an hour later I was dressed and more or less awake. Benchley had a lot of experience at this sort of thing and had come prepared. Black tea, hard bread and a bit of sausage followed him in the door, carried by Timothy. “Breakfast for you, sir!” Timothy still had that gap toothed grin that always cheered me up.

Soon enough I was down at the stables where everyone was gathering. I had never been on a boar hunt, so I didn’t realize what a large production it was. The good duke had a large kennel with a variety of hunting dogs, and there were two particular kinds that would be used today. The ‘bay’ dogs would find the boar and alert us to their location. The ‘catch’ dogs would attempt to hold the boar in place, a dangerous task. Apparently it was not uncommon for one of the large mastiffs to be killed.

The Duke’s master of the hunt was a man named William Doyle, who also happened to be my friend Timothy’s uncle. As I came up, he was explaining the lay of the land, where the boars were to be found that morning. I found out later that it was customary for him to go out before every major hunt, a ‘quest’ it was called, to find the game before the hunters rode out. I guessed he must be a masochist, since he had been up several hours before the rest of us.

Sir Kelton, the marshal was out as well, and he had the grooms running back and forth, fetching horses for the participants. As was usual, we were all to be mounted on coursers, their speed being preferred for the hunt. I found myself on a dun horse and carrying a boar spear. The spear itself was interesting. The ash shaft was about six feet in length and terminated with a long leaf shaped blade that probably added another foot or so to the overall length. A small crosspiece behind the blade was there to protect the hunter. I checked the head and found my father’s mark impressed on the steel there.

Marc rode up beside me, his face flushed with excitement, “You know what to do, right?!”

I shook my head, “Not a damn clue.” Apparently my remark was funny, because someone behind me started laughing. Dorian had ridden up.

“I can sympathize with you my friend, I never got a taste for these sorts of adventures either,” said Dorian. “I always feel sorry for the poor boar.” Despite his position and training as a warrior, Dorian had always been a gentle boy as we grew up. He often played peacemaker when others lost their temper, and he had a great affection for animals.

“Just listen for the hounds, Mort! When you hear the baying start, you know they’ve found one, so ride quickly, or you’ll be late for the kill.” My experience with killing was limited to chickens and considering how enjoyable that was, I didn’t really know if I wanted to be the first to find the boar anyway.

We set out riding across the fields around Castle Lancaster, spreading out as we cantered along. Dorian and I took a position on the right hand side, and soon we were more than a hundred yards from the nearest riders on either side of us. We reached the edge of the forest, and then we were among the trees. The ground was dappled with spots of sunshine coming through the leaves, and a light breeze kept everything in motion.

The air was sweet with the smells of spring and green things growing. Despite my early morning crankiness, I had to admit that the idyllic scenery around me worked a subtle magic. The wind ruffled my hair as the powerful horse beneath me walked easily along. Dorian and I spread apart as well, and soon even he was lost to sight. Closing my eyes, I could feel the forest around me, tasting it with my mind in a way that was almost spiritual.

I relaxed and soon forgot the hunt. If I heard the hounds, I decided I would ignore them. The day was too beautiful to spoil with blood. Or maybe I was just lazy. I continued to expand my awareness, startled at how much life there was around me. Things unnoticed by the eye; the badger in his lair beneath an oak thirty yards away, the finches fluttering in their nests high above, mice and small creatures filtering through the grass, searching for seeds. These were things I had never known before, not in such an intimate way. Reaching farther, I felt Dorian more than a hundred yards to my left, fighting to get through a thick patch of brambles. I couldn’t ‘see’ him, but somehow I knew it was Dorian, it felt like him.

I laughed thinking of his predicament, for I knew he was in no serious trouble. Then I felt it behind me, a tight knot of hatred, a man on a horse. He was emanating that sickening purple aura. Devon Tremont was following me cautiously. He was still at a distance, but he was closing steadily, so I picked up speed. I would rather not encounter that unpleasant man on such a fine day.

Within a minute I knew he had sped up as well, he must be at a full gallop in fact, since he was closing quickly. Let’s see how he handles this then, I thought to myself, and I switched directions, heading to my left. That would put me across Dorian’s path eventually. Assuming that Devon wasn’t able to track me, he would wind up quite some distance from me very quickly. As a precaution, I made sure I had myself completely shielded; I had forgotten to do so earlier that morning.

Sure enough Devon turned to follow. He must be able to sense me, in much the same way I could sense him. Does that mean he’s a mage also? I had been wondering that since seeing his purplish aura the first time, this seemed to make it even more likely. I kicked my horse, breaking into a full gallop now. If he wanted to catch me, I would lead him a merry chase through the woods. I smiled to myself as the trees raced by, the wind was in my face and I could not help but laugh.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Devon come into sight through the trees, he was bent low over his mount and pressing it for all the speed his horse could muster. He looked serious, which only made me laugh harder, so I gave him a cavalier wave. “Ho! Devon, it seems you want to race!” I shouted back, although I have no clue whether he could make out my words as the wind and trees whipped by me.

Then I felt something. Something against my shield, pressing, trying to reach my mind. After a moment it was gone, and I laughed even harder knowing that he had failed at whatever he planned. Have I mentioned that I sometimes lack all common sense? Finding his target unreachable, Devon did something I should have expected, if I had been thinking, rather than laughing at him.

My courser, the beautiful horse that was galloping beneath me, froze. I don’t have a better way to describe it. One moment we were racing the wind, the next every muscle in the poor beast’s body locked up. It went down immediately, legs snapping as it struck the earth like thunder, twisting and rolling. I might have felt sorry for it, but my own problems were nearly as great. Still laughing, I suddenly felt as if a giant hand had plucked me from my seat. As the horse went down, I sailed forward, like some great misshapen bird flying headlong into the trees. I probably would have flown a great distance but for a large oak tree that stopped my forward progress.

I woke on the ground. Something wet was running down my face, making it hard to see, so I reached up to wipe it off and my hand came away covered in blood. I could hardly breathe. Each shuddering gasp came with stabbing pains in my side; some of my ribs must have been cracked. Miraculously both arms and legs seemed functional, though I could not help but think that if it hadn’t been for my shield I would be dead already. He tried to kill me! That thought ran through my mind, and it seemed extremely important, although I was having trouble remembering why.

A shadow fell over me, and I looked up. Devon stood over me with a smile so evil I knew he had not tried to kill me. He was there to finish the job. “Grethak!” he spoke, and my body went rigid. I was beginning to understand what my poor horse had gone through and perhaps Penny as well, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. “Poor Mordecai, you really shouldn’t have been riding so fast!” he said.

In his hands he held a large leather pouch, “And here I was just trying to catch up with you to give you the money I owe!” I was struggling internally now, my lungs were locked, and I could not breathe. Imagine drowning, tied and unable to move, and you’ll be close to the sensation I was experiencing. Nothing worked, and my heart was beating faster and faster, pounding in my ears as my body starved for air. Within my mind I could feel his magic, wrapped like a snake about my brain, paralyzing my movement centers. I tried to pull it loose, but it was difficult, more so because I had no way to speak. Even so, I could eventually have gotten free, with or without words, but I didn’t have that much time.

Devon was standing over me gloating, but I could no longer hear his words over the loud drumbeat of my heart. I felt a fool as I stared up at him with my eyes bulging. My vision grew dim, and then I could not see at all. Trapped in darkness, I wondered if the next life would be better; this one had been nothing but trouble. At last the darkness left me, and I sank into oblivion.

Chapter XIV

FREQUENTLY MISUNDERSTOOD ARE THE GIFTS of those who are sometimes called prophets, or seers. They are thought to be similar in nature to channelers, in that they do not possess a large amount of native aythar, and in many cases they also show little emmittance as well. The visions that frequently haunt them seem to be largely unintentional in nature. Possibly they possess some sort of subconscious sensitivity similar to magesight, but below the threshold of awareness.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

Penelope’s shoulders moved steadily, the muscles in her arms tensing and relaxing as she swept the floors. She was young and healthy, and long practice had given her ample stamina for the task, so that she hardly broke a sweat as she worked her way down the long corridor. It was one of those jobs that never seemed to end. By the time you had finished sweeping the entire labyrinth of Lancaster Castle, the floors were dirty again back where you had started. Consequently, the maids had someone sweeping almost constantly as Genevieve Lancaster would not tolerate dirty floors.

Penny didn’t mind though, the work was steady, and unlike most of her other tasks, she was able to think or daydream without interruption while she swept. Today she was thinking about Mordecai. She had watched him that morning as he had ridden out with the hunting party. Tall and slim, the riding leathers had looked uncommonly good on him, accented by his dark hair and bright eyes. To be so good looking and so stupid at the same time, she thought to herself. Their conversation the night before had upset her, and she was still angry with him. She kept telling herself that, but she just didn’t feel it. In all honesty, as she thought back, she was more ashamed and embarrassed than anything else.

When he said he knew what had happened... I just couldn’t bear it, she realized. Obviously Devon had been bragging, and so bold that he had even told Mort. And he was upset that Devon had called him a blacksmith! She knew Mordecai wasn’t as insensitive as that; he hadn’t meant it that way. Yet to tell her that he knew what had been done to her, and then say something else was more important? “What the hell could he have wanted to tell me then?” she said aloud to herself. Now that she had slept and her mind was clear, she could see that something had been bothering him, something important.

She kept sweeping, letting the rhythmic movement of her body relax her mind. She drifted, daydreaming as she worked, but Mordecai kept returning to her mind, until finally she saw him, as he must be now. He was riding hard, driving his horse through sparse woods and past large oaks. The sun was shining on his face, lighting his eyes like sapphires while he laughed and rode on. He looked over his shoulder to see something, and then he was flying. The horse fell, and she could see that it would never recover from such a fall. Mort flew from the courser’s back at the speed of a full gallop and went head first into the trunk of a large oak.

The force had been so great his head had sheared the bark from the tree where it struck. His body lay on the ground, blood running from his nose and mouth. He must surely be dead, yet even at that thought, new hope arose. His eyes fluttered, and she could see his chest heaving as he fought to draw air. The wind had been knocked out of him, or perhaps his ribs were broken, in either case it was a miracle he was alive. No one should survive such a blow. No one could survive such a blow. Magic! she thought, and she knew it had to be true.

Then she saw Devon Tremont approaching. He had dismounted and was walking up with a sinister gleam in his eye. He stopped when he reached Mordecai, and she saw him speak, gloating over his fallen foe. Mordecai went rigid, and his face began to turn red, while in the background Penny could hear a woman screaming, a raw ragged sound. The voice of someone beyond hope, someone with nothing left but one long note of despair rising up from the depths of their soul. Finally she realized it was her own voice.

Someone was shaking her, “Snap out of it! Penny! What’s wrong?!” Her eyes focused on the face of Ariadne Lancaster. She was staring at Penny with a worried look.

“He’s dead, he’s dead! Oh gods, I saw this before! Why? Why didn’t I tell him?” Penny was beyond distraught now. “Devon’s killed Mordecai.” The words fell from her mouth like dead leaves in autumn, dry and empty.

“Penny you’re dreaming. You’re in the hall. Mordecai isn’t here. He’s out hunting; everything is fine.” Ariadne tried to calm her down.

“I have to go—do you know where Lady Rose is? She’ll know what to do, please Ariadne, you have to help me.” Something in her eyes must have gotten through to the younger woman, because she answered her without further questions.

“She was in the parlor just a moment ago, taking tea with mother and Elizabeth,” she replied. “I don’t understand what’s wrong though...”

Penny was already running, and she reached the Duchess’ parlor well ahead of the younger girl. Without pausing to knock, she burst in, something she normally would not have dared to do. Inside she found Lady Rose sipping tea with Genevieve Lancaster and Elizabeth Balistair. They looked up in alarm at her sudden intrusion. The Duchess spoke first, “Penny, you really should knock before you come bursting in...”

Rose laid a hand on her arm, “Wait Genevieve, something is wrong.”

Penny shook her head, “Yes, yes, Your Grace, might I have a word with Lady Rose?”

Genevieve nodded, clearly annoyed, but she kept her peace. Rose stepped out into the hallway with Penny. “What’s the matter dear?” She sounded calm, but she could sense Penny’s desperation. Sparing few words, Penny described what she had seen, including the fact that this was not her first vision of the event.

“You don’t think this could be a dream? Or a moment’s fancy?” Rose asked.

“No, it’s real. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s happening right now!” Penny was close to tears.

“Come then, there isn’t any time.” One remarkable thing about Rose Hightower was her ability to judge people, and she knew beyond doubt that what might be happening was deadly serious. She hurried down the corridors with Penny, all thought of stately manners forgotten, until shockingly, she hiked up her dress like a common maid and ran, long legs moving with surprising speed. Penny was hard pressed to keep up with her, and she considered herself a fair runner.

They reached the stables in record time and scared one of the young grooms half to death when they threw the doors open. “Pardon, milady!” he cried, unsure what to think.

“I need two horses now.” Rose said in a tone that brooked no argument. One could hardly tell she had, but a moment before, been running like a dairy maid late to milk the cows.

“Certainly ma’am,” he promptly answered and headed for where the palfreys were in their stalls.

“Not some placid mare, dolt! I need fast horses. Are any of the coursers left?” Rose barely raised her voice, but she sounded as if she were shouting all the same. Long minutes later, they were riding out the gate. Rose pulled up for a moment and looked at Penny, “Which way?”

Without thinking, Penny pointed, “That way, almost a mile off...” At this point she didn’t even care how she knew; she just needed to find him.

Some distance from them Dorian Thornbear was riding through the trees. He had heard a loud noise, and now there was the sound of a horse screaming in fear and pain. He nudged his mount to a faster pace and soon came into sight of the dying animal. It was lying on its side, feebly kicking with broken legs. He looked for the rider and spotted Devon Tremont nearby, standing over the fallen rider. He looked positively ominous. That was Mort’s horse! he thought to himself.

Kicking his horse into a gallop, he reached the spot in less than a minute. He might almost have thought Devon was there to help his fallen friend, but the man was standing quietly without moving to do anything. Then Devon noticed him, and his face twisted into a grimace, angry at being interrupted. Dorian could see Mort on the ground, his face red as he slowly suffocated. Without a second thought, Dorian drew his sword and leapt from his horse before it had even come to a stop.

Devon Tremont looked at him and lifted his hand, “Grethak,” he said, in some language Dorian did not recognize, but the warrior paid him no heed. Dorian came at him like a berserker from the legends, his face terrible to behold, and the young lord knew fear, for his spell had completely failed. He might have tried another, something more potent, but Dorian was on him already, sword sweeping out to remove his head. Quick as he was, Devon had his own sword out and stopped the stroke before it ended his life.

The exchange that followed was brief. Dorian pressed him back, raining blows upon him with a speed and fury that Devon had never encountered. Despairing, he threw up his hands, “Wait! If you kill me he will die!” Lightning quick, Dorian struck the sword from his hand and had his blade against the other man’s throat.

“If he dies, you will follow,” the words grated from his throat like gravel, the sword pressing so hard against Devon’s neck that blood sprang up from the wounded skin.

“I was only trying to help. Let me try something, and it may save him!” Devon’s eyes were wide with fear. He could see his death in the other man’s eyes.

Dorian’s sword never moved. Instead he moved closer, and grabbing the young lord by the neck, he forced him to his knees alongside Mordecai’s now still form. “Save him now, or your head will join his upon the ground.” Without raising his voice, he radiated such violent intent that it would have chilled the heart of even a hardened killer.

Devon reached out to Mordecai, but Dorian jerked his head back roughly, “Betray me now, and you won’t live past your next breath.”

“I need to touch him, to get him breathing.” Devon was desperate with fear now, for he knew time was short, and the man holding him would kill him if Mordecai failed to recover.

Dorian nodded and Devon reached out again, “Keltis,” he said, and Mordecai’s body went limp, yet still he did not breathe.

“What did you do?!” Dorian kicked the other man sending him sprawling. Raising his sword he made ready to cleave the traitor’s head from his shoulders.

“Dorian no!” it was a woman’s voice, but Dorian didn’t care. He would have blood for his friend’s life. A small hand reached for his arm, to stay his strike. Without thought, he swatted the hand away, backhanding the one who sought to stop him, and then his eyes saw Rose Hightower falling back. That stopped him, and he saw her reach up to wipe the blood from her lip. His rage left him, as shock at what he had done brought him to himself.

“I was trying to help him—before this idiot brute attacked me!” Devon never managed to stay silent for long. Even now he was regaining his feet.

Rose spat at him, “Silence fool! You think your lies will be heard here? Count yourself lucky I stopped this man, else your head would be parted from your shoulders. Even so, I would not have saved you if I did not fear a good and honest man might hang for your murder.” Rose Hightower drew herself up and looked at Dorian.

“Gods! Rose! I’m so sorry! I never meant to hurt you. Never! Not for the world!” Dorian’s eyes were wild with grief, and he saw Penny kneeling next to his fallen friend. “He’s dead, Penny. He’s dead, and that bastard did it—I swear!” He raised his sword again, pointing it toward Devon Tremont, a growl rising in his throat.

Rose Hightower was having none of it, and she flung herself at Dorian, a flurry of skirts and hair whipping around her. “Stop it you stupid, stupid man! Goddammit Dorian, I won’t let you throw your life aside like some cheap token.” She was a tall woman, but Dorian Thornbear was a mountain of a man, still she climbed him like a furious cat, striking him with her fists.

Astonished, Dorian stopped. During his year in Albamarl, he had never touched Rose, and their only words had been the measured speech of polite society. Now she was hanging from him like some maddened wild creature—a more absurd picture he could not have imagined. He had a sudden urge to kiss her but suppressed it immediately. “Lady, I think perhaps we are both overwrought,” he said, as he began to disentangle himself. He managed to get her back on her feet, but Rose steadfastly refused to let go of him, and he no longer had the will to force her.

Penny was on the ground, her hands on Mordecai’s chest, gripping his shirt, “Live damn you! You can’t be dead. We still have too much to say,” her tears left wet spots on the cloth of his shirt. The pain and sorrow were too much for her, and without pausing to consider she leaned down to kiss him, ignoring the blood staining his face. She laid her head on his chest while her world unraveled, the only man she had ever cared for lay dead, and she was to blame. Then she heard his heart, beating slowly. “He’s alive!”

Silence reigned for a moment as everyone took in what she had said. “He’s alive I said! Someone get help, we need to get him back to the keep!” Her eyes flashed, “You!” She pointed at Devon, “Get someone, get everyone... go!”

“I’ll go,” said Rose, but Penny forestalled her with a raised hand.

“No, I need you here, and I don’t trust him without Dorian here,” she replied. Soon enough, Devon was on his horse, angry at being ordered about but fearful of Dorian’s response, should he balk at her commands. He rode off quickly and headed for Lancaster Castle.

The rest of the afternoon was a frenzied blur as they got him to the castle. Penny refused to leave his side during the entire affair, not trusting him out of her sight. Once Marc arrived, things got much more organized, and they soon had him in his bed. The Duke’s own physician, Sean Townsend, was sent to examine him.

The room was full of people, and the doctor quickly waved everyone out, “I’ll need some privacy to examine him.” Most of them went. “Miss, you will have to go. It is hardly proper for me to examine the young man with a woman present. I’ll have to undress him.”

Penny didn’t move, “I won’t leave him. So you might as well get to it.”

The physician looked at her for a moment before appealing to the Duke, “Your Grace, if you don’t mind, I can’t have women in here while I work.”

James walked over, reaching out to take her hand, but she stepped away, “Try it, you’ll draw back a nub next time...,” she glared at him. Then belatedly, she added, “Your Grace.”

The Duke of Lancaster stared at her for a long moment, considering, then spoke, “Very well. Doctor, you will just have to work with a lady present.”

“I have to remove his clothes, Your Grace, you can’t mean to let...” he started.

“I won’t repeat myself sir, be about your work,” without another word, the Duke left the room. The physician was huffy at first, but when he saw that she had no intention of giving in to him after having faced down a duke he relented.

His first move was to remove Mordecai’s clothing, which proved to be difficult, until Penny began assisting him. He gave her an odd look at first but said nothing. Once that was accomplished, he carefully went over Mordecai, checking his neck and chest, feeling his head and looking into his eyes and mouth. Eventually he sighed and stood up. “He’s got several cracked ribs, and I think one of them may have pierced his left lung. In addition, he certainly has a concussion from the blow to his head. From the description of his fall I’m surprised his neck wasn’t snapped, but something protected it. He should be dead already.”

“Well he’s not dead, so what do you plan to do?” Penny asked.

“There’s not much to be done, bleeding him might help a bit though. Let me get my case...” he headed toward the black leather bag he had left by the door.

The doctors had bled her mother ’til she was too weak to survive the illness that claimed her life. “You’re not bleeding him. He’s bled enough already, if that’s the best you have to offer, you can leave,” she said, standing between the doctor and the bed.

“Fine. You already seem to think you’re doctor enough.” Sean Townsend was annoyed. He had dealt with troublesome family members before, but this woman was beyond frustrating. “If he wakes, try not to let him go back to sleep, he might not wake again. Don’t get your hopes up though; he probably won’t make it through the night.” With that pronouncement he left. She could hear him muttering about stubborn women as he walked out the door.

Some of those who had been waiting outside filtered back in, anxious to hear what the doctor had said. Penelope related the physician’s words to them. There was quite a bit of discussion over that, but eventually most of them left, and finally only Marc, Dorian and Rose were still there.

“You should go get some rest Penny; fretting over him won’t help,” Marc said.

“I’ll leave when he’s dead,” she replied frankly. “Take your own advice. I’m sick of people telling me what to do.”

He started to argue, but Rose got his attention, “Let it go Marcus, she’s not leaving, and I don’t blame her. If you want to help, try to keep the rest of them out of here.”

“I can manage that,” Dorian said, “I’ll be outside, making sure his lordship doesn’t come back to finish the job. In the end only Rose remained, sitting with Penny through the long evening and into the night.

“You need some rest, Penny,” she said at last, when midnight was approaching.

“I’ll sleep here,” Penny replied.

“There’s only one bed, and it has a naked man in it,” Rose raised her eyebrow.

“Everyone knows I’m a ruined woman anyway, what more can they say about me? Leave me be, I’ll lie with him till it’s over,” she never took her eyes off Mordecai. Rose nodded, then stood, and without a word she left.

Once she was alone, Penny barred the door and removed her dress, she hadn’t brought her nightclothes, but she hardly cared. She eased under the covers and lay beside him, watching him breathe while the candles burned down and darkness covered the room. In the dark she still kept her hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall, listening to the wet sound of his breathing. She never meant to sleep, but at last she did anyway.

Chapter XV

THEOLOGIANS GENERALLY DIVIDE THE GODS into two categories; the Dark Gods and those believed benign to humanity, the Shining Gods. Yet the ancients had other theories. They thought the nature and motivations of each particular deity must be related to its origins. The Dark Gods were thought to predate the Shining Gods, having arisen from the beliefs of some long dead race. The loss of their people may have driven them mad, for their relationship with mankind is anything but beneficial. While the Shining Gods derive their power from faith, in a mutualistic bond, the Dark Gods take their sustenance forcibly. Even those who worship them willingly are often subject to sacrifice and dark rituals.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I dreamt restlessly. I was swimming in a deep lake, one that held no light. I was drowning, choking on the water as I sought uselessly to breathe. The dream seemed endless, yet I never quite finished drowning, until at last I woke. Reality was not much better though. My lungs felt full of liquid, and each time I drew breath a burning pain shot through my chest. Everything hurt.

The pain was so great that it was a while before I realized I wasn’t alone in the bed. The first sign was soft hair, tickling my nose when I turned my head to the side. Though it was dark I didn’t need my magesight to identify the owner of the hair, the scent told me. It was Penny, curled gently beside me. Her hand rested lightly on my chest, but she had been careful to avoid placing any weight on me. If everything hadn’t hurt so damned badly, I might have been excited, but the pain drove all such thoughts from my mind.

What the hell happened to me? I thought. A moment later I remembered. The hunt, the chase, my folly; I had been a fool. Next time, shield the horse too—if there was a next time. At the moment I was none too sure about that. I didn’t want to move and disturb Penny, and just shifting my weight immediately told me I wouldn’t be moving anyway. The slightest motion caused a stabbing pain in my chest, great enough to make me aware that the previous pains had just been playful warnings.

I lay there for a long time, aching. The worst part was the constant sensation of drowning. My lungs weren’t working properly, and they felt heavy, full. A short cough blinded me with pain, and I resolved not to do that again. I tried to distract myself by examining the room with my special ‘sight’, feeling the room with my mind. Then a thought struck me, perhaps I could do the same with myself.

Turning my mind inward, I slowly explored my body. My task was made difficult by my ignorance; so much of what I found was strange. A few things were easy to recognize, such as my heart, which was steadily beating. I worked out from there, finding my lungs and ribs. One lung was very different, filled with blood, unable to work at all. A sharp piece of one rib had pierced it and torn arteries were still pushing more blood into it and the space around it. I almost panicked then, as I could tell I was dying. Slowly but surely, the blood was filling the other lung, drowning me. Worse, while I thought my abilities might be able to fix some of it, I didn’t know the words to use.

Ignorance left me helpless. Still, I decided to try anyway. I already knew magic could be done without words; it was simply much harder, requiring perfect focus. I sent my attention to the rib that had pierced the lung and imagined it sliding away, back to its normal location, meeting the other part of itself. At first I wasn’t sure if anything was happening, but then it began to move, sending waves of pain through me. I clenched my teeth, fighting a scream, but then I didn’t have enough air to scream anyway. I nearly passed out by the time it was back in its place, and then I was horrified to feel it sliding back as soon as I took my attention from it. Fighting against my fear, I held on grimly and tried to envision it joining the other bone, becoming whole again. At last it stayed, and I slowly relaxed, letting go of it.

Next, I tackled the problem of my punctured lung. It took me long minutes, but finally I felt that the hole in it was sealed, though that still left me with a lot of blood to deal with. Unsure how to get rid of the blood, I decided to seal off the arteries still leaking blood into my chest cavity, that was easier. That done, I considered my lung again. I tried using the aythar to inflate it a bit. That sent me into painful spasms as my body began to cough, heaving to try and get the blood out. The other ribs were splintered and sent stabbing pains throughout my body.

Ok, ribs first then, I thought. One by one I eased my other ribs back into place, trying to fuse each with its estranged parts. The agony was excruciating, and I could feel my strength fading. At last I thought I had them all in place and began to consider the task of coughing up the blood that still choked me. There should be a chamber pot under the edge of the bed. I wondered if I would reach it in time.

Steeling myself, I sat up and got out of bed. Well that’s what was supposed to happen. When I sat up, my head made its own issues known. The room reeled about me like a drunken sailor after a three day binge. My attempt to get out of the bed ended with me falling to the floor, still tangled in the sheets. The coughing started the moment I sat up, not having the consideration to wait for me to be prepared, and blood was everywhere.

Naturally enough, Penny woke to find me lying on the floor, coughing and bringing up volumes of—well you get the idea. It wasn’t pretty, and the coughing was bad enough I thought it might finish me off. I felt her hands on my shoulders as the spasms shook me. Long minutes passed while I sputtered and choked, until at last I was able to stop. Each breath threatened to send me back to coughing, but I held myself still.

Lying there, I looked up to see Penny crouched over me, stroking my hair and shoulders. Her nakedness surprised me, but I didn’t care, all that mattered were her hands on my skin. Finally I managed to choke out a few words, “You look awful,” I said. The words caught her attention, and her eyes snapped to my face. Until then I think she must have thought I was dead, or nearly so. A sudden involuntary laugh started from her then turned into a sob.

“I thought you were gone already.” she said in a small voice. Something about the way she had her head positioned told me she couldn’t see me, and I realized the room was black. Someone was pounding on the door.

“You’d better answer that, before Dorian breaks the door down,” well I would have said that, but it was still too hard to speak, I managed to croak, ‘the door’, and I think she understood me. Soft lips touched my shoulder, and then she was gone.

Penny opened the door to find a wild eyed Dorian standing outside. She could see Rose standing beside him. As the light from the hallway spilled over her, Dorian stepped back and turned his head aside. “It sounded like you needed help,” he said, seeming bashful of a sudden. The light spilling from the hallway had revealed Penelope’s state of undress.

She was embarrassed but had no time to indulge her modesty, so she merely stepped behind the door. “He’s coughing up blood. Rose would you mind fetching towels and water? Dorian you can stay outside.”

Dorian was already facing away when Rose answered, “I’ll have them brought up immediately. Dorian will make sure no one enters, so leave the door unbarred for me.” Then she was gone.

Closing the door, Penny stepped to the side table and lit the lamp sitting there, the candles were gone, burnt to nubs earlier. In the warm light she could see Mordecai, still lying on the floor, dark splotches of blood dotting the floor around him. He was pale, and his face was the image of death itself, but his breathing seemed easier. Crouching next to him she tried to move him away from the mess on the floor. Then she straightened the sheets, replacing them on the bed. By some miracle they were largely unstained.

Rose entered a few minutes later carrying a bucket and several large towels, Dorian stood at the door holding an assortment of rags and a second bucket. He kept his eyes averted until Rose had emptied his arms, and then he shut the door. Together the two women eased Mordecai onto his side, placing a small pillow under his head, so that he could breathe easier. Then they cleaned the blood from the floor as much as was possible.

At one point the two women shared a glance and Penny was overcome with a feeling of gratitude. This is what true nobility looks like, she thought, looking upon Rose Hightower. She had never known a noblewoman of such resolve and kindness. “I will not forget what you have done for me,” she said. She knew not what else to say.

“You’ve got blood all over you,” Rose answered, lifting a towel to daub a spot away from Penny’s face. “Do you need my help cleaning him up?”

“No, thank you, I can handle it,” Penny answered her.

Once Rose had left the room, she took the second bucket and some of the rags that were still clean and began carefully sponging my body to remove the stains on my skin. It took a while, and throughout it all I kept my eyes shut, too weak to protest. After I was as clean as she could manage, she went to the mirror and began working on herself while I drifted off to sleep again.

A few hours later I woke, lying on the cold floor with a small blanket over me. I might have shivered from the cold, but Penny was pressed against my back, and her warmth had kept the chill from me. I tried to sit up again, and the world swayed around me. Another cough started, but I managed to reach the chamber pot this time and avoided making more of a mess.

A warm hand fell upon my arm, “Let me help you back into the bed.” I thought I could manage on my own, but that proved false. Penny wound up lifting me by main force, with her arms under mine. Agony ran through me as my ribs took some of the strain, and it gave me the strength to help her with my legs. Finally I was in the bed, and she drew the covers over me.

“Penny you don’t have to do all this for me.” I spoke to her as she leaned over me, her dark hair falling about her face in a shower of curls. My power of speech amazed even myself. She looked at me oddly then, eyes wide, her face close to mine. Time stopped for a moment then, held in its course by a power I could not understand, till at last she brought her face to mine and kissed me softly.

“I will do as I please Mordecai Eldridge, and neither death, nor dukes, nor doctors will keep me from you.” I might have cried then, but I was far too weak and my body was dry. A thousand responses ran through my mind, but I had neither time nor strength to say them.

“Thank you,” I answered simply, and I closed my eyes again as she slipped into the bed behind me. I wanted to talk to her, to explain many things, but instead I fell asleep, safe within her embrace.

I awoke hours later, near dawn. I had somehow managed to roll onto my side, which must have been painful, but I didn’t remember doing so. I could feel Penny breathing softly against my neck. Of all my childhood fantasies, to think this would happen, and I am completely unable to take advantage of it, I thought to myself. I shifted a tiny amount, just enough to give me a better feel of her against me. I’ll admit it, even near dying, I’m a dirty, dirty man.

After a while I became aware of her looking at me. She had woken quietly and was avoiding moving. She must think I’m still asleep, I realized. “I’m still alive,” I said.

“I know,” she whispered into my ear. Half dead as I was, it still sent electric tingles down my spine. She kept her arms around me, and for my part, I didn’t complain. Thirty minutes went by and I found I had to ruin the moment.

“Penny...”

“Yes?” she replied.

“I need water. My throat is so dry I can hardly swallow, and then I think I need some privacy for a moment.” My bladder was finally making its demands known, despite loss of blood and lack of fluids. She brought water, and I drank an amount that was probably unwise given the state of my stomach. Then she looked at me.

“So how are we going to do this?” she said.

I knew what she meant, “We? I may be an invalid but I’ll be damned before I let you do that with me.” That led to an argument, which I lost, but we finally worked out a compromise. I draped a sheet over myself and stood near the window, leaning against the wall for support. She stayed a few feet behind me, ready to catch me if I started to fall.

Several embarrassing minutes later I was back in the bed. I thought surely at this point she would dress and leave. She still had a job after all. I was wrong. She slid back under the covers next to me. I thought of her kiss the night before and wished dearly I was in better health. The wish fairy ignored me.

We didn’t sleep then, instead we rested, wide awake. Well, I did anyway, I’m not sure what her reason for being in the bed was at that point. “The doctor said you would die,” she told me.

“I hope he’s wrong more often then,” I replied. “I think I would have, but I managed to fix some of it last night.” That got her attention, and I spent the next few minutes explaining what I had gone through during the night. After a bit I had a question of my own.

“I think Rose left you a night dress, I saw it on the table,” I hated myself for mentioning it.

“She did.” It was a statement.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?” Stupid never dies, I must be getting better to have regained my idiocy so soon.

“Are you afraid you’ll do more damage to my reputation?” she asked.

That made me tense up, but she still seemed relaxed, “Yes. Wait. No, that’s not what I mean.” My general lack of eloquence, that always seemed to appear around Penny, was back in full force.

“He may have taken my innocence, but I will always have this time, even if only because you were too weak to escape me.” Her voice measured equal parts anger and sadness.

“No he didn’t, Penny. I’ve been trying to tell you for days.” I said.

“What? How would you know something like that?” she replied, starting to become angry. I worried this was about to turn into a repeat of our conversation of the previous day. If only I could show her, to get past all the misspoken meanings and misunderstandings. Then an idea hit me. Looking back now, if I had known of the dangers, I would not have tried it, especially given my inexperience.

“Let me show you Penny. I think I know a way, do you trust me?” I gave her my most emphatic look, unsure how she would react.

“Magic?” she asked.

I nodded, thinking she would surely refuse, but she didn’t.

“Ok, what do I do?” she answered. I rolled over then, which made me ache all over, but I wanted to see her face. Being a complete novice in bed, I hadn’t thought of how our arms and legs would work in that situation. Naively, I had thought she would simply scoot back a bit to give us room to face one another without having to touch, as in the innocent days of our childhood. Instead she slipped one leg beneath mine and draped her arm across my waist. Thankfully the covers were still drawn, since I was starting to feel well enough that the intimacy caused me to feel a stirring below.

I did my best to suppress those thoughts and took a deep breath. The ache that caused did an excellent job of returning my mind to business. I looked into her eyes before she said, “What next?”

“I need to touch your face for a moment. I think that will be enough.” She nodded at me. I had only learned one word in Lycian regarding the mind, but I thought it might be enough to help me do what I intended. “Mirren,” I said, stretching my mind out to touch hers. I raised my hand to touch her face, but she didn’t wait for that, and as I moved she leaned in, kissing me suddenly.

The world vanished. The sensation was similar to what had happened to me with Marc’s horse but different. There was no sudden plunge as I had experienced then, and I didn’t leave my own body. Instead, our minds melted together, co-mingling our thoughts and feelings. I could sense her body in much the same was as my own, but it was still ‘hers’, unlike what had happened before. In one sense, it was less complete, yet it was infinitely more gentle.

Words were no longer effective. In our hearts, words are merely a veil that lies thinly over the reality of our experience. Instead I relived the memory of what had happened that night, what I had done, how I had found her, and the emotions flooded through me as if it were happening again. In turn she showed me her own memories, before and after, when she had awoken. The pain she had gone through afterward made me ashamed to have done so little to find her and explain, but I felt her telling me to let go and forgive myself. Her own feelings had shifted from the panic and terror of the experience to a warm acceptance of my part in it. In particular her mind kept returning to the point at which I had laid her gently within her bed that night. She was tasting it, feeling the emotion that had run through me as I looked at her that night, lying frail and beautiful in her bed.

Vaguely, I was aware that we were still kissing. Throughout the entire experience, we had remained locked in that embrace, though we hardly moved, except to breathe. I could feel her awareness as well, and her heart quickened. Excitement built within me, such that I almost lost my link to her, but I adjusted quickly... I didn’t want to lose her yet. I could sense the changes in her, and she knew mine. The stirring in me before had grown beyond my control, yet she did not shrink away.

She could feel the aches in my body as surely as my emotions. Carefully, she eased me over on to my back and worked her way up over me. The foolishness of what we were doing made me hesitate for a moment, but I felt her mind then, serious and intent. I need this Mort, I need to erase the fear he left in me. There weren’t words, but that was the meaning that crossed between us.

I cast my doubts aside, and what followed was both painful and joyous. Ironically, I felt more pain than she did, which might have made a fine joke if there were ever anyone we could tell it to. The next hour was one I am sure neither of us will forget, for we kept our minds entwined throughout, until at last I became too tired, and sleep overtook me.

Chapter XVI

THE VARIOUS RULERS AND LORDS of men, kings and nobles alike have long had an uneasy affiliation with wizards and mages. They cannot easily ignore such power in the hands of an individual. Such men of power are a duel edged blade, as likely to cut the hand of the lord who wields it, as to destroy their foes. Wise rulers are wary of this, for they cannot easily do without the advantages a wizard affords, yet they must always be suspicious of one with the power to kill with a word.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

The sun was shining through the clouds as Timothy worked, weeding the garden near the kitchen yard. It was a small garden, nowhere near large enough to serve all the people that the castle fed each day. Most of the food was brought in on carts. Instead the cook used this garden to grow herbs and spices, and small things that were best fresh. Timothy frequently got the task of making sure it was weeded properly, but the cook did all the harvesting himself when he needed something from it.

Most of the other boys living in and around Lancaster Castle disliked weeding, but Timothy never minded the job. He was an orphan and only had a few friends among the children nearby, so he often had too much free time, even with the tasks he was given. The garden was full of growing things and dirt, not to mention all manner of insects and small creatures, like frogs. He quite liked frogs. Since there was no rush for him to finish, the cook never complained if he took hours to complete the task, so long as he didn’t damage the plants. So he weeded, and talked to frogs, weeded some more and then got diverted by the appearance of a grasshopper. Small boys are easily distracted, and Timothy was no exception.

He looked up as a shadow passed over him, Father Tonnsdale stood there, smiling at him. “There you are! I’ve been looking high and low for you Timmy!”

“I was right here the whole time, Father! Cook likes me to weed, and he don’ mind if it takes a while,” he gave Father Tonnsdale his best smile.

The old priest tousled his hair, smiling at him, “It’s alright boy. I just needed you to fetch something from town for me.”

“Sure Father, I can finish this later,” Timothy replied, dusting himself off.

Father Tonnsdale gave him directions to a house in town that had what he needed. He told Timothy it would be a small but heavy package, possibly jars. He was to fetch it straight away and bring it back to the chapel.

“What’s in the package?” Timothy asked curiously.

The old man gave him a conspiratorial wink, “It’s a secret; a surprise for Mordecai when he gets better. Something like an heirloom, he’ll be glad when he gets it. Just remember, don’t tell anyone until after you get back to me with it. We can tell him together, if he’s better tomorrow.”

Excited Timothy took off at a run, full of the endless energy of youth. He liked Mordecai and had worried that he might not recover from his fall. Being given something he could do to help made him feel better.

The morning after the hunt Devon found himself waiting outside the Duke’s chambers. He had been summoned at dawn, and although he had arrived within a quarter of an hour, he had been waiting for at least an hour since then. It was a sign of the good Duke’s displeasure that he left him in the sitting room for so long, and Devon knew it.

A man stuck his head into the room, “The Duke will see you now.” Devon took a deep breath and followed, sure this would be unpleasant. Inside the room, the Duke sat at a small table, having just finished his breakfast. There were no other chairs, although Devon was sure he had seen several there just a few days before. Another subtle hint—he would be kept standing.

“You called for me, Your Grace?” he spoke, since James Lancaster seemed disinclined to start the conversation.

“I wanted to speak with you regarding yesterday’s events,” James was not one to beat about the bush once a conversation was underway, and he looked tense. Devon noticed there were two armed guardsmen within the chamber, which was close to an outright insult. Surely the Duke did not plan to arrest him?

“Ah, I expected that, Your Grace. Young Dorian seemed most upset after we parted ways.” That was an understatement, but Devon wasn’t going to put words in the Duke’s mouth.

“If by most upset, you mean he stormed up here and demanded your immediate arrest, trial and execution, then yes, he was considerably perturbed.” The Duke’s face left little doubt how he felt about the matter.

“I had not realized he seriously considered me at fault. I thought his temper might cool after hearing my explanation.” Devon thought nothing of the sort, but he wouldn’t be caught giving even a hint that he might consider himself at fault. He knew from long experience that once the hounds caught the scent of blood nothing would satisfy them but more.

“As he told the tale, he nearly took your head from your shoulders before you did something to help Mordecai. What was done to him before, and what you did to help him, were unclear. That hardly sounds like a man who might be ready to forgive and forget.” The Duke’s eyes never left Devon’s.

“Your Grace, in all honesty, I had nothing to do with the accident, and I was hard pressed to think how to help him once I reached his side. He had struck a tree and wasn’t breathing. Dorian assumed I was at fault without proper cause. If I was not so considerate of his hot blood, I might challenge him for the insult,” he projected an aura of righteous indignation.

“You would be a fool to do so. Ge would have your guts on the ground within the first minute,” James paused for a moment, “If you did nothing to cause the accident, what was it you did to save his life?”

“If I may be frank, Your Grace, I am ashamed to admit that young Dorian had me in such a state that I did not know what to do. He seemed ready to remove my head and had me at a serious disadvantage. So I pretended I had some way to make him breathe again. In fact, it was the grace of the gods themselves that Mordecai began to recover when he did, else I am sure I would not be here now,” Devon projected embarrassment.

“It is convenient no one saw the fall. My men also report no sign that the horse was injured before it threw him. Dorian claims you are some sort of sorcerer.” James was pulling no punches today.

“If I were, I would not resort to such crude means—but to answer your question, no, I am not a sorcerer. To my knowledge there are none of any noteworthy power left,” half-truths came as easily to Devon as breathing water did to fish, and he smiled inwardly.

“It seems there is no proof of wrongdoing then,” the Duke sighed as if disappointed. “There are however, other things that have reached my ears. Things which have made me wonder at your character, Lord Devon.”

“I would be happy to answer your questions, Your Grace. It is difficult to defend oneself when one’s accusers are absent and unknown.” Devon replied.

The Duke stood then, and Devon noticed he wore a sword; highly unusual in his own chambers. Clearly the Duke was prepared in case Devon might incriminate himself, “I am told that you accosted one of my staff, rudely forcing yourself upon her.” James’ eyes flashed as he said this.

Devon’s mind raced. What did he know? What had he been told? And by whom? The crime would not be enough to do more than fine him, and possibly send him packing; his station protected him from more than that. Within a second he decided that the Duke would be unlikely to press the case, he meant to embarrass him. “Who said this, Your Grace? It is unfair to accuse me with what seem to be baseless rumors,” he kept his face smooth.

“Baseless rumors?” James laughed, but it was a dark sound, “Think you I would put this before you with naught more than unfounded gossip? There are at least three direct witnesses to your action. Tremont’s son or not, your word would not carry enough weight to deny all of them.” James Lancaster did not in fact have three witnesses, but he had Dorian’s word that if Mordecai awoke there would be three, should the matter come to light.

“I am not even sure who the young lady is that I am supposed to have made these advances upon,” Devon answered.

The Duke’s face turned red and his jaw clenched. Advancing on Devon, it seemed he might draw his sword before he stopped, his face inches from the young lord’s. “Do not test me, Tremont! Your father’s reach will not protect you here if I lose my temper. If you so much as touch another of my maids, it will not be a paltry fine you face, I’ll string your liar’s head up from the gallows and war be damned!” He spat these words as if he were chewing nails.

Devon drew back, uncertain before the Duke’s fury, but he did not surrender the point, “You would do well to remember the tenets of courtesy while I am under your roof! If you seek to accuse me openly, then do so, otherwise you cheapen your honor.”

James was livid and he leaned forward, “You dare speak to me of hospitality!? You trespass upon my bondsmen, you abuse those I protect, and then you claim the protection of hospitality! Mark my words, if I have cause to suspect you have harmed another person in these halls, I’ll have you gelded—as your father should have been before he lay with your mother. Get out of my sight! You have until the week’s end. Once that is done I will have you gone. Save your whoring ’til you return to Tremont!” The Duke finished and strode away, standing with his back turned until Devon left the room.

Once he had gone, Genevieve entered the room, she had been listening. “Are you sure it is wise to risk this? His father may call you up before the assembly of lords.”

“He’s a fatherless son of a whore!” James was shouting now that Devon had left. It took her a few minutes to calm him down, but inwardly she agreed wholeheartedly. Her husband rarely lost his temper, and never without good cause. It was a point of pride to her that he would risk everything over an abuse to one of his people.

Later in the day, before the lunch hour, a knock came on the door to my room. I had eaten a huge breakfast earlier and my strength seemed to be returning, but I still didn’t feel like walking about to answer doors. Luckily Penny was still with me, dressed now. She had been discussing the merits of having a bath brought in to get me truly clean. I wasn’t too keen on it, but she seemed very attached to the idea. She rose and answered the door for me.

Father Tonnsdale stood in the hall. “May I come in?”

Penny started to turn him away, but I waved her off, I was beginning to feel like a bit of company. He came in and moved a chair to face the bed, then took a seat, “I spoke with the Duke yesterday, before your accident. And he told me that we had something in common.” He gave me a meaningful look, glancing toward Penny.

“Don’t worry Father, she already knows,” I replied. As a result of our...linking, among other things, Penny now knew an awful lot about me. Mostly regarding recent events, our feelings, and anything we had thought about during that one blissful hour. I couldn’t tell you for example what her mother’s birthday was, or even what she looked like. It hadn’t come up during that time.

“Ah, very good then. The Duke thought you might like to know about the events of that dreadful night,” his face was a mixture of sadness and nostalgia as he said this.

“Yes, whatever you might tell me. I was only an infant, so anything that might help me to understand would be appreciated,” I truly felt grateful to be in the presence of someone, anyone, who had actually been there.

He spent the next hour relating the events of that terrible night, which from his perspective had been pretty boring. He had been fasting in preparation for the special spring dedication to be held the next morning. It was a yearly holiday celebrated by all the adherents of Millicenth, the Evening Star. The Evening Star was one of the more popular goddesses in Lothion, and had been venerated by the Cameron family as well as the Lancasters.

Because of his fast, he had been in the chapel all that evening, skipping dinner, which had ultimately saved his life. When the fire started in the main keep he came out to see what was going on, but once he saw the strangers in black garb he knew he had best stay hidden. Even so, they beat down the door to the chapel after he locked himself in, but he had hidden himself in a secret storeroom used to keep the church’s relics safe at night. He was one of only a small handful that survived the night. The rest died of poison, fire, or were butchered when the assassins found them.

After that he described my parents to me, but none of it was really new. The one thing that surprised me was the small silver star he gave me. “I helped with their burials. Another priest came to assist since we had so many, but I dressed the bodies of the Cameron family before they were buried. Your father’s body was never found and your mother’s was lost as well, but this belonged to your grandfather, the Count di’Cameron. I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it.”

I was touched to say the least. Raising the small symbol to my lips, I kissed it and put it over my head. Like his own symbol, I could see that it held a faint golden radiance, a sign of its connection with the goddess herself. I thanked him as best I could, and he left shortly after.

I sat staring at the silver star for a short while, and Penny sat down beside me. “Does it make you sad to think on it?” she asked.

“A bit,” I answered. “I’ve never met either of my grandparents, and know even less of them than I do my parents. At the same time, as of a few days ago I had no knowledge of any of them. It all feels sort of made up. Inside I’m still Mordecai Eldridge, and I feel guilty that I don’t feel more for these people who are gone.” Penny was a good listener, and we talked for a while, until another knock came at the door.

Before Penny could reach it, Dorian opened it from without and announced, “His Grace, James, Duke of Lancaster is here.” That was all the warning we got before he strode into the room. The Duke looked in good health. He moved briskly, and his face was slightly flushed, as if he had been exercising. I didn’t know that he had recently confronted Devon Tremont, but I would have been glad if I had known.

As it was, he seemed to be full of energy. “Mordecai!” he said, in a rather loud tone. “I am most relieved to see you awake and moving again.” Rather than pull up the chair he sat on the bed with me.

“The reports of my demise were premature, Your Grace,” I answered smiling.

“I told you, call me James when we are alone,” he replied. “I was planning to have your commendation ceremony and oath of fealty taken tonight, but it seems that will not happen for a few days more at least. You seem to be gaining strength quickly, though.”

“Thanks to Penny. She has been an angel of mercy through all of this,” I smiled at her.

“Yes, I have some matters to discuss with Penny as well,” and he looked at her grimly.

“I cannot thank you enough for your care of my nephew,” he said, “I understand that you burst in upon my lady wife and insisted Rose help you find him?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she kept her eyes down.

“You seem to have a touch of the prophet’s gift I hear. No matter. Then yesterday you stood your ground and told me in no uncertain terms that if I tried to usher you from the room I would, let’s see… What was it?” He was searching for words.

“Draw back a nub, Your Grace,” she filled in for him.

“Yes, that was it. And you meant it too, didn’t you my dear?” He was smiling at her in a fashion that reminded me of a dog, before it bites you.

“Yes, Your Grace, even now,” she said demurely.

“You realize of course that such brazen disrespect for your lord could have dire consequences. I could have you taken to the yard and whipped for insolence,” his tone was neutral, but I started up, trying to get out of the bed.

“You can’t do that!” I said, but he waved me away.

“Yes, Your Grace, this is true,” she replied.

“You have not reported for work since yesterday, when you left your post without notice,” he continued, “and you spent the entirety of last night alone in this room with my nephew.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I would not leave him, ’til he were dead or sure to live,” her tone held a sliver of defiance in its tone now.

“Others could have managed. It was hardly proper to have a young woman in here all night, but you don’t care, do you Penelope?” he asked.

“No sir,” she said, “I would sooner be damned than leave him to the care of others.” She was staring him in the eye now.

“Are you in love with my nephew, Penelope?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” she would not hide it.

“You leave me no choice then, Penelope Cooper. You are dismissed from my service, I have no need for such a disrespectful maid. One who does not know her place, cannot serve me. I expect you to clean your things out of the maids’ quarters within the hour,” his tone was deadly serious.

Somehow Penny had not expected that response. Somehow she had thought that her good deeds would outweigh her mistakes. She stood stunned for a moment, lips parted slightly. A few seconds later she felt tears beginning to form in her eyes, and she turned away, thinking to get her things before he saw her weeping.

“Don’t leave, Miss Cooper. I have a few things to say to Mordecai as well, and you should hear them first,” James added. “Mordecai, since you are unwell I doubt you will be able to attend the dance tomorrow night. It is our last celebration before the guests return to their homes, so it should be a grand affair. Genevieve has spent quite a bit of time planning for it.”

“So I am told,” I was unsure where the Duke was leading the conversation.

“Genevieve wanted me to tell you that if you had a lady in mind to bring to the ball, she would be welcome, even if you were unable to attend.” He looked at Penny then, with a mischievous smile. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a scroll and tossed it onto the bed. “The oath and such will have to wait, but the lands are yours, along with the title and privileges, Count di’Cameron.”

I stared at him slack jawed, “I am honored. I...” I was having problems figuring out what to say.

“As my guest, and a fellow lord, you are entitled to your own retainers and such, within reason. If you have a wife, consort, or even a simple companion, they may, of course, stay with you. It is not my place to judge a landed noble. Advances upon my staff would be considered a grave insult however, so I trust I don’t have to fear such a breach of faith with you.” He studied Penny at length during his speech. “Don’t sell yourself cheaply, my dear. You’re worth your weight in gold, and if my nephew has sense to realize it, he will be a wealthy man.” Then without another word he turned and left the room.

Once the door had closed, Penny and I looked at one another, “What the hell was that?” she said.

“I think he was trying to do us a favor... maybe,” I replied.

“I just lost my livelihood!” She was not amused.

“Well, I’m prepared to offer you a new position,” I ventured.

“As what, chief concubine? Because if that’s what you think of me you’d better guess again. Just because last night we... That was magic, I didn’t have full control of my faculties!” She was working herself into a fit. Not that I would have said as much.

Taking slow breaths I eased myself out of the bed and started walking toward her, “I would never suggest something like that Penny. The Duke was just making it clear that we could continue to stay together, under whatever relation or fiction we choose to employ.”

“‘Fiction we choose to employ,’ can you hear yourself, Mort? Just because you’re the bloody Count di’Cameron now, doesn’t mean I’ll happily pack my bags and come move in as your doxy!” I was almost to her now, but she was backing away. Given my delicate state, I wasn’t fit to chase her around the room. I tried another tactic.

“‘Companion’ doesn’t necessarily mean prostitute, Penny, and if you need some better title you could be my maid-servant.” I gave her a lopsided grin, employing my considerable knowledge of psychology. It worked. She turned red and came at me, teeth bared and claws out.

“You pompous slack-wit!” She launched herself at me with a shriek that would have made a banshee proud. I caught her wrists as she came, and struggled to subdue her. Unfortunately, as most wrestlers can tell you, a lot of your upper body strength relies upon the muscles around the rib cage, and mine were in terrible shape. I’m sure I’ve mentioned before how terribly smart I am.

Pain shot through me as I grappled with her, trying to get her still for a moment. In spite of the agony, I managed to drag her in close and wrap her in a bear hug, whereupon she bit me. She bit me! I refused to let go though, and stepping back I fell onto the bed, holding her tight to me. That earned me a lot more pain as her weight fell onto me. Twisting, I got myself on top and pinned her down. Have I mentioned she’s as strong as a she-cat? But at last I had her caught. “I’m not making the same mistake I did the last time we argued,” I said, my face inches from her own. “You’re not going to escape as soon as I start talking.”

She growled at me, her face flushed, but she relaxed a bit. “You’re going to pay when I get loose, and you don’t have the strength to keep me down for long.”

“I don’t need long, I need a lot more than that. Penelope Cooper, will you marry me?” The genius of my plan was such that she went stock still.

“What!?” she said.

“I asked if you would marry me,” I repeated myself articulately, and with great charm I might add.

“I’m a commoner you idiot,” she replied.

“So am I.”

“Not anymore you’re not. You’re the bloody damned Count di’Cameron now,” her words were pessimistic, but her face showed me a glimmer of hope.

“I could have married you before, and no one would have cared, and as far as I know there’s no law to prevent me from marrying anyone I choose.” She wasn’t fighting anymore, so I relaxed my grip.

“I don’t want to marry you,” she protested, “you look funny.” Her eyes were wet.

I leaned down and kissed her. She kissed me back, growling a little in the back of her throat. When I came up for air she looked at me, “this has to be the stupidest way to propose to a girl I ever heard of.” I kissed her again and put my best effort into it. “You don’t even have a ring,” she mumbled after that. I kissed her again, and she quit complaining.

Some time later we lay, exhausted. Well, I was exhausted. Despite my youth, I was in no condition to be engaging in wrestling matches—among other things. It was worth it, though. A thought occurred to me, “So was that a yes?”

She looked at me slyly, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

I smacked her with a pillow. That started a war, but eventually she yielded, “Fine, fine! Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!” She was laughing as she said it.

Later I lay thinking that in spite of the good fortune I was currently enjoying, I still had one rather large problem, Devon Tremont. He had already assaulted Penny, and now he had tried to kill me. I was also quite sure he intended to create a lot of trouble for the Lancasters. Unfortunately, I had no idea what to do about any of it. Another knock came at the door.

Penny had gone down to fetch her things, so it was up to me to answer it. Life is hard sometimes. Dorian and Marc stood outside, “You really are alive!” shouted Marc. I stood back to let them in.

“To what do I owe the great honor of your visit?” I said mockingly.

“Does a man need a reason to visit his cousin?” Marc answered.

“Your father told you then?”

“Indeed! And he gave me something for you,” he tossed a large pouch to me. I almost dropped it. It was very heavy.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Two hundred gold marks; Father got most of it off his lordship this morning and he made up the difference from his own purse. The two of them had the most amazing conversation, or so I hear.” He spent a few minutes catching me up on what he knew.

“Hah!” I laughed when he finished. “That’s a fine start, but the devil still has much to answer for.” We all agreed on that point, and we spent a while discussing what sorts of unpleasant things might befall Lord Devon before his return home.

Since that conversation wasn’t really leading anywhere productive, I decided to switch topics. “Oh by the way! Have I mentioned I’m getting engaged?” That drew some stares. We talked for a long while after, and I wondered how I would resolve the question of who would be the best man. I decided to put the problem off for another day.

Chapter XVII

IN RECENT TIMES MAGES HAVE become rare. When mages were more common, no lord of men dared rule without magic to back him. With the loss of most of the old bloodlines, wizards are no longer so necessary to those who wield political power, for their enemies do not have magic to use against them. As a result the last few families died out in large part due to assassination, often coming from those they served. Those mages who arise from common stock have ever more to fear, for they have none to support them.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

Penny was gathering her things from the maids’ quarters. It wasn’t a large task, since she really didn’t have much. The two uniforms she left, her replacement might need them, and they didn’t belong to her anyway. A few nightgowns, a homespun dress, and a few sundries. Putting them in a pile they seemed pitifully few. Up until now her life had been a long hard road. Perhaps now things would work out better. She sat down on the bed one last time and looked around the room, letting her mind drift back to the day she had first come to work there.

The vision took her without warning. A man was walking down a hallway, wearing a brown robe. Something about him seemed familiar. In his hands he carried a large clay jar, and by the way he moved, it must have been heavy, filled with something. She saw him enter the kitchen, a place so well known to her that she recognized it instantly. The cook looked up and at him and went back to work without a word. The man was well known there. The kitchen scullions were out setting up the tables so the two were alone.

The hooded figure stepped up to the cook and said something, but she couldn’t make it out. With a nod the cook stepped out, taking the back door to fetch something from the small garden outside. Once he had gone, the man drew back his hood and opened his jar. She recognized him then, and wondered why she was seeing him there. Lifting the, jar he poured the contents into a large pot where the soup was simmering, and something told her it was nothing wholesome in that jar.

The vision shifted then, and she felt somehow that it was several hours later. It was the ball, and people were dancing, but something was wrong. She saw herself in a long gown, dancing with Lord Devon, and he was laughing, as if at some joke she had just told. Around them, people began to double over, retching. Blood was on the floor and people were crying in pain. Devon leaned over to kiss her... and she screamed.

She woke then, still screaming, her face damp with sweat. Not again! she thought. This can’t be happening. Then she remembered Father Tonnsdale’s story. The night everyone had died at Cameron Castle, and she knew what she had to do. Goddess, forgive me!

She left her things on the bed. She knew the events of her vision were still some time in the future, but she didn’t think they were too far off. Slipping into the hallway she headed for where the villain lived.

It took her only a few minutes to get there. Such a short time when you know that your life is about to change forever. Just a bit ago she had been happy, looking forward to a life she could not have imagined. She should have known it was too good to be true. She took a moment to consider, she could try to warn everyone, but no one would believe her. That would only leave the killer to find some other time to work his evil. The world was not just, she knew that. Those people learned that lesson sixteen years ago, and still their murderer goes unpunished, she thought. But no longer, she would see to that.

She was almost to the door when she realized she needed a weapon. The man she meant to kill was too large to attack unarmed. She went back to the great hall and found one of the hard iron pokers used to manage the logs in the fireplace. The long black iron was heavy in her hand. She figured it would do nicely, so long as she could surprise him. She returned to the large double doors that led into the chapel. She opened them, and as she entered she put the hand holding the iron behind her back.

The chapel itself was empty, but she knew he was likely in the chambers behind the back of the altar. Her heart was beating wildly, but she kept her attention on her task. She found him in his study, leaning over his desk. A small form lay on top of it, quivering. The horror of it almost unmade her, but she held her resolve in an iron grip, a grip as hard as the iron in her hand.

“Shhh, Timothy, just relax, it will be over soon. The goddess needs everything you can give.” Father Tonnsdale kept his hand on the boy’s forehead, holding him down, while the force within him drew upon the boy’s spirit. Timothy was dying, but it was necessary if he was to become the tool Father Tonnsdale needed. A small noise behind drew his attention and he was startled when he saw her enter the room.

“Penny!” he said, trying to keep his calm. “Timothy has suffered a fall, would you help me hold him? I think he’s having a seizure!” It was a poor lie, but he was sure she would believe it, at least long enough for him to salvage the situation. Two bodies would be almost as easy to hide as one after all.

He looked away from her, back to Timothy, hoping to draw her attention to the boy, while his eyes found the dagger that lay on the desk.

“Certainly Father, I’ll be glad to help you,” she stepped up behind him, and even as his hand reached for the dagger at his waist she brought the iron poker down across the back of his head. He dropped like a felled steer, sagging limply to the floor. The back of his head was crushed. She took another swing to make sure the job was done properly. Then she dropped the iron and checked to see if Timothy was alright.

He wasn’t. The boy was dead, though there were no visible marks upon him. His skin was slack, drawn, as though something had been taken from within him, leaving him empty. The sight of the boy ate at her conscience. If only I had gotten here sooner, perhaps I could have prevented this as well, she thought. She was still in shock, numb and unfeeling, but her mind was clear.

I will hang for this, she thought, and she knew it was true. There was no evidence that the good Father was anything more than he had always appeared. Timothy’s body would prove nothing. There were no marks to show anything had been done to him. Even had there been, she was the one alive, she was the one who had just bludgeoned a priest to death. She double checked to make sure the priest was dead. No sense hanging for a crime unfinished.

No one saw me enter. That was a thought with promise. If she could hide the body she might even delay the time until the search for his killer began. She took the older man’s legs in her hands and began trying to move him. “What did you eat?” she said aloud. There was no way she could move the fat bastard very far. He had to weigh in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds. At last she settled for dragging his body behind the desk, where it could not be seen from the door. She laid Timothy beside him, though she felt bad at having to leave him there with the corpse of his murderer.

Taking the keys from the priest’s pockets she locked the study door behind her as she left. With luck it would be several days before they were found. There were no services for three days so it was possible they might not be missed for a while. Now she just needed to get out without being seen. For some reason she still had the iron poker with her, I should have left it with him, she thought. No matter, she would just replace it where she had gotten it. Trusting to luck she stepped through the double doors of the chapel and into the hallway.

Luck had apparently taken a vacation. Genevieve, the Duchess of Lancaster was passing as she exited. “Good evening, Your Grace,” Penny said with a small curtsy.

“Good evening Penny, how is Mordecai doing?” the Duchess asked.

“Very well, thank you for asking,” she replied.

“Is that one of the fireplace tools?” Genevieve asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, Your Grace, I was moving the logs in the great hall, when I thought of a question for Father Tonnsdale. I forgot to put it away before I came. I’ll take care of that now.” Stupid, stupid! That was the worst lie in history! she thought.

“Did you find him? I thought I might talk with him as well...” asked the older woman.

“No, I didn’t. I’m not sure where he’s gotten off to. I’ll have to look for him later. If I see him, I’ll tell him you were looking for him as well, Your Grace,” she replied.

“I appreciate that. Well, I’ll let you get to what you were doing,” and the Duchess moved away, down the hall.

Penny went back to the maids’ quarters. Along the way she stopped to throw the iron poker into one of the closets they stored cleaning supplies in. Her mind was racing despite her calm outward appearance. The Duchess saw me, she thought. When they found the body, hopefully in a few days, questions would be asked. Genevieve would remember seeing her, and she had noticed the iron in her hand. There could be no doubt now. It would lead straight to her. I’m going to hang. Her mind kept coming back to that. There was no explanation that would exonerate her. She hadn’t even found the poison. I forgot to even look for it. She considered going back, to search, but discarded the idea immediately. She couldn’t go back.

Thoughts of escape came to her. She could run, take everything she had now, and just run. But she had no money, no family to hide her, no place to go. She considered telling Mordecai. He would probably help. No, that’s not right. He would definitely help. But what could he do? If he ran with her it would only destroy his own life. He’s the Count di’Cameron now, he’s got everything to lose, she thought, but I am nothing. I can only ruin it for him.

“I’m going to die for this, nothing can change that. The only thing I can manage is who goes with me,” she said aloud. She might not be able to avert the consequences of her actions, but she could choose who she took with her. Asking for help would only ruin her friends, but the other option was to take the opportunity to make what remained of her life count for more. If she had to choose one other person to spend her life on, the choice became simple. Having made the decision, she felt a calm come over her, and she began to plan.

I was still talking to Marc and Dorian when Penny returned and I was glad to see her. Dorian was busy trying to convince me that beer would speed my recovery, and Marc was offering to have several pitchers sent to the room. We were young and hadn’t had much experience with strong drink, so the thought of drinking to excess was a new and exciting concept. But I knew I was in no shape for it. Penny’s presence put the damper on their plan immediately.

“C’mon Penny, you just got engaged!” Mark suggested, using his considerable charm.

“Do you see a ring on my hand Marcus Lancaster?” she offered up the unadorned appendage for his inspection.

“Well no, but you already said yes, isn’t that cause for celebration?” He grabbed her hands and led her into a short mock dance. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Marc, don’t you dare tell anyone about this! You either Dorian!” she yelled past Marc’s shoulder.

“Penny, my dear! Are you embarrassed to let people know you’re going to marry this ruffian? Perhaps you should reconsider, there are other eligible bachelors still available after all.” Marc puffed up his chest and brushed his fingers across the front of his jacket, a roguish grin on his face.

The conversation was causing Penny some consternation, and I could see it on her face, though she tried to hide it. She glanced downward, as if shy, “Honestly, I’m not ready to announce it yet. I still have to tell my father and I’d rather not set everyone to talking until I’m ready.” Something about her expression didn’t ring true to me, but Marc and Dorian took her at face value.

“Let her be Marc,” Dorian put in, “weddings are important to girls, we shouldn’t spoil things for her.”

“Fine, fine, I was only teasing,” Marc answered, looking as though he had been wrongfully accused. He had been a clown since we were children.

“Dorian,” Penny said, “would you mind doing a favor for me?”

“Sure,” he answered.

“I need to talk to Rose, about the ball tomorrow and... other things. Would you mind taking a message for me—to see if she has time this evening?” She smiled sweetly at him. I wished she smiled at me like that more often.

They both left after that, and I made myself busy eating a tray of food that had been sent up for me. I considered asking Penny about her deception, for I was sure she was hiding something, but Rose showed up before I could ask her.

“You didn’t have to come up right away. I would have come to see you,” Penny said.

“Nonsense, I was bored anyway,” Rose replied.

They talked for a few minutes and Penny explained what she had in mind. The Duke’s mention of the ball had apparently caught her fancy, something I would never have expected. She wanted Rose’s advice about how to appear, and other details.

“Don’t go as Mordecai’s guest, since he’s not going. Come as my companion,” Rose suggested. “You’ll draw less attention that way, and since he’s not yet known as the Count di’Cameron, you’ll get more respect as my friend.”

“That’s fine,” Penny said, “It doesn’t really matter to me either way. My true concern is that I don’t have a dress. I never expected to attend an event like this, being what I am.”

Rose smiled at her, “That won’t be an issue my dear. I’m glad you called me first, I have just the thing for you. You’re close to my size anyway.” Rose Hightower was probably the tallest woman at Lancaster Castle, standing five foot eleven inches, but Penny was rather tall herself and stood close to her height. “Mordecai,” she continued, “Penny is going to need some things if you intend to keep her.”

I looked up, “What do you need?”

Rose smiled at me, “Ten gold marks should do.” I choked, that was enough to buy a farm, two if you bargained hard. My father didn’t make more than two or three gold marks in a year, if things went very well. She saw my expression, “Hand it over, my lord, you aren’t living that life anymore, and if you don’t start thinking of her needs, Penny is going to suffer for it.”

I counted out the money and handed it over, and Rose gave me a pat on the shoulder, “That’s a good man. When I’m done you won’t regret it. Just be glad I’m not charging you for my services.”

They left then, Rose taking Penny by the arm. I swear I could hear them laughing as they walked down the hall. Once they had gotten back to the rooms Rose was staying in, she proceeded to show Penny a selection of dresses. She had packed with the intention of being ready for anything.

Penny was concerned, “These are much too fine for me Rose.”

“As long as you aren’t better dressed than me, nothing is too good for you my sweet,” Rose said with a twinkle in her eye. “We might have to have the seamstresses in to raise the hem a bit, the length is ok on you, but we need to show a bit more of your ankle for the proper impact.”

“If you don’t mind my asking Rose, what will we use the money for? If you’re lending me one of your dresses, surely that’s all we need.”

“I’m thinking of the future, particularly yours,” Rose replied. Wasting no time she sent one of the servants out to fetch a dressmaker. Once the woman had arrived she began discussing fabrics and styles. Several hours went by as Rose ordered a bewildering array of things, from blouses to garters, nightgowns and skirts. At the end, she had agreed to pay the woman almost five gold marks for an impressive selection of clothes; winter and summer dresses, and even ball gowns.

“It’ll take me several weeks to manage all of this, milady,” the woman said.

“That’s fine, just be sure to send along the nightgowns and house-clothes first, she’ll need those as soon as possible.” Rose paid her then, never thinking to consider she might be cheated. Penny realized that she wouldn’t be. You don’t cheat nobility, not if you want more business; not if you want to continue eating.

“What’s the rest of the money for?” Penny asked, and Rose gave her a sly grin, handing her the remaining money.

“I can’t take this! It isn’t my money,” she protested.

“You are a lady now, or soon will be. As a Countess you will need to know how to handle yourself with money. Even more so, you must never be perceived as having to count coins. Use it, waste it, make sure people see it, and don’t ever act as though you need it.” Rose gave her a serious look, “I’m not joking. Your future will rely on learning these things. As soon as you have that boy of yours wed, make sure he gives you an allowance. If people suspect he’s being cheap with you, they will think he’s broke. If they think he’s broke, things will get hard for him. Never let them smell blood.”

Penny could see the sense of her words, but she felt like a fraud. She had no intention of marrying now, she would not live out the week, much less see the day those clothes Rose had ordered arrived. Yet she had to keep up the pretense. If Rose caught wind of her plan, it would be all over.

They went back to the ball gowns again. “Rose, this might sound odd, but I don’t feel safe going to the ball without Mordecai. Do you suppose I might—carry something?” She gave the woman an uncertain glance.

Rose understood immediately, “Oh my, I would tell you that you have nothing to fear, but I know why you feel as you do.” She went back to her closet. She returned with another dress, this one had long flowing sleeves in contrast to the others which had had close fitting sleeves. “This will do the trick, though it’s a shame, you have such pretty arms.”

In truth Penny liked the other dresses better, but function would be more important tomorrow evening, “So how do the sleeves help?” she asked.

Rose gave her a feral grin, “I take it you want to carry a dagger, correct?”

Penny nodded.

“And considering your feelings, something like this probably wouldn’t be enough,” she plucked a small slender knife from her bodice.

“Do you always carry that?!” Penny was a bit shocked.

“Just because I said you were safe doesn’t mean a girl shouldn’t be prepared. But if you want to carry something more serious,” she walked over to a trunk and began rummaging before standing back up, “like this.” She held a double edged dagger with a seven inch blade, “You’ll need sleeves, big sleeves. Here let me show you.” She brought out an odd scabbard for the dagger, with several straps attached.

“So you strap it to your wrists?” Penny didn’t know what to think of this noblewoman who suddenly seemed so intimately familiar with blades.

“Ordinarily, yes, but not for a dance. You’ll be lifting one arm, to rest on a gentleman’s shoulder, and your sleeve may slide back. Plus, he might feel it when he touches your wrist, so the forearm is a fashion no-no.”

“Oh.”

“There are two main ways for a lady to wear something as considerable as this. The first is strapped to your leg, either the calf, or the inner or outer thigh. The calf is impractical if you wish to use it quickly, and the outer thigh will spoil the lines of some dresses. The inner thigh is my preference, but it can be awkward, especially if you’re dancing. Plus the dress needs to be designed for it, like this...” She slid her hand between the pleats of her skirt and brought out a dagger similar to the one she had gotten for Penny. A hidden slit in the dress allowed her to reach her leg.

“Good lord Rose, you’re a walking arsenal!” Penny exclaimed.

“And don’t you forget it,” Rose winked at her.

“Have you ever needed one—to use?” Penny was curious.

“Not yet. Usually you can discourage even the worst of them before it comes to that, but it pays to be prepared.” Rose discussed the topic with a casual nonchalance that Penny could not help but envy.

“So how will I wear this one? So that I can dance?” Penny asked.

“Here,” Rose pointed to the inside of her upper arm. “It won’t be entirely comfortable, but your partner won’t feel it, and if your sleeve slides back it won’t be revealed. Put on the dress, and I’ll show you how it works.” They got Penny into the dress, which took several minutes, but it fit well. “Now, we strap it to the inner side of your upper arm, with the hilt down. The sheath is built to hold it, even in that position. Show me how you will draw it if you need.”

Penny thrust her right hand up the left sleeve and grabbed for the handle. “No, no!” Rose remonstrated. “You do that, and he’ll be three feet back and calling for his mother to save him.”

Penny laughed at the image, “Isn’t that the point? To warn him off?”

Rose shook her head, “Not publicly, you’ll wound his pride and earn yourself a bad reputation. If you do need it, you want to have the blade against his skin before he realizes it, so you can quietly make him aware of your feelings. Once he’s admitted defeat you can replace it, and no one is humiliated—publicly.”

The methods Rose described suited Penny’s purpose perfectly, although she did not mean to use the blade for self-protection.

Rose went on, “As a woman you have to remember, if he catches on to your intentions, you lose most of your advantage. He’s bigger, stronger, and possibly quicker. Put your hands together, gracefully... then slide them to your elbows, as if you are thinking, or perhaps cold. From there you can easily grasp the hilt.”

Penny couldn’t help but wonder how she would do that while dancing, but she didn’t dare ask. That question might be too direct, so she asked a different question. “Rose, do all noblewomen carry weapons?”

Rose snorted, “No, only the smart ones.”

“Who taught you all this?” Penny added.

“My mother,” and then she regretted it when she saw the look on Penny’s face. She had already heard of Penny’s own loss. “Penny, this may sound odd, but if you will have me, I already consider you a sister.”

Penny’s eyes misted, and without thinking, she hugged Rose, “I always wanted a sister,” but inwardly she already felt bad for the betrayal she knew was coming. She could only hope that Rose would someday recover, once she was gone.

Chapter XVIII

LITTLE IS KNOWN OF THE time before the Sundering, when Balinthor nearly destroyed the world. Most historians agree that mages were freer then and more common. They were not bound by the Anath’Meridum. The gods of men were still young, and too weak to threaten their power. The Dark Gods were powerful, but none were foolish enough to bargain with them. In those days almost all kings were wizards themselves, but whether they were foolish or wise is not known. Poetry would suggest they were wise, but stories are like pictures, painted to show their best sides. In all likelihood they were as petty, foolish and sometimes cruel as rulers today.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I was sitting up reading when Penny returned, and I was grateful for the distraction. As interesting as it was, A Grammar of Lycian was not the sort of book to keep you awake for long. I had been searching it and experimenting with some of the words I found there, trying to speed up my recovery. Inner exploration had shown me that, while my lungs were both functioning now, there was a lot of blood around one of them. I had spent considerable time trying to get the blood broken up so that my body could remove it more easily.

That turned out to be quite difficult, and I wasn’t sure what effect my efforts had produced, so I also worked on making improvements to my ribs and the muscles supporting them. I really wasn’t sure, but I thought that I had them in good shape. They seemed to be aligned properly now, and I had them fused better. I also experimented with some of the words I found in the book, and may have made my ribs stronger than they normally should be, but there was no good way to test the theory.

I resisted the urge to try anything with my brain. That way lay madness. I could tell however, that the swelling was gone, and I did fix a small crack in one of the bones of my skull. Surely that couldn’t cause any unforeseen problems.

“You’re home early,” I said, trying to sound domestic. I’m also quite funny in addition to being brilliant. Honestly I am, I tell myself so all the time.

“Did you take that bath?” she asked. Penny seemed to have a one track mind sometimes.

“Have I mentioned how lovely you look?” My skills in the subtle art of noble discourse had been improving lately, so I thought I might try a distraction. If only Penny would cooperate with my cleverness.

She leaned in, sniffing, and wrinkled her nose, “You stink.” The conversation went downhill from there, and before long she had servants bringing in a large copper tub and buckets of hot water. Knowing all the staff made it terribly easy for her to quickly find the people she wanted. I would have been impressed with her efficiency if it hadn’t been directed at me.

Once everyone had gone (you would be amazed at how many people it takes to draw a proper bath), she gave me a hard look. “Strip,” she said. Somehow the way she said it managed to take all the sexy out of the word.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, waggling my eyebrows at her. I’ll be damned it I let her take the fun out of the conversation. I was feeling quite a bit better at the moment, so I got my clothes off unaided and eased myself into the tub. The water was very warm, almost steaming.

I have to admit, it was the best bath I’d ever had up to that point in my life; especially considering I had a lovely woman to scrub my back. She even washed my hair; something I had never known could be so pleasurable. I closed my eyes and relaxed. I was in heaven. A splash caught my attention and I opened one eye, apparently one of the angels had come down to join me in the bath. Things got rather more interesting from there.

A while later we lay between cool linen sheets, recuperating. I couldn’t believe the good fortune Lady Luck had handed me. At that point I was too happy and contented to remember that Lady Luck is also a brazen bitch. I would regret that later.

Despite the covers, the bed seemed cold. I pulled the blankets up further. Penny snuggled beside me. “Mort, you seem awfully hot,” she said.

“That would be entirely your fault, my little minx,” I pulled her in for another kiss, and the room spun a little. “I do feel a little woozy, though,” I added.

I had a fever. Not to point any fingers, but looking back I suspect it might have had something to do with my efforts to help my body reabsorb the excess blood in my chest. Messing with Mother Nature can be a mistake sometimes; she and Lady Luck are probably good friends. Penny was the very picture of concern and empathy. She pulled the sheets back, exposing me to the cold air. She must have been taking notes from Mother Nature and Lady Luck. They’re all in on it together I tell you, one big female conspiracy.

“What? No, no, it’s cold! Gimme those back!” I’m a skilled debater when I put my mind to it.

“You have a fever, and you need to cool off.” She refused to let me get the sheets past my waist. Without a doubt it’s because she wanted to gaze upon my chiseled muscles.

“I bet you tell all your fiancée’s that.” It made sense to me, but obviously I wasn’t quite as clear headed as I thought. Penny draped a wet cloth across my forehead. She didn’t seem too impressed with my attempts at humor.

After Penny had satisfied herself that I wasn’t in imminent danger of an early demise, we lay uncovered on the bed. She still wouldn’t let me have the covers, but she did permit me to borrow some of her warmth. I rather liked her warmth. “Mort,” she said, “I have a question.”

Even in my fevered state that set off my warning sensors. “What sort of question,” I replied guardedly.

“If I ever did something bad, something really bad, that made everyone else hate me—would you still love me?”

What the hell kind of question is that? I thought, but I was wise enough to frame a better reply. “I would still love you. I know you well enough to know that you would have your reasons, even if they didn’t make sense to everyone else at the time. Why?”

“I just wondered. The past few days have changed so much in my life that I guess I need a little reassurance,” she said.

“A few days ago I didn’t even realize I loved you, so it’s a little early trying to figure out ways to get rid of me,” I smiled at her. Stupid never dies. Looking back I can hardly believe I was so naive. I went to sleep dreaming of open skies, chasing a crazy tomboy of a girl through verdant fields. That has always been my best memory of Penelope Cooper. Even now as I look back, I realize that was when I first fell in love with her. Somewhere in my heart, she will always be that silly girl with grass in her hair.

Penelope woke early, as was her habit. Mordecai still slept, but his temperature had cooled so she drew a thin sheet over him. The ball was today. She looked at the dress hanging in the corner of the room. It was a beautiful combination of blue velvet and lace. She had tried it on with Rose the day before, amazed at how lovely it was when she looked in the mirror. It showed her bosom off to great advantage without being tasteless, and the fabric draped gracefully to accent her figure, exposing just a hint of her ankles. It was ironic that this would be the only day she would ever get to wear such a garment, and that Mordecai wouldn’t be there to enjoy seeing her in it.

I don’t want him there, she thought. That’s not how she wanted him to remember her. Considering that, she decided that perhaps she should write a letter. She couldn’t explain herself, but at least she could make sure he didn’t blame himself. She checked to make sure he was still sleeping soundly before going to the writing table.

Unlike some of the maids at Lancaster Castle, Penny was perfectly able to read and write. It was partly because of Mordecai, but in large part because she had always had a strong curiosity and a desire to learn. Unfortunately her penmanship was not the equal of her wordsmithing, but he would just have to deal with her bad handwriting. She took up pen and carefully wrote out a long letter. Several blots and misspellings forced her to start over a few times, but at last she had a letter she wouldn’t be embarrassed to have him read. Except for the content of course, but there was no helping that. She folded it carefully and put it away, she wouldn’t want him to see it until later.

I opened my eyes to the faint sound of a brush moving through thick hair. Penny sat at the dressing table across the room. Her task wasn’t easy, she had a lot of curls in her long dark hair and they had a tendency to tangle. It took quite a while to get it smoothed out, and when she was almost done she felt my eyes on her. I had woken half way through the process and lay quietly watching. It was fascinating to see her working the brush slowly through the long tresses. I could have watched her all day.

She smiled at me in the mirror, “Are you feeling better?”

I was. We ate breakfast and I took up my books, being ill had provided me with more time to read, and I decided it would be foolish to waste it. Penny got dressed and went to see Rose again; more preparation for the ball. I really hated that I would miss it, but at least Penny wouldn’t have to suffer through my imitation of dancing. There would be more balls though, and maybe I could get some lessons before I had to expose my limited dancing skills to Penny. Ariadne had offered to teach me in the past so I thought I might take her up on it, but that would be for another time.

The day went smoothly, but after lunch my fever came back. Penny returned and made sure I didn’t have too much in the way of covers. She obviously didn’t believe in ‘sweating’ out a fever. At least she didn’t try to bleed me, so I probably shouldn’t complain about feeling a bit cold. A long nap made the afternoon more pleasant.

Around six Penny started getting ready. She was kind enough to let me watch, so I kept my lurid fantasies to myself while she dressed. The dress was stunning when combined with her curves and graceful features. I couldn’t help but wonder how I had lured such an enchanting beauty into my bedroom. My careful gaze caught her strapping something odd to her left arm.

“What’s that?” I asked wide-eyed.

“A dagger sheath,” she answered, as if it were the most common thing in the world. She finished adjusting the straps and slid a deadly looking seven inches of steel into it.

“Are we expecting trouble, or should I be concerned for when you return later?” I half-joked.

“Rose has been most helpful educating me on the matter of protecting myself. After this past week, I am no longer so trusting as I once was. Plus I have an excellent man to keep myself unspoiled for...” she gave me a charming smile, batting her long lashes at me. That should have warned me, her most frequent use of feminine wiles seemed to be distracting me from important issues.

“I thought I spoiled you quite thoroughly last night,” I leered at her.

“There is always more spoiling to be done,” she answered, and then she leaned over and gave me a long kiss. “I have to get going. I’ll need Rose’s help to get my hair done up properly.” She stopped at the door and gave me a long look, “Don’t forget, I love you.” Then she was gone, but for a second I could have sworn I saw a tear in her eye.

I convinced myself it was my imagination, but it took me a long while to get back to my reading. Women are never simple. I however, am as simple as they come.

Penny found Rose in her apartments, still getting ready, “Shouldn’t we be hurrying more?” she asked.

“It won’t hurt them to wait a few minutes. Besides, the best arrive last.” Rose laughed. She finished what she was doing and began working on Penny’s hair. With sure hands, she worked it into a delicate braided design piled on top of her head, exposing the younger woman’s graceful neck. “You’re going to garner a lot of looks tonight.”

“None that I’m anxious for, but I suppose a little attention will be nice,” Penny answered.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, we won’t be young the rest of our lives,” Rose remarked.

You might not, but I probably will be, Penny thought to herself. The two women rose and headed downstairs. The ball was already beginning.

Chapter XIX

The Ball

FEW OBJECTS OF MAGIC STILL exist. They have become as rare as the men who create them, and those who remain rarely gain the knowledge necessary for their creation. From my research I have ascertained that the process is similar in function to the way in which mages create their spells. Aythar is manipulated, but rather than using words, a greater part is played by symbols and written language. Most who are born to magic eventually try to bind power within an object, but few succeed. The art of sealing power in such a way that it remains forever bound is lost. For this reason, the only magical objects found today are wards, symbols drawn with power for a specific purpose. Yet these lose their strength within a span of decades unless they are regularly renewed.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

The great hall had been transformed. The great trestle tables had been removed, replaced by a few long tables along the walls where refreshments were being served. A small scattering of tables and chairs provided a place for the dancers to rest, but their numbers were small enough to discourage people from spending too much time there. It was a dance after all, and the night would be wasted if too many spent their time lounging instead. The Duke’s musicians occupied one end of the hall, playing endlessly to provide the music needed for a successful ball.

Penny and Rose were announced as they entered, “Lady Rose Hightower and her companion, Penelope Cooper.” That earned Penny a few stares, especially from the servers. Most of the staff knew her, and although they had heard she had taken up with Mordecai, they were still unsure what that meant for her status. Arriving with Rose made it clear that she was headed up in the world.

Marcus spotted them and came over, walking slowly to avoid outpacing his sister, Ariadne. He was escorting her for the evening, although they would both be dancing with different partners before long. His sister was a picture of loveliness in a fanciful pink gown. Ariadne was only fourteen and had yet to fill out completely, but Penny was sure she would be a great beauty someday.

“Penny! I see you ditched that clumsy oaf and replaced him with someone better looking!” he gave a small bow in Rose’s direction.

Rose gave a light tinkling laugh, “Yes, she’s seen fit to find better company this evening.” Penny couldn’t help but wonder how Rose managed it, even her laugh was perfect. Marcus asked Rose if he could have a dance and they were on the floor a moment later, leaving Penny and Ariadne alone.

“Your brother is quite the charmer,” Penny ventured.

“Mother says he could charm the skin off a cat, but I know his rougher side,” Ariadne answered. “Still, as brothers go, I’m rather fond of him.” They chatted for a few minutes before Marc and Rose returned, then he swept Penny away for a dance as well.

“How is Mort doing?” he asked as he twirled her across the floor.

“He’s doing well. He had a fever today but otherwise it’s remarkable how quickly he has recovered, his ribs aren’t bothering him at all now,” she replied.

Marc raised an eyebrow, “More magic?”

Penny sighed, “Yes, he keeps trying different things, but so far he’s done himself more good than ill.”

“Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s really quite brilliant, always was. If anyone can figure out how to use that gift of his without a proper teacher, he can. Especially with someone like you looking after him,” he smiled.

“He does take a lot of managing,” she laughed, wishing she could make it sound like the delicate laugh Rose used. Then she thought of her reason for coming and her face darkened.

“Are you alright?” Marc could be quite perceptive in his own way.

“Just a dark thought, has Lord Devon arrived yet?” she hadn’t seen him yet.

“No, he hasn’t shown his face yet. Relax Penny. I won’t let him bother you.” But Penny wasn’t worried about being bothered; she was more worried that the young lord might not show up at all. After their dance she went back to stand with Rose, who was chatting amiably with Ariadne. Marc found Elizabeth Balistair and took her out for a whirl on the floor. He would surely dance with every lady before the evening was over, it was a duty after all.

She wasn’t there long before Stephen Airedale asked her for a dance. She might be a commoner, but apparently beauty trumps class, at least at dances. While they were on the floor, Penny heard the announcement, Lord Devon had arrived. She moved closer to her partner and began scanning the room over his shoulders, looking for her nemesis. She failed to spot him, but she did see Dorian standing off to one side, talking to Gregory Pern. He’s too shy to dance, so he talks history with the Admiral’s son, typical, she thought.

After her partner returned her to Rose and Ariadne, she looked for an excuse to escape from them for a moment. “I’m going to get something to drink, I’ll be right back,” she said, and without waiting for a reply, she headed for the table where they were serving refreshments. Rose watched her go, narrowing her eyes for a moment.

Penny was happy when she saw that the wine server was one of her fellow maids, Laura was her name. She knew her well and felt she could trust her for one final favor. She asked for red wine, but caught Laura’s hand as she handed the glass to her. “I need a favor, Laura. Will you deliver a message for me?” Penny tried to look casual.

Laura was a bit startled, “Sure Penny, but it will have to wait till after the ball, or I’ll get in trouble.” That was perfect, so Penny nodded and handed the other girl her letter. The outside was addressed simply ‘Mordecai’.

“Just take this to Mordecai after you are done here, he’ll want to see it.” She thanked Laura and headed back to where the other ladies were waiting, unaware of the blue eyes that had followed her every move.

Standing with Ariadne and Rose, she began to feel a nervous flutter in her stomach. Her resolve had kept her calm thus far, but handing over the letter made her anxious. She kept her eyes on the crowd, looking for Devon. “Penny,” Rose interrupted her thoughts, “Have you seen Dorian? I intend to get a dance out of that man if I have to drag him onto the floor.”

Penny had just spotted Devon, so the opportunity to get rid of Rose’s watchful gaze was perfect. “He’s standing over there, talking to Gregory Pern,” she pointed. “I’m sure poor Gregory could use a rescue. You know how Dorian gets once he’s talking about history and long done wars.”

“I don’t know him that well yet,” Rose answered, “but I hope to one day.” She winked and walked away. She moved gracefully in the direction that Penny had indicated. She drew near to where Dorian was standing but did not approach him, she kept moving slowly. His eyes left Gregory and she could feel him staring at her. Rose glided past him, turning her head to stare him full in the face, a twinkling gleam in her eye and a smile on her face. She kept walking, heading for the refreshments, but her eyes never left his face.

Even Dorian Thornbear could not miss that clue, dense as he so often was around women. He excused himself from Gregory Pern and followed her to the table. When he got there he found her in deep conversation with the girl serving wine.

“I need you to give me whatever Miss Cooper handed you, my dear,” Rose was holding two silver bits in her hand, even though they weren’t supposed to pay the servers.

“I’m sorry, milady, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Laura was a good friend, but holding off the formidable Rose Hightower was making her nervous.

Rose leaned in close to her ear, “We can do this one of two ways, one way ends with you being embarrassed and possibly whipped, the other you get two silver bits and do your friend an unexpected favor.” She leaned back and smiled at the girl. Dorian couldn’t hear all of the exchange, but the look on the girl’s face made him feel bad for her. A moment later Rose had him escort her over to a small table where she could examine the letter.

It was sealed with a blob of red wax, and the outside had the word ‘Mordecai’ written on it. Rose considered opening it, but she wouldn’t do that to Penny. Her mind worked quickly, and the clues of the past few days began to come together in her mind. Penny’s sudden interest in the dance, her odd questions, and her occasional dark moods. She still wasn’t sure what Penny might be planning, but she knew it must be serious, and it would be here, at the ball. The letter would likely complete the puzzle.

“Dorian,” she said giving him her full attention, “I need you to do something a bit strange for me.”

“Certainly Lady Rose,” his warm eyes held hers.

“Call me Rose from now on; it’s silly how you keep addressing me like that. We’ve been through enough now to call each other familiar.” She reached over and put her small hand over his. Dorian’s eyes widened, he was on uncertain ground now. “Forgive me Dorian, I wanted a dance, but this may be more important. Will you take this letter to Mordecai? He needs to read it now, the moment you find him. I would urge you to run if you would help him most.”

One of the most amazing things about Dorian Thornbear was his unfailing loyalty. Where many would question or seek to delay, Dorian took the letter and stood up, “Save that dance for me, Lady Rose.” He moved away through the crowd, striding quickly, and once he was outside, he did indeed break into a jog. Rose watched him go before rising to find Penny.

I was reading again when the door opened, “You could knock first,” I said as I saw Dorian striding in, he was breathing hard. I guess running up stairs will do that to a man.

He ignored my comment, “Here,” he said, “Read this and be quick, Rose seems to think it’s urgent.” I could see he was in no mood for foolishness, so I took the letter from his hand. It was marked with my name, and I was fairly sure the lettering was Penny’s.

Opening it I started scanning the contents, and then I reread them to be sure I hadn’t missed anything.

Dear Mordecai,

I write this now with great trepidation, not because of what I must do, but rather because it is impossible for anyone to put all their thoughts and feelings into something so limited as a simple letter. I need you to understand that you have always been my friend, and for that I am grateful. You should also know that the events resulting from my actions from this point forward are no fault of yours. I believe strongly that each person must take responsibility for their own actions, to do otherwise is to make oneself a victim in the hands of fate, and I will not be a victim.

Marcus has explained your situation with Devon Tremont to me fully, and for that reason I want you to know that what I plan to do is not because of you. As you know, I have good cause for hating that singularly unfortunate individual. I would that he had never been born. The fact that his removal might aid you and the Lancaster family is a great comfort to me, but it is not the cause for my actions. Please do not blame yourself. I make my own choices.

I will keep my reasons to myself, for they would only do you a greater hurt, one you do not deserve, for you have always been a gentle soul. I will say only that fate has conspired against me. I have done that which cannot be undone, and it has left me with few options. Rather than be held a prisoner by those options, I choose to act, hopefully preventing greater harm to others. I feel there is no redemption for Devon Tremont, just as there is none for me. At least my actions may lead to greater good, while his have done nothing but ill.

Last, and this is the most difficult part, for I fear it will cause you pain, I want to explain my feelings to you. My love for you is no recent thing, no sudden fancy. In our games as children you were always my knight in shining armor, though I doubt you realized it. Your kind heart and silly wit won me over during the endless summer days of childhood. I love you, and I always will, for whatever time is left to me. No matter what they say of me after this day do not forget that. There are others that love you though, and it is important you remember that. When I am gone, do not let despair drive you to foolish choices, for you are important to a great many people, and I am least among them.

Yours forever,

Penny

“Dammit!” I swore. “Dorian, where did you get this?”

“Rose got it from one of the servers,” he answered.

I was already dressing. The doublet and hose would take far too long so I put on my simple breeches and tunic, the clothes I had arrived in. After a moment’s thought, I put my mother’s surcoat over them and buckled on the sword my father had given me. Dorian’s eyes registered surprise at that. “You can’t wear a sword to the ball.”

“I’ll be damned if I don’t, and you might want to collect your own, we may need it.” I slipped my boots on. My fever had gone, so I felt better, though I was lightheaded. I started for the door, then paused. A few quick words and I had shielded myself. I wasn’t certain what might happen, but I wanted to be ready.

We went as quickly as I could manage, which was nearly a run despite the soreness in my back. My ribs no longer hurt, but I was still short-winded from the damage to my lung. Dorian left me when we reached the ground floor, going to fetch his own sword, I think, but I didn’t ask.

Back at the ball Penny was dancing. Rose had been a frustrating distraction, sending a variety of dancing partners her way, making it difficult for her to single out the man she sought. Lord Devon had solved the problem for her though. She had been watching him steadily while she danced with various partners, and he had noticed her looks. After her dance with Gregory Pern, he walked over with a curious expression.

Rose moved smoothly into his path, seeking to turn him aside, she could see he was focused on Penny, “Lord Devon, what a happy surprise to see you here tonight? I thought you might be busy tending your bruised pride.” Rose needled him, hoping to draw his anger.

“Excuse me, Lady Rose, I believe the lady seeks a dance,” he answered with a sneer, brushing past her.

“Very perceptive of you, Lord Devon,” Penny said with a sly smile. “I had little hope you would notice me.” She put her hands together and slid them up the sleeves till they were at her elbows.

“Would you care to dance?” Devon gestured at the milling dance floor.

“Certainly, if my poor grace will be enough to entertain you,” Penny answered. She drew her arms apart, and Rose was relieved to see her hands were empty. Devon took one of her hands and placed his free hand on her waist, slightly lower than was proper, but she did not complain. Penny had her other hand on his shoulder. She had planned and practiced for this, and the dagger’s pommel was in her palm with the blade running up her forearm while her fingers held it still. Holding it reversed forced her to keep her wrist straight, and her hand was stiff, but no one could see it, still hidden by her sleeve. Once she had her hand resting on his shoulder, he would be unable to see the strange posture of her hand.

“I wonder at your motives,” Devon said, “to seek a dance with me.”

“I have had time to think on our encounter a few nights ago,” she gave him a smouldering look.

“A small burn would lead most to seek to avoid the fire, lest they burn themselves again,” he replied.

“Some women find danger to be an aphrodisiac, once they have had time to get over their initial fear,” Penny leaned closer, placing her face against his neck.

Devon had met all manner of women, and he knew some were quite twisted, but he could not help but think this maid was playing a subtle joke of some sort. “What of your blacksmith?”

She leaned back to look into his eyes, “He isn’t here tonight, and you, my Lord... are...” she brought her lips up to meet his. She only needed to distract him for a moment while her hand moved up, letting the sleeve fall free, clearing the blade for its fatal plunge. Devon’s eyes widened for a moment, but her distraction worked, for he failed to notice as her hand rose.

Penny held the long blade up, point carefully aimed so that it would strike between his shoulder blades, just below his neck. She would only get one chance. Forgive me Mort, she thought, and then she tensed to drive the blade home. A scream went up from across the room, “Penny, don’t!!” It was Rose Hightower, and her warning spoiled Penny’s careful plan.

Jerking her about, Devon saw the blade and caught her wrist in his hand, twisting her arm violently, causing the blade to fall free and sending pain shooting up to her shoulder, “You stupid girl!” he yelled, and then he threw her to the stone dance floor. She started to rise but his boot caught her in her midsection. The air exploded from her lungs with an audible ‘whoosh’, leaving her choking and gasping on the ground.

“Damned whore! Did you think to slay me? Look at me you feeble minded trollop!” he screamed at her. Penny looked up and his second kick caught her in the face, sending her sprawling. She tried to rise, but her arms slid out from under her. Something was in her eyes and the agony of her nose blinded her with pain. People were screaming now, but she could not understand them.

Devon Tremont was laughing, and he reached down to grab the back of Penelope’s head. He jerked her head up, delighted at the blood on her face. One eye was swelling and her nose looked as though it might be broken. “You’ll hang for this bitch!” he yelled at her, drawing his fist back to strike her again.

I was almost to him when he pulled Penny’s head back, and the sight of her battered face drove all reason from my mind. I grabbed his fist and jerked him around to face me as I hammered my right hand into his astonished face. The blow sent him reeling, stumbling back, and he fell. I advanced on him, determined to finish what I had started when one of the guards struck me from behind, staggering me.

I turned and saw the man staring stupidly at his broken truncheon. The heavy wooden weapon had snapped when it struck my head. I was glad I had shielded myself when I saw that. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it,” I growled and looked back at Devon.

The young lord was back on his feet now, and my eyes could see he had put a shield around himself as well. He circled me warily, “Someone give me a sword!” he shouted. The guard behind me tossed him his own.

I glared at the guard, “I’m going to remember that.” I drew my father’s sword as I closed with Devon, and we began our deadly dance. I call it a dance, but honestly I am no swordsman. I beat at him like an enraged farmhand with a club. His sword was moving too quickly for me to follow, so I ignored it and hammered at him as if he were a side of beef to be cut up for market.

The only thing that saved me was the shield I had cast about myself. I pressed Devon hard, keeping him off-balance with heavy blows, but still his sword kept slipping my guard to strike at me. I would have been bleeding from a dozen places if it could have cut me. Finally, we drew back to catch our breath.

I was breathing hard, winded already. My recovery was far from complete, and it would not be long before my anger would no longer be enough to keep me fighting. Worse, Devon looked as though he was still fresh. He held his sword in front of him and ran his finger down the blade, “Thylen” he said, and I saw a glow appear along the edge.

I hadn’t learned that trick yet, and it worried me. From the corner of my eye I could see Rose pulling Penny away. The guards had us encircled now and Sir Kelton was shouting at me to put down my sword. They probably would have rushed me, dragging me down if Dorian hadn’t intervened.

“Get back!” His booming voice cut through the din as he broke into the circle. His sword was out and he glared at them from beneath dark brows. “The first man to interfere will find his insides on the floor!” he shouted. Then Devon came at me again.

We traded quick blows, but he had me on the defensive now. I was backing as he pressed his advantage, and I felt his sword tip catch my cheek, slicing effortlessly through my shield. Shit! I was desperate now, he seemed able to cut me at will, and even if I could get past his guard, my sword wouldn’t pierce his shield.

I had an idea. Stepping back quickly I spoke, “Shelu Nian Trethis” and I found myself in utter silence. I had stoppered my ears with a special type of shield, one to prevent sound from entering. My own brilliance amazes me sometimes. I could see Devon’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear his words. If I had to hazard a guess I would imagine it was something like, “You stupid fool.”

He came at me, and I closed my eyes, “Lyet ni Bierek!” I said, and I put everything I had into it. The result was astonishing. Light flashed so brightly that everyone watching us was blinded, including I hoped, Lord Devon. The light was accompanied by a thunderous ‘boom’ so great that it shook the teeth in my jaw. Everyone within the ballroom drew back reeling, some fell to the floor crying out with shock. I would judge that my ‘flashbang’ was a success, although I still needed to work out a better name for it.

I opened my eyes and saw Devon sitting on the ground. He was blinking and seemed completely disoriented. His sword lay beside him, but his hand couldn’t find it. I had created my spell right in front of him, so he should have gotten the worst of it. The flashbang was a creation of pure light and sound, with no force behind it to break or destroy. His shield had not protected him at all, not being designed to do so. In fact his shield still appeared to be around him. How annoying, I thought.

I swung at him with my sword, but it failed to do more than knock him sideways. I needed something bigger, heavier. I cast about, looking for a better weapon. My eyes landed on the eastern fireplace. Striding over I looked for the fireplace tools, but someone had taken the iron poker. I started searching the kindling piled next to the hearth instead. The great hall had two fireplaces, and they were so large that the logs were cut almost three feet in length. I selected a sturdy piece fully four inches in diameter. I held it up in a double handed grip, it seemed to have promise.

I headed back towards Devon. He was standing now and still seemed blind, but he didn’t need eyes to see me. Using his mage-sight he pointed at me and said something I couldn’t hear. White hot flames erupted around me, but my shield kept out the worst. The heat was so great my clothes began to crisp and char about me. I ignored the flames and marched at him, “Lyet Bierek” I said again, and a great cracking ‘boom’ sent him to the floor.

The flash had partly blinded me, but I didn’t need my eyes any more than he did. The log swung in a great arc as I slammed it into his face. He flew several feet, crashing into a chair near the edge of the room. I hit him again, pleased he was still conscious. I began steadily raining blows on him with my firewood club. He tried to raise his sword, but I knocked his arm aside. I thought it might have broken, which brought a smile to my face. I smacked him about like one of the dummies the guards practice with, beating him senseless.

Finally he collapsed, unconscious on the floor. As he passed out, his shield winked out of existence, and I grinned, raising my makeshift club over my head. Someone touched my arm, and I almost swung at them before I realized it was Marc. He was shouting something but I couldn’t hear him. I removed the sound block from my ears. “...if you kill him, they’ll have you for murder!” he yelled.

I looked at him stupidly, “Yeah? So what?!”

“You’ll be hanged!” he shouted back.

I thought for a second, “If I don’t kill him, he’ll press his case and have Penny hanged!”

Marc looked at me for a moment, “You’re right. Kill him.” Then Dorian appeared, still blinking his eyes from my earlier spell.

“Let me do it,” he said, pointing at Devon with his sword.

We started arguing, trying to decide which of us should finish him off when James Lancaster found us. “Put the firewood down, Mordecai. Dorian, sheathe your sword!” his tone brooked no delay. I looked down at the piece of wood I held, it was still burning from the fire Devon had used on me, so I walked over to the fireplace and threw it in.

Around the room people were still recovering. Several men were beating out a fire that had started near where Devon tried to roast me. A large tapestry was in flames, but it looked like they would be able to keep it from spreading. I walked back to the Duke. His son was arguing with him, but he shouted Marc down, “I’m not hanging anyone; not you, not Penelope, not even this piss poor excuse of a lord here! Now shut up and let me think!” I was pretty sure that by ‘piss poor excuse of a lord’ he meant Devon, but there was a possibility he meant me instead.

I decided to ignore them and started looking for Penny. I found her with Rose, sitting at one of the small tables to the side. They were surrounded by a crowd of people; some of them watched me as I walked over. I showed my teeth and growled at them, “Move!” They cleared out quickly, and a few even ran.

I looked at Penny, she was sitting up, but her face looked terrible. One eye was swelling shut, and her nose looked like someone had formed it from a badly shaped piece of bread dough. “Oh, Mort! Your cheek!” she exclaimed. Her voice had a comical nasal twang, as if she were holding her nose pinched shut.

“Shut up stupid,” I said gently. I sat down next to her and touched her face with my mind. Sure enough the bone in her nose had snapped and been driven sideways.My experiments on my own bones had taught me a few things, so I spoke a quiet word first, damping all sensation in her face. Then I moved the bones back into place and reconnected them. My attempt at pain blocking wasn’t entirely successful, because she still let out a choked cry as the bones realigned. I couldn’t do anything about the swelling, but at least she wouldn’t look funny when it healed.

I tried to kiss her, but that didn’t work. Her nose was far too tender, plus she kept going on about my face. Eventually, Rose dragged me over to a mirror along one of the walls. I was a horror. My right cheek was drooping, exposing my upper teeth. Blood coated that side of my face and ran down my neck. Odd, I hardly felt it at all. I pushed the skin back together and sealed it with my finger and a thought, leaving a red line. I would later regret the rush job, since I still have an ugly scar there to this day.

That was when the screaming and yelling started up again. The doorway to the great hall only had a couple of guards still standing at it. Most of the others were scattered through the crowd trying to calm everyone down. The two by the doors were watching the events inside, so they never saw the men in black leathers who crept up on them from behind. They died quickly, but one of them screamed before his windpipe was cut through. Pandemonium erupted as people scrambled to get back from the doors.

The men spilling into the room were all dressed similarly, in black leather with masks tied over their features, hiding everything but their eyes. They carried sharp knives and long curved swords. I was pretty sure they hadn’t come to dance; they had the wrong shoes for it. They spread out and began methodically cutting down the guests. People trampled each other in their efforts to get away, making it easier for the men to reach them.

Duke Lancaster was pushing his way through the crowd, he still hadn’t seen them yet, “What the bloody hell is going on here!?” He roared as people fought to get around him, and then he saw the men. He was nearly slain then, as he was still unarmed. Two of the men had him caught between them and a fallen table, but Lord Thornbear rushed into them from the side roaring like a bear. He didn’t have his sword either, but he held a chair and used it to smash one of the men to the ground. Then he drove the other back like some eastern lion tamer, holding the chair in front of him.

At least thirty of them were already in the room, spreading out, killing anyone they found. I could see many more entering through the main doors. “Lyet Bierek” I spoke and the men all around the doorway fell back, shocked and stunned. That bought us some time while Sir Kelton and the guards in the room struggled to form a line between the remaining guests and the intruders.

The Duke and Thornbear were cut off from the rest of us, surrounded now by a dozen men. The assassins were still disoriented, and Thornbear fought like a maddened bull, swinging his chair back and forth, cracking skulls. Even so they would have been slain had Dorian not come to his father’s aid. He charged from the line of men with Sir Kelton and cut his way past those before him to reach his father.

I had never seen Dorian fight like that before, nor do I hope to ever again. He became a demon of slaughter with a sword in each hand. I wondered where he had found the second blade, and it was only later I realized he had taken Devon’s sword from the ground. Dorian ran through the men in his way, and as he passed they fell back, dropping weapons and crying out from the wounds he gave them. He went through them like a scythe through ripe grain.

Once he had reached the Duke and his father, he paused to toss the sword in his off hand to Lord Thornbear who caught it deftly. The two of them fought on either side of the Duke then, steadily working their way toward Sir Kelton and his men.

During all of this I had taken a position among the guards who were struggling to form a defensive line. Marc was to my right wielding a sword to deadly effect. I tried to do the same, but I was far less skilled, if it had not been for my magical shield I would have died several times over. We strove to drive them back, but there were too many. Man for man the Duke’s guardsmen were better at face to face combat, but the assassins outnumbered us. We were driven back, step by step, till they controlled more than half of the great hall, and we were even further from the two Thornbears and the Duke, who were still fighting for survival.

The guards were falling one by one, and now we had fewer than thirty men, barely enough to form a line across the room. A few more down and we would be overrun. “Dorian!” I yelled, “Run!” He caught my eye for a second, and I hoped he understood. He said something to his father and the Duke, and they turned their backs on the men in front of them, charging toward those that remained between them and our line.

“Lyet Bierek,” I shouted, placing the center of this one behind them. The sound of it would probably deafen them, but at least they were facing away and the men ahead and behind them were blinded. The huge noise even unsettled those before us, and we gained a few feet as some of them fell.

Lord Thornbear and his son hacked their way through the stunned men, while the Duke finished those he could with a long dagger he had found. It looked for a moment as though they would reach us unharmed. Five steps, then ten, they were almost to us, when two men managed to time their strikes at Lord Thornbear. He stopped one blade, and almost dodged the other, but his age betrayed him, and he was too slow. The sword plunged into his chest just below the sternum.

Dorian came of sturdy stock; the elder Thornbear grimaced and grabbed the man who had slain him. Dragging him close he rammed his own sword home before collapsing with his dying foe. I heard a cry come from Dorian’s lips, a sound I will never forget, as he saw his father fall, but there was no help for it. Lord Thornbear was dead.

Dorian slew the second man and might have charged back into the fray, but the Duke stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Instead they leapt over the last fallen man, reaching our line. I saw my friend’s face as he came past, spattered with blood and tears falling from his eyes. I would have spoken to him, but I had no words, and the assassins were pressing us harder now.

The Duke armed himself, and with Dorian among us our line gained strength. Still we were little more than thirty men, and the hall before us held scores, easily a hundred black garbed killers. The conclusion could only be bloody, and it would not be in our favor. As we fought I could see some of the women and noble ladies picking up swords from dead men, shoring up the line. Rose and Penny were among them. I even saw Ariadne arming herself, though she did not try to enter the battle.

Genevieve Lancaster stood behind us now, shouting at those unable or unwilling to fight, organizing them to form a barricade of tables and broken furniture. Seeing that, I had an idea, one that would either save us or kill me in the effort. I have since learned that my ideas are something of a mixed blessing.

Chapter XX

Last Stand in the Great Hall

TRADITIONALLY WIZARDS ARE NOT KNOWN for their ability to heal. The reason for this lies in the complexity of the task. Few mages learn to use their sight inwardly in such a way that they are able to perceive and understand the inner workings of the body. Those that do, find that attempting to manipulate the processes within, results more often in harm than good. Channelers, on the other hand, do not rely on their own power or intuition, but that of their god. Because of this, most acts of magical healing are attributed to saints and holy men. This is not to say that wizards cannot heal. In history a number of accomplished mages have been noted healers, but they are the exception. Most are able to do little more than mend cuts in the skin, some manage to fix broken bones, but few learn the finesse necessary to heal anything beyond that.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

We withdrew behind a makeshift barricade of fallen tables and broken chairs. To call it a barricade was a bit of a stretch I’ll admit, but it gave us a slight advantage. It hampered the men coming at us, making it easier to kill or wound them as they struggled to get over the tumbled furniture. They drew back for a moment to coordinate their final push and the fighting paused.

“Genevieve!” I shouted to the Duchess, “I need your help, I have a plan.” She nodded and came quickly to me. She had seen enough to realize that whatever I might do, it was better than the alternative.

“What can we do?” she asked me.

“Get burned logs from the fire, I need a line, as straight as you can make it from one side of the room to the other!” I told her. It took a few more words to explain myself, but at last she understood me, and soon she had people running to either side of the room, gathering burnt wood to draw the line.

Vestrius’ journal had mentioned great wizards of the past using their strength to create huge shields to protect buildings or men during time of war. Often the effort killed them, especially if they did it without proper preparation. My own experiments had already shown me how much more energy was needed to do something without words as opposed to with them. I already knew the words necessary for creating a shield beyond my own body, but there was another method of increasing efficiency, the use of symbols or visibly drawn lines, much like a summoner’s circle. I wasn’t sure how much help a simple line would be, but it couldn’t hurt.

I had impressed upon Genevieve the need for the line to be as straight as possible, and one of the men helping her was a carpenter by trade. Soon he was using a board from a broken table to help them rule the line as they drew it across the breadth of the hall. I was glad he had thought of it, the line was much better than what I thought would be possible.

Someone spoke out from among the men who stood on the other side of our barricade. “If you surrender now, I promise we won’t kill the women.” Devon Tremont was standing behind them, using a chair so he could see us over their heads. “My men could use a reward for their efforts after all.”

I looked at Marc, “Next time I kill him first, and we can discuss whether it was the proper thing to do later,” referring to our earlier argument.

He agreed with me, and then James Lancaster shouted out, “I would sooner die than hand over my people to you!” He was red faced with anger.

“I can arrange that for you, my dear Duke,” Devon answered him. He closed his eyes, and I could see a deep glow forming around him. The power he was radiating now was immense; so far beyond the pale that I could hardly believe he was human. Even the people around me could see it now, and fear ran through the defenders. I began working my way along the line of men and women guarding the barricade, giving quiet instructions. Outwardly I remained calm, but the power facing us was so great that I no longer felt the confidence I pretended to.

“Mal’goroth, come, use me! Show your wrath to these who would defy you!” Devon shouted.

I looked back at Genevieve, “Is it ready?”

“Almost, we’re almost there,” she shouted back.

Looking back at Devon my heart quailed. I had learned enough to realize what he was doing. He had broken the most important rule for a mage; he had opened his mind to one of the Dark Gods and given himself over to it. The power of the evil deity was coursing through him now, and his body seemed to swell larger with it. I knew that if we did not kill him, he would be the doom of the world. Mal’goroth would use his power to open a bridge; a bridge strong enough for the dark god to enter our world.

Then a voice spoke to me within my own mind. It came from within, but I could sense that it originated with the silver star in my pocket, the symbol of Millicenth, the Evening Star. Let me help you. Together we can stop him before it is too late. In my mind I could see the shining lady speaking to me, and I knew she spoke truly. Without realizing it I drew out the holy symbol, holding it before me in my hand. I almost accepted her offer, but as I wavered, Penny came over and struck the symbol from my hand.

I looked at her, a question in my eyes, “Father Tonnsdale poisoned your family, and he tried to poison everyone here!” she shouted at me. I nodded, her words raised many questions but there was no time for them now. I turned back and saw our enemies charging at the barricade.

“For Lancaster!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, and every man and woman echoed the cry. Then without warning they turned, ducking down and plugging their ears. “Lyet Bierek,” I spoke, and then repeated myself, again and again. The sounds were deafening and it felt as if the castle had come under bombardment from cannonade. The enemy attack faltered as men screamed and fell clutching their eyes, some with bleeding ears, and the men and women of Lancaster took several steps back, crossing the line Genevieve and the carpenter had created.

I looked at the doors across the room from us, far behind the men we faced, and I spoke the words to create a shield across it, one tight enough to prevent even air from passing. Then I looked down to the line that stood in front of me. Penny watched my face, and I wondered if I would die. It seemed such a shame. She started toward me but I held up my hand, I couldn’t afford any distractions.

Reaching down into myself, I drew out my power and let it fall from my lips and down my arm as I gestured to the line before me. I could feel it flowing outward, filling the line that had been drawn, and then I raised my hands upwards. A shimmering screen of light rose from the floor to meet the ceiling, seamless and perfect. Some of the enemy had already charged at us, and those who were across the line were cut cleanly in half. Limbs and body parts falling to the floor as they died. Those behind slammed into air that had become solid as stone, I could feel the force of them as they struck my shield.

Devon laughed where he stood behind them, purple flames coursing over his body, “Fool! You can’t maintain that shield for long! You’ll die of the strain, and I’ll be killing your friends before your body has cooled!”

I glared at him across the screen that separated us, “You don’t look so good Devon, did someone rearrange your face for you, or were you always that ugly?” Despite the power running through him, his face was swollen from the beating I had given him earlier. “Oh, that’s right I nearly beat you to death with the ugly stick, didn’t I? Maybe I should finish the job. It could only improve your looks!”

He snarled something at me, and I could feel a dark force pressing against my screen, trying to tear it open. That worried me, the strength to maintain a shield is greater than the strength needed to destroy it and he would rapidly burn through my reserves if he kept pushing at it. I looked across the open room and spoke the words I had been saving, words of fire and power.

Nothing happened. I could feel myself weakening and realized I had overextended myself. I didn’t have the power left to accomplish my goal. We were going to die. Devon thrust his power against my shield again and I staggered, falling to my knees. Only seconds remained before my strength was gone. I dropped my sword and saw it strike the floor. There at the base of the blade was the maker’s mark, the mark of Royce Eldridge. For a moment I remembered his words as he had given it to me. “I did not make this for your vengeance. I did this to show that even from the ashes of wickedness and tragedy something of beauty can arise. I made this hoping the same for you. Use it for yourself, use it for defending those who cannot protect themselves, as your true father would have. Do not shame either of us.”

I stood up, driven by nothing but my resolve. “Pyrren nian Aeltos, Pyrren strictos Kaerek!” I spoke again, this time opening my heart, pouring my life into the spell. Loosely translated, the words meant, ‘Let the air burn, turning all to ash,’ and I meant them. The air beyond my screen bloomed into white hot incandescent flames. I had not directed my spell at the men but the air itself.

Within seconds the flame was out, and I could feel a tugging at my screen. The air inside had been used up, creating a vacuum that pulled against my screen. The enemy were mostly dead, and those still living were suffocating. Devon was still standing, his own shield had protected him, but his eyes were bulging. He gasped as he tried to draw breath, but there was nothing to breathe, nothing but smoke and ash.

He began beating at my shield with his mind, using his power like a battering ram, not even bothering with words. He couldn’t speak anyway. The room grew dim as he struggled against me, and my vision narrowed, as if I were standing in a tunnel. I held the shield for a long minute before he finally collapsed, and then I held it for minutes more. I had to make sure he was dead.

People were yelling, and someone was shaking me, but I ignored them. I would not release my spell till Devon Tremont was dead beyond any doubt. Penny was standing in front of me, and I could see her screaming at me, but I couldn’t understand her words. Finally she slapped me, and the screen collapsed. Smoke and cinders filled the air, and people began coughing.

I looked at her, “Why did you do that?” I said.

“Because you were killing yourself, idiot!” she answered me, and then the ground rushed up to meet me. She tried to catch me, but all she managed was to break my fall. I looked up at her; she had never seemed so lovely.

“Your nose looks like a potato,” I said with a laugh and then passed out. Stupid never dies, I thought as I spiraled into darkness.

Chapter XXI

THE BIGGEST FACTOR WHICH MAKES healing anything beyond simple wounds difficult is a problem of perception. Some wizards manage to heal more complex wounds within their own bodies, but fail when faced with the same problem in other people. Their perception of the inner actions of someone else’s body is hampered by the sensations and perceptions of their own body. The few great mage healers found a way around this problem, enabling them to occasionally achieve miracles that some thought possible only for the gods. A great tragedy lies in the loss of the knowledge detailing how they accomplished this.

~Marcus the Heretic,

On the Nature of Faith and Magic

I woke in a dark room. I lay still for a long while, trying to figure out how I had gotten there. Gradually I realized that someone lay next to me, and after a moment I identified it as Penny. The snoring is a dead giveaway, and it was worse than ever now, probably because of her nose. I slid my hand over to her and discovered she had a nightgown on. How disappointing. She stirred, and the snoring stopped, I could feel her eyes on me in the dark, although I was sure she couldn’t see. The room was pitch black.

“Are you awake?” she asked softly.

“I’m not sure, this could be heaven,” I replied moving my hand over her shoulder. “I must be awake, because in heaven all the girls are naked.”

“Idiot, we thought you were dying,” she said, “I thought I would lose you.”

“I should have written you a letter first, then you would have felt better.” I replied sarcastically. Have I mentioned my unparalleled skills in talking to women?

For a change she didn’t react angrily, “I couldn’t do it without leaving you something—to explain.” I didn’t like the sound of her voice, it had a thick sound, as if she were about to cry.

I did my best to divert her, “Exactly why did you try to kill Devon anyway? Are you that interested in getting yourself killed?”

She explained what had happened; her vision, killing Father Tonnsdale, and her resolve to make the most of things by getting rid of Devon Tremont. I listened quietly, amazed at her nerve. This lovely woman had killed the traitor and hidden the fact without me being any the wiser. Then she had planned a murder and kept me completely unaware. I would have been scared to have her in the bed with me if I weren’t absolutely sure we were on the same team.

“At least I had a good reason for everything I did. Unlike you... you tried to kill yourself at the end, even after they were all dead,” she finished.

“Not true, I was making sure they were dead,” I answered.

“You’re an idiot.” she shot back.

“You’re a double idiot, potato nose!” I replied wittily. Luckily, this time she saw the humor in my joke and started giggling, and soon we were both laughing. Fatigue washed over me in waves, and I decided I needed more sleep. Before I drifted off, I realized I couldn’t feel her with my mind. I couldn’t feel anything. I was blind, but it wasn’t my eyes that weren’t working.

I woke early the next morning, amazed at how good I felt. By all rights I should be dead. Instead I was hungry and extremely thirsty. Penny was not in the room so I ordered room service, “Hey! Somebody! I know you’re out there, ya bunch of vultures. I’m not dead! I want food and something to drink!” In point of fact, I had no idea if anyone was outside my door, I couldn’t sense anything beyond what my eyes could see. But I’m smart you see, I knew that whenever the hero slays a dragon the villagers always wait outside to bring him food and drink. There are usually grateful virgins too, but I didn’t think Penny would approve of me asking for those.

Sure enough Benchley poked his head into the room, “You called, Sir?”

“Yes, thank you Benchley. Do come in,” he entered the room with his usual aplomb. I ignored his impeccable manners and started placing my order, “I need you to go kill me a cow. Not a small one mind, a big fat one. Have it cooked and brought up straight away.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Certainly sir.”

“Wait, nix that. Cooking will take too long, just kill it and bring it on up, I’ll have it rare.”

He nodded and left, cheeky bastard. I had my suspicions that he might not have taken me seriously. Of course I could just as easily have gone down and gotten my own food. My body seemed surprisingly whole, but they didn’t have to know that. Not yet anyway.

Since I was alone, I took the opportunity to relieve myself. Strictly speaking the chamber pot is for use at night, so you don’t have to make the long walk to the privies, but I was feeling contrary. I also examined my face in the mirror.

Ugh! I looked like I had a really bad hangover. Too bad I hadn’t actually been drinking. The scar on my cheek was ugly and red, and the skin had obviously been put together a bit sloppily. I can always tell the ladies it’s a dueling scar, I thought. Then I realized it actually was a sword inflicted scar; the events of the previous day seemed almost unreal.

There was a knock at the door so I hopped back in bed. It wouldn’t do to give away my healthy condition too soon, “Come in!”

Benchley came in, and as I suspected he had not brought me the cow I had ordered. Instead he had a large tray loaded with roast beef and a variety of fruits and vegetables. “Where’s my cow?” I asked reasonably.

“I’m afraid the cow was too fast for me sir. I managed to hack this part off before it got away. I do hope it will be satisfactory,” he answered with a deadpan face. I’ll be damned, I thought, he has a sense of humor. I decided to forgive him for cooking it instead of bringing it up raw.

Benchley left, and Marc came in soon after. “Still playing sick I see,” he remarked.

He always had known me too well. “After yesterday I think I could use a rest,” I replied.

“Yesterday? You’ve been abed for almost two days. The attack was three days ago,” he said.

“Oh,” I replied intelligently.

Seeing my confusion, he began filling me in on the events after my untimely collapse. Once the enemy had been crisped and starved for air they had searched the bodies. Dorian had taken the extraordinary precaution of hacking Lord Devon’s head from his shoulders. It seems I wasn’t the only paranoid one. They had even burned his corpse, both parts.

The Duke had rallied the outer garrison and they had swept the castle from top to bottom, rooting out the rest of the assassins. They had actually found another forty men scattered throughout the keep, and some of the fighting had been long and bloody, but in the end the men of Lancaster had won the day. Dorian had gotten more exercise during that, and had made quite a reputation for himself. Some of the men were calling him the ‘Demon of Lancaster’ now. He had been less than merciful to the enemy. He had also been wounded.

It was just a flesh wound, a dagger through his thigh, but Rose had him in her care now, and she was taking no chances. Apparently she was just as protective of him as Penny had been with me. The family physician was probably still off sulking somewhere.

Father Tonnsdale was found dead in his study, and it was widely circulated that the assassins had killed him first. Genevieve never mentioned seeing Penny with the iron poker and I’m still not sure if she forgot or if she and Penny had come to an agreement. Women are scary, and I’m probably better off not knowing. Timothy’s body had not been found, and knowing Penny’s story, that worried me some, but I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

The teleportation circle that Devon had created was found during the search for assassins. Unfortunately, it was destroyed before I had a chance to study it. I would have given a pretty penny to know how it was constructed. I still had hopes that such things might be found further into Vestrius’ journal.

All told some thirty seven men and women of the Lancaster household lost their lives, and a considerable number were injured, but it could have been much worse. Close to two hundred assassins had been killed, and if Father Tonnsdale’s plan had been successful the people of Lancaster would have been unable to defend themselves. It would have been a repeat of the slaughter at Cameron Castle sixteen years before.

Of the noble guests who had come to the Lancaster estate, two were dead. Stephen Airedale was killed during the defense of the great hall. The other was Devon Tremont of course, and there were sure to be repercussions for his actions and his death, although it was far from certain what they would be.

Gregory Pern proved that his father’s military success was no mere accident, for he acquitted himself admirably during both the defense of the hall and the clean-up action after Devon was killed. James Lancaster wrote Admiral Pern a long letter detailing what had happened and commending him on his son’s bravery.

Some of the guests stayed for another week after the disaster, to assist as they could, and to be present at the funerals. Rose Hightower stayed for a month, refusing to leave until Dorian was fully recovered. In fact, he could nearly run by the time she left, but we knew there were more reasons for her to stay than just his wound.

The enemy were stacked and burned beyond the castle walls. Only the bodies of Lancaster were buried, and within two days of the battle. The funeral service was almost a week afterwards. It took time to get the castle back in order, and quite a few people had been wounded. It was held on a small grassy knoll near the cemetery, and everyone still able to walk or hobble attended. James Lancaster gave the eulogy, and because so many had died, it took nearly two hours to finish. He made a point to speak for several minutes about each person that had died. Frankly I was amazed that he had known them all.

The good Duke was the sort of man who made it a point to know everyone who served him, down to the lowest servant, and he had obviously spent long hours working on his speech. Before it was half done, most of the crowd were misty eyed, those that weren’t already weeping openly. He saved Lord Thornbear for last.

“Gram Thornbear I have saved ’til now, because I was not sure I would be able to finish if I spoke of him first, for he was my closest friend. In life I knew him from our boyhood days, as a fellow adventurer in childhood pastimes. As a man I respected him as a loyal companion, a loving father, and a wise counselor. In death, I mourn him, for he saved my life and the lives of many standing here now. His action in the brave defense of the great hall was merely the last act in a long life full of service and integrity. Gram Thornbear’s last moments stand out not as an exception, but as an example of how he lived; strong and unbowed by the hardships and trials that cause lesser men to lose their way. He was my first and best friend, and I doubt I shall ever know his like again. We will all miss him.” James Lancaster’s head was bowed as he finished, and I am sure he was crying.

To see him weeping openly, affected me deeply; for I had never known him to complain or show sadness. My own face was wet as I held Penny’s hand, not daring to look at her, and I vowed to live my life as best I could; to live up to the examples in front of me, Lord Thornbear, James Lancaster, Royce Eldridge, and my own father, whom I had never known. Only time will show whether I succeed or not.Epilogue

It had been over two weeks now since that dark day at Lancaster Castle, and life was moving on, as it does. I had used some of my new funds to secretly commission an engagement ring for Penny. She had told me it wasn’t important, but Rose assured me privately that if I didn’t get a ring, she would see to it that I suffered painful consequences. I was grateful for the advice, and I’ll stick to that story till I reach my grave.

We were gathered now in the chapel. I had some misgivings about that, considering Father Tonnsdale’s involvement in the treachery that had nearly killed us all, but the new priest assured everyone who would listen that the man had been acting on his own evil impulses, rather than some dark intent given by the Evening Star. I’ll keep my own counsel on that. The books I was studying were rather plain spoken with regards to how far the gods could be trusted. In any case, the young Father Terragant seemed like an earnest and faithful man.

I stood at the head of the church, directly before the altar. Since this was not a religious ceremony, Duke Lancaster stood before me looking down. Following long tradition, I knelt before him, holding my hands up before me, palm to palm as if praying. It was the ancient position of homage, given before one’s liege-lord. James Lancaster took my hands between his own, and I repeated the oath I had been carefully tutored in, “I swear on my honor that I will, now and in the future, remain faithful to James, Duke of Lancaster, to never cause him harm. I will observe my duty to him completely against all persons, in good faith and without deceit.”

James answered me, “It is right that those who offer to us unbroken fidelity should be protected by our aid. And since you, a faithful one of ours, have seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to us in our hand, therefore we decree and command that you shall ever be sheltered by us and given succor in time of need.”

The ceremony of commendation was essentially complete at that point. Naturally the occasion demanded some extra pomp and circumstance, but I won’t bore you with the details. I had spoken with Genevieve before hand, and she and James had agreed to let me add something of my own at the end, while everyone was still together. When my time had come, I stood and addressed the assembled crowd, “While you are all gathered, I have one final and important moment to share with you.”

Some of the people in the crowd looked at each other questioningly. This hadn’t been mentioned previously, but Marc and Dorian nudged each other knowingly. I stepped down from the dais then, and walked to where Penelope sat in the first row. She had been seated there, even though she had no standing, because the Lancasters already knew of our plans.

She looked a question at me, obviously concerned that I was about to do something foolish in front of the gathering, but I ignored it. Taking her hands, I drew her to her feet and then went to one knee, “Penelope Cooper, I have never known a lady so noble, lovely and kind as yourself. Will you marry me?”

She blushed more deeply than I had ever seen her do, “Yes, yes I will marry you Mordecai.” The gathered crowd burst into cheering and applause. As the noise rose in volume, she whispered to me, “Dummy, you still don’t have a ring.” But there were tears in her eyes and her smile would have lit the room, even had it been the dead of night.

As I looked on her she seemed to glow, and it took me a moment to realize my magesight had returned. The subtle radiance around her shimmered with what I can only assume was happiness.

A small figure moved through the garden. It had the shape of a small boy, but an observer would note that it moved oddly; some movements too quick, others awkward as if it were unfamiliar with its own body or strength. A full moon lit the landscape, and as the figure turned, its face was clearly recognizable. Timothy smiled at the night and walked on, searching for something to satisfy him. He could sense life in the night, the small shapes of animals moving. They weren’t much, but they would do—for now.

The Story Continues in… The Line of Illeniel (Mageborn #2)

© 2011 by Michael G. Manning

All rights reserved.

Afterword

THE BLACKSMITH’S SON WAS MY first venture into the world of fantasy. If you enjoyed this tale then rest assured the story continues. The Mageborn series is five books long and I’ve already finished the beginning of a prequel series, and a sequel series. To continue following the adventures of Mordecai look for the second book, ‘The Line of Illeniel’, it’s available through all major ebook retailers.

For more information about the Mageborn series check out the author’s Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/MagebornAuthor

Mageborn Series

The Blacksmith’s Son (Book #1)

The Line of Illeniel (Book #2)

The Archmage Unbound (Book #3)

The God-Stone War (Book #4)

The Final Redemption (Book #5)

Champions of the Dawning Dragons Series

Thornbear (Book #1)

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CHOSEN

K. F. Breene

Chapter I

THE NIGHT PRESSED AGAINST THE windows of the small house, so dense it felt solid. The five-year-old girl opened her eyes slowly, allowing sleep to recede. She registered a foreign push against her skull; an overwhelming tension battering at her mental shields. Confused, she opened herself up, trying to figure out what was happening. As if pushed out into a storm, her mind was flooded with emotions—determination, fatigue, sorrow, anxiety, rage—she was nearly dragged under with the explosion of turmoil around her. She stumbled out of bed, calling for her mother.

“Go back to bed, young Shanti. Your mother has gone to see about something.”

Putting her hand out, trying to physically block the mental bombardment, Shanti squinted into the darkness, making out her grandmother sitting by the window in the front room.

“What is going on, Gamma? Why are you afraid?”

Her grandmother waved her away urgently. “I just had a bad dream, darling. Go back to bed.”

“But—“

“GO! Shanti GO!” her grandmother screamed as she bolted upright, grabbing a throwing knife from her belt.

Startled, Shanti watched as the door burst open, hinges creaking like a ruler bent too far. A large man filled the room, looking around for an attack. Only seeing an aged woman and a little girl, his gaze scanned the room for a threat, stopping on the suit of arms above the fireplace. After a beat, his focus went straight to Shanti.

Her grandmother sprang to life. One knife was quickly dispatched to the middle of his neck. The man pawed at it feebly, his strength sapping with each spurt of blood. He tripped on nothing, his legs losing purchase. His weight crashed into the wall, falling a moment later as a wet gurgle bubbled out of his mouth.

Another man pushed into the room behind the first. His gaze snagged on his fallen comrade, limp on the floor. Crouching, he readied for an attack. Seeing the grandmother, knife in hand, ready to throw, he lunged. A thick arm knocked her to the side as her knife found his belly. Her frail body hit the wall and tumbled to the ground.

Shanti watched as the man staggered, clutching at his stomach. Another knife blossomed in the back of his neck, as Shanti’s grandmother prepared to throw yet another from a crumpled heap on the floor beneath the mantle. The man turned and stabbed downward with his sword, ripping a scream from Shanti’s throat as she watched the blade pierce her grandmother’s chest. He staggered again, not knowing he was dead until he finally slumped against the table. Man and wood went crashing to the ground.

Blood oozed from her grandmother’s lifeless body, reaching across the ground as if pleading. Pain beat on Shanti’s chest. A whimper turned into a cry. Fear turned her numb. Screams tore at the night around her.

The overwhelming sensations continued to batter at Shanti’s mind, now mixing with her own tumult. Agony bubbled up, overriding thought. Bright flashes burst behind her eyes, stealing her breath. Then came the rage, tingling her muscles and squeezing out courage. With it came something else. Something harvested from pain, growing and building. A deep well of churning, tortured power.

Dazed, she walked out of the house brimming with something newly awakened. She sucked in every detail of her surroundings; the flames, the screaming.

Shanti walked next door on wooden legs to check on Chase and his mother. Chase was the same age, but without the budding gifts. He liked to work with his hands. A builder. His profession was already chosen by his parents. He would be great someday.

Chase’s door gaped; it had been kicked in. Horrible screaming scratched at Shanti’s ears. The never ending beat of emotions in a fever pitch pounded at her mind, making her stagger into the house clutching her head, calling for Chase. Then she saw him, lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, his sightless eyes staring up at her, accusing.

Further inside the room, two strangers filled the space with their dirty lust. One was trying to lift the limp form of Chase’s mother from the ground. Another man waited, undoing his pants. His gaze swung Shanti’s way.

“Look, Rune, another one. She’s young, but I’ll take her.” The man started toward Shanti, exposing Chase’s mom’s face, slackened. Dying.

A white hot light started in Shanti’s gut and grew, rising, filling her with heat. It rose through her body, lighting her blood on fire. It grew within her skull, latched on to the agony, and turned it into rage so hot, so primal, it could only be called the budding of Wrath.

Power ripped from her body, blinding her momentarily. She clutched the two disgusting minds as her teachers had taught her, holding them within her newly awakened grip. With a shot of power beyond anything the town had seen so far, she stabbed into their minds. The men screamed. Fingers white as they clutched their heads, they sank to the ground in agony.

Panting, half-delirious, the girl turned. Headed out into the night. This had to be stopped. These men had to be dealt with. Her town must be protected.

Everywhere her gaze touched was ruin. Blazing houses, bloodied people—her friends, her neighbors. Keshla lay across the lane, face in the dirt, blood matting her hair. Someone else lay in a boneless heap beyond that.

Pain such that Shanti had never experienced brewed, pumping out more power, unlocking hidden depths, power bubbling up, replacing the horror, giving purpose to her tears. She walked along the lane and threw her mind wide, touching everything in range. She clutched foreign minds in a death grip before blasting them with a shot of power. New screams wrenched the night. All male. Beastly, horrific, terrible screams that were filled with pain so acute that death was welcomed.

She kept walking, killing some quickly, slowly killing others. She reached the square, death in her wake. A man sat atop a horse, a smug grin plastered to his disgusting face. He watched the destruction around him with confident pride; carrying out his job with pleasure. He was the leader, and therefore, deserved a special death.

She killed everyone else off quickly, then, every mind Shanti could identify receiving a killing blast. Except for this man. She looked straight at this man, ignoring the screaming, ignoring the cries and the raging fires destroying homes. She cradled his mind like a baby dove. Then she thought of fire. A blue flame, tickling his skin with the kiss of heat. Increasing the pressure, the soft caress became a bite of razor blades. In her mind’s eye it licked between his toes before climbing up his legs and wrapping around his shins. It scraped against the back of his knees before reaching higher, brushing his fingers in a searing embrace.

His cruel smile winked out as confusion stole his countenance. He patted at his body, trying to smother the invisible flame. Not understanding the pain he couldn’t see.

She pumped more power into it.

Pain bit into him, a thousand points of contact. His patting became more pronounced. Harder. Hands slapping at his legs and chest, rubbing at his face. Terrified screams erupted from his throat before he flung himself off his frightened horse. He hit the dirt with a thud and began to roll, feeling the fire though still not able to see it.

Shanti hit him with more flame. Hotter. Licking his face. Burning his eyes. Closing his throat. Excruciating pain so intense he screamed himself hoarse. Writhing now, and free to do so. Feeling death eat away at his consciousness one pain-filled moment after the next. Dying slowly, like Chase’s mother.

Pain stabbing her heart, sorrow eating away at her heart, Shanti lost consciousness and fell.

Shanti awoke, letting the familiar nightmare evaporate like mist. She sat on the hard, brittle ground, sweeping the area with a tired gaze. As before, all she saw was dead, decaying trees dotting the landscape.

She dug in her bag one last time, looking for nourishment—a scrap, a morsel, anything. But she’d finished her water a day ago. Her food the day before that. Her empty stomach sucked the ribs into the middle of her body, trying to fill that void. Her brain thumped against the inside of her skull with dehydration.

She didn’t have long. She had to find something to eat and drink or her journey would end right here, in this crypt that used to hold a forest.

Heaving herself to her feet, she squinted into the bright sunshine. What frustrated her—when she had the ability to feel anything besides defeat—was that she had planned this route specifically for the forest that should’ve been here. For a forest that should’ve resembled the one in which she’d grown up. There should have been animals and water and life, blast it! She should have been resting and rejuvenating, using the life force of untouched lands to renew her Gift.

She was in the last leg of her journey, nearing the Great Sea, and instead of fulfilling her supposed destiny, she was knocking at death’s door.

Fat lot of good it did sending the Chosen. Chosen to waste away then fail. Chosen to carefully select a route based on outdated information and have no alternative. Chosen to let her people die slowly from starvation or quickly from defiance. Actually, either of those would have been better than the alternative.

Shanti washed those thoughts from her mind. She was too tired to feel any emotion. What was the point? What was she going to do, get really angry at herself and punch a tree? That wasn’t nearly as gratifying as punching the enemy. Plus, these trees had had it hard enough. They shed bits of charred bark like soiled feathers, dead all the way down to the root. She could usually sense life within nature, but there wasn’t a single spark of life around here.

Wasn’t that just fitting…

Half a day later she was staggering. Delirious, she had started to hallucinate, seeing strange visions flit through the dead trees. Her brain pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to rip out of the casing of her skull. Worse still, she was freezing in the hot afternoon sun. Dehydration and heat exhaustion had set in. Her body was shutting down. It was trying to save whatever it could to prolong the inevitable, but without its vital needs met, it had no choice but to keep sliding. She sunk down next to a tree to use the last of her resources to search. If there was someone close, maybe she could hold on.

Her squat turned into a tumble, shivers racking her body as the sun beat down on her bare skin. She didn’t even get a chance to open her mind before darkness consumed her.

Her last, snide thought was: Chosen my ass.

Chapter II

“WHAT IS IT?” GRACAS ASKED. He stared down at an oddly shaped bundle. Despite the rule against it, he stood with his hands in his pockets.

“A girl, I think,” Leilius commented slowly.

Both boys stood frowning down at the twiggy, brown-splotched limbs slumped against the burnt trunk. It almost looked like a skeleton had been held next to the tree on a string, and then released, falling in a cascade of bones to form a pile at the base. The frayed, dirt crusted sheet covering the pile of probably dead human needed to be incinerated to rid it of the obvious bacterial infestation.

“Kick it,” Gracas whispered. A boy just budding into manhood, Gracas was still fascinated by slugs and bugs and, apparently, slightly alien dead things.

“I’m not going to kick it! What if it is a girl? The last time I kicked a girl my dad slapped me across the room then made me do hard labor for a week. And she deserved it!” Leilius was only a year older than Gracas, but he was one step higher in the chain of command. It was a small step, but it was large enough for his chest to puff up with importance.

“It could be a Mugdock girl,” Gracas spat. “They’d be the type to just dump one of their women.”

“The skin’s too light to be Mugdock.”

“It looks brown to me.”

“That’s dirt, I think.”

“Kick it,” Gracas prodded again, leaning over to get a proper glance into the bundle of probable human and possible female.

“What if it smooshes? Commodore Sanders just had me shine my shoes. You kick it.”

Sanders stopped in mid-stride as he noticed the two cadets staring at the ground a ways away from camp. Biting back a swear, he changed course. “What’s going on?”

The boys jumped and flinched at the same time.

“N-nothing, sir,” Gracas stuttered, peeling away to the side.

Leilius, losing the arch in his back, hurriedly backed up next to Gracas. Apparently not quite sure where to look, but not wanting to meet Sanders’ glare, he turned his face to the sky. “We’ve found an unidentified object, sir.” He followed his words with a vaguely pointed finger.

Sanders glanced at the base of a dead tree, found a pile of clothes not fit for a beggar, and turned back to the two nitwits. It was then the image of a pale leg filtered through his red hazed thoughts.

His gaze snapped back to the tree as his eyebrows drooped. It was a girl!

In a rush of movement, he threw out a hand to balance against the destroyed tree. With his other hand he flicked away a piece of fabric, revealing a mat of light hair coated in grime. He felt along a fragile neck until he reached the base. There, weakly pushing at his fingers, was a pulse.

“Gracas, tell Marc to meet us at camp! Make sure he gets his doctoring kit. Leilius, fetch water.”

The boys barely waited for the whip crack of commands to end before scurrying away. Commander Sanders scooped up the girl.

There couldn’t have been a worse scouting party to find her. Except for him, currently doing penance for tardiness, all five boys were in training, and showing no progress. They were the five worst cadets in the entire training camp, and if it weren’t for the Captain’s leniency in punishment, the boys would have been apprenticed out a long time ago. They needed to find something they were good at, because soldiering wasn’t in their future. Or doctoring, as in Marc’s case.

Back at camp, Sanders gently lowered the long waif in front of Marc. The young idiot at least had the sense to lay out a blanket.

Marc kneeled beside the girl slowly, his hands resting on his knees. With wide eyes he asked, “Is she dead?”

“You’re the doctor, moron!” Rachie, another trainee, shouted. The rest of the boys smirked, shifting closer to get a look at the girl.

“Silence!” Sanders barked. His glare backed the boys away.

It also made Marc flinch back.

Sanders pulled his irritation back in and hatched it down. He didn’t need anybody pissing themselves, and this girl was in a bad way. He adopted the high, quiet voice he used with his two-year-old niece. “She has a faint pulse. Don’t you remember anything of your training about faint pulses?”

Marc gulped and stared down at the girl. He shook his head.

A vein began to thrum along Sanders’ neck. His manic smile did not hold any humor. What it did hold, however, was the promise of agonizing pain.

The boys all took another step back.

“Think, Marc,” Sanders tried. His voice sounded like a knife sliding across a whetstone. “Check for wounds.”

Marc raised his hand to shade his face from Sanders’ glower. The other hand hovered over the girl’s torso, shaking, afraid to touch her frail skin.

Sanders’ clenched his fists and took a steadying breath. Marc was barely on the man side of puberty, still a virgin, and had never seen anyone hurt with more than a broken arm. A half dead woman was out of his league. The kid tested way above anyone else in his class, and his teachers said he knew all the information backwards and forward. But he refused to apply his knowledge in real life, retreating into his own introverted world.

If ever there was a time to rectify that little problem, it was now.

Sanders smiled again. Marc’s gulp echoed.

Sanders bent, looking over the still body. Her chest barely rose with each breath. She was covered in dirt from head to toe, but he didn’t notice any blood. No obvious injuries, either.

Leilius scuffled up with a bucket of water. Considering his effort, one would think he carried the bottom half of a cow. “I got the water here, Chief.”

“It’s Commander,” Sanders enunciated as he took over the bucket with one hand. “Rag?”

Gracas scurried up with a blue cloth. It looked like a piece of someone’s uniform. Judging by his sleeveless arm, it was his.

With quick movements, Sanders started to gently wash the dirt from the frail limbs. As the sludge rolled away, he noticed her skin color, pale where it wasn’t red. A foreigner. A distant foreigner at that. She looked about mid-twenties, if he was any judge.

He continued with his treatment, washing everything in sight, and emptied half the bucket over her filthy head. Other than a few scratches, however, she was devoid of visible injuries or bruising. And he couldn’t help but notice she had more muscle development than was normal for a female.

“Help me remove her clothing,” Sanders said as he lifted the bottom of her cover.

Marc’s face turned bright red. “Are you sure?”

Through clenched teeth, Sanders answered, “If you don’t start following orders, I am going to finish with her, and then beat you senseless. You get me? Now, help-me-remove-her-dress.”

Marc reached for the filthy garment with shaking hands, gingerly lifting it past her groin. The girl was bare underneath, and Marc strangled a petrified groan as everyone else gasped.

“Evacuate!” Sanders barked, clearing the space in seconds.

They’d all been on the receiving end of Sanders’ displeasure once or twice, and while looking at a naked girl was high on the list of very important things to see, he was pretty sure it ranked low on the list of ways not to get noticed. As well it should. Sanders would not hesitate to punch out a few more bruises.

As Marc worked off the rest of the fabric, Sanders continued cleaning, not finding anything of note. That was, until they got to the torso. Her skin sunk between each rib. Starved.

“She needs food and water. Nutrients,” Sanders whispered, covering her as a list of needs raced through his head. “Get a clean rag and dribble water into her mouth. If she wakes and starts to drink, give her no more than a dribble.”

Marc let out a noisy exhale of relief as the nipples disappeared, releasing him from paralysis. And while he nodded, he didn’t move.

Fire danced in Sanders’ eyes. The smile was back. “Then why aren’t you moving, Cadet?”

Marc made a sound like, “Huuuuuhhhhhhhhrrrrn,” as unshaped words escaped numb, petrified lips. A second later he took off running like his heels were on fire.

In quicker time than ever before, owing to somewhat harsher treatment by Sanders, the boys had the camp packed up and ready to go. They didn’t have anything to use as a stretcher since that numbskull Gracas had used it to start a fire their first night, and Sanders didn’t want to make a travois and leave heavy tracks, so the largest of the boys and Sanders took turns carrying the girl. They would hike for a day and a half, but while she was a tall girl, she weighed next to nothing. The hardest part for whichever boy was carrying her was focusing on walking rather than the female in his arms.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t so easy for a bunch of budding men holding something with breasts. Distraction was inevitable.

Throughout the day, Marc kept dribbling water into her mouth. He made sure to wet her head and neck, keep the sun off her face, and continue with the water, slowly, methodically. Sanders, eyes always moving, constantly surveying their surroundings, made sure to never keep his gaze on the doctor-in-training long. If the kid thought no one was looking, he seemed to settle into his ministrations. He displayed empathy for the unconscious girl instead of the need to seek approval. He made his own decisions regarding what nurtures were needed when, and how much liquid she could take at any given time. And he was doing it with confidence.

The one time Sanders commented on a job well done, the whole thing went to shit. The kid went back to useless immediately; stumbling, apologizing, and whining; seeking approval for everything; not making a decision on his own. It took three hours of being ignored for him to settle back into his rhythm. Sanders took the hint.

By dinnertime the band of boys were sullen and quiet, constantly shooting glances Sanders’ way. This was Rachie’s fault.

Under Marc’s diligent care, the girl had taken three gulps of water just before they stopped and then let out a long, pain induced moan. Rachie, who was carrying her at the time, had shouted, “Oh shit, she’s alive!”

The idiot had thrown his hands out to the sides as if she was a poisonous spider. Her body spilled across the ground, bringing forth another moan from her and a string of curses from Marc.

Rachie had been the first to learn that Commander Sanders, though one of the shortest men in the Soldier Force, was strong enough to get him airborne. Rachie also learned that being hurled head first into a dead tree hurt quite a lot. At least, that’s what Sanders’ took from the groan.

After the setback, Marc was able to get her to take a few more successful gulps. Then, after a lot of moaning and eye fluttering, he began giving her broth. He had turned more nursemaid than doctor, but he was obtaining results, so Sanders said nothing. After a few pointed glares, each with a hovering threat of violence, no one else did, either.

Later that night Sanders sat in the camp, looking out at the night. A silver moon glowed high overhead, faintly illuminating the burnt and twisted land. A couple hours ago Rachie had woken him for his shift, complaining that something felt weird. When asked to elaborate, the youth couldn’t do it, just shrugged and scratched his shoulder, looking out at the night.

At the time, Sanders hadn’t thought any more about it. These boys wouldn’t know danger if it popped up in front of them wearing a sign. But as he sat, taking the deepest part of the night for guard-duty, the heavy feeling of dread had slowly settled on his shoulders. It pressed down, squeezing his chest and making his small hairs stand up.

Something was out there. Something was wrong.

One by one the boys started to toss and turn in their sleep. Even the girl, sleeping soundly for most of their journey, was writhing, moaning and whimpering in her sleep.

Yes, something was there. Danger lurked.

Sanders turned his knife over in his fingers. His sword lay in front of him on his sleeping bag, the hilt within easy grasp. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be alive for long.

“NO!” Xavier, the oldest boy in the troop, bolted up out of his sleeping sack and into a fighting crouch. He looked around wildly.

Once upon a time everyone, including the Captain, thought Xavier had real potential. He was massive for his age, strong, and growing into a powerful man. He just couldn’t fight for shit. He didn’t like hurting people and nearly fainted at the sight of blood. But now, when no enemy was in sight, he executed the fighting stance perfectly. Ready for combat.

Sanders was too unnerved to notice for long. His eyes continued scanning, looking out into the dark pools of shadow. Wondering what hid just out of sight. Wondering what looked back.

“Commander, something is out there,” Xavier hummed from his ready crouch. With nearly silent steps, he crossed the short distance to sit next to Sanders.

The velvety black lay thick over the barren land. Holding its breath.

“Do you think it’s the Mugdock?” the young man persisted.

Sanders glanced at Marc, hovering worriedly over his charge, then back at the night. “I don’t know. Mugdock don’t usually come this far. Doesn’t mean they won’t.”

Xavier let that settle in for a moment. He asked, “Do you think it’s something to do with the girl?”

Sanders let the question dissolve into the air. He didn’t know. She was an enigma. Where had she come from and why was she allowed to travel alone in distant places? Did her companions all perish, leaving her to continue on her own? Even if that was the case, she wasn’t from anywhere close. Sanders had seen travelers over the years, he’d met people from distant places, he’d even bedded a few, but no one had ever been as light of feature as the waif. Her breasts and chest were so pale they showed faint blue veins. Her hair was the color of burnished wheat even with all the dirt, and fine. Almost like soiled feathers, which meant it was probably fluffy when cleaned. She was lanky and slim, which wasn’t all that rare, but covered in a functional, lean muscle. Her finger tips were calloused, which might have been from playing an instrument, but her hands were muscled as well, as though she was used to working with something heavy. The pads of her feet were tough, especially the balls and toes. Each of those things weren’t strange in its own right, except the coloring, which could be explained away by a childhood disease, but as a whole it was unnerving. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she’d done some fighting. A lot of fighting, if truth be told.

Maybe where she was from women fought as a sport, or for an audience. Or maybe they fought for survival or as penance for a crime. Which was sickeningly similar to the Mugdock.

Leilius gave a loud scream and rolled around, thrashing. Xavier moved to him quickly, shaking the boy awake, trying to keep him quiet. The other boy screamed again, grabbing for Xavier’s head, attempting to execute a lock that would snap Xavier’s neck. Xavier shirked him off easily, batting his hands away and shaking harder. Two others sat up at the commotion.

A wave of fear rumbled over Sanders. His skin tingled. His balls tightened.

Shit was about to blow up.

He gripped his knife and rose to a crouch, ready for an attack.

“Are we under attack?” Gracas asked in a harried whisper. “I don’t see anyone.”

Neither did Sanders. No movement. No sound. Dead trees and barren land stretched out away from them, sprinkled in silver moonlight. If something moved closer, it would have to show itself between pools of shadow. It would present itself, if only for a moment.

A moment was all Sanders needed.

So where was the enemy? Why was every alarm in Sanders’ head going off when emptiness stared back at him?

The girl moved slightly, moaning. Marc was stroking her face, quietly whispering soothing words.

“Commander?” Xavier stared at him, hand on Leilius’ shoulder, waiting for orders. He had apparently stepped up in rank and placed himself in the Second position. It was a good sign for his future. If he had one.

“We hold. It’s too dark to continue en route. Anything could be waiting out there. We need silence. Wake everyone up—no one is getting much sleep anyway. Pack up. We’ll leave at first light if we’re able.”

Sanders lowered again, watching. Logic said nothing waited out there, but his gut said soon they’d face an army. All he could do was wait and see.

It was a long night. The creeping dread never subsided. The bitch of it was Sanders couldn’t see anything the matter. Nor hear anything. His gut said move but his brain said there was no hurry. If it wasn’t for how on edge the boys were, he would think it was time to retire.

“How’s the girl?” Sanders asked Marc as they moved out quietly. It was nearly dawn, but no one wanted to wait any longer.

Marc had deep blue circles under his eyes. “She seems more lucid. She’s taking more liquid and her fever is down. She’s still in danger, but she’s fighting.”

“When did he become an expert?” Rachie mumbled.

Sanders glared at the loudmouthed kid until he shuffled his feet in the other direction. Sanders was not above tossing the kid into another tree.

They set a fast pace, cutting through the land on the fastest route home. They would arrive around noon, a full five days before they were due. If constant fear wasn’t continuously clawing at Sanders’s gut, he would be thrilled to be rid of the young idiots. He didn’t do daycare duty well.

The girl mewed like a lost kitten, thrashing in Xavier’s thick arms. The large boy flexed, keeping her pinned, not daring to drop her like Rachie had yesterday. He didn’t want a bruise on his chest the same size and shape as Sanders’ fist.

Chapter III

SHANTI’S CONSCIOUSNESS EMERGED THROUGH A deep haze. Pain seared her body, almost as if someone had reached in through her stomach and pulled everything inside out. She forced her eyes open, trying to scrabble her way out of the darkness that trapped her. What she saw next terrified her.

A man held her, and judging by the bulging biceps and length of the arms, a large man. He had her pinned against his body in an unbreakable squeeze, rocking and swaying. Her legs were closed at the moment, which was a good sign, but for how long? He was taking her somewhere, and he was crushing her painfully as he did.

The scent of boot polish tickled her nose. Peeking out from behind his mangy, curled hair were the fletching of arrows and the tip of a bow. On the other side of his massive shoulders a shiny, metallic hilt peeked out.

Closing her eyes again, she listened, immediately hearing a chorus of breath and heavy footfalls. More large men, then. And in her experience, it was often that a group of soldiers would make a prize of a lost and alone girl.

Fear coursed through her, then determination. She had no more than a trickle of energy, but she would bloody well fight. The only consolation was that he was touching her skin. The more skin contact meant the less energy required to attack his mind. Still, she didn’t have much to throw.

Building the dismal amount of power she had at her disposal, she lashed out. His burly arms constricted, crushing her into his chest as a scream of pure agony strangled his throat. His resistance was strong or she was weak, probably both, but in the end it worked. With a long wail, he let go, clutching at his head and dropping to the ground.

As Shanti’s body fell, she tried to unfurl. She tried to prepare to roll away upon impact. She tried to do something besides thump to the ground like a log and immediately pass out.

Tried, and failed. She’d be worse off than before, completely left to their devices.

Fabulous decision-making, as always.

Chapter IV

“GET DOWN!” SANDERS SCREAMED.

IN two strides he was standing over the woman, sword in hand, sweeping the landscape with an experienced gaze. He glanced at Xavier, didn’t see the fletching of an arrow or the hilt of the knife, so looked back up. “Where did the attack come from? What caused this?”

Xavier rolled around, kicking up puffs of dirt.

Marc stood next to them, frozen. His mouth hung open and he stared down at the lifeless girl.

“Cadet! Get down!” Sanders grabbed Marc’s shirt and yanked him to the ground. “Attack? Where from?”

The boy stared.

Seeing no movement, Sanders bent to Xavier. They needed to get this parade marching. Carrying wounded with no cover, they might as well just roll over and expose their bellies. That’s how easy it would be to pick them off.

Except…the enemy didn’t have any cover, either... It would be another hour of hiking before the lush forest of their land spread out in welcome. The Mugdock had only burned land Sanders and his men didn’t regularly patrol.

Still no movement.

Sanders swatted Xavier’s hands away, looking for wounds. All he found was a face pinched in pain and bloodshot eyes. “What hurts?”

“The girl’s eyes,” Marc mumbled, still staring. “They glowed. Purple.”

Perfect. They were being attacked, in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to take cover, and the one guy that was supposed to patch them up was losing his mind. Sanders was living his worst case scenario.

“Marc, grab the woman. Rachie, Garcas, grab Xavier. Head north. Find cover. The rest of us will flank.”

“It was her,” Marc gurgled softly, waving a flaccid pointer finger.

Sanders reached out with a quick hand and yanked Rachie to him. He thrust the kid at the woman like a rag doll. “Rachie, grab her. Marc, get moving. You’re no good to me.”

Both boys stared, hunched over and blinking.

“MOVE!”

Sanders hopped to Xavier, swiping the young man’s hands off his head again. “Let’s go, son. Gotta move.”

“Huh?” Xavier stared up with blank brown eyes.

“Can you walk, man?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Rachie, would-you-grab-the-woman?! Shoulder hold will do. Let’s move!”

The whole band was up and moving at record pace. It wasn’t until halfway through the flight home, when no other attacks came, that Sanders realized his internal battle alarm was silent. The pressure of impending doom was gone. It felt like the danger had passed.

They didn’t slow. Sanders had an excuse to head home, and he wanted to get there and get these numb-nuts dispersed to some other babysitter.

The ground started to change slowly as they neared home. Hard, cracked dirt turned into fertile land, rich in nutrients and life. The burnt, cracked trees gradually morphed into huge, lush green monsters. The air sweetened, the shade deepened.

Three leagues from the gate and the sentries started, sparse at first, with their sound devices and their lights, able to signal others should unwanted persons wander too far into their land. As the band continued, more sentries dotted the trees overhead, watching them pass. The Captain had an efficient and organized system that had never let them down. Which was why a runner met them not long after they crossed into the lands.

“Commander Sanders.” The runner, a lithe lad, was hardly out of breath. “I was sent to see if you needed aid. You’re moving quickly and five days early.”

The mention of the time constraint meant the Captain knew Sanders was back and wanted a damn good reason for it. Fine. Sanders would have to have an audience with him, anyway. He just wished he could’ve rested for a second or two before he walked into the next battle zone.

Chapter V

THE HAZE WAS RETURNING, WHICH meant consciousness was close. A cool liquid trickled past her lips. It tasted fresh and delicious, though it had no taste at all. Water. That was okay. Deft, soft fingers placed a cool rag on her forehead, dabbing twice before moving away.

Forcing calm, relaxed limbs, Shanti kept her breathing steady and rhythmic. She wasn’t ready for a confrontation. Not without knowledge of this room or that beyond. She waited patiently, eyes lidded, for the woman to adjust the sheets and then move away.

Mentally peeling a thick film from her Gift, she groggily opened her mind. Needing to know what lay in wait, she let her feelers trickle into the room, and then reach beyond. Without warning, shooting pain stabbed through her temples and down through her gums. Flashes of discomfort pulsed behind her eyes. Hastily, not able to help a sharp intake of breath, she reeled her power back in.

Ouch.

Okay, that wasn’t going to work. She’d severely strained her Gift along the way. She’d have to settle for getting to know one person at a time. It was more personal, anyway.

She focused in on the hazy mind-path of the woman in the far corner. On a normal day the person, so close, would be a crystalized bunch of motives and feelings, intents coloring her mind-path as loudly as speaking across the room. While she couldn’t read thoughts, per se, she could read the motivations behind them. The average person she’d experienced in her travels, however, not raised with knowledge of mental power and all its branches and nuances, would usually advertise their intentions so grossly that it might as well have been reading thoughts. It was great for her cause, but very noisy if she didn’t actively work to tune it out.

Sweet and fairly dense, the woman continued about her day in dull monotony; she had no real expectations, and no real desires. She had no drive to do anything but her simple occupation, which was folding sheets.

Well, that was good.

Shanti allowed her eyes to open slowly, the gloom of soft light coming from a drawn shade in a window to her right. The window was big enough to slip through. No bars covered the outside. She wasn’t a prisoner. Not yet, anyway.

Her body lay immobile in a small bed with crisp white sheets, the frame not much wider than her body. Two landscape paintings hung on the wall she faced. The artistry was second rate but the frame gleamed, made from a well-crafted, polished wood.

Ugly art housed in exquisite word-working. Strange. Shanti wondered if a family member had done the paintings, and this woman was too kind to say the painter should take up another hobby…

The sting of cleaning detergent assaulted her senses, and there was no sound outside of the room. No coughs of the sick or the murmur of voices from jailers. The furniture and dressings, though slightly worn, were clean and well taken care of; everything here was loved. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was in a room in a home.

Shanti let her head fall slowly so she could see the woman on the other side of the room. She had a pleasant disposition and unruly brown hair. Her shoes were worn, like the furniture, but of similar quality. This woman had wealth; too much food eaten often, expensive wood purchased to house lack-luster art, leather shoes? Wealth didn’t fit with her current occupation, though.

As though realizing she was the subject of scrutiny, the woman glanced at the bed while folding a white sheet. “Oh!” she gasped with a delighted smile, dropping her chore and taking a few steps closer.

Suddenly apprehensive, Shanti hastily clutched the stranger’s mind, sweat blossoming on her brow with the effort. Trying to work through the sludge of her consciousness, Shanti fed a pure shot of terror into the woman’s emotions, and she hesitated immediately in her advance.

“Where am I?” Shanti asked with a thin voice that was supposed to be intimidating.

The woman stared at her, uncomprehending.

How about use the correct language, you idiot!

She wracked her fraying brain, trying to remember which land she was in and what they might speak. She had ten languages in her arsenal. It would be a rare thing if she couldn’t find one they both shared.

If only her mind wasn’t so slippery.

She switched to the Forest Region’s formal dialect. “Where am I?”

The woman shook her head again, forehead lined, trying to understand by sheer will alone.

She’d wandered off path, somewhat. That wasn’t good. Mountain region? “Where am I?”

The woman’s dark hazel eyes sparkled even as she wrung her hands. “In my home, my lady. We need to get you stronger. You nearly starved to death!”

Shanti dropped her mental stimulation. This woman was not capable of harm, thank the Elders.

“Am I the only one here? How were you—“

The woman nearly bounded to the bed, stopping Shanti mid-word. “How do you feel? You gave us all quite a scare! How did you come to be in the middle of nowhere by yourself? You must have traveled a long way…”

Barely resisting the sudden urge to feign a light coma, Shanti took a deep breath and let a brief smile grace her face. She needed information about this land. She needed a reference point from which to plan the next leg of her journey. She also needed to know what they planned to do with her. If the Graygeul had their hands in this society, she and all her people were as good as dead. This woman was obviously a great resource.

A great, chatty resource. Who would probably want to talk all day.

Nothing was ever easy.

“I was just passing through,” Shanti answered vaguely. “I did not realize the forest was charred. Where—“

“Oh, yes!” the woman cut in, moving back across the small room to fold her clothes. “That’s because of that filthy Mugdock! They’re jealous of our lands and our ability to trade. They’re a poor nation. Of course, that’s their fault, the lazy swine! A few years ago they got the bright idea to burn as much of our land as possible. I don’t know why—“

“Molly?” A male’s voice spoke from beyond the room.

Shanti’s attention snapped toward the door, pushing her mental net out as far as possible. Pricks of pain stabbing behind her eyes, she could barely feel a man’s presence just beyond the wood. A sharp mind, if she had to guess, probably honest. Curious and wary at the same time.

Now why would that be…

“Oh!” The matronly nursemaid bustled into the other room, closing the door with a soft click. Through the thin wood paneling Shanti heard the woman continue with, “Hello! Come to look after your charge?”

“Uhmm, n—yes. The Captain wanted me to check in and see how she was? But I don’t need to see her, you can—“

“Nonsense!”

Molly opened the door a second later, dragging in a boy who couldn’t be older than sixteen. Steering him with hands on his thin shoulders, she deposited him in the center of the room, facing Shanti.

Immediately, as if a bright spotlight had focused on him, his head dropped toward the floor and his shoulders hunched. His thick mop of curly brown hair fell over his eyes. Obviously shy, yes, but Shanti could sense fear, also. It rolled off him in waves, drenching the room in anxiety and uncertainty.

“This is Marc,” Molly announced proudly, patting the youth on the back. “He was the one who got you started toward health! He’s training to be a doctor!”

Shanti didn’t know what the term doctor meant, but judging by the woman’s sparkling eyes, and the context, it meant healer. And was exciting in some way.

Marc’s bronzed face turned scarlet as he stared at the floor.

“Well, I’ll just let him ask his questions, then,” Molly continued, giving Marc an encouraging pat on the arm. “No doubt the Captain will want a full report. Just don’t tire her out, mind—but then you know that!” The door clicked shut once more, cutting off Molly’s merry laughter.

An uncomfortable hush rolled through the room. Marc stood, motionless, looking to solve mysteries in the floorboards. How a guy could remain so still, while under scrutiny, was a testimony to steady hands. A good thing in a healer. Not great as the initiator of conversation.

As if he heard the thought, he slowly brought his hands up to his stomach level, and began picking his nail. It seemed like, to him, movement was noise. Interesting.

After another stagnant pause, the youth cleared his throat. His gaze drifted up until he glanced at her from under his eyelashes. Here came the burst of action—his mind was ablaze with it.

“Are you feeling better?” he managed.

Shanti barely suppressed her laugh. She wasn’t sure he had it in him. “I am, yes. Thank you for your concern.”

The boy nodded, his dark eyes darting around the room. “You nearly starved.”

“Yes, I am aware. What part did you play in my recovery?”

He shrugged, dropping his head again. “I just tried to get you to drink water is all. And some broth…”

“Were you the one who found me?”

“Um—I’m not supposed to…I mean, I just came to check… your eyes, uh… I just…” His words fizzled out as he scrubbed at his nail nervously.

She’d never met anyone so shy in all her life. It was fascinating. His sharp intellect dulled by the fear of expectation. The fear of being noticed. His mind was blazing one second, calculating and deducing, and the next he was pulling all his feelers in, tucking them away like a turtle.

She’d love to work with him. To coax that sharp intellect out and see what he could do with it. But she didn’t have the time. That wasn’t her job anymore.

Pushing past the pain, Shanti envisioned wrapping him in a warm blanket of security and seclusion. Her power played and tinkered with his mind, turning her illusion into his reality. He wouldn’t see a blanket, but he’d feel the comfort of being wrapped in one. The mind was a strong persuader.

As his face relaxed, she said, “I just hoped to know the situation surrounding my…rescue, and what will now become of me.” She brushed his mind with comfort, like his mother’s arms wrapping him in her bosom. “You do not have to fear, I will not betray your trust.”

The boy glanced up, dark eyes in a plain face. “Gracas found you by a tree. Commander Sanders and I cleaned you off.” He swished his hips to the side, boy code for extreme embarrassment of a sexual nature. His face blushed a deep crimson to match the movement.

Inexperienced and insecure. No guilt. No remorse.

Shanti let a shallow breath roll passed her lips. He’d probably just seen her body, and nothing worse. It bespoke this culture’s modesty, which was a good thing. For her, anyway. She didn’t care about nudity—she was glad he did. It was a small step in the direction of safety.

“Thank you.”

His nail must’ve had a high polish with all the attention he was giving it.

Shanti increased the amount of comfort, imagining him in front of a crackling fire, completely alone in a familiar room. “Then what happened?”

That extra dose was all it took. In a torrent of words, she got the full story: His desire to cure her in an attempt to rid him of the pain of losing his mother to disease. The fear of Commander Sanders’ attention. How he didn’t fit in with the other Cadets, but focusing on her made him at least feel needed. Liking some girl called Canella but too shy to talk to her.

Shanti held up a hand to stop the verbal flood when he started talking about his first kiss.

His face dropped immediately, allowing her a few minutes to pick through the tumult of strange words—slang, most likely. If only she wasn’t so tired, or using precious resources to mentally manipulate these people. She wasn’t up for any of this.

“When you first came in the room,” Shanti said softly, trying to get back on track, “you seemed afraid of me. Why?”

He gave another blush. “Well, I thought you hurt Xavier somehow… He screamed, then dropped you. Your eyes were open. And…and glowing…”

Frost crept up Shanti’s spine as those words sank in. Her muscles tensed. Did he know what it meant? Who she was?

As she attempted to summon strength she didn’t have, her hold on his mind wavering, he laughed to himself. “But that sounds silly, of course. I mean, eyes don’t glow, right?” He scrubbed at his nail and lowered his eyes, shrugging. “Commander Sanders blames it on my love of stories.”

Sweat beaded her brow. “Did anyone else see my eyes glow?”

“Oh no. No one believed me. And now, after having met you, I can see I don’t know nothing—“

Shanti shook her head and cut him off. “Don’t know what?”

“I mean, I can see that I was wrong,” he clarified. “That Commander Sanders was right. I just wanted to be sure, though. I thought I’d check, you know?”

The small muscles in her back started to relax. The ice in her shoulders thawed. Air worked into her lungs. She backed off her mental touch.

“But you do have weird eyes,” Marc blurted.

“Yes. Compared to you, I do have weird eyes.”

“Are you albino?”

Shanti shook her head again, not understanding the term.

“Do you have skin and eye…you know, problems?” Marc tried. “No color in them? Is it a genetic thing, I mean?”

Shanti nodded slowly. It would lead to uncomfortable questions if she told him that a huge release of power at five years old permanently burned her retinas. Incriminating questions. With the Graygual marching east, conquering, pillaging, and destroying along their way, all they needed was a whisper, a rumor, and the Being Supreme’s dogs would be on her trail. They’d already gotten closer than she wanted to admit, and that was when she’d been in perfect health. At this stage in the game, she was ripe for the plucking, vulnerable and defenseless in some strange land.

No, the less this kid knew, the better. It had been a long, lonely road so far, but she was almost there. She could confide in someone when the journey was done.

“Oh, so that’s it.” Marc gave a relieved smile, completely missing her inner contemplation. “Genetic problems. Well, that makes sense. Anyway, I should probably go. I have to get back to training. I’m failing, but they keep trying.” His chest heaved in a sigh. “I’ll probably end up cleaning toilets or something. Goes to show intelligence test scores aren’t always accurate.”

“Do you know what happened to my things?”

Marc’s head tilted. “That nasty dress you were wearing?”

“My baggage. My knives and weapons. My personal affects. My ring…”

Mark scrunched up his face and shook his head. “We only found you. I don’t remember a ring… You had that sheet, and some holey leather shoes—not well made, either. The leather was ruff—“

Startled, Shanti sat up. “You did not find my bag?”

The bed dressings fell to her waist. Marc’s eyes fastened on bare skin immediately, having a stare-off with her nipples. His face turned a furious shade of cherry. He gulped and stammered, unable to look away.

“Look at me,” Shanti commanded as she clutched his mind, feeding him a blast of urgency. Marc’s eyes slowly found hers, the blood in his penis fighting logic. Fighting any sensation she could supplant.

Wanting his undivided attention, and realizing the impossibility of that within this setting, Shanti intertwined lust with her urgency cocktail. It was a terrible time for that “can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” philosophy, given his age, but she didn’t have much choice.

It did the trick. Marc’s eyes were burning, slightly embarrassed, but staring at Shanti with fervor. She hiked up the sheet and said, “I need that bag, Marc. I need you to take me to it, okay? Please?”

“Yes.” It was more a sigh than a word. “I will. I will take you to it. Right now?”

Dangle sex in front of a guy and he was like the walking dead. Typical. But effective.

In this situation, also gross.

Shanti’s mind raced. She was naked, she was starved, and her head was swimming from sitting upright. She wasn’t going anywhere. But she needed that bag. Badly. It was everything. Being without it meant failure.

Why were there so many ways to fail?

“Two days. Come back here at dawn. Don’t tell anyone and don’t let anyone figure it out. Do well in your classes, focus on what you’re doing, and don’t let them see your distraction. When you come, in two days, at dawn, bring enough provisions for a week and a map. Will you remember?”

Marc nodded again, glued to her hypnotic, slightly glowing eyes.

“Okay. Now get out,” Shanti said with a tight voice. She replaced lust with shame, as if a parent had given him a punishment after catching him masturbating. With any luck the next time he looked at her he would be mortified. Not the nicest of things to do, but definitely necessary.

She lay back down and pulled fistfuls of the sheet to her chin. Her people had never worried about nudity. The baths were public, in deep wells of a natural hot spring. One would have to go without bathing to avoid being seen naked. And when washing was as much a relaxing treat as necessary for hygiene, her people got callous to nudity quickly. She’d often walked through the village air drying, carrying on a conversation with someone completely clothed.

She wasn’t at home anymore, though. Home was destroyed. It was time she finally caught on.

Chapter VI

THE NEXT TWO DAYS WHISKED by in a blur of Molly’s idle chit-chat while Shanti dodged her questions. Molly would do things like talk about her niece’s new baby, then ask if Shanti had a niece. Or a baby. Or a husband waiting for her somewhere. She would tell Shanti of places she had traveled, which weren’t many, and then ask if Shanti had traveled. How far. With whom. Every long-winded story had a question periodically popped in. Shanti, half asleep most of the time, had to keep herself from answering by sheer will, hypnotized as she was by the verbal linguistics of an accomplished gossip.

Then there was the dry, lackluster healer. He had her dressed in a long slip-type thing, which he called a nightgown. Apparently people in that town, or village, or city—Shanti had no idea how big the place was—liked to wear long drapes beneath their covers. They wanted a loose, flowing garment to trap their legs and get tangled as they slept. This made sense to them, somehow.

Once she was covered, the older healer listened to her heart, felt her bones through her limbs, and said things like, “You have quite a lot of muscle tone. How does a woman come by so much?”

Shanti used the same dry tone as she answered: “I’m not sure if you are aware, doctor, but the muscle in a woman’s body, like a man’s, can be developed.”

“Your eyes are a strange shade of blue. More violet, actually. Is that normal amongst your people?”

“I don’t imagine anyone would have the audacity to remark that I am normal, doctor. Slightly unhinged, certainly.”

“Your skin is too light.”

“Racism does not become you.”

“Why is your hair so pale?”

“Genetics, doctor. Same as why yours is so dark. Just what do they teach in medical school here? Or does school for that discipline not exist? Are you a witchdoctor, sir?”

Finally the doctor got so irritated he informed her that if she didn’t supply answers to his questions, he wouldn’t be able to help her. To which she sighed gratefully, stepped out of the sack of fabric, and slipped back into bed. She was starved, not hurt. With food and rest, she would be fine.

He was not thrilled with her assessment.

The rest of the time was spent eating as much as possible, as often as possible. Molly brought food whenever Shanti asked and watched over her while she ate, for which she was thankful.

Marc came each day, more nervous than anything, but also desperate to tell her how well he was doing in class. He was focusing, just like she said. He already knew everything they were teaching, but now he was proving it, trying not to care what they thought. Trying to make sure he focused, just like she said, right? That he should focus?

He groveled for her praise and blushed when he got it. He never mentioned the little…episode from the first meeting, and he was careful to always direct his eyes at his feet or her head. The small dose of shame was apparently working, and to make sure it stayed effective, Shanti stayed well away from his mind. And thoroughly covered.

Two hours before dawn the day they planned to leave saw Shanti on her feet in the small room. The air was changing, taking on the sweet, fresh smell of early morning. She was up, moving about the room, testing her legs, getting her heart rate up. Her muscles were hard and brittle, but they were mending. A few more days at an easy walking pace, with food and water, and she’d be fine. She had to be.

An hour before dawn Shanti paced as the birds started their morning chatter. They weren’t the only ones. There were signs of life within the house; Molly moved around much too early.

Dread tickled Shanti’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to alert anyone she was leaving. She wanted to be a wisp of vapor, there and gone and out of people’s minds the second they turned around.

Half an hour to go. Hopefully Marc would show up early. Hopefully—

Shanti’s pacing was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She froze in the murky brown of pre-dawn. Shadows stretched across the floor and hovered over the door. The knock sounded again, hesitant. The door opened slowly on well-greased hinges. Molly poked her head into the room. Shadows veiled her eyes, but her plain oval face pointed at Shanti, motionless for a moment of analysis.

“You’re up,” Molly accused.

“Yes. I am leaving today.”

“The Captain is always right.” She said it as though she thought he was magic. The door swung wide, admitting the dressed woman. “Well, you aren’t a hostage, make no mistake, but the Captain wants to talk to you before you go.”

“I am afraid that won’t be possible. I am leaving within the hour.”

Molly smoothed her apron, something she did when uncomfortable. In an apologetic voice, she said, “Young Master Nickles won’t be escorting you. You have no provisions and no idea where you’re headed. Also, your bag of…articles has been recovered. The Captain wishes to speak with you about it this morning.”

Hope deflated. Shanti physically felt better, her body having always healed quickly, but she’d been on the brink of starvation. Another day would’ve been death. She was no miracle case; her muscles were stringy and depleted, her Gift not even at a quarter of its potency, and any real movement had her breathing heavy. If it came to a fight, she’d be taken down.

So what then were her options?

Shanti paced toward the window and looked out at the darkened street. Early morning dew sparkled, the street looking sleek and wet. Her only other choice was to flee. If she could exist in the wild long enough to rejuvenate, she could sneak back in and steal her bag.

She turned back to the bed, her gaze scanning the light sheets and woven blanket, then flitting to the nightgown neatly folded on the bed stand. Then she shook her head. How would she get out of the city, hardly able to walk, let alone run, with a nightgown and a blanket? Not to mention she had no food, and no weapons to procure any food.

Resigned, she turned back to the window. “What sort of person is this Captain?”

Sensing compliance, Molly sprung to life, her sizable breasts swinging wildly. “Oh, he’s just great, he is! Strong in mind and body and absolutely loved by everyone. Especially the women.” She threw Shanti a glinted eye, an undercurrent of meaning Shanti didn’t catch, before bustling out of the room, returning a moment later with a folded heap of fabric. “He inherited the post, of course, because that’s how we do things here. The firstborn son takes the mantle. But the late Captain, God rest his soul, passed away before his time. Here, dear, put this on.”

Molly handed Shanti a soft white slip with tiny straps, intended to cover her torso. Molly unfolded short pants a moment later and passed those over as she continued, “He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, of course, so he had to learn the post by himself at a young age. Oh, he’s got the council to help him with big decisions, but the weight rests on his shoulders. And there isn’t anyone better to take the burden!”

Molly picked up a shimmer of green fabric by the top corners and gently lifted. It unfurled into the biggest, thickest, fluffiest dress Shanti had ever seen.

Shanti wondered why a dress had been brought out when she had already stepped into a top and pants, but she had more important things to ponder. “He has the city and fighting camp both at his disposal? He has the power to control both?”

“Oh yes. But he’s borne it marvelously, like I said. Fair and just, that’s our Captain. If you do wrong, watch out, but he weighs all the elements and makes his decision. It’s always the right one, mark my words. He always knows.”

“That’s a lot of power for one man. Power generally spawns corruption.”

Molly waved that thought away and scoffed. “Maybe with bigger cities, but not our Captain. He is as solid as an oak, he is.”

Molly carefully laid down the heap of green dress and picked up a rectangular swatch of fabric with thick ribs sewn into it. From one edge dangled laces, along the other edge were holes.

“What is that for?” Shanti asked with skepticism.

Molly held the fabric between two hands and pushed it at Shanti’s midsection, securing it around her torso, then working around and attempting to tie her in.

“No!” Shanti exclaimed, struggling out. “I will not be tied and delivered like a package!”

Molly’s face contorted into an expression of half confusion, and half frustration. “My lady, you have to put on the proper attire to meet the Captain!”

Shanti pointed at the material. “That is something women wear? Why?”

“It supports the breasts, cinches the waist, and makes the figure just exquisite, dear, you’ll see.” Molly stepped forward again, fabric stretched out in front of her like a fireproof blanket and Shanti the flame.

Shanti danced to the side, clumsily banging her hip on the corner of the bed in her attempt to evade Molly. She rethought fleeing. “No, thank you. No way. Are women here insane? Are their lives so easy that they have to invent challenges in their dress? That device cuts off breath. I am weak enough as it is.”

“This is fashionable, my lady!” Molly shook the fabric at her.

“Fashion, ah yes. A fool’s game, if I am not mistaken. No, I am good as I am. Give me a wrap or cover for the morning and I should be fine.”

The fabric dropped slowly as Shanti’s words sank in. Molly’s gaze drifted down Shanti’s body. An eyebrow quirked. “As you are?”

“Yes, some pants would do me fine. Possibly some that covered my entire leg, but I will take whatever you have. This region is hot, so I need not be completely covered.”

“Pants? You can’t wear pants! Like a man? Oh no, dear. No, no. You can’t appear in front of the Captain without appropriate clothing. I will bend on the corset, which is… well, you are not from here, so okay. But pants? I couldn’t. How would that reflect on me?”

Shanti looked down at her starved body, moderately covered by white garments. “I don’t understand. Why I am wearing this if not to…wear it?”

Molly shook her head in exasperation and tossed the corset on the bed in a temper. She carefully snatched up the green dress. “You will be presented in a dress, and that is final. I will not look the fool in front of the Captain, no matter your plans.”

Anger was so uncustomary of the homely woman that Shanti was struck speechless. Before she could protest further, enough fabric to double as a sail cascaded over her head.

“At least you’re skinny and shapely so the dress still looks decent,” Molly was saying as she worked the dress tightly around Shanti’s middle. “I don’t know what we’ll do about the breasts. You’re young, and they’re perky, but they’re nowhere as high as they should be.”

A metal contraption made a zzzzziiiiieeeee as it worked up her back, securing Shanti into the “fashionable” death trap.

“Now.” Molly stepped in front of her to survey her work. Her eyes lingered on Shanti’s chest, her eyebrows falling. Shaking her head, she moved forward, one hand grabbing the top of the fabric over her breasts, the other reaching in to grab boob.

“What are you doing?” Shanti exclaimed as she struggled back, trying to get the woman’s hand out of her top.

“You need to move them to the top of the dress! You can’t have them squished down the middle into your waist!”

“I’m fine as I am. I don’t want young people getting the wrong idea, seeing my breasts.”

“You just can’t—“

Shanti slipped steel into her voice. “No. This will do. I am not here as an ambassador, so I will not strive to adhere to customs. I am a traveler who wants to be on her way.”

Molly’s eyes burned, but, thankfully, she backed off.

It gave Shanti another dose of humility. If she could barely fight off a middle aged, pudgy nursemaid, how would she defend herself against fighting men?

Deep in thought, she didn’t realize Molly was leading her further into the modest house, which she had learned was a residence that occasionally gave aid to those in need or recovering from a malady. Suddenly she was standing in front of a full length mirror and Shanti got her first look at the fashion.

She looked like a shimmery green monster.

The tight bodice hugged her skin, leading down into a skirt shaped like a bell that reached entirely to the ground. It was adorned with layers and ruffles. Then there were the sleeves. Huge bunches of fabric puffed up, nearly to her ear. The only skin exposed was her arms and chest, where her breasts were apparently supposed to pop out like a child’s toy.

“Why such heavy garments in a hot climate?” Shanti wondered aloud. “And why the peep show but fear of nudity?”

“Well…this is the fashion.”

“Fashion excuses common sense?”

Molly shook her head in frustration again, not daring to travel along the logic road when it pertained to looking the part.

Shanti could always strip if it came to fighting, not that it would help much in her current state. Still, slipping out of the dress would at least mean she’d be able to breathe when they took her down. “Fine. Can we go?”

“Just a minute, dear, almost time. We won’t have time for breakfast—I didn’t anticipate dressing taking so long.” Shanti earned a scowl.

“Why are you not wearing a similar monster costume?”

Molly scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Molly left Shanti standing in utter confusion as she hurried to the kitchen. Shrugging, Shanti had her first look around. Then she gawked. The first thing she noticed was all the leather and wood. It was everywhere. She was familiar with the wooden items—her people had excellent woodworking techniques and trees in plenty—but the leather was something with which she had little experience. Her people weren’t farmers. Their leather items came from wolves and smaller animals, or were traded for extravagant sums. Yet Molly, who didn’t have much, or so she said, had a full set of leather furniture. Not to mention many artifacts that were metal. By Shanti’s standards, this room was cloaked in wealth.

Shanti sauntered over to the couch, the gobs of fabric adorning her person so loud she’d have to ask her enemies to plug their ears so she could sneak by. What a ridiculous fashion these people employed. Like most ceremonial dress, it was completely without purpose. It was also extremely uncomfortable. It was work just to wear the stuff.

Shaking her head, she felt the leather. Soft as an infant’s backside. And squishy. It was more inviting than a feast.

As she was about to sink into the welcoming leather, Molly screeched. “You’ll be all creases!”

“Do you stop sitting after you get dressed up?” Shanti asked in confusion, butt halfway to the cushion.

“You have to know how to sit, or else you’ll look like a day old kitten!”

“Your people trap themselves in garments that don’t allow them to breathe, let alone move naturally, showing parts of skin that make young boys crazy, then forbid sitting unless a new approach is learned? Are you playing a roark on me? A…what’s the word…joke?”

Molly was shaking her head again, dragging Shanti to the door while shoving a biscuit into her mouth. “The Captain expects it.”

“Ah, so the Captain is responsible for these torture devices. And no one has rebelled? Called down his service?”

“He’s not—just—it’s fashion!”

They stepped outside onto a clean cobblestone street, where every so often a large metal pole reached into the sky with thick candles nestled into a decorative steel cage at the top. Shanti noticed a man walking through the street with a long metal rod, reaching up into the metal cage to extinguish the small flame. The street held many small abodes like Molly’s, most with activity now that the sun rose, but a few without.

“Is this a main path?” Shanti asked curiously, taking in the stonework that overlaid the ground.

“Street, you mean? This is one of four main streets, yes. The smaller streets aren’t lined with candles—just the main ones. That’s why I live here—just in case someone from out of town needs a place—”

Shanti deafened her ears, a skill she’d learned within the first half day in that small room with the chatty woman. She turned her thoughts, instead, to her surroundings. One main path of four. Rather wide, too—big enough for two teams of horses pulling a cart each. It was a city, but not an incredibly large city. Harder to blend in with the difference in coloring and feature, but not impossible.

“Miss Molly.” It was a youth’s deep voice not yet filled out into the drum of manhood.

Shanti spun quickly. Her mind blossomed open, the net of her consciousness spreading out around her in a ten span radius—shockingly small for two days of rest. She should’ve done it earlier, though. She needed to stop being a tourist.

A large, young man strode toward them, arms swinging with lanky abandon. Wide shoulders nearly taking up the whole of the footpath, his muscles were already defined though he was probably only Marc’s age. Shanti had no doubt he would only get bigger. He had the potential for great strength and prowess, but now he walked more like a floppy puppy that still needed to grow into its feet.

“Xavier!” Molly said in a gush. “Who would’ve thought I would get all the promising new boys stopping by!”

Xavier. Shanti had heard that name before—the man she had taken down. His mind shed pleasant expectation, happy to meet a stranger and enjoy the morning walk. He harvested not one ounce of fear. He not only did not know her capabilities in mind or body, but he thought her harmless. And if she were wearing that corset, not able to breathe, sit, or bend at the waist, he surely would’ve been correct.

She retracted her Gift, backing away from mind contact. She needed the strength. Plus, moving like a stick man held together with yarn, two strikes would be enough to take him to the ground. Even in this horrible green dress.

“I’m supposed to escort you. Sorry I’m late—“ His gaze hit Shanti and he staggered forward, hands half reaching either to fall or grab.

Shanti kicked her shoes off—horrible stilt type things that increased her height but decreased her ability to walk—and her fingers tugged down the metal at her back, ready to tear the thing off and engage.

Then he smiled. “Sorry, ma’am. Last time I saw you, you were a pile of dirt. You clean up well.”

Shanti hesitated, and then got her fingers slapped away by Molly. Shifting and reclaiming the tiny square of metal, she said, “Do your people have problems with washing? I found the soap acceptable.”

“He’s saying you look pretty, dear,” Molly explained, swiping Shanti’s fingers away again before re-securing the dress.

“Pretty.” She couldn’t help the monotone in her voice. At one time in her life, she’d cared about such things—about men and mates and what it meant to be desired. She was only twenty-four, but even still, those days were gone, along with her people. Now, she’d rather be invisible.

“Say ‘thank you’,” Molly muttered disapprovingly, noticing Shanti’s shoes scattered across the cobblestones. Her answering scowl was fantastic.

“Thank you,” Shanti said without emotion. It would behoove her to stick within custom—to stay within the good graces of these people—until she could move on and regain that invisibility. Still, she didn’t like the reminder of days lost. Or being noticed sexually. Not anymore.

After a tsk, and some shoe orchestration, Molly said, “Let’s move. The Captain hates tardiness. And rudeness…”

A short walk later, they approached a large square building with very few ornaments. In fact, besides a plain, burnished metal door knocker and weathered door knob, it was completely nondescript. And because it was so plain, standing next to domestic dwellings with scrolls and embellishments, it stuck out like a barge amid sailboats. Someone wasn’t very clever at disguises with this office.

Xavier hurried forward, and Shanti danced off to the side to keep outside of arm’s reach. He opened the door with a flourish, waving them through.

Shanti stopped altogether, beckoning him in before her, spreading out her mind again. Her awareness crawled across the space within, mostly empty of any heat signatures or brain patterns, until the far right. It was like the sea washing up a beach, the foam of her mind lapping at the awaiting consciousness.

She strained, trying to reach farther. The effect had her limbs shaking and forehead beading in sweat. Hot pricks dug in her temples. She should’ve waited longer than two days to attempt this meeting. Not that she’d planned to meet at all...

Xavier, unaware of her mental employment, tried to dislodge his smile and failed. “Ladies first.”

“Yes, I saw to that,” Shanti replied distractedly, wondering how many awaited her. “Molly has entered. Please—“ Shanti gestured again for Xavier to go first.

“Ladies first,” Xavier repeated.

His smile was starting to get irritating.

Shanti looked at him sternly, deciding. He wasn’t planning to budge, but she wasn’t planning on traipsing in front of him in stilts and green puffy wrapping. She might as well just offer herself for his amusement.

She settled for removing her shoes, handing them to the youth, and using his confusion to slip inside, dress binding halfway down her back in case she met trouble.

As she crossed the threshold a splash of deep crimson reached toward her feet. Fearing blood, wondering if Xavier was currently closing the door to her tomb, Shanti hopped over the offending color with nimble grace, landing on weak, half-numb legs. She staggered, crashing into a plant in a pot, her Gift sputtering with lack of concentration and insufficient energy.

A quick glance told her that what she’d thought was a dead body spilling its life blood, was actually a large flower at the corner of an extravagantly ugly rug. Also extravagantly large. It reached from the door to the men, housing two glorious leather couches, quality beyond what Shanti had ever seen and certainly ever experienced, and two chairs to match. An expertly crafted table squatted among that cluster of relaxation. Along the sides of the room, lining the walls, were more tables, a few plants, and large tapestries she wouldn’t waste her time burning. Riches and wealth beyond what many could boast clustered in this room. Also a distracting lack of quality art. The skills of this People were somewhat skewed.

Righting herself and brushing the billowing fabric straight, then trying not to squirm with the dress grabbing at her legs, Shanti raised her eyes to her waiting audience. It was better than she’d expected. The long rectangular room held an array of fighting men at its head, all flocking around the focal point, a large wooden desk where a dark haired man sat. To the left stood three men of a battle hardened caliber. Straight and hard, they wore their weapons like their shirts, analyzing her with hard eyes. Their line was arrow straight, jutting out from the focal point, ready to meet her head-on.

The first man in the line was a block of muscle with a face like a bull. Next in line stood a striking man with a crisp blue uniform, crease-free and pristine—probably a very organized man. Last was a middle-aged man with gray temples, regal and self-important—lots of experience.

To the right wobbled a bunch of kids learning to stand still, that weasel Marc among them. If they’d ever been in a fight she would’ve been surprised. Wide eyes adorned fresh faces, gazes darting from her to their shoes, in equal parts fear of their fighting counterparts and fascination with her, the foreign woman.

Molly had scampered off to Shanti’s left, halfway down the richly furnished room. Xavier joined her momentarily, his smile finally and completely wiped off his face. At least she had that going for her.

Walking calmly on the smooth finish of an expertly sanded floor, Shanti let the feelers of her mind reach forward ahead of her, finding the men nearly in range. Her focus shifted to the focal point, a man slightly her senior leaning back comfortably in a massive leather chair that would make cows proud to give their lives. His intelligent eyes were a beautiful pale blue, matching the sky in color and clarity, but much deeper, their rim a dusty blue. Wavy dark brown hair brushed the tops of muscular shoulders. His eye-opening attractiveness was somewhat diminished by the tight, severe set of his jaw and corresponding intense gaze. He had an agenda. His life was probably an agenda. He might be loved, but Shanti bet it wasn’t for a sense of humor. As a leader, he was much too serious by half, a trait she’d seen diminish even the best leaders’ abilities.

Shanti stopped moving forward at about fifteen paces from the desk, which was still embarrassingly shy of her mental ability to glean any real awareness of the Captain. Wisps of vague intent washed into her consciousness, but the feelings were pale representations of their origin. When at full strength she could reach a kilometer or more, but now that it so ardently mattered, she was as good as useless.

“Welcome to my city,” he began gently, his voice deep and graveled. “It seems you’ve avoided all personal questions while in the city thus far.”

She titled her head in greeting with a marginally bent spinal column, denoting acquiescence, or possibly weakness. She hadn’t recognized the name of the city when she’d asked Molly, which meant she was unfortunately ignorant to their customs. She did know the generalities of the Mountain Region from her studies, however, and knew that they adhered to respect, but nothing so severe as groveling. Hopefully polite conversation, the reedy weakness of a female, and her foreignness would have her spit out of this place with a label of “not important.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she responded in a soft tone. “My business is mine alone on this journey. I hope you understand.”

Pulses of irritation slapped her from the man to her left. The first in line, shorter than the men behind him, shifted in irritation.

Shanti’s focus flicked back to the Captain when he said, “We’ve performed a service for you. Two, actually. In repayment, you’ve landed young Marc in some serious trouble. I don’t think a little history, given in good faith, would go amiss.”

Shanti kept her tone level, deflecting his curiosity as subtly as possible. “I thank you for your help, but it’s probably best for all involved if I carry on. Business, such that it is, isn’t something to chat about idly. I’m sure you can agree, no doubt being in possession of your own trade secrets.”

A small flame kindled in crystalized blue eyes. “Trade. I see.”

She batted her eyelashes. Couldn’t hurt. She was in the ridiculous green frock no intelligent woman would agree to—possibly stupidity is what they expected in their women.

“What’s your name?” the Captain asked next.

“You can call me whatever you wish, though something long and hard to pronounce would match my personality.” She smiled, communicating the joke.

His stern expression didn’t soften. “Where are you from?”

She thought of her homeland along the beautiful western coast of the land. Surrounding forests, not unlike those around this city, enabled her people to live off the land for most of their needs. She missed it keenly. Missed the sea breeze from the ocean not far away, and the lazy evenings when all the work and training was done when her people could all share meals and laughter. She found the ache of home a constant companion.

But she couldn’t tell him any of that. She couldn’t let him pinpoint her on a map, or the pieces would start falling into place for anyone that paid attention. Keeping her business to herself was not only safest for her, it was safest for this city, too. They didn’t need the Graygual’s interest. No one did, if they could help it.

To that end, she said, “A distant place, but I’m afraid I’d just as soon keep it at that. In fact, I would love to be on my way if at all possible...”

He leaned forward on the desk, his large arms bracing, revealing defined biceps to match those muscular shoulders. A tinge of uncertainty pinched her heart as a strange flutter sparked in her stomach. She would’ve much preferred a fat and lazy Captain who would grow tired of exerting energy over foreign things. Or movement.

Instead she faced a man, probably in his early thirties, with an intelligent and intense sparkle to his eyes, and an upper body to make the Elders take notice. Should things go sour, this did not bode well for her survival. All she could hope was that his size meant he was slow.

“You speak our language well,” he continued, “though it’s not your native tongue. Your accent is… hard to place…”

“Hard to place, yes. I’ve traveled far, but I have a ways to go. I must have a collection of sounds in my speech by now. But please, I would just as soon cause you no more trouble and be on my way.”

In a quick movement, almost faster than her eye, and certainly unexpected, the Captain snatched something off the floor and put it on the desk to his right. Two things went through her head: One, her bag was now fifteen steps away. Two, the Captain was lightning fast. For an arm so big attached to a torso of his size, it was…unnerving.

“We’ll cut to the chase, shall we?” The Captain’s voice got a shade deeper. All the young men squirmed where they stood, traces of fear floating at the edges of her awareness. The older men didn’t move, but wariness poured off them.

The Captain’s large hands snapped the bag open. Without preamble, he hauled out her sword, ripping off the scabbard with a practiced hand and laying it at the top of the surface in front of him. Almost like he dared her to reach for it. Next came her throwing knives, followed by their leg harness. A belt, a bow, a quiver long emptied of arrows—she was an excellent shot, but with more enemies than arrows, retrieving them from dead bodies was impossible. The last of the larger objects was a neatly folded stack of clothing she recognized as her undergarments for colder climates, soiled and holey from travel.

The Captain paused for a second, his eyes meeting hers. “This is quite an arsenal. Care to explain how you came to possess it?”

The way he asked almost made her wonder at his ignorance of women fighting. It sounded like he was accusing her of stealing. Which was fantastic, because that meant he’d not heard of her, her abilities, the Shamas—her people—or her plight. It also meant he hadn’t talked to the Graygual.

The answer was, therefore, easy. “It was a fantastic find.”

He picked up the sword by the hilt, holding it in front of his eyes and analyzing the blade. “They are well taken care of. Expertly crafted, oiled, polished—someone put great care into this weapon, both to make it, and to keep it.”

She allowed a smile she didn’t feel. “Yes. I am an expert scavenger, it seems.”

His blue gaze back on hers, he put the sword down gently, handling it like he’d owned it all his life. “The knives are of excellent quality, also. Balanced. They were made with care by an expert at his craft. And used—there’s a speck of blood near the hilt only a month or two old, if I had to guess.”

Good guess. And a detailed observation. He knew his weapons and their uses. It wasn’t theoretical, either. He was a fighter, and judging by the muscle tone, the width of those massive shoulders, and his surety of even the smallest movement, a good one. The rumors on that score seemed true.

Blast the Elders their jokes! Filthy beggars! she swore to herself.

She adopted a smile she didn’t feel. “I am a woman with some world knowledge—however little. My kind tend to have an eye for shiny things…”

“Do you also have an eye for craftsmanship? Because those weapons look like they were made by a similar artist.”

She did have an eye for craftsmanship. And now she knew he did, too. He wasn’t making this easy. “I got lucky—they were together, so it stands to reason that they’d be similar.”

“I see.” It was clear he didn’t.

Adrenaline started to fill her body slowly, knowing this was all starting to unravel. He reached into a small pocket on his breast and extracted her gold amulet. “There is scripted language on here that we don’t recognize. It’s made of gold. It would fetch a nice price. Your weapons would fetch remarkably more, but instead of trading the items for food or transportation, you carried them nearly to your death. Why?”

“You’re really concerned about this money issue. If I did have money, to whom would I give it to for food or shelter? Were there fairies in the dead trees that I missed as I walked through?” she said with a flash of anger.

Surprise lit his face before fire crackled in those cold blue eyes. The fighting men, already still, went rigid. More than one boy squeezed his thighs together, trying not to piss himself, probably. She was nearing the Captain’s patience threshold but there wasn’t a bloody thing she could do about it.

The Captain stared at her with an uncanny intensity. The strange flutter tickled her stomach again, only this time, it carried a tingle of fear. After a lengthy pause, he slowly lifted his right hand to his breast and extracted her father’s ring. He held it by the chain it was attached to, and lifted it so it was level with his eyes. He looked at it for a moment, making a show of analyzing it, and then flicked his eyes to hers. “A man’s ring?”

A pulse of adrenaline rocked her body. Sweat started to dribble down the crease of her back. She yearned to rush forward and yank the precious heirloom out of his hand. Instead, she stilled the tremors and focused on the present. She didn’t have any weapons, nor any strength. Unlike the last person who had handled that ring and questioned her, this large man wouldn’t get a fork in the eye. Not yet. Not until Shanti had a weapon. Or a fork.

“I’m not sure what there is to explain,” she said in an even tone, easily hiding the lie. “One of the men I traveled with was lost. I kept his ring for the sake of memory…”

A moment rumbled by in the silent room. Another. The boys began to fidget, uncomfortable and not experienced enough to hide it. The army men held firm, but uncertainty rolled off them.

The Captain continued to analyze her as she pretended to stand strong. Her legs were quivering ever so slightly, however, exhausted from the stress and strain. She thought about inching closer, trying to get a reading on this stoic man. That she hadn’t already was beyond her—everyone else seemed in range, why not him?

The Captain finally said, “Tell me about these weapons.”

“What can I tell you?” She spread out her hands in a plea. “I found them along the way, I picked them up—“

A monsoon of power blasted out from the Captain, rocking her back a step and causing her to throw up her shields in panic. Raw, brute strength scrubbed at her barriers like sand paper. Her teeth clenched like her fists, fighting the assault. Her startled gaze retrained on the Captain. He sat as faux calmly as ever, eyes on fire, no intent to further use what could only be his own Gift.

A lifetime of training pushed past her soggy head and tired body. Survival mode regained control. She stood still and assessed. This was impossible. Wasn’t it? The bloodlines in this part of the world were all wrong for the Gift.

Confused, at a loss, she opened her shields a fraction, letting in the tiniest sliver of power. Assessing. And then her fingers started to tingle with implications.

He was untrained. His power, nearly enough to rival her own, had no direction. No intent. It pushed against her skull like a gale-force wind, but had no fingers with which to pry open her defenses, or slip past her barriers. He was simply in a temper and blasting outward with a fifth sense so powerful it had the ability to kill… if he knew how. Instead, he used it like a child just learning.

What’s more, his people had no idea why they were unsettled. They knew their Captain was lost in anger, close to rage, but no one questioned how they knew. It spoke of complete, utter ignorance on what the Gift even was.

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t help it.

She had been told she was the only one with this much power. Had been for a hundred years. But here she stood, shaking with the effort to combat the force from another talent out of the legends. Words could not describe how utterly floored she was.

Her inactivity and silence must have signaled some quiet victory for him, because he leaned back in his chair, the force of his power abating. He’d gotten his way, and now he could relax.

If she had any sort of strength, she’d show him what that power could do with a little experience.

The next horrible thought that forced its way into her churning mind was: The Graygual would be tickled that there was another—that she wasn’t the only one. Another killing monster for their war vessel. Another breeder for the race of super fighter. And maybe he was worse. He could easily impregnate a horde of women. If even one of those offspring had the Gift, the Graygual would have more weapons in their arsenal to blow through the land, conquering as they went.

The large, muscular man, with lightning speed, and the power of a city and army both, had to be killed.

What a bloody irritating discovery.

Chapter VII

“I WILL ASK YOU AGAIN: where did you get these weapons?” the Captain said, his irritation coloring the tone in the room.

Changing her story now would be suicide. Instead, Shanti changed tactics and met that powerful blue gaze with a violet one of her own. She would not yield to his bullying, and it was important he knew that. She was vulnerable at the moment, yes, but she did have her own power. A good leader would respect that. Hopefully.

“Can you use these weapons?” the Captain continued, only a slight edge in his voice. It was commendable, because his irritation was thrashing at her mind. She didn’t need to step closer to feel it anymore; he was broadcasting.

“As much as the normal woman, I’d wager,” she said in a light tone.

The Captain stood up. Up and up until Shanti was sure his head would glance off the ceiling. He was huge. Taller than Xavier, and broader. Well over six feet tall, his shoulders strained against his shirt, causing small holes along the seams. His torso was all bump and valley. His back probably was, too. Power and brawn and extremely fast, not to mention poised and balanced, graceful and agile. If that bastard were mentally trained, things would be extremely dicey. Good thing he wasn’t.

“I bet this city goes poor trying to feed you,” she let slip.

“Molly, you are excused,” the Captain pronounced, sparing the woman a glance. “Thank you for your help. I’ve already arranged payment.”

Shanti kept herself from begging the woman to stay. Less violence usually happened in front of homely nursemaids. Or so she’d heard.

“Oh. Yes, of course. Yes, thank you, my Lord. Thank you, yes.” Molly bustled out, followed by a shaky Xavier, who closed and guarded the door behind her, his knees bent. She hadn’t noticed him climbing off the floor.

Shanti backed up two steps so she could see the whole room now that Xavier had switched positions. Her feet stepped on the rug, dragging her focus down to the floor. The thing was incredibly ugly, but so soft. It was luxurious. Her feet sang as they sank in, and then tried to go to sleep. Her lids got heavy in commiseration.

“Is there a reason you retain her shoes, Cadet?” the Captain asked Xavier, interrupting her rug analysis.

“She handed them to me, sir. She didn’t like their height.”

“I see. Cadet Rachie, take the shoes away and come back with some slippers.”

“Yes, sir.” Rachie, a kid near the front, nearly fell over himself leaving.

The Captain moved around the desk with an easy glide, that fighting balance evident. He paused in front of the desk, three feet from Shanti. With such a long reach, she should’ve stepped back immediately, given herself room. But something else had caught her attention. His brain pattern was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

Everyone had a certain essence, or energy, about them. That energy usually had a mood, which some people referred to as an aura. Often the aura would convey itself to the human brain via a hazy color, or sometimes with movement—bursting and lively on some, smooth and tranquil on others. That energy was usually a consistent hue, however, lightening and darkening with mood.

The Captain housed a vivid rainbow. A surging, swirling, spinning rainbow. Colors mixed and merged, dancing and playing, pounding from his body like its own life force. She’d never seen something so unique. Or beautiful.

Her eyes refocused. Reality seeped back in.

Without thought, she quickly yanked the metal contraption on her dress down the rest of the way and stepped out of her green death trap. If he planned to rush her, she could at least try to kill him before she passed out.

All the boys gasped.

“May I ask why you are shedding your clothes?” the Captain asked lightly, humor coloring his voice.

“You dress your women like cake with frosting. I didn’t want you to think I was offering myself for dessert.”

“You’re half starved. We’d go hungry. Not my type of fulfillment.”

“Offering me as a reward for good conduct is not farfetched.”

Colors stilled and darkened, eyebrows dipped low. “My men have an aversion to violence against women. Most of my people do, in fact. Violence against the weaker sex is not tolerated. Punishment is fast and harsh.”

The weaker sex? Interesting philosophy.

“That’s a luxury you may not always have,” Shanti stated in an indifferent tone, though she silently threw out a giant thank you to the Elders for their care.

“How do you mean?” The Captain didn’t move, but suddenly he seemed to lounge where he stood. It irked her for some reason she couldn’t explain.

“War is not only fought by men.”

“My people limit the casualties of war to those on the battle field.”

“Spoken like a man who has only fought battles, instead of an actual war.”

Confusion replaced the scowl. “I see. And you know something of war?”

“I do.”

“You’ve seen it, perhaps? Are those weapons a husband’s? Or a brother’s?”

“No. And while we are on that fascinating subject, might I have them back?”

“And that ring? A lover?” he pushed.

“Let us cut a chase, as you said. I need that bag, and I would like to leave. A map and some provisions would be ideal, but I can do without.”

His eyes sparkled, as if she’d said something humorous. He didn’t address it, though, instead saying, “Is that right? And how will you survive in underwear with no food or water?”

“Do you call what I am wearing underwear? Absurd. It covers me more thoroughly than that green sack. Regardless, I smell wooded lands. Those are enough for me. Blindfold me to the exit, if that is your wish, then turn me loose. I have seen nothing of your city, nor do I care to. I thank you for what you have done for me, but would appreciate it if this is the end.”

The Captain’s eyes smiled even though his face remained passive. He crossed in front of her, just barely out of arm’s reach. He was trying to intimidate her. Annoyingly, it was working.

He walked straight toward the couch and sat down, making himself comfortable. The material looked soft and supple as it molded to his shapely backside. She longed to sit on it.

“We’re constantly at war with the Mugdock,” the Captain was saying. “They’re picking fights more often lately. The way you were headed leads right into their many camps. They’re trying to block out the trade routes to the sea. The difference between them and us is that they won’t house you until you regain your strength. They’ll rape you until they grow tired of you, then they’ll kill you. Possibly with much pain.”

“Please don’t hold back for my sake,” Shanti said in dry tones.

“You’re not strong enough to go far. You’ll fall right into their hands, then I’ll have Sanders and a few of these boys trying to play hero. I can’t turn you loose, at least not if you’re going that way.”

“Ah yes, a mother. I had one of those, once. She was prettier, though. I don’t need another. Give me my things and let me go. Please. I can get through your enemies just fine.”

“So you are going that way, then. Toward the sea, hum?”

Shanti stared, ignoring his smug tone. She was getting tired and sloppy. She also wasn’t getting any closer to her things.

Actually…

She slid her foot across the floor toward the desk. No one moved to stop her. One more step. The boys, looking more like a flock of geese than fighters in a line, started to fidget, sensing a trap. So did she.

One more step. The Captain looked at her pleasantly, a small smile playing around his lips, dimples making tiny indentations in his cheeks. The Commanders made no movement at all. The boys leaned back, as if she was about to grab a snake.

She reached in.

It was like a handshake that got cut off midway. The two taller commanders stepped at her with swords drawn, lightning speed. The shorter commander fingered a knife, not bothering to crowd her. He was probably waiting to see if she got through the others, then he’d tackle her. The Captain was up with throwing knife in hand, poised to throw.

Great technique.

Her own reactions were slow and clumsy, her muscles confounded and screaming in protest. She clutched the hilt, she hefted it, couldn’t hold on, then threw it across the room with an uncoordinated jerk. It skidded against the baseboards near the feet of the boys. The young men scattered, throwing themselves out of the way, or diving behind the desk like idiots.

Two sword blades glinted at her throat, the hands holding them steady and confident. Their feet were shoulder width, ready to move and perfectly balanced. The Captain, seeing she wasn’t planning to rush to her death, sat down confidently and tucked his knife into his belt.

Two heads poked up from the side of the desk and Shanti resisted an urge to blind them with an ink bottle.

“I guess that answers the question of whether it’s your sword,” the Captain said in amusement.

Shanti ground her teeth in annoyance. Playing along would behoove her, but she hated his smug surety that women could not wield weapons.

She took a slow step toward him, feeling out the men holding the swords. The more organized commander relented slightly, pulling his sword away to match her advance. The other, the oldest of the army men, did not. Her skin kissed the metal. The metal bit back. A small pearl of blood welled up on the blade.

The boys hissed.

“Well, then. Point proven, it seems.” Shanti stepped back. “If you ever go up against the Mardis, which are all women by the way, this man is the one for the front line.” She jerked a thumb at the gray-templed commander.

And then something else surprised her. The other commander, the one who had pulled away, swung his sword forward again, his mind oozing mistrust and anger.

Another interesting reaction.

“Mardis? Is that your people?” the Captain asked lightly. A hard edge had infiltrated his eyes.

So they’d had a run-in with the Mardis. Not good.

“No. Sex slaves are not my thing. I prefer my men willing. Now, since I am obviously in over my head, I think I might just try out the couch?”

“Please.” The Captain stood gracefully and gestured for her to sit opposite on the couch facing him.

Shanti crossed the room gratefully, swords falling away as the men stepped back. She surveyed her sword as she passed, making sure it didn’t have any damage. Continuing on, she reached the couch and sank in, sighing gratefully as her body sank into the plush leather.

“Oh Elders, I thank you for this treat. What workmanship!” Shanti closed her eyes.

“You aren’t worried about the blade?” the Captain lowered back down.

“It jumped boat. It can lie on the ground for a while. It needs to go over its life choices.”

“Jumped ship, yes, I see. Speaking of choices, we need to decide what to do with you. You’ll not be allowed weapons, nor to leave. Not until I have more information. These are difficult times. There are rumors of war and famine coming our way. I want to know what your involvement in that is.”

She had plenty of involvement in that. Thwarting the Being Supreme, running from him, planning to overthrow his tyranny with the help of a distant relation—yes, she had plenty. The Captain was right be worried about what was coming, but if he knew that the girl he was helping would bring the Graygual to his doorstep immediately, bringing the war with them, he’d probably kill her immediately. She couldn’t say she would blame him, either, were she in his place.

She said, “I am but a trader who lost her comrades, now just trying to make my way to distant relations.”

Suspicious blue eyes delved into her with a corresponding brush against her mind. He might not be trained, but he’d learned enough to be of value. What a sneaky bastard. One day soon she hoped to give him a rude awaking. In the meantime, she let him read emotions that gave her credibility. He snatched what she purposely offered, intensity stealing his features as he analyzed information not even remotely true.

“I see,” he said softly, probing her more readily. Getting greedy.

She closed up shop, blocking him with a well-constructed shield. “I can’t do much like I am, so I have no choice but to play nice until I’m strong enough to be outside of your control.”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you. You best stay out of trouble. You’ll also be expected to earn your keep. What are you good at?”

Killing people. “Hunting.”

“Hunting?” The Captain looked at her quizzically. “I don’t want you outside the city walls. It isn’t safe. What else?”

Training. Leading a nation. Fighting. “Uh…”

“Do you bake?”

Shanti started laughing.

“Can you wash clothes?”

“Not if you want them clean.”

“Needle point?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s making designs in fabric.” The Captain glanced around for a display.

“With needles?”

“Yes, needles. And colored thread.”

“That sounds like a huge waste of time. How about skin animals?” Shanti tried. “Although you might have a different way since my people cannot make leather such as this. I would love to learn, of course.”

“Making leather like that is a well-kept secret. We will try needlepoint. Keep you out of trouble.” With finality the Captain stood up.

“To insure my cooperation, I ask that you take care of my weapons,” she said softly.

He didn’t even balk. “Of course.”

“And that you return my ring. It was my father’s. It’s important to me.”

The Captain’s eyes lost their accusation. “Are the weapons his as well?”

“No. Just the ring.” She might be genuine, but she still wasn’t about to reveal her journey.

After a moment of delimitation, he nodded. “To insure your cooperation.”

It was then that Rachie came running in, panting. He held up a pair of slippers. They weren’t much more than a couple scraps of fabric. Shiny, pink fabric at that. Were earth colors so out of the norm in his city?

“Chaylene had a pair that should fit her,” he blurted. “Unless her feet are boats.”

The Captain nodded and left out the back way, Commander Sanders and the older fellow following him.

The remaining Commander studied her with a blank, flat stare. “Please dress and follow me.”

Shanti glanced at the catastrophe of fashion. “Is that mandatory?”

Silence. Apparently it was.

She shrugged into the uncomfortable material and had Marc zip the back. She then followed the Commander toward the door. Once there, he stopped and faced her. “Xavier, she is your ward now until she leaves this city. Captain’s orders. Keep tabs on her from here on out. You can take her to Commander Sanders in the small practice yard; he will be putting her up. The rest of you, escort her to the small practice field, where you will then fall in to your training. Dismissed.”

The Commander strode away, gliding like a swordsman. The rest of the boys stood around on the foot path, gawking. If they’d ever held a sword in their lives, Shanti would’ve been shocked. Xavier stepped up next to her and started walking. She did, too, noticing that Marc was directly behind.

“So you boys found me, is that right?” Shanti asked pleasantly, noticing all the women bustling by in giant, bright, ridiculous dresses. They looked leisurely and plump, not having a care, or apparently a task, to burden them. This must be a rich sector of the city.

“I did,” a drooling boy with staring eyes said.

“And you are?”

“Gracas, sir.”

“She’s a girl!” Rachie muttered.

“Ma’am,” Gracas amended.

“I am not a lady and I am not of your city. I have experience with commands and fighting. Sir is fine.”

“See?” It sounded like Gracas elbowed Rachie.

“I was there, too, Miss!” Someone yelled from the back.

It occurred to her that these boys were following her in a loose horde, Xavier doing nothing to put them in order. Irritated, Shanti stopped. She was already different—if a rag-tag crew followed her around, everyone would notice her every move. That was not acceptable.

She turned to face the boys. Then waited until they all looked at her.

“You are all Cadets, is that right?”

Nods all around.

“You nod to mothers, fathers, sisters, and aunts. You nod to neighbors and friends. You do not nod to a commanding officer, or so I have noticed. If you are asked a question, you answer with a vocal response. Is that clear?”

She got a “Yes, ma-sir”; one “Yes, sir”; one “Yes, com”, which was hopefully slang or the speaker was just plain stupid; and one nod. Marc was the one who nodded. He got punched in the throat. Xavier tried to intercede and got punched in the kidney. Everyone else got one quirked eyebrow. It was a dare. No one rose to the bait.

It was testimony to how naïve these boys were in the ways of fighting that her poor excuse for strikes dropped them to the ground. It was also testimony to how weak they thought women that these men were sent to guard her.

“You follow directions or you get people killed,” Shanti continued, noticing the boys gingerly stepping away from Marc moaning and writhing on the ground. “If you are too stupid to follow directions, you will get really, really tough, because I will beat the… I need a slang word for poop.”

“Kaa-kaa,” one of the boys volunteered.

He got elbowed. “What are we, five?” The boy turned to Shanti. “Shit.”

“Thank you, Rachie. I will beat the shit out of you. Now, Marc, are you recovered?”

She got a nod as he climbed, painfully, to his feet.

“Marc is about to demonstrate how to get tough really quick.” She spun, sweeping the legs out from under him. He fell directly on his butt bone in the middle of the foot path. It looked like it hurt. Her stagger wasn’t much better. “Please note that Xavier is smart. He didn’t try to help that time. Silently give Xavier praise.”

“Good on ya!” Rachie congratulated, stepping forward to pat Xavier on the back.

Shanti stepped forward to meet Rachie and punched him in the solar plexus. She didn’t have much sauce behind the punch, not having much more stamina in her body, but Rachie fell like a lead weight in a barrel of water. It was hilarious, and to celebrate, Shanti held her stomach and started laughing.

“You boys are a bunch of funny men.” Shanti started walking.

Thanks to the Captain, and her state, she had nothing to do but get better. She was bored already. She might just have to make a project of these boys—turn them into something worth talking to before she moved on.

“Clowns. Ah, sir,” Xavier commented, catching up immediately.

“Clowns, fine. Can anyone tell me why Rachie just got punched?”

“He was supposed to be silent.”

“Good, Cadet. What is your name?”

“Leilius? Sire.”

“Are you unsure of your own name, Cadet? And I am not a king.”

Leilius flinched, realized he wasn’t going to get hurt right then, then said, “Leilius. Sir.”

“Good. Come along you lot. And stay in pairs. You look like shit after someone ate beans. I will need more swear words, too; I love the startled faces when I use them.”

Thankfully the walk to meet Commander Sanders was short, allowing Shanti to appear confident and unaffected the whole way. As they neared the large square of lush, freshly trimmed grass, Commander Sanders cut off his hand-to-hand combat training and approached them like a man would a raging bonfire if he was covered in flammable liquid.

“Boys, get geared up,” Sanders barked in greeting.

Shanti heard a “Yes, sir”, one “Yes, Chief”, and a “M’Kay.” She was able to kick one of the silent boys in the leg, taking him down, but had to settle for a rock for the other. She got him right in the back of the head. She’d always been an excellent shot.

Sanders had her by the upper arm before she could blink. He was fast and in control. The grip was gentle but firm.

The Captain had definitely chosen his Commanders well. Interesting.

“If I were you,” Shanti groused in clipped tones, eyeing each of the young boys, “I would not stare when a commanding officer takes a lesser in hand. I would move about my business, or prepare for another lesson in how to get tough really quick.”

They all gave a quick “Yes, sir” and scurried away. Granted, it looked like ants after a boot, but at least they got the vocalization down.

Sanders’ hand tentatively left her arm.

“I apologize, Commander.” Shanti turned toward him, surprised his height was barely above her own, especially when the rest of the men in this land seemed abnormally large. “They are a lump of coal that needs a flame. I could not have them embarrassing me. This dress is enough.”

Sanders just stared.

“I have been told you have a place for me to go?” she continued. “Hopefully it is not to needlepoint.”

It was to needlepoint.

Chapter VIII

“JUNICE, I AM AWARE THE Captain requires me to master this accursed discipline, but I simply do not understand it. I am not an artist. My thread pictures look like rainbow vomit. I’m not useful.”

Shanti put down her needlepoint paraphernalia and leaned against the solid wood chair.

She’d been in Sanders’ house, much to Sanders’ continual frustration, for two weeks. It had been long enough to ascertain that she did not belong in a domestic setting for any longer than a night at a time. And while she had put on substantial weight in the short time, she was grossly lacking in muscle coordination and mental warfare. Worse still, without access to move freely and train unobstructed, she was forced to linger, the world growing older, the Graygual moving closer. The sun was drifting toward the horizon of her duty; she had to move on, but to do that, she had to get well.

“Patience, you’ll get it,” Junice said with a sweet smile.

Junice was Sanders’ adorable young wife, only married a month or so, and in charge of their quaint (by their standards) three bedroom house. The woman had a quick tongue and was completely besotted with Sanders, first name Avery. He was apparently a big teddy bear, which was some kind of stuffed mammal. Others, however, thought he was just the bear part, which was some sort of large, lumbering beast.

“Would you like to help me make bread?” Junice paused as she took a bag of flour from a shelf.

“No. Do you need your knives sharpened again? Or polished?”

Junice just smiled. Shanti had done it three times in two weeks. They were razor sharp and gleaming.

“I do not understand the fascination the Captain has with needlepoint.” Shanti rested her head on her fist and staring out the window at the distant treetops. The forest called to her. Beckoned. She wasn’t strong enough to get away from her honor guard—the group of bumbling boys that followed her around everywhere—in time to climb the twenty-foot wall and jump over. The boys usually caught her halfway up and dragged her back down. Xavier had a long reach. And an irritating smile.

“I think it isn’t that he wants you to learn it, so much as he wants you better.”

“I do not think he cares of my health. He wants my story. Punishment, then? Is that what he is after?”

Junice tsk’d at her. “The Captain isn’t vindictive.”

Junice didn’t know the Captain very well. Neither did Shanti, which she was thankful for. The man was a meddling jerk. She left the house for a walk, and someone showed up to tell her to go home and work on needlepoint. She opened the window for some air and to stare out at the trees, and someone wandered by with the needlepoint message. She even got interrupted while getting Junice water, of all things. She was helping, yet still the fascination with a trivial waste of time and materials.

She’d settled for drawing an explicit gesture on a piece of cloth and sending it to his house via messenger. She received the piece of cloth back with a message to try again, only this time, sew the gesture in needlepoint.

It wasn’t that he had no sense of humor, as she originally thought. He just told rotten jokes.

“What’s really bothering you?” Junice asked as she stirred a mixture of food items in a bowl.

“Besides that frustrating man who gives obtuse orders via messenger?” Junice nodded into her glaring eyes. “I’d like to wander in the wood. It’s been some time since I’ve been able to relax and shut off. It’d greatly help my recovery, but I’m sworn to stay inside city limits. Not that that would normally stop me, but I’m too weak to figure a way out.”

“Is that all?” Junice shook her head and put down her bowl. “You should learn to talk more, rather than just listen. C’mere, let me show you.”

“What?” Shanti blinked as Junice dragged her up by her arm.

“We have a fabulous wooded park here. Since I’m not your jailer, and you won’t be outside of the city, I think we’re within the rules.” Junice’s eyes sparkled. “Anyway, there aren’t any structures for children or meeting places, which means it isn’t used very often, but that might be just what you need!”

Shanti followed Junice with roving eyes, taking in the sights and sounds of the sleepy city. Swept footpaths and gleaming houses spoke of the overall pride these people had in their dwellings. Those passing by had a smile and a nod for Junice, pleasantly trying their best not to gawk at the strange woman beside her. From Shanti’s observation, there were no poor people. Those ‘less fortunate’, as Junice would say, could claim the comforts Molly displayed —things Shanti would call luxury. This city was extremely rich, and what’s more, not afraid to spread that wealth around.

She could’ve landed in worse places.

They took a path around some of the largest, most ornate houses Shanti had seen thus far. Well-tended vegetation and large yards sprawled around each two-story house. Small wooden fences sectioned off each residence, declaring the land as owned.

“Kind of selfish, not to share the soft grass with your townspeople,” Shanti muttered.

As they toured around the last house in the row, the crisp smell of nature welcomed Shanti in. Lush green took over the landscape; old and thriving trees grew unhindered. Wild and alive, the natural replenishment a forest could offer Shanti’s Gift softly caressed her senses, smiling and gesturing her forward.

“How did I not know this was here?” Shanti asked in a breathy whisper, staring into the deep, lush world of green.

“It is behind that square piece of development. City councilors get the perk of looking at trees instead of other houses or the wall. They treat it as their own backyard, but it’s actually available to everyone. It prevents hikers from having to venture outside the walls if they don’t want to. And lately, with all the Mugdock activity, nobody in their right mind wants to.”

Shanti bowed to Junice. “Thank you, this is exactly what I needed.”

Junice patted her on the back. “Just come back when you’re done. I don’t want the Captain angry that you were left unattended…”

“The secret is safe with me,” Shanti said easily.

Junice smiled and wandered away, trusting Shanti to stick to her word.

As Shanti watched the woman leave, a gush of warmth filled her chest. Junice had been nothing but kind and patient, nurturing Shanti back to health while chatting with her like a friend. The woman had opened her home to a complete stranger, proving herself trusting and kind. And she wasn’t the only one who cared.

Molly had popped by a few times as Shanti regained her health, checking up on her, chatting. Even the Captain—whose name Molly had said was Cayan—sent messengers to get updates on her health, and let her know he was available if she needed anything. He hadn’t badgered her about her origins or her business. He hadn’t bullied or pushed. And he hadn’t given her a jailer, as Junice had said. This city was filled with good-natured people, and despite Shanti’s attempts to the opposite, she couldn’t help feeling attached to its charms.

Hating the guilt that settled in her chest because of the danger she was to these people just by being in their city, Shanti meandered between two large trunks, purposely not using the dirt path off to the right. The fresh smell of the forest greeted her, sweet and alive, singing in her blood. Closing her eyes, she kept walking, opening her mind, allowing the life around her to bolster her strength, seep into her Gift. This was the wood she’d needed two weeks ago. The surge of life-force that could quickly replenish what she’d diminished along her route. It would speed health, cutting her time of recovery in half.

Wandering in deep, she found a Grandfather tree that had grown large and strong through generations. She laid her palm on the coarse bark in greeting before sinking to its base. Closing her eyes, she let her mind expand and drift. Reaching. Remembering.

“Look at me.”

Shanti opened her eyes, feeling the rough bark on her bare back. She felt his hand in hers, and looked into him with eyes and mind. Felt him. Was at one with him. His eyes were the color of the rich, fertile earth. His breath was sweet. He was love in a handsome smile.

“You are beautiful.”

The birds sang their joyful song high overhead. She looked into the eyes of the person she trusted more than any other she had ever known. “Beauty means nothing.”

“It does when it is your soul. And you are beautiful. To me.”

Shanti felt a smile bud.

“Your grandfather asked that I stay away from you,” he continued, his eyes sad.

“He can’t control me, so he is trying to control you.”

“Yes. I have not given him an answer either way. I thought I would ask you.”

“You know my answer.”

“Your answer is based on your feelings. For me. Not those of your people. Our people. You need to lead them. I am not even a fighter. I am a caregiver. I can offer you nothing.”

Shanti felt his feathery soft hair. “You can offer me yourself. And that is all I will take. Everything else is provided for me. Someone will need to care for the children.”

“I give you less of a chance to have any.”

Shanti shrugged. “You are the Empath. You care more about that than I do. I want you.”

Shining brown eyes closed just before his lips touched hers. She deepened the contact, and let him in. With his type of Gift he could only sense her, but with how much love she felt, it was more than enough. For the first time, she let him in, mind as well as body. Her Grandfather’s meddling be blasted.

With a tear rolling down her cheek, Shanti felt the mind coming, interrupting a sweet memory of times lost.

Treading on silent footfalls, he worked his way through birds and other small critters without raising any kind of alarm. The ability bespoke an experienced and accomplished tracker, not to mention someone well versed in sneaking up on people. As he was trying to do now, she had a feeling.

That swirling mind path made its way to within ten feet, without sound, and stopped. He hunkered down, intent and focused, watching. As the minutes ticked away, and the soothing forest air brushed Shanti’s face, that swirling rainbow started to calm. Started to decelerate until it wasn’t much more than a floating wave of colors. It seemed his Gift worked like hers, sucking in the life-force around them to replenish itself. To strengthen.

He had the Old Blood, obviously. It was getting harder and harder to deny that fact. And yet, she hoped beyond anything that she was wrong. That he was some other anomaly that could remain untouched by the Graygual advancement. She’d seen how smoothly his city ran—even through her jail cell of needlepoint. His people were happy, everyone was fed, and no one wanted for anything necessary to life. Yesterday, when she snuck out to the yard to capture some sun on her face, she noticed him striding down the street away from her location, four advisors keeping pace. He’d noticed a child in a yard he was passing and stopped almost immediately, turned toward the yard, and helped the child rescue a ball from a roof. It had taken him half an hour. He’d had to scale a tree and leap onto the roof. He’d turned himself from an enemy jailer into a human leader. To someone with the same trials and tribulations she herself had had.

He’d become a life Shanti couldn’t, in good conscience, take away.

But if he was the same as her, with his Gift, it was only a matter of time before the greed and filth that was the Graygual-way corrupted him, either by turning him to their cause, or debasing him and breeding him out. If he could further the war effort, he would become enemy number one—with or without the will to do so. And for that reason, he would have to die. It was just one more part of her duty that would scar her for life.

And how many were there besides him? It was too big of a coincidence she would stumble upon the path of the only other. There had to be more. And if so, was the Being Supreme aware?

A shot of adrenaline pierced her. What if the Being Supreme had others? What if those others were being trained? What if the Graygual were making headway on their arsenal of minds?

“Are you okay?”

Shanti was up and moving before the sentence finished, startled into action. She lashed out with a foot, hammering it into his hip joint. She met hard muscle. She rammed her fist into his solar plexus, this time with much more force. His breath gushed out, but a quick step to the side had him ready for the next attack, then defending, as she swiped a foot through the air, aimed at his head. He batted her away, always on the move.

Shanti pummeled her fists into his gut, meeting more hard muscle. Yanking his wrist down with one hand, she jolted his elbow with the other. He flung her off, making her stumble before regaining her balance. She shoved her fingers toward his eyes. Near miss. Her foot at the ready, she swung, and met solid back. A leg sweep, which he jumped over, landing perfectly on the balls of his feet, quick and agile. And much stronger.

She was already panting. Her body was screaming. Her speed was half-mast. Her mind wasn’t even that far along.

He wasn’t attacking. He was taking the easy hits and dodging the damaging ones. Placating.

Well that was a little embarrassing.

With a grimace of defeat, Shanti halted her advance.

The Captain stood immobile as she wound down, waiting to see if she would throw another hit. She didn’t bother. Even with a sword she couldn’t defeat him. Not in mind or body. Not yet.

It had been two weeks and she was barely farther along. No more stalling.

She sank to the ground, breathing heavy, the weight that had settled onto her chest making it hard to draw breath. He sat down beside her quietly.

“You can fight.” It was that deep gravel that gave her shivers, currently subdued. He let the hush of their surroundings filter into his tone.

“Sorry. You startled me.”

“Sanders said you had muscle tone fit for a soldier, and calluses to match.”

“He’s correct. Although I’m a long way from fit. Too far. I haven’t been healing in the right ways—something this wood will hopefully rectify.”

“Those weapons are yours.”

She nodded her head slightly.

“I figured it when I measured the leg harness—it’s too small for a man.”

She nodded again.

“Is it blood sport? Is that why you fight? Are you running from the people that make you do it? I can help you. Protect you. We do not tolerate that sort of violence here.”

A pang of longing stabbed her. If only he could protect her. If only it was something as small as a domineering mate or an imprisoning culture. She sighed, blinking tears from her eyes. “It is not sport. I train, I fight, I kill if necessary. Like you. I am not running from whatever it is you imagine. I am not preyed upon because of my sex. I was not a slave and I was never mated. Nor raped. I intend to keep it that way.”

He nodded quietly, clearly out of his element regarding what sort of women fought when they didn’t have to. Letting it go, he murmured, “Fair enough. But you’re far from home. Are you home sick? Do you need money to get somewhere? Include me on your plans and I can help.”

She laughed sardonically. “Homesick, yes. Every moment of my life, waking or otherwise. Do I need money? No, thank you. There’s nothing to go back to.”

“So you’re running, then?”

“For now, yes. For good, no.”

The rainbow looked like it was caught in a whirlpool. “Are you giving me vague answers on purpose?”

“Are you purposely asking questions in my time of vulnerability for a better chance of getting answers?”

“I don’t like to see a woman alone without resources, or vulnerable, if I can help her.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

The Captain paused. Then snorted and looked out at the trees.

“Exactly,” Shanti whispered.

“You’ve picked up our language quickly,” he began again. He bent his knee and looped a large arm over it.

“I already knew it, as you remember.”

“Your accent is much improved, your word choices are intelligent, and your swear words are…colorful.”

It was Shanti’s turn to snort. “Set young boys to match my steps and I get the choicest cuts of colorful language.”

“Sanders said he hasn’t seen you since you went to stay with him.”

Shanti picked up a blade of grass. The filtered sun highlighted it in splotches as she twirled it in her fingers. “You’re trying to punish him for some reason, while getting someone capable to keep an eye on me. He’s trying to live his life. I’m allowing him to do that. He needs to feel free to talk to his mate. He needs license to have loud, obnoxious sex. Why he doesn’t is beyond me, but it is not my fault.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for an invitation for two women at once…”

Shanti smiled, grateful that the Captain was trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe, but I’d rather not get drugged, then murdered in my sleep by Junice.”

The Captain laughed. It was a deep, peaceful sound, light and pleasant. It tickled her stomach pleasantly, reminding her of pleasures lost. Then he sobered, the dimples stored away, too serious too soon. This man didn’t live much. He worked, he bore the responsibility of a large city with a lot of trade and goods, and he let himself be ruled by his job as he ruled those under him. Shanti pitied him slightly. It wasn’t a great way to live a life.

The Captain backed his rump up and settled against the tree at Shanti’s back. “I hear you’re abusing my Cadets.”

“Teaching, not abusing.”

“Kicking them for not vocalizing an affirmation is abusive.”

Shanti snorted. She’d done worse than that on occasion. “And if you truly believed that, you would not hold your position for long. I was treated much worse when I was learning. I had harsher rules. And look, I’m fine. It made me a more disciplined fighter.”

“Boys step out of line as a matter of principle. They’re wilder than girls. They break the rules to test boundaries. I don’t punish as much as you might think.”

Shanti threw down the grass. “Boys might be wilder most times, but there are always exceptions. You’re speaking to one.”

“I see,” he said with an amused tone.

“Marc is bright but painfully shy. Painfully shy. Getting kicked in the head helps him realize that merely getting looked at isn’t so scary.”

“Xavier is budding. He is starting to lead.”

“That wasn’t my doing.”

“It was, in a round-about sort of way. He’s responding, growing into a fighter with your methods. Rachie, Gracas, even Leilius, they are responding.”

Shanti shrugged. “They just needed structure and a little attention.”

“Sanders nearly choked on your cookies.”

Shanti couldn’t help but laugh. “Now I understand the swirling mind colors. You have so much going on in your thoughts at any one time, one wonders what will pop out of your mouth.” She got a look of charmed confusion. She might as well have been speaking in her own language. “Um…cookies, oh yes. I warned you, as you recall. Fighting, hunting, shooting—they are all I know.”

“I see. And have you made any progress with your needlepoint?”

Shanti stood, sensing more male minds coming her way. The Captain followed her lead. If he was surprised she knew they were coming, he didn’t show it.

“You’ve been in here for some time, “he said, sobering once more. “We thought you might try to make a run for it. Your honor guard is finally showing up.”

Shanti turned to him and looked up. The man was massive, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. It was an unpleasant reminder to the challenge he would present to her fitness level. “How did you find me? If they’re just now showing up...”

He winked. “That’s why I get called Lord. I’m the best.”

She sniffed. “How do you carry that ego around? Does it not get tedious?”

The Captain smiled, his dimples making deep divots in his cheeks. With a glance in the direction of the oncoming kids, he nodded once and walked away, the opposite direction as the clambering honor guard.

She shook her head, then donned a wicked smile.

Now to scare the honor guard.

Chapter IX

THE END OF THE NEXT couple weeks saw Shanti back to nearly full health and desperately working on full strength. She went through her fighting styles, one at a time, until she was shaking and sweaty. Then she did the same with her mental conditioning, nearly blacking out twice. She had been taking to the trees, always practicing there at night, giving Sanders and Mrs. Sanders some time to themselves.

Shanti’s honor guard was now an Honor Guard. It was a real title. And it was real irritating. The Captain in all his misplaced wisdom decided he was tired of punishing the boys for obeying her and not their immediate officers, so he assigned them to her for safe keeping. He also wanted to punish her with a bunch of ridiculous little kids following her around, constantly getting in the way and tripping each other up. Plus, he said, she needed protection.

Shanti had asked Sanders for clarification, making sure “protection” didn’t actually mean surveillance. She was told that technically, no, but in this case, probably.

Being that she didn’t have a real job, and only needed half the day to work on her strength and endurance, especially with no weapons, she decided she might as well make a game of it. She started leading a merry chase around the city, much to the Honor Guard’s chagrin, only to pop out from behind a corner when they least expected it. They never thought it was as funny as she did.

This was all exasperating for the beloved Captain, of course. He had informed her, through the proper channels, that she was to stay in Sanders’ house unless chaperoned. She was to behave like a lady. She was to keep quiet and stop bothering him with her blatant disregard of authority.

Being that excrement flowed downhill, the chain of command was nothing more than a poop-chute; the lowest member having to walk around with shit on his face. She relayed this fact to anyone with the Captain’s agenda on his or her lips.

The next message tumbling down the chain of command was simply, “Be nice.”

It was one blissful afternoon where not being nice was the name of the game. Having thrown off her persistent Honor Guard for the moment, Shanti walked into the training grounds, the location of which she was absolutely not supposed to know. It was a large open area nestled in the middle of a copse of trees at the extreme southern end of the city. The outside wall was easily visible, with no cover or branches close enough that a person could climb up and hop over. She never bothered to point out that the wall was made of rough stone with large masonry cracks; climbing wasn’t difficult.

She’d already proven that assessment. And gotten her Honor Guard in trouble for not having the man-rocks to climb up after her and pull her back down.

Shanti spotted Sanders immediately. He stood in the middle of a group of men around Shanti’s age, showing some sort of knife throw. It was a move only large, strong men could do with other large, strong men, because it was clunky and easy to slip out of if you were in any way nimble.

The far corner had a wall set up with targets. Men of all ages loitered around, throwing knives like they might throw a ball. While most had great aim, they applied terrible technique. Such an easy thing to master, and yet it was an anomaly on these training grounds. Ridiculous.

“Can I help you?”

Shanti turned to a man in his early thirties with a dirty, sweat-stained shirt and loose pants. His honeyed skin provided a natural block against the intense heat. His face was broad but features delicate, barely on the masculine side of pretty. His eyes, though…

Shanti felt a pang of longing as she gazed into those eyes. Warm brown, like the earth, almost exactly the same color and shape as Romie’s had been.

Shanti smiled, her stomach fluttering. Remembering. “Oh no, you and yours are providing plenty of distraction, thank you.”

“I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here.” His beautiful eyes started to twinkle. She wanted to fall in immediately and never come out.

“Actually, Commander Sanders gave me these knives.“ Shanti produced the stolen blades from the belt of her stolen pants. “He said I should try to throw them.”

The man laughed, a pleasing sound that tickled her below her stolen belt line. “I doubt that.”

“Are you calling your commanding officer a liar?” Her voice took on a sharp edge. If he didn’t go for that, she had a strictly feminine purr at the ready. She had about fifteen more minutes before her Honor Guard found her, and less than that before Sanders did. She wanted to throw her knives and make all the boys squeal.

But then, she also had a half a mind to make this boy squeal. Decisions.

His eyes rounded and he shook his head. “No, ma’am. Let me take you to Commander Sanders.”

“I see him. Why don’t you take me to the Pit instead? He said he’d meet me there…”

Knowing what they called the area to throw knives obviously gave her credibility. As they headed over, thankfully not in clear view of Sanders, Shanti said, “So what is your name?”

“Jerrol, ma’am. And you are the foreign woman.”

“Shanti, yes. Tell me, Jerrol, does your city have a ban on pre-mating intercourse?”

“Mating?”

“Um…you know…” Shanti searched for the word, “what you call wife and husband?”

“Married, you mean. Uh…” With an embarrassed smile he looked around, trying to make sure no one overheard their conversation. Talking about sex was apparently restricted. Pity.

“Lovers are taboo in this culture, then, is that correct?” she pushed.

“Lovers?”

She wasn’t making him squeal so much as squeak.

It was just her luck that she landed, half dead, into a prudish culture where women wore entire rolls of fabric on their person, each gender was afraid of seeing the other naked, sex was quiet of all things, and only the men protected their people. She couldn’t have been more out of place if she’d dreamed up a joke for herself.

“Forget I said anything. Until the ban ceases, of course.”

They arrived at the Pit, Jerrol now walking slightly closer than he had before their conversation. Shanti watched the proceedings for a scant two seconds before a lifetime of duty and leadership had her marching over to a man her senior by probably ten years. His form was decent, but it only needed a slight tweak to be much more effective.

“What is your rank, solider?” she asked gruffly, emulating Sanders. It made her feel stupid, not speaking to him like a human being, but it was the way they did things here. These men liked to keep things in routine. Much like toddlers.

The man hesitated. He knew he was talking to a woman, knew he should escort her out of harm’s way, but probably figured he’d get a thump for it. He was right on two counts.

“Staff Officer...” he responded.

“Name?”

“Derek.”

“Staff Officer Derek, you are holding that knife all kinds of wrong. Here let me…”

“WHAT IS SHE DOING IN THE PIT?”

Alas, Sanders was more observant than she had given him credit for.

The man in front of her tried not to shrivel out of the way. He was the only one.

Shanti turned to face the oncoming rage of the most vicious man in their military—if the rumors were to be believed. She was rather curious what he would do. Then bored, because instead of kicking her in the head, he immediately reached for her arm to drag her away. She evaded easily.

“Temper, temper,” she taunted with a playful smirk. “Everyone will think you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“What are you doing in my clothes?” Sanders barked. “And where is your protection? And-why are-you-in-the-middle-of-fifty-dangerous-men-who-are-half-mad-with-adrenaline? Do you have a death wish? Or do you want me killed, because if the Captain found out you were here I would be cleaning the latrines!“

“Shoot. My Honor Guard arrives.” Xavier was running at her in a full sprint. “I’ll leave you to it. But first…”

She grabbed Derek’s knife by the blade, spun, and threw with barely a glance at the target. It was easy and effortless and her aim was true. There was a resounded thunk as the knife hit the middle of the bull’s-eye.

Thank the grace of the Elders! Muscle memory was a wonderful thing. She would have made a real ass of herself if she’d missed.

She walked away to an entire training ground of dead silence. That was, until Rachie showed up.

“Oh thank fuck, we found her! I thought for sure she was hiding in the men’s bathroom again!”

As she let them lead her away, Sanders frothing in her wake, she said, “Fuck? It seems you’ve been tight-lipped about a very important swear word. Explain.”

Chapter X

SANDERS WALKED INTO THE CAPTAIN’S office with a brisk pace and lead in his chest. The Captain sat behind his desk, completely composed, but a man just never knew where they stood when called out of the blue. His punishment was nearly up, so that was probably it, but he hadn’t kept a very close eye on his charge, so he could be getting reamed out for that.

Or possibly his men were the problem. They wouldn’t stop trying to intercept the foreigner and engage her in some way. Half of them already proposed. They loved hearing the ways they were rebuked. A bunch of young, horny fools was what they were.

Then there were her band of boys. They’d do whatever she said over whatever anyone else said, no matter if Sanders slapped them around or not. It was her way or silence. He didn’t know how she did it, but it was making a right mess of things in the practice yard.

Especially since they were starting to use a strange fighting style. And winning.

“Captain, you wanted to see me?” Sanders asked, coming to stand in front of the desk.

Eerie blue eyes looked up from crisp white papers. The Captain’s shoulder length hair was back, tied at the nape of his neck. It meant he had battle in mind, which had Sanders immediately on point.

“Mugdock are gathering en masse,” the Captain started, sticking Sanders with those eyes and drilling him into the floor. “Something is brewing, but right now they have no clear target in mind. At least, they don’t seem to. They’re huddled outside of our lands, but not heading to our farming areas or mining operations. I’m debating sending a large party to break them up.”

Break them up was code for kill them all. Only way to do it with the Mugdock. “Is it just that one group?”

“So far, yes. It is probably half of their battalion. I have scouts looking for the other half.”

“Do you think they intend to raid?”

The Captain leaned back and closed his eyes. “I don’t know. It is fierce bad timing. I have a delegation coming through day after tomorrow to meet me and the council. They want to open trade lines between here and farther east. In addition, I planned on asking them about our foreigner. I don’t want to advertise our problems with the Mugdock.”

“Think they’ll know of one stray female traveler?”

Sanders wasn’t trying to be funny, or even grouchy, so he had no idea why the captain, eyes still closed, had a smile creeping up his face. Possibly laughing at a joke he’d told silently to himself. Possibly the young bugger was going mad. And if he was going mad, Sanders wasn’t planning on telling anybody because then it would be his problem. To that end, he stood right where he was, not daring to utter a single sound.

The Captain finally said, “She’s eclectic. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”

Eclectic wouldn’t have been Sanders’ word of choice. More along the lines of royal pain in the ass. “Should I send a party to disband the Mugdock?”

The Captain went reflective, then shook his head. “No, not yet. That’ll cause a grotesque scene. Get men ready, though. If anything happens, I want our reaction swift and complete.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear the girl made her way to the Pit?”

Sanders’s balls tightened up. He knew that tone. “She escaped her Honor Guard, sir.”

The Captain’s eyes, made of steel, honed in on Sanders. The air pressurized, causing fear to creep through Sanders’ now hollow veins.

The rough voice was quiet as it said, “You will take her in hand, Commander. Put an experienced man on her. If she so much as sneezes, I want to know about it. There is more to that woman than mere traveling. Ordinary people don’t have swords like that. She’s hiding something, and I will not let my people come to harm due to ignorance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is it going with you and Junice?”

“Wh—fine, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

“The foreign girl isn’t coming between you? There isn’t jealousy there?”

Sanders’ eyes widened momentarily. “No, sir. Not that I am aware. The gir—Shanti leaves every evening to the park—followed by members of her Guard. She comes back just after our bedtime. I rarely see her.”

“I see. I’m thinking of moving her location. Junice has developed a sort of loyalty to her. I would rather not have you compromised.”

The Captain was losing faith in Sanders’ ability to follow orders. It stung. Sanders had always been a career man, loyal to a fault. This foreign woman was starting to be a cancer to his life, disruptive in every way. And it was true—Junice was constantly singing her praises, though the foreign woman did nothing to help around the house.

Sanders nodded grudgingly.

“I’ll arrange the move tomorrow at noon,” the Captain said with finality. “Get her that experienced guard, and let him know that if he starts to feel even the smallest bit of loyalty toward her, he will be answering directly to me.”

“How long do you plan to keep her here?”

The Captain glanced up at his timepiece and looked back down at his papers. “Until she tells me who she is, and how I can help or hinder her progress, depending on her story.”

Oh good, the Captain was in a pissing contest with a strange girl from God-knew-where. Madness. Definitely madness setting in.

Sanders turned on his heel and headed out without another word.

Chapter XI

“THEY ARE COMING.”

SHANTI LOOKED around, confused.

Where was she?

In the wood. Not her home wood, though. Not the wood—

“Chosen, they are coming. We must get ready.”

Shanti turned to the man on her left. Tall, strong, and steady, he was safety with a staff. He would protect her at all costs. He had absolutely no equal, save herself. But he had not heard how many came their way. Their best strategic minds, their best planners, and the best ground moving crew they had, would not stop the horde coming. They were but one nation, fighting many. She was on the losing end of a blood bath, and she knew it. All the Head Staff did.

With the confidence born of her role, and the loyalty born of inspiring and leading by example, Shanti followed her Chance to the lookout cusp. She was the Chosen. She needed to survive this day. She needed to distract this horde long enough to get an already selected group of their people to a safe location. There they would remain until Shanti came back with her people’s long separated blood relations. She would reunite the tribes, declaring war on the nation threatening to bend the knee of the entire land.

“They are coming,” he said again.

As they moved into position, it echoed.

They are coming…

In a cold sweat, Shanti sat straight up in bed, her hair plastered to the side of her head. She’d had that nightmare a great many times since it had been a reality, but never had it stopped before blood was spilt. Never had she woken up with that lingering warning.

She registered the still night. The calm of the wood, so close, breathed fresh air through her cracked window. As the breeze tickled her face, drying her sweat, a force tickled her barriers, asking to be let in.

Memories of her youth assaulted her. Screaming. A child tottering down the lane covered in blood …

Flashes of imagery wrestled with her self-control. Dowsed her in fear. Dragged her under the surface of panic.

She scrambled up and raced into Sanders’ room, desperately trying to get ahold of herself. Something was coming, and she was as vulnerable as a child without her weapons.

“Sanders!” she bellowed, then braced for defense. You never surprised fighting men out of a dead sleep unless you were prepared, or did not value your life. Thankfully his reaction was to jump onto the bed, and crouch over his wife with short-sword in hand. His teeth were bared, his muscles taxed.

“Something is coming!” Shanti whispered fiercely.

Sanders was down off the bed and in her face surprisingly quickly. “What do you mean? What is? How do you know?”

“Someone… I don’t know. I don’t know what it is, Sanders, I am a foreigner here. Something bad is focused this way. Someone with malice. Someone filthy—a lot of someone’s, actually.”

Sanders relaxed slightly. “You had a dream, Shanti. Go to bed.”

“What’s going on?” Junice said with a thick voice. She sat up slowly, eyes puffy with sleep. “Avery, is that a sword? What’s going on?”

“Sanders, I need my weapons. Now,” Shanti exclaimed. “I will not face whatever is coming without my sword.”

“Nothing is coming…” Sanders’ voice dropped an octave. “Why are you so sure something is coming?”

“I feel it, Sanders. Now, as I stand here, I feel it. FLAK!” Shanti shook her head impatiently. This was getting her nowhere. Sanders didn’t trust her, he couldn’t sense what she could, and he was too stubborn to listen to reason. She needed her Honor Guard.

She made it one step before she felt his intention. She whirled to her right, narrowly missing Sanders’ grab.

“Don’t do this, Sanders. We are not having this fight right here.”

He repositioned himself in front of the door. “You are not leaving this house, Shanti. I don’t like the way you’re talking. The Captain is right; there is something off with you.”

“The Captain thinks there is something off with me, does he?” She huffed, glancing at the window. She was faster than him—she didn’t need to go through if she could go around. “Doesn’t like looking in a mirror, perhaps? Doesn’t matter. I am not going to stay in this town and get killed.”

He lunged for her with his empty hand, his sword brought wide and out of the way. Mistrust was one thing, but killing another. Sanders was not about to kill a woman. Great news.

Shanti peeled to the side while grabbing his wrist and tugging, knocking him off balance. She pummeled two punches to his small ribs, gave a chop to his inner leg near his balls, and then stepped back. He gave one hobble before pausing, his brain distracted by that kick near his vulnerable area. She used it to give him a hard kick to his kidney, hoping he’d go down.

He didn’t. He staggered, his eyes flaring with battle rage. It was about to get interesting.

He punched, fast as lightning, ready to tackle her to the ground after the punch landed. It didn’t.

She wiped his hand away, pivoted, and kicked him in the face. Her foot slapped off his chin. His head whipped back, his body staggering with it.

Junice started screaming.

Shanti braced for a follow-up kick to Sanders, trying to finally down the stubborn jackass, when her eyes caught movement to the side. Something was barreling toward her.

Not something, someone.

It was a tall man with shoulders getting bigger by the minute. The impact knocked the breath out of her. They tumbled to the ground, rolling to a stop against the bed frame. Junice’s screams intensified.

Shanti used her legs to buck him off, hopping up while he tried to get his limbs organized. She threw another kick at Sanders, to keep him put, before spinning back toward Sanders’ hero. He was up now, too, his reaction time as quick as Sanders’, unfortunately. Barely swiveling, she threw an elbow into his face. He staggered backward, his leg catching on the dresser and sending him to his butt.

The hero was scrambling up yet again, bloody determined. So was Sanders.

These guys were starting to get on her nerves. They took a helluva beating and kept on coming.

Shanti threw a roundhouse kick, knocked Sanders back onto furniture, and turned to the attacking hero. She met him head on, barreling punches into his chest and stomach, then swiping his eyes and getting him in position for a mighty throw. When he responded, she grabbed, pivoted, turned, and used his momentum to throw his body over her shoulder, straight through the window. Breaking glass competed with Junice’s shrieks.

Shanti was out after him the next second, feeling Sanders’ fingers slip along her sweaty leg.

She had to get out of town. This little stunt just cemented that fact. Soon this city would be asking questions to the wrong people, and the Graygual would swoop down after her.

Unfortunately, the time had also come to fulfill her duty. She couldn’t leave another person with the Gift for the Graygual to claim. It was a situation of sacrificing one to save many. It had to be done.

With a heavy heart, she took off at a sprint, heading toward the closest member of the Honor Guard, which was Xavier. The members of her Guard were the only ones in this city who would not only believe her, but help without comment. She ducked through the unlocked door and quietly jogged through the house, having a rough idea of which bedroom was his since he pointed it out every time they passed the house.

Stepping into, what she hoped was, the right room, she heard the loud snoring of what could only be him. He had one sister—younger women just didn’t get the same volume as a man in the snoring department. Half falling over the many pieces of debris that littered the floor, she reached his bedside. She gave him a little shove and paused, waiting to see if he would spring. He wasn’t battle trained, so he probably didn’t have those reactions yet, so she wasn’t surprised when he only mildly startled.

“Shanti?” Xavier asked in that supreme confusion one gets when waking up out of a deep sleep.

“Yes. I need to know where my weapons are. I am not asking you to fetch them, but I need to know where they are.”

“The Captain has them. Are you naked? Oh—“ Xavier was suddenly wide awake.

“Yes, yes, breasts, I know.” She had briefs on, but still didn’t understand the philosophy of the nightgown. “Anyway, where does the Captain live? Or where does he have them?”

Something new wavered into her awareness. It was violent. The expectation was growing. It was becoming thick now. She could almost see it, red and orange filaments sifting through the dark room. Those gathered were preparing for battle, working themselves into a fever pitch. She’d felt it before.

A constricting panic started to wrap itself around her midsection. Flashbacks of Chase’s mother, of the dark streets flicking in firelight, houses on fire, children screaming, people running naked and bloody through the streets—

“Xavier, get up. Now! Get up. Something is coming. Something is happening! Get dressed! Warn people! Where is the most secure location in the city?”

“Wha—“

“Answer me!”

“The town bunker.”

“Get your family there. The children. Your friends. Everyone that can’t fight. Get them there. Hurry!”

“Okay. The Captain is in the heart of the city. Big mansion. You hid in the rafters once then dropped down on Leilius.”

“Get them to safety.”

“Wait, clothes!”

And shoes. She’d need shoes.

In a moment Shanti had slipped into some garments Xavier wore under his clothes when it got cold. Unlike on him, they were anything but tight. She was given his sister’s leather shoes, which were slightly too small, but supple. They would do. She took his throwing knives just in case, since he wasn’t excellent with them anyway, and was gone, sprinting across the city, yelling as she went. She wanted to warn as many people as possible—or at least wake them up.

When she reached the Captain’s house she shook the door and found it locked. She climbed up a beam and launched herself onto the first floor roof. Like a burglar, she ran across to the first open window she saw and burst through. A large bedroom swept out around her with two candles flickering on a bedside table. Two nude figures writhed on the bed, limbs tangled, skin on skin. A soft, feminine moan drifted toward the window.

Oops.

“I need my weap—“

She barely hit the ground in time. A knife twanged as it lodged in the wall behind her.

“I need my weapons,” she said again, breathless, rising slowly with her hands in the air. The man had good reactions.

The Captain was standing beside the huge bed, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other. If she took one step, he would rush forward to meet her, slicing her neck-to-navel in a matter of seconds. Standing with perfect technique, he was powerful and nude, gleaming with sweat and sex. His muscles were substantial and cut and heavenly and it was definitely not the time to notice any of this.

Her mind shuddered to a start as her groin throbbed. “Something is coming. Open up and feel Cayan. Open your mind to it. Hurry! I will not be dying tonight. I am not the enemy!”

His confusion at her having said his real name, something very few actually used, turned instantly to rage. “What the fuck are you doing in my house in men’s underwear?”

His power surged, but it was all outbound—he wasn’t being receptive with it. He probably didn’t even know how. Which meant he was basically as blind as Sanders, but a much better, more thorough fighter.

She should just mentally kill him now. She was back to nearly 100% strength—there wasn’t much he’d be able to do to stop her. Then, a quick look through the house, and she’d have what she needed. She could dodge the coming horde and be well on her way by dawn.

She looked at the girl in the bed, a beauty by anyone’s standards, and what Xavier would call a knockout in this land. The woman was halfway between fear and outrage. But she was also vulnerable and innocent. And if Shanti killed the Captain of these people, they’d all be plunged into vulnerable and innocent—he was the glue to this town. He was the rock of leadership that kept them functioning like a machine.

If she killed one, she’d also kill a great many. Just her luck.

“Get to safety,” Shanti snapped at the girl. “Get your family to safety. The bunker.”

“What are you talking about?” the Captain snarled. He stepped to her in a rush of movement and grabbed her arm—the men in this city were very fond of that hold. A surge of pure electricity surged into her body, searing her. No pain rode the current.

Shanti hesitated, ignoring the fizz of her body. She needed him to use his Gift so he would believe her. Precious minutes were wasting away—he needed to organize getting people to safety. But teaching even barely enough to sense the coming horde was that much farther on the “I’m super powerful” wagon. It’d make it that much harder to take him out when she finally did.

But not teaching him would get people killed, one of those possibly herself. And all her people with her.

Swearing under her breath, Shanti slapped a palm to his chest, the vibe now pulsing between them. Humming. Not pleasure, not sex (mostly), but something else. Something powerful she’d never experienced. Something to do with her Gift.

He flinched, his eyes burning, a wrinkle forming in his brow.

Taking a deep breath, forcing the panic down, Shanti focused on the connection. She had trained many, and worked with even more to a common goal, but she’d never dealt this closely with so much power. He was a thick well of it, swirling and pooling within him, crouching and ready to blast out.

Feeling his slick, defined pec warm under her palm, seeing his pupils dilate as he looked down on her, she was acutely aware that he was naked and she was nearly so. He was still hard, his length extending the distance between them and lightly touching her belly with its girth. Her whole focus trained on him, on his heat, on his unique mind, currently swirling and shifting, reaching out to her mental touch even as his phallus was reaching out to her body.

She delicately touched his mind, aiming for an extremely shallow connection. With any hope she could guide without teaching—she didn’t need to make their future battle any harder. She was a fool.

Having unconsciously figured out a rough control over his power, he felt the connection and yanked on it, sucking her in and clamping down. He probably didn’t even know what he was bloody doing, but his trap was still just as effective.

Weightless, she fell in head first, feeling a rush she’d never experienced. The ground dropped away and her stomach fluttered, the solidity under her palm the only thing she could focus on. It was too much. Too much power swirling around them, making her dizzy. And then he mimicked her, tracing her mental path back to the source and weaving in, much deeper and more consuming than he should’ve been able to.

“Stop—“ she gritted her teeth, trying to block him out.

Feeling followed him in. Pushed at her, bombarded her.

“No—“ She tried to wrench away. Tried to control the connection. Tried to run if she could. But his complex feelings were so crystal clear she could almost read his mind. And she didn’t want to!

She didn’t want to know that he was concerned she had a troubled past, or his admiration for how she handled herself in spite of it. She didn’t care that he approved of her training and thought she was a caring person underneath her rough handling of the boys. And she certainly didn’t want to know how ardently he missed his mother and father, or the solitary confinement in which he lived his life. She would have to kill him when this was all over, and she would rather see him as the asshole Captain with a misguided agenda than a real person with all the vulnerabilities and genuine distresses of a moral leader with a lot of responsibility.

Why was nothing ever easy?

What she did latch onto was his absolute conviction that in his presence, she would be safe. That his people would be safe. He would lay down his life to ensure his city would live, and he had enough assurance in himself and his abilities to safeguard that it was true. It wasn’t, of course—she’d seen enough to know that the Graygual army would steamroll this place, but she approved of his mentality.

As if she needed more complications.

And just as fast, everything leveled out. The rush of the stars and the swoon of power balanced, letting her float. With him. Together they were cocooned in a flux of power so intense, she had no idea what to think about it.

“Feel it, Cayan,” she instructed quietly, putting her other hand on his bare chest, trying to find solid ground. He didn’t flinch from her this time. “Do you see? All the intentions, the brain paths—all that mental energy; it is coming here. Do you feel how filthy it is? It is hell-bent on destruction. It is foreign to me—I have never felt this specific kind of filth before, but it is badness. Can you feel it? Who is it?”

His head dipped to hers, his eyes delving. “What are you?” His voice held awe tinged with fear. Beneath that, though, in the deep timber of his voice, it almost sounded like he’d found an answer to a question that had been bothering him.

“I am your mirror. You have this power in you. Your eyes are glowing, just like mine. But…your wife does not understand.” She removed one of her hands reluctantly, hating to leave this power. The feeling.

The Captain was looking at her with more fear than awe, now. He was reaching on his own. He was laying his own net over hers as it blanketed the land. He was consciously searching for the first time in his life, and it scared him.

She knew how he felt, in theory, but it had been so long she could barely remember. Plus, their situations had been slightly different. Hopefully they would continue to be.

“I need my weapons.” Shanti stepped away. She rubbed her palm on her pants, trying to wipe a weird hum.

“Mugdock,” the Captain said softly, understanding. He was a fast learner, which was usually a good thing. Not great in their future circumstances, however.

“Tanicia.” He turned to the young woman. “Get to your family—get them to safety. Give the message to everyone you see. The alarm will sound shortly. Shanti,” he rounded on her, eyes alive, still glowing. He looked at her, then into her. He was now seeing properly for the first time. Brushing her mind with purpose instead of with unconsciously learned habit.

His eyes refocused and he shook his head to clear it. “You won’t leave.” It wasn’t a question. He wanted to ascertain if what he saw was correct.

And it was. It was also the third irritating discovery she’d had in this man’s presence, because she couldn’t leave a city to get slaughtered. It wasn’t in her nature.

“No. And right now, you need to protect your people, and I need to know the weakest point of entry.”

“Your weapons are in the throne room on the shelves next to the armor. There are battle garments there as well—“ He broke off, his eyes losing focus.

Sanders had arrived at the front door in much the same mood she left him. The Captain was a very fast learner…

“He’s…in a rage, by the way,” Shanti qualified. She had a feeling that, where Sanders was concerned, a head’s-up was always prudent. She didn’t plan to say why. The fun was in the surprise.

The Captain looked down into Shanti’s eyes for a brief moment of stillness, sharing an open moment before she closed up shop. A glimmer taking over his eyes, he was action again, darting away, heading for the stairs.

Shanti rushed after him—apparently she was expected to know which room was the throne room...

Chapter XII

SANDERS BANGED ON THE DOOR for the second time. He didn’t give a damn what he was interrupting, there was a security breach and that woman had to be squared away.

The door sucked in air as it opened, the Captain’s eyes were on fire, his hair tied, and his sword at the ready.

“It’s the wom—“ Sanders started.

“They’re here,” the Captain cut him off. “Sound the alarm. They will be attacking within the hour. I want to be ready for them.”

“How do you—you’re not believing her are you? How would—“

The Captain took one measured step outward and leaned. Sanders couldn’t help the uncomfortable tightening in his gut at the size and power pushed up into his space. But he had a reason for being pissed, damn it! A solid reason. That woman had to be taken down a peg.

Sanders let his rage push away his anxiety, desperately trying to ignore the commanding stare shocking into his body. He would have his say!

But as he opened his mouth to speak the air condensed around him. A blast of solid air rammed his chest and chattered his teeth. The dominance in that blue stare had warning tingles running up his spine and turning his stomach to gravy.

Unable to hold it, Sanders had no choice but to drop his gaze. The girl wasn’t worth having his skin peeled off.

“Call the Commanders,” the Captain said in an authoritative voice. “Meet in my office. Get a guard on Shanti. I don’t want her near that fight.”

“Not gonna happen,” Shanti tittered as she flitted out of the house with excited eyes hovering over a smile. “Sorry about your face, Sanders, and you, Sanders’ hero.”

“Lucius will guard you,” the Captain said to the girl, apparently not planning to wait for Sanders to arrange it. “He’s fast and able. He’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Shanti turned to a quiet Lucius and smiled at him pleasantly. She could smile all she liked, if Lucius was anything like Sanders, he wouldn’t fall for it. Because like Sanders, he, too, had just gotten beat up by a girl. It wasn’t something a guy forgave all that easily. Or ever.

“Sanders’ hero—Lucius? Hello. So you are my Chance? You will be guarding my back?”

Lucius nodded with one black eye. She nodded once, staring back, before her eyes started to glow faintly. Even as Sanders’ mouth dropped open, Lucius stood up straighter.

How did glowing eyes not freak the guy out?

“That gives them the courage of a lion,” Shanti said to the Captain. “They will not balk, they will not be impeded by fear for themselves or family, and they will prosper because of it. Give that Gift to your Commanders if they go into battle…if you can remember how.”

She met the Captain’s gaze for a long moment, her jaw clenched.

“Thank you,” the Captain said. “For the warning. For...” The Captain let the word trail away as he stared at the foreign woman with a lightly puzzled expression.

Sanders barely had time to wonder what was going on before she broke the gaze and took off down the street. Lucius sprinted after her a moment later.

“What the fuck just happened, Sir?” Sanders couldn’t help but blurt. “Glowing eyes, stare-offs. She’s a menace, and something is definitely off—“

The Captain shot Sanders a hard look. A shut up or I’ll make you shut up kind of look. He turned back into the house. “Get ready. They are coming. And it’s going to be a bloody battle.”

A shock of apprehension coursed through Sanders. He had to make sure Junice got to safety! They were coming!

Chapter XIII

HER GUARD WAS HUDDLED AT a familiar copse of trees when Shanti tracked them down. They waited impatiently, mostly afraid and all apprehensive. Shanti approached at a fast walk, the thrill of the coming battle simmering her blood. “Are all your families to safety?”

“Yes, sir,” they responded.

“Good.” She looked them over, most with bent backs and large eyes, their limbs shaking and their faces pale. They wanted to help, felt it was their duty, and knew, one and all, that she would find them. And they were right. She’d trained them enough to give Shanti confidence that they could each help in their own way. It was not only necessary for the city, but vital for their experience levels.

“Leilius, where are your knives?” she asked. Lucius stopped directly behind her.

“Right here, sir.” Leilius patted his belt as he gulped.

“The rest of you, where are your swords?”

All the men patted their weapon, eyes pleaded for courage.

Shanti didn’t ever remember being this young. This green.

But then, she hadn’t had that luxury.

Shanti felt the trees around them, felt the life calling through the forest. She looked at the boys, so ill prepared, about to get their first lesson in warfare. “That is your weapon. You are the only one to wield it. In your hand, that weapon will protect your family. It will protect your brothers and sisters. It will protect your men at arms. It will protect your way of life. It will find you glory, it will mean your survival.”

She filtered the life-force through herself, merged it with the hope of eternal salvation, mixed in confidence and power, and layered it over their minds. Their brains hummed with an elixir of eternal life. Their backs straightened, their eyes brightened, and the crippling fear each and every one of them felt burned away like kerosene.

Shanti nodded. “I will be protecting the most vital point. Is there a main gangway to this city that is often in danger of being overrun?”

“The Western Gate,” Lucius replied. “It’s the smallest, but the most vulnerable. It’ll let people through if any of them will.”

“That is where we will be,” she said to Lucius. He nodded.

She turned to the boys, just about to become men. “You will be playing your game hide-and-seek with the enemy. You will ferret around the city, silently, hiding in shadows. Finding stragglers that have made it in. You will kill them quickly and silently. You will not worry about blood, Gracas. You will not worry if you miss, Leilius. You will not worry about pain, Rachie, or letting your family down, Marc. You are faster, Xavier. You will stick something sharp in them, nod to a countryman that you just saved, and move on. If they have presented their backs to you, you stick them in that back. And you nod to your mother, who you just saved. We are not seeking the thrill of the hunt, men. Not the flash. We are getting quick and dirty and saving our family by the quickest means possible. There is no shame in killing. Yes?”

“Yes,” they said in union.

“Protect your family. Happy hunting.” Shanti turned and ran, Lucius by her side.

It wouldn’t be long now. Death was sprinting toward their doorstep. Shanti intended to be the one who answered the door.

Chapter XIV

“ARE THE MEN STATIONED?” THE Captain asked, looking at his three Commanders.

Sanders stood with beating heart and pumping blood

“They are ready and able, sir,” Sterling said.

“Is the entire horde accounted for?” the Captain asked, surveying the map of the city.

“Three-fourths are present.” Daniels scratched his graying head. “We have held this many before, under your father’s reign. But we had seen more battle then. We have quite a few green men right now. The Mugdock may get through, especially at the Western Gate. That will be a mess when they bring the gate down. And they will—it’s too weak to last long.”

The Captain gritted his teeth. It was no secret he had nearly fixed that problem, and they were just two weeks shy of switching the old gate for the reinforced new one—it was the final gate to be amended. He’d been held up because some people thought the town shouldn’t waste the expense when they were never attacked. And now look where they were.

“Are the women and children secured?” the Captain asked.

“Seventy percent secure. We are still getting them in,” Sterling answered.

“What of the gates?”

“Closed tight, men at the ready. We are prepared.”

“Our men are scared,” Sanders stated, standing with his hands behind his back. “Being out in the field is one thing, but here many fear for their families. It has been a long time since we’ve had a raid, but everyone hears stories. Or remembers a mother, or grandfather, who was taken or killed. They worry.”

The Captain nodded. “We will have to straighten their backbones by example. If we fight hard and tough, we’ll send the enemy running. The Mugdock have always been cowards first, soldiers second.”

“Yes, sir,” Sanders agreed.

“What of the girl—the foreign woman? I don’t want her taken. She hasn’t reported to the secure hold.”

“I think she can take care of herself,” Sanders mumbled, barely stopping himself from rubbing his ribs. He’d never seen someone fight like she had. She was small, but she kicked like a mule and punched like a pissed off bull. And she was damned fast. Probably faster than him, though he would never admit it out loud.

Sanders noticed the room condense around him and looked up into those perilous blue eyes. He probably shouldn’t have said that.

“I’ll look into it, sir,” he amended crisply. He failed to add that he probably wouldn’t find her even if he tried. Sanders had seen her work through her fighting styles. Then disappear right in front of her Honor Guard’s eyes. If that girl wanted to leave, and good riddance if she did, then she’d kick Lucius’ ass again and take off in the confusion. Sanders should be so lucky.

“Let’s get into position,” the Captain pronounced, returning his gaze to the map. “I will be overseeing the main gate on horseback. They put the most pressure on that gate. Sanders, you should traverse between trouble spots, lending help and fortifying weakness. Daniels, monitor within the city. Make sure the innocents are covered and any breaches are closed or I am notified. Sterling, you have the archers and throwers. Get to the wall and get in position. It will start soon.”

All men answered in the affirmative and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Sanders turned back, wiping his mind clean and trying not to feel the small knot of worry at the base of his spine. Junice would be okay. Their unborn child would be okay. His family would survive this night, and if not in its entirety, at least she and his child—so new Junice wasn’t even showing—would have a future.

The Captain was looking at them, focusing and frowning. His eyes barely glowed an eerie blue. Sanders couldn’t help but lean in, half terrified, half in awe. They were like the girl’s. His eyes were glowing like hers!

As Sanders stared, the knot of worry wringing his stomach lightened. Loosened. And then dissolved, the worry floating away. Before he could blink in confusion, the rush of determination stole his breath. Strength, power, accuracy—he would win this fight. He was one of the best in this city, and he would show it. He almost smiled, light as air. He felt ten years younger, transported back to the days when he didn’t have a worry in the world!

The Captain blew out a breath, nodded, and turned. He walked out of the room with a brisk pace. Sanders turned to the others.

Daniels had a slightly confused look, his back completely straight, his brown eyes calculating. “I feel…” The words trailed away.

“Like winning. Let’s go,” Sanders said into the din. The others wasted no time.

It was time to rid the world of some filthy Mugdock!

Chapter XV

MALICE SLAMMED AGAINST HER SHIELD in steady pulses, the effect of a mass of people with the same thoughts and motives. Adrenaline pumped through her body, revving her up. Getting her ready. It was a matter of minutes, now. They were coming. Moving as a huge horde toward this city.

Wasting no time, Shanti marched up to a group of armed and waiting men and took stock of what she was working with. The sturdy twenty-foot-high stone wall ended in a wood gate. The beams and work were well done, sturdy. The problem was the small metal bar that acted as the latch, three inches tall and one inch thick. It stood at her shoulder level and would not stand a chance against a battering ram. What’s worse, that ram would burst the gates inward, probably ripping them off their hinges and crushing everyone on the other side.

Who was the fool that designed this gate? He was about as inept as the artists.

“Why hasn’t this gate been altered?” Shanti asked Lucius, casting her glance at the men. They stood still, backs straight and ready to fight. But they worried. Apprehension and uncertainty shed from their bodies like sweat. In a normal battle, death was honor. You died to protect those you loved. Here, death might open a doorway to their loved ones. To their city. Their home.

Well now, she couldn’t let that happen.

Shanti was marching to the front of the line as Lucius answered, “It’s in progress, actually. The Mugdock has gotten more sophisticated lately. They have more than one battering ram. This is the last gate to be replaced. It’s just not ready yet.”

Shanti glanced upwards to the archers flanking the top of the gate. The top of the wall was fashioned after a castle, providing cover for archers as they fired on those below. There was enough room for two men to walk abreast, the wall made sturdy and probably able to withstand a heavy attack. Which didn’t mean anything at all when the gate was battered down.

Another push of violence slammed against her.

“They’re coming. We haven’t much time.” Shanti couldn’t control the fear in her voice. Images flashed through. Violence. Death.

The waiting was always the hardest part.

In the distance a hawk screeched, hunting through the night, descending on some unfortunate prey.

Shanti pushed through the last of the crowd toward the gate, noticing they gathered in a semi-circle, the more experienced knowing the gate would never hold. The anticipation of false safety acted like acid dribbling onto their nerves.

With a confident stride, she marched right up to the metal bar and slid it away. Turning back to the men, authority seeping into her bearing from more experience than anyone in this city, the Captain included, she stared down the men in front of her.

“Lucius, open the gate,” she commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

She wondered at him not asking why. Surely he’d think this was madness. He was trained to obey. Stupid. Battle was a place of madness; following without thought made men into animals. The lines of good and bad blurred, and if someone didn’t maintain the reins of logic, humanity wouldn’t find a way to creep back in. The good side would end up just as corrupt as the bad.

A conversation for another time.

As Lucius opened the door, a few male voices asked each other what he was doing. Two asked her right out.

The doors swung open, a gaping black hole at her back. Gazes stared past her, into the void. Wondering when it was coming. Fearing they wouldn’t be enough. That they couldn’t hold it.

“You will hold it,” she barked in a loud voice.

Gazes snapped to her.

Shanti addressed the group in a loud, clear voice. “Give me a nod if you understand why I have opened those gates.”

A couple heads bobbed within the cluster of men. Many more shifted their feet, uncomfortable. A couple voices muttered something about “foreign woman.” A couple others asked about her safety. One asked if the Captain knew she was here.

She wondered about that last question, too. He would shit himself, then probably strangle her, and not because she disobeyed his order to head to safety. If he found out she made a decision regarding the battle strategy and didn’t go through him first, he would flip.

“These gates will not hold. Those standing near the gates will get crushed. Those not crushed would then have to fight over them. It puts you at a disadvantage and only buys you a small amount of time to stand there and stew in your fear. I have removed the problem.”

“But they’ll have a clear shot of us now!” someone in the back yelled.

“They always had a clear shot of you, they just had to break the gate down to do it. The scant few your archers would have hit while the enemy worked would not be enough to outweigh fighting over obstacles as they rush you with the full advantage. Ask your war veterans.”

There were nods and murmurs.

“Who’s going to take on the attack, now?” someone shouted.

“Lucius, why are you guarding this bitch? What does she know?” someone else yelled.

They were getting angry. Their fear was boiling into rage and she was the catalyst. Good. Anger fueled courage. The presence was closer now. They were moving forward. Slowly, but it would speed up soon. She had to hurry.

“They are coming!” she yelled. She reached back and drew her sword with a smooth, practiced movement. The metal cleared the scabbard attached to her back, hungry for blood. The sword glinted in the torchlight, a long blade with a graceful arch. Holding it was like shaking the hand of an old friend. Silence descended. The hawk cried again somewhere in the battlefield.

“When they are in range,” she continued, looking to the top of the walls, meeting the eyes of archers, “loose the arrows. Everyone else, stay as you are. I will be the knife that parts the fabric. I have the experience you lack. I have been training for this all my life. I have weapons you don’t realize. I will act as their block, and you will kill anyone who makes it over. Are we understood?”

A horde of men stood and stared, no one even daring to shift on their feet.

She knew what they saw: she was a woman in pants with a sword. Foreign and small. She did not belong on their battlefield. She did not belong giving orders like she was born to the role. Her perfect stance, as if she were ready to start a ballet made no sense in their fighting history.

But they found themselves nodding anyway. They found themselves stealing their courage and saying, “Yes, sir” into her glowing violet eyes, shining with the glory of battles won, and the pain and remembrance of battles lost. She knew her eyes were as old as the world, but burned with the fervor of youth. She’d traveled a great deal, and heard sweet words as well as curses. She knew who she was, and she was born for this role.

Light sprinkled through the trees as the sun climbed up past the horizon. A roar of male voices surged toward them. Metal clanged in the distance. Thunder rolled, feet and hooves stomping the dirt.

“It begins. They are dirty, useless filth! We will be victorious! Fill your lungs with this sweet air, men. Soon we will soak it with blood. Victory!”

The men raised their swords in the air, growling, shouting. Ready.

Shanti bowed slowly to what had just become her men. She turned to Lucius, “You can fall back with the others.”

“I am sworn to protect you. Since I have already failed in that, I will fight with you.”

Shanti laughed, a carefree sound filled with adrenaline and excitement. She was about to do what she did best. “Fair enough.”

Chapter XVI

SHANTI TURNED, SEEING THE DISTANT sparkle of steel in the early morning sun. Without needing to look down, she repositioned her throwing knives, making a quick grab easier. She swung her sword in a figure eight, loosening her wrists. She bounced a few times on stiff knees, trying to get her body keyed up. Mentally, she was ready. Her net was out, sensing the minds running at her, bundles of rage and malicious intent. Most had a singular focus: kill!

The ground shook. Yelling from the men behind her curled around her ears. Leather creaked. Metal scraped.

Her mental net pulsed, fueled by a rush of adrenaline. She brushed the minds around her, connecting, like holding hands in a pray circle. “Archers, hit the outskirts of the horde!” she commanded. “Make them come at me single file if possible. Slim them down. Aim for the sides! They will not bother with the wall when the gate is open. They will slow themselves down, waiting like a bunch of washerwomen. Stick an arrow in their eye!”

The men at the wall roared.

“Lucius, are you ready?” she asked in a firm voice.

“More than ready, my Lady. Eager.”

“Good.”

The roar of battle rage filled the sky. Horses came first, harnessing a giant wooden rod between them, the ends of the beam covered with a layer of thick metal. Chains attached the pole to a harness draped over the horses’ backs. The metal on the front caught the early light, giving it an unearthly gleam.

It looked like the Mugdock attempt at a battering ram, with men following up behind to pull the large contraption, having to let it go to make it swing. It would take a concentrated effort and a lot of strength, but it would’ve worked. Luckily for Shanti, the strange design and homemade quality meant it would be easy to use against them.

The men behind her started to breathe heavily, adrenaline pumping into their veins. Some growled. Some urged the enemy on. Others shifted in anxiety.

“Courage!” she shouted. “Hold your ground!”

She touched the dull mind of the horses, imaging the fresh smell of wolves wrapping around their flaring nostrils. As their eyes rolled, she gave them a twist. Horses weren’t overly intelligent, and these in particular were malnourished and ill-treated, judging by the silver scars flashing in the dawn—a small discomfort would be enough to derail them entirely.

As expected they screamed and bucked, making the ram between them roll and buck. Metal squealed as riders fell, landing under thrashing animals. An unshod hoof came down with force, popping a skull beneath it. Blood splattered to the sides, splashing the legs of men running by.

A metallic pop sounded—the first broken chain. The freed horses reared again, hitting a man running too close. Another pop, then another. The heavy ram burst from its support and slammed to the ground, bouncing and rolling. The crowd pushed behind, trying to get around. The massive rolling log took out a line of bodies before settling into the blood-soaked dirt.

Shanti crouched, feeling the minds around her coil. Feeling the rage charging. Absorbing the violence. Giving her blade a comforting squeeze.

And they were on her, a tide of robust, pungent, screaming men.

A rusty blade wielded by a tree trunk arm swung through the air, slashing toward Shanti’s face. She dodged and pivoted, bringing her blade through the middle of his chest. She whirled away, hitting the next with a downward swipe. She feinted to the side, narrowly missing a blade, and came back with her sword’s answer, severing his head in a clean strike. On to the next. And the next. Her body was warming up, the familiar dance filling her with joy. Bodies were piling up around her, death hanging in the balance of her strikes and dodges. But they were many and she was one.

She danced closer to Lucius, who was felling as many as she. His style was vastly different, cleaving and hacking, blocking and stabbing, but just as effective. More bodies piled. A sword missed her head; an arm came in to punch.

She sliced the arm at the elbow and kicked out, hitting a mammoth of a man in the stomach. She snatched a knife from her belt, the man too close for a sword strike, and stabbed him in the eye. Blood sprayed across her face as she whirled away, not wanting to get caught in the flailing limbs. Hefting her knife into the air, she grabbed it by the blade, and threw. Blood blossomed in the neck of a man running by.

All these warriors were head and shoulders taller than she was. They were the Captain’s height at least, easily his brawn or bigger. Nowhere near as quick or agile, thank the Elders their sympathy.

An hour in and she was more than warmed up. She was starting to work now. Still smooth, still killing like a knife carving through cream, but hitting her peak. It was too early. She should not be so tired so early. There was still a horde at her gate, with a pile of bodies for them to clamber over, and there would be many more. Many, many more.

Dying in battle was an honorable death.

Chapter XVII

BOOM!

THE GATE KNOCKED INWARD. Dust sprayed the air. Wood creaked.

“It’s holding!” someone shouted.

And it would hold, Sanders reflected, walking along the trembling wall. A flash of sun on metal pierced his eye. The men held their breath as the giant metal fish came barreling forward.

BOOM!

Archers scattered their arrows into the amassed crowd of Mugdock, trying to throw up their ladders to climb over the wall. Not a chance—Sanders’ men were fast and good, taking down anyone who got close. Arms swung back, grabbed more arrows, and loosed. And again. Again.

BOOM!

“Courage, men! It will hold!” the Captain shouted somewhere among the men.

Ignoring the screaming of the night, Sanders walked away from the main gate, seeing to the men. The archers were going at full speed, shooting, loading, shooting, loading, someone bringing them more arrows. He gritted his teeth at the next crash of ram against the gate.

They had worried—this gate was untried. It was a new design and not up long. But it was holding. The Captain was right—this was an excellent use of resources. The main bulk of enemy worked away, trying to get through what had once been nothing more than a mild deterrent.

Thank God that had changed.

Sanders walked on. To the smallest entrance. The most vulnerable.

Had the enemy figured it out, yet? They were stupid, but even a dumb beast could get lucky.

Barely keeping his hands away from his sword, trying to portray steadfast confidence, Sanders walked on. The men were antsy and skittish, shifting constantly, trying to stay grim but waiting with barely suppressed trembles. They were green. Even the ones who had seen battle out in the Dead Forest were nervous. They weren’t good at playing defense and no amount of training could prepare them for the constant thumping of the giant Metal Fish against their gate. But their enemy wouldn’t get through here…

He walked on. The first two, the Eastern Gate and Rear, were holding, but barely. The archers and knife throwers were doing their job, but the men standing by were getting ready to get their hands dirty. The Mugdock were getting just as scared, though. After close to two hours, seeing nothing but your own company’s death, and only a few fallen enemy archers, the Mugdock were having second thoughts. The Captain hadn’t thought they’d last this long. He had a suspicion something was driving them, but he didn’t know what. Sanders did—poverty and desperation. It would bring a man to the brink.

On to the fourth and last gate. He was about to battle—they’d be about ready for reinforcements.

A horse clattered below, causing Sanders to glance down. Daniels raced by, urgency on his face. Sanders pulled his eyes back up. A thrill went through his body. He picked up the pace.

As he approached the corner he heard the roar of men in battle. Metal clanging, shouts. Excitement spiked his chest, tingling down his arms and out through his fingers. One of the boys bringing arrows startled from the gleam in his eye and the crazed grin on his face.

Battle. He was good at battle. Battle and sex, two places where he felt the most alive.

Sanders started to trot, unable to maintain his calm. The men at this gate were all his best. They were veterans, one and all—as much as they could be in a time of prosperity—and they had the best sword work. They would hold this gate. They had to. He had a wife and baby to protect.

Hopefully the Captain was working on getting more men to change out. Give these guys a rest.

As Sanders rounded the corner, sword in hand, he saw the last few lines of men standing, shifting uneasily from side to side, looking on, but not fighting. Waiting.

Sanders stepped around Jaos, unleashing arrows as fast as he could, and stopped dead. The gate was not torn down; it was pulled open. In the middle of the open space stood two figures, fighting for all they were worth, taking the brunt while the men behind them formed a semi-circle and took the rest. Both covered in blood, one with short, matted brown hair, the other with a long braid down her back, red and white-blond.

Shanti and Lucius.

Sanders couldn’t help but stare. He had seen Lucius fight. The man was damned good. Aside from the Captain, Sterling, and himself, Lucius ranked above all others. Sanders had thought it was a waste that he had been assigned to the foreign woman. Now he was more than thankful. Any other man would’ve been cut down by now, but Lucius was moving through a pile of bodies, creating more every second. He had a large red line down his arm and was limping slightly, but he was not slowing.

For all his excellence, he was outdone. Next to him was the foreign woman. Words could not describe how thoroughly Sanders had underestimated her. How they all had. She moved as if in some elaborate dance. Every nuance of her body was in perfect harmony as she glided through her fighting postures, slicing and cutting, weaving in and out. Even her sword was part of the dance, moving like an extension of her arm. She was breathtaking. And extremely deadly.

Her pile was larger than her male counterpart’s. It was neater, too. One cut, maybe two, and they were brought down. Appendages sliced off, heads, limbs, incapacitated, then she moved on. Every so often she would throw a knife, hitting someone in their head, heart, or, most often, their neck.

He had never seen anything like it.

But she was flagging. She was barely staying ahead of her attackers. More were getting past her, quickly dying at the hands of the men fighting right behind her. She wouldn’t last much longer, but there was no one who could keep the Mugdock off the gate like she was. There was still a horde trying to get through.

In the next instant Sanders was running, nearly falling down the steps. He barely paused to get a message carried to the Captain by the first man he ran into. Then he was running again, pushing people out of his way, trying to get to Shanti and Lucius.

As he ran through the waiting men, shifting their weight in antsy anticipation, they surged forward, wanting to be in the fight. Wanting to do what they could. Sanders led them like an arrow straight at the surging Mugdock. Without slowing, crazy-eyed with a fanatical smile, he slammed into a wall of them. He stabbed the first man through the stomach and pushed him out of the way, growling. He grabbed another with one hand and yanked him closer, sticking his sword through the swine’s chest.

“Get in there and drag out that girl. Get the Lieutenant. Get them out!” Sanders hollered.

He cleared the shocked faces in front of him and launched himself at two more, both topping his size, and bigger around. He didn’t care. He stabbed one through the eye. He pulled the other’s hair and sliced his neck, hands everywhere. Battle rage taking over. The glory of battle!

He shoved forward, slicing and killing. Bashing and ripping off whatever he could get his hands on. Some rotten pig got too close, trying to grapple. Sword arm hanging uselessly at his side. Sanders threw him a head butt and the pig’s nose cracked before Sanders’ knife lodged in his face.

“Get in there!” Sanders hollered, trying to push forward. He could barely see Lucius, struggling against the tide. There were just so many. He’d barely be able to make it to Lucius.

“Someone help the girl!” Sanders screamed.

Chapter XVIII

LEILIUS WAITED BEHIND THE WALL, deep in a pocket of shadow. The echoes of screaming, of men dying, rolled through the alley like tumbleweeds. He could almost see the blood splashing against the ground. His hands trembled as he held his knife, trying to block out the battle and focus on his circle. That’s what Miss Shanti always said, right? Focus only on what he was doing. Focus on his circle.

A dribble of sweat quivered down his nose. He wiped it away silently, hearing the sound again.

He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered to breathe. He was always supposed to breathe. That’s what Miss Shanti said. Breathe slowly. Deeply. He was doing that.

Why were his hands shaking so hard?

The scrape of a soft sole echoed against the walls, louder than someone screaming right next to his face. Louder than the banging of the battering ram. Louder than the gurgling death at the gates. The enemy was creeping toward the shadow, a quiet step at a time.

He was hiding in the shadow. Waiting. Knowing the enemy would stay to the dark places. That’s what he always did when he got in trouble and was trying to hide—he knew where they’d go.

He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. His breath trembled like a leaf as it crept out of his mouth.

Another footfall. So close. A shoe scrape against the cobblestone. He wouldn’t even hear the footfall if it hadn’t been for Shanti. She always snuck around and hid from him—he hated when she scared him. It shocked his system when she jumped out of nowhere.

This was like that. Just like that. Except he had to jump out.

He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t.

So why was he shaking?

Another step. Two more and Leilius would jump out and stab. He would do it. He had to. Shanti said so. For his family. To protect everyone.

He’d never killed anyone before.

Focus on the circle. Focus on what you can control, Leilius.

His breath thundered in his ears.

He closed his eyes, listening. His hand gripped the knife blade, the sweat from his palm soaking into the leather. A tear of sweat dripped down his face. A line of moisture soaked through the crease between his shoulder blades, down his back. Focus on the circle.

Another footfall.

Leilius burst out from behind the wall. With one hand he gripped a thin, brown shoulder. With the other hand he brought his knife down with all his might. Sharp, hard metal slid into a soft, wet eye socket. A strangled scream cut off at its zenith as the knife pierced the enemy’s brain. Lights out.

Leilius stood trembling over the slight body crumpled at his feet. Adrenaline grabbed hold of all his organs and shook. But at least he was still alive. No one would have to know about that.

He stared down at what he’d done. Dazed. Two things flapped at his thoughts. The first was all the blood. There was so much. It was oozing in thick red rivers, leaking over the ruined eye socket and pooling in the cobblestone around the enemy’s head. Gross and fascinated, Leilius stared, transfixed, until the second thing shoved in and demanded attention.

It wasn’t a Mugdock. Thin, shorter than him, and wiry. The man looked like he had muscle, but it wasn’t defined. He had a wicked sword, too. It was curved and very wide toward the end. The hilt had a weird yellow and gold rope hanging off of it. Plus, this man wasn’t dirty. His brown jump suit was clean except for the blood and some light scrapes, probably from climbing the wall, and it was a little lighter than the normal Mugdock color.

He was an enemy, though.

Leilius quickly grabbed the hilt of his blade and yanked. He let out a formless “huh” sound at the suction of knife leaving eye socket. He wiped off the blade immediately.

Focus on the circle. Keep your family safe!

He would. He would make Shanti proud. Focus on the circle. Only what he could control.

Limbs quaking, stomach queasy, he drifted back into the shadows to wait.

Chapter XIX

SHANTI SUCKED AIR IN, PANTING with fatigue. She’d heard Sanders yelling a while ago, his vicious body ripping and tearing his way out toward her, but he couldn’t get far enough. She was cast off in a sea of filth, disgusting Mugdock creatures all around her. Even Lucius had been forced back, trying to stick with her, but under siege and unable to hold his ground.

She was actually happy. She was tired of this life, tired of overwhelming odds. She wanted to do her part and let the sea take her under, to die in battle, like her parents and grandparents. She would go down, but first she would take as many as she could.

Summoning all her remaining strength, Shanti cut off the connection with Lucius and her Honor Guard, hoping they wouldn’t be overcome by the fear she was keeping hidden from their brains. She brought her mental net tight to her surroundings, then rezoned it out in front of her, aiming for the largest mass of enemy. There wasn’t much she could do with those behind her—she was too tired to pick out individual mental paths. She might accidently hit some of her own, and that would defeat the purpose.

She blocked a thrust headed toward her head, turned another to the side, and grabbed the two minds in front of her as if her hands were made from needles. Mugdock released their swords immediately and clutched nasty, matted hair. Dirty faces screamed in agony as they fell.

Now was the time.

She seized everyone in front of her, out for fifty spans, all those bundles of emotion and intent flashing in her mind’s eye. She focused her power, called up her strength, pulled at the life-force in the surrounding wood, and flashed.

A huge jolt of power ripped from her, dropping her to her knees. Sinking into hundreds of minds. Boiling spires with searing edges. Burning out their minds.

The battlefield erupted in tortured screams. Swords dropped, falling into the mud with a soft thud. Dirty nails dug into temples, the pain unbearable. Consuming. And, finally, killing.

Shanti allowed a relieved smile as she fell, face first, into the bloody mud. It was finally over. This life filled with pain and loss could finally be forgotten.

She was pushed ahead of him, roughly. She didn’t want to go. She couldn’t. Her grandfather had been cut down ten feet from where she worked. Her Chance had felled the man, but there were more coming. Tens of hundreds of thousands running up the slope. They were beaten. She was beaten. They had lasted longer than expected, but the inevitable had come to pass. She had a destiny to fulfill.

“Go, Chosen. Go!”

She was pushed again, large hands steering her, forcing her to move away. Forcing her to retreat. Moving her to the path that would lead into the hills. She had her map and supplies hidden. She would start on her journey.

Chance pushed at her. Harder now. She stumbled through the narrow lane of her village, the place deserted. Everyone had been evacuated to either join the fight or get the children away. Some had to knowingly sacrifice themselves so that others might live.

Past the village they saw the first signs of struggle. Some of the enemy had snuck in the back, probably trying to ferret away anyone they could. The Graygual wanted specimens and promised a handsome payment for any living captures. They didn’t care the sex or age; they wanted examples. They would pay more for young women, however. Women exactly Shanti’s age and description. They wanted the woman that could kill from thirty paces away. They wanted her alive. They wanted to tame her. Then breed her. Then use her and her offspring as their ultimate weapon. The safe guard against the new empire.

Chance pushed her along until she was stumbling into the small clearing behind her village. Into the pleasant green meadow where she had gone often with Romie. Her first kiss had been next to that old shed. She had lost her virginity to him just under the tree at the edge. It had been the site of some of her best memories.

The breeze of the afternoon gently disturbed the green blades of grass. The flies disturbed the dead bodies.

Shanti hesitated with surprise at the sea of limbs piled together, sticking out at grotesque angles.

Chance shoved her forward, steered, and shoved again, working around the sightless eyes, the sagging faces. She felt like a wooden puppet held together with cable pulled too tight. Her legs and arms wouldn’t work properly, her head bobbing animatedly on her wagging shoulders.

From a bloody patch of mud, brown eyes stared at her, rims outlined in blood. She staggered, a sob ripping from her throat.

They hadn’t told her Romie was one of the Sacrificed. He hadn’t told her. He’d said he would be safe! He would be there when she got back. He was going to look after the children, he said. He wasn’t one of the best, but he was well liked. They had agreed to let him go.

She crumpled to her knees beside him, pawing at his blood stained chest. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders, trying to drag her away. Her cries reverberated across the dead meadow.

Romie had offered to die for their people. For her duty. For his own.

He was leaving her to a world devoid of his spirit. Of his earthen eyes. He had left her forever, and she had no choice but to continue. Now alone.

“You must go, Chosen. Go! Keep going!”

Chapter XX

SHANTI OPENED HER EYES IN the dim light. Agony flared through her body.

Pain meant she wasn’t dead. Now how did that happen?

She wiggled her toes. It felt like two might be broken. She moved her fingers. They worked just fine. Each knee lifted with incredible muscle pain, but nothing deeper. Arms the same. Ribs felt like someone was sitting on her chest. One or two were probably cracked. She’d gotten a good blow by a fleking colossal. She’d ensured he died slowly with a puncture to the stomach, but still, it hadn’t been her finest moment.

She was in a sterile-looking room, all white except for the furniture, which was metal. So much metal. This place was so rich it was almost disgusting.

The door opened, revealing a tall man with a thin frame and thinner hair. He had a put-upon expression and a wooden board in his hand.

“Lovely to see you again, Doctor. To what do I owe the privilege?” Shanti asked in a strained voice, trying to ignore the throb of her ribs.

“Yes, it seems your wit is intact. Goodie.” The doctor closed the door behind him, his face getting grimmer.

“How did I get here?”

The doctor pulled a chair from the corner and placed it at the middle of her bed. He sat slowly, crossed his ankle over his knee, and leaned back, thin slab of wood resting on his lap. “You were brought.”

“Ah, this is a game, is it not? Twenty questions? Yes, Leilius loves this game. How is he, by the way? How are they all?”

The doctor surveyed her, his face impassive. “Alive. For now.”

Shanti tried to sit up. Pain stabbed her midsection—definitely cracked ribs—but she pushed through it. The sheet dropped to her mid-section and she realized she was in one of those bloody nightgowns the doctor loved so much.

“What do you mean for now?”

“Ah, you see? It is rather irritating when someone doesn’t adequately answer another’s questions, is it not?”

Shanti glared at him. She knew better than to open her Gift, though. After what she’d done, it would definitely hurt. She winced just thinking of it.

“Yes, painful, isn’t it? Being wounded often has that effect. But what do I know; I’m just a doctor. And yes, we do have a school for that here.”

“Are you going to tell me, or are you going to force me to beat it out of you?”

The doctor gave a loud sigh and looked at his small, rectangular board. “Cadet Leilius is in the mud tub, sitting up to his neck and tied that way, because he kicked Commander Sanders in the shin when he wasn’t allowed in here to make sure you were okay. Gracas is right next to him because he tried to punch Commander Daniels for the same reason. He missed, of course. He now has a black eye. Xavier is carrying rocks from one side of the training yard to the other because he was able to successfully punch Sterling, who had barred his way. Let’s see.” The doctor consulted his board again. “Ah yes, young Marc suffered a stab wound to his leg, but he is mending nicely. Rachie got a rather serious wound down his chest. I have stitched him up, and he will heal in time. He will forever have a scar, but he informed me that women like men with scars, and was excited to test the theory just as soon as he is released.”

Shanti took a minute to thank her Elders their care. She’d grown fond of those boys—she would hate to hear any harm had come to them. “Then what did you mean ‘for now?’”

“The Captain hasn’t gotten around to speaking with them about refusing his orders and following yours.”

“Oh. Yeah, that probably pissed him in.”

“I see you are working on your slang. How lovely. You aren’t quite there yet, however.”

“Lucius?” Shanti continued.

“Will have a great many women, if young Rachie is correct. He is alive, though. Sanders just barely got him out. He didn’t want to leave you. Neither of them did. For some reason.”

“Sanders pulled me out?”

The doctor gave her a flat, assessing stare for a moment. “Sanders couldn’t reach you. He did try, but....” The doctor shrugged with one shoulder.

“Are you trying to teach me humility, doctor? Because the last person who tried was unconscious for twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t doubt that. The difference between me and that unfortunate fellow is that I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Shanti stared at him. She would get up and shake it out of him if she had to. Although, she really hoped she didn’t have to. It hurt just to sit up.

The doctor must have read her mind because a ghost of a smile flickered at his lips. Finally he answered. “The Captain pulled you out. He wasn’t too happy you weren’t in the secure hold.”

Shanti couldn’t help blurting, “The Captain did? Why?”

“That is a great question.”

“How did he get to me?”

“By doing what he does—charging in, taking what he wants, and charging back out leaving a trail of bodies behind him.”

So Cayan had gone after her. But why? Also, what an idiot! He was in charge of a whole city. Risking his life for a foreigner just to get the last laugh was just plain stupidity. And if she didn’t hurt so badly, she would go tell him.

The doctor still gazed at her with his unimpressed countenance. Shanti suspected he loved being put out just for something to make a show of. He said, “He is mending, too, in case you’re wondering. I noticed that you didn’t ask.”

No, she hadn’t. She didn’t want to hear how badly she owed him for her life. For giving her people another chance. It was a large pill to swallow.

The doctor continued in his dry voice. “He had cuts all up and down his left and right side. Gashes, fairly deep, in his back. Two bruised bones, but nothing was broken. Here’s a question for you: some of the recovered bodies, those that died at your feet and another, oh, sixty paces out or so, didn’t have a mark on them. They died in agony, that was clear, and most were clawing at their face, eyes or head—one had bloodied his ears—but none had an actual wound. Would you know anything about that?”

Uh oh. “You would know the bodies I killed—they had sword marks, or knives sticking out of them.”

“Yes. Excellent knife throwing. If what I hear is true, you made extremely hard shots and never missed. Impressive. I’ve always said, however, that women tend to have better aim, where men tend to throw harder. I enjoy being right. Regardless, that doesn’t answer my question.”

Shanti struggled for breath around her tight throat. She really wanted to lie back down—her ribs were killing her. “What were you doing wandering among dead bodies? Just what kind of a doctor are you? Should I be worried that you were planning to dress me, put makeup on me, and close me in a box?”

“Your evasive conversational techniques need work. However, I will answer, since it is still on track with my questioning. I was asked to survey a few bodies before they were incinerated. Some did not look like the Mugdock, and a great many had no obvious signs of death. Add that to a pair of glowing violet eyes and a fainting woman, and you have need of a doctor’s opinion.”

“And what is your expert diagnosis based on this folklore?”

“Well, that you are impossible to work with and the Captain will have to sort you out because I cannot.”

“Defeatist.” Shanti smirked.

“Yes, it would seem. Now, lie back, because I can see that you are suffering merely to prove a point—point proven, decidedly—and get some rest. You will need it when the Captain gets around to visiting. He is not as…patient as I.”

Shanti lay back with a grimace. It would hurt less to be dead.

As the doctor moved to leave, she thought back to what he said. Cayan would be bursting through in an awful temper any time, she had no doubt. The question was, why was she so apprehensive?

Chapter XXI

“SANDERS, WITH ME.”

SANDERS INTERNALLY cringed. The hard gravel in that voice slid along his bones and pounded at his nerves. The Captain had not been in a great mood since he returned bloody and wild from the middle of a horde of Mugdock with a limp woman in his arms. Since then everyone had been afraid to be in his sights, especially his commanders.

It was three days after the battle. Daniels and Sterling were leaning against the wall in front of the pyre, watching as the last of the smoldering bodies were transferred into a huge pit.

“Yes, my liege,” Sanders said meekly, stepping in behind the long stride.

They walked back into the city where every person they met gave some signal of thanks to the Captain. Enlisted men gave a salute. Civilian men gave a nod so deep it was almost a bow. The civilian women looked at him with love-sick eyes.

The Captain was heading toward the hospital. Oh no.

Panic started to crawl up Sanders’ spine. He looked in earnest for an escape, for a reason he had to be somewhere else. He almost wished they were being attacked again. It was the last meeting in the world he wanted to attend. Anyone wanted to attend.

They walked in through the door. More nods. More smiles and sparkling eyes. More salutes. A few uncontrollable grunts that Sanders let slip. If these idle bodies loitering in the halls could read his mind, they would realize those low guttural noises he couldn’t help were actually calls for aid. Why was no one helping him? Did they not see where he was headed? And with whom?

Instead of turning right at the crossroads, though, they went straight ahead. Down a large white corridor. They were going to the badly injured ward.

Sanders gave a huge sigh of relief.

The Captain stopped in front of a closed door and paused. After a deep breath Sanders probably wasn’t supposed to notice, he knocked quietly before stepping inside. He motioned Sanders in after him.

Sanders stepped into the sterilized space and immediately winced. It was a well-known fact that fighting men of Sanders’ caliber did not enjoy that overly clean lemon smell of the hospital ward. If you smelled it, you were either attending the sick or dying, or one of them. All bad things.

Lucius was in his bed lying flat on his back, no color in his face. He had a bandage around his head, white squares of gauze around his neck, and a mending broken nose. Sanders was sure there were more bandages beneath the sheet.

“Captain, Commander Sanders,” Lucius said by way of greeting. His voice was shaky and weak. Being that the man had been near death when he was brought in, the fact that he was conscious and talking was a great stride.

“Lieutenant.” Sanders gave a stiff nod. “Good to see you are on the mend.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain took a chair from the corner and pulled it close to Lucius’ head. “I thank you for your valor, Lieutenant. I would’ve hated to lose you.”

Lucius and the Captain had grown up together. It was said that the Captain trusted no one in the world as much as he trusted this childhood friend. And that was a nice sentiment, but why did Sanders need to sit in on this? He didn’t want to see any of the Captain’s vulnerability. That wasn’t what men did. That should be saved for the wives.

“However, I was under the impression you were given strict orders to take the foreign woman to the hold?” the Captain went on.

Oh. That’s why. Somehow this, too, was Sanders’ fault. Great.

“I was, sir.” Lucius didn’t lower his eyes. “She did not want to go.”

“Often women do not want to do what is in their best interest. It is why we have to subtly help them see reason.”

“My approach was subtle, at first, sir. Then, when she punched me, it was less so. Finally I had no choice but to follow her lead.”

The Captain paused before saying, “I am to understand you followed her lead willingly, Lieutenant. Directly to the front line. In front of a well-put-together group of trained, battle-hardened men.”

“Yes, sir. They were also inclined to follow her lead. She has a way about her, sir.”

The Captain stared at Lucius for a tense moment. The other man tried to hold the gaze, but inevitably, as they all did, dropped his gaze to the floor.

“She would have been captured.” The Captain had a hard edge to his voice. Sanders took a step toward the door.

“Yes, sir,” Lucius said weakly.

“She’s a woman. I’m sure you can imagine what would’ve happened had she been captured?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that a fate you would want for your mother, Lieutenant? Or your sister?”

“No, sir. But in my defense, I wouldn’t have been able to stop her, sir. I tried to fight beside her and keep her safe. It was all I could do.”

After another minute of hard staring, the Captain lowered his head. Then stood. “She is a hard case. Sanders has yet to maintain control over her. Being that he is of higher rank, I can hardly expect you to fare any better. I had hoped, but I see that was in vain.”

“I would like to stay on her detail, sir,” Lucius stated with a high chin.

“You are compromised, Lieutenant.” The Captain spoke simply.

“She’ll trust me now, sir. She doesn’t want followers, she wants men-at-arms beside her.”

The Captain stopped as he headed for the door, his back to his old friend. Lucius took that as a cue to keep going. “She entertains when someone raises an objection to her schemes. She’ll hear my complaints and advice. She’ll defer to me if I can convince her.”

The room got thick and sluggish. Sanders tried to push himself against the wall, not wanting any part of this conversation. Any movement might draw notice. He wanted Lucius to get the post so he wouldn’t have to take it.

Finally the bands that made breathing laborious released and the Captain nodded. “Very well. When you are better, we’ll see how it goes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Out in the hallway the Captain said in conversational tones, “Lucius just did you a favor.”

“I caught that, sir. He’s a better man for it.”

“Yes, he’s always had a heavy dose of courage.”

Sanders cleared his throat. “I saw her fight, sir. He wouldn’t have been able to force her to the hold. Not with his life.”

“I know that. I still wanted him to try. Battle is no place for a woman. Not when she will become a prize.”

“I don’t think she was planning to stay alive long enough to be a prize.”

“For that reason, also.”

They turned a corner and started down the recovery corridor, stopping in front of a wooden door. The Captain knocked twice then immediately stepped back when the door opened. The doctor stepped out, realized who it was, and closed the door behind him.

“You’ve picked a fine time to call on her,” the doctor drawled. “She is out of bed and staggering around the room. Apparently that’s her way of saying she’s miraculously healed after only three days.”

“And how is she faring?” the Captain asked, not put off by the dry delivery.

“Oh, how wonderful. Someone who actually wants her real diagnosis. Two ribs are broken. She is unconcerned about those. Three toes are broken. She concedes that the Mugdock are heavy. There are muscle pulls and strains all over her body. She also helped me do my job by noting her gift is strained, whatever that means.

“Oh, and she has learned a new swear word. It starts with “c”, is predominately used on women in an extremely derogatory way. She thinks it is hilarious. Watch yourself.”

The doctor walked away with a rigid back. Sanders had the feeling the c-word was no longer solely used on women. He couldn’t help but smile. Until he saw the murder in the Captain’s eyes. It sufficiently ruined his mood again.

As the doctor had said, Shanti was standing. Laboriously, but standing. She was leaning against the wall looking out the window, her gaze on the distant trees. Her body looked like an abstract painting, splotched with a myriad of colors, mainly blue, yellow, purple, and red. Between her injuries, her skin was the same translucent white he’d noticed when she was near death in the dead forest. Unlike then, he noticed she had a much better form than when she’d been carried in a few short weeks ago. Her muscle was sinewy and graceful. She was taking on the shape of a woman again, hips and breasts and—

Sanders turned away, which he probably should have done immediately after realizing the piece of fabric on the floor next to the door, as if thrown at a retreating figure, was her nightgown. He had seen many a naked man, being that there was not much privacy in the field, but he’d only seen naked women when he was about to—

Shanti turned at the uncomfortable groan.

“Clothes, please,” the Captain said easily, leaning against the far wall. If he was troubled by the perfect form of the naked woman—

Sanders groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut. He was not strong enough for this.

Shanti gave the Captain an irritated stare. “The fabric gets in the way of sleeping.”

“You aren’t sleeping. Put it on.”

“No.”

“You’re causing an awkward situation between Sanders and Junice at present. It’s not very nice.”

Shanti glanced at Sanders and sighed. “Why is this nation so worried about nudity?”

“Humor us.”

As she crossed the room, moving like a panther, she picked up the fabric and slid it over her head. Sanders tried desperately not to memorize the look of billowing gray material flowing over perky, well-formed breasts. He also tried not to watch the cloth as it made its way—

The room filled with the sound of a head repeatedly banging against the door.

“I have no funnies, so I don’t need an audience,” she said, returning to the window.

“Jokes,” the Captain supplied. He seemed to find her black mood entertaining.

“I want out of this room.” Shanti’s eyes focused on the trees.

“You’re not healed.”

“I’m healed enough to leave this room.”

“Where would you go?”

“The park.”

“Then?”

Shanti was quiet. She was no longer welcome at Sanders’ house. A foreign naked woman fighting with the also naked man of the house in the middle of the night was not something wives got over. Or forgot about. Shanti understood that.

“It’s time for you to tell me who you are,” the Captain asserted, taking a chair.

Sanders preferred to stand. He was still uncomfortably tight in his groin.

“Is your wife okay?” Shanti asked suddenly, turning to face the Captain. Her eyes flicked to Sanders. “And Junice? Is she okay? And your bairn?”

“Our barn?” Sanders asked in confusion.

“Child. Baby. Little ‘un. Bairn.”

“How did you…”

The Captain’s eyes swiveled to Sanders with a question. Sanders answered them both. “She’s fine. They are both okay, as far as the doctor can tell.”

The Captain nodded in a congratulatory sort of way. Shanti turned her gaze back to the Captain. “And your family? Did they get to safety in time?”

Sanders was still confused. Surely she knew the Captain had lost his parents—or else why would he be Captain?

“Unfortunately, I have no family to speak of.” The Captain’s tone was matter-of-fact, but Sanders could see a little of the leftover vulnerability from the conversation with Lucius. Sanders shifted uncomfortably as the Captain went on—being in this room was worse than the last. “If you are asking about Tanicia, she’s okay, as is her family, as far as I’ve heard. There were no civilian casualties.”

Tanicia? If Sanders remembered correctly, that was a short brunette with great curves and a giant rack. Why—Oh. He must’ve had company the night Shanti barged into his house. A passing fad, just like all his girlfriends. The man changed women like underwear.

The Captain stared at Shanti, his face blank. She stared back. Communication of the silent variety trickled between them until Shanti’s face dropped.

“That rat bastard!” she exclaimed suddenly. Sanders flinched and reached for his sword before he could stop himself. “I’m not beautiful in your culture. Fine. But he didn’t have the fornicas to tell me to my face he didn’t desire me? Instead he hides behind the myth that sex before mating is forbidden.” She turned back to the window, her back rigid.

Sanders blinked a few times. “Fornkas?”

Shanti turned back to him with sadness weighing down her features. She pointed to his bulge in his pants, which had been easing down, and now gave an excited lurch. He needed to get the hell out of this room and back into the world were women were properly clothed. Or home where he was allowed to have sex.

“Balls, I think,” the Captain said quietly, his eyes focused on violet grief, which had nothing to do with whoever she was talking about. It seemed like old pain—scars from her past that were now resurfacing. “Of whom are you speaking?”

Shanti turned again, her back to the room. Her grief was so fresh, so sharp, she looked like she would break in half at any moment. Whatever had happened in her past, it must’ve been traumatic for her to haul it here and not be able to contain it.

“Are you speaking of Lucius?” the Captain asked, quieter now.

“No, but how is he healing? I am trying to help but I don’t have much strength. I can’t keep contact for long.”

“Come again?”

“I would love to come the first time, but the man of my choosing is not interested. I could really use that distraction right now.” Her voice trailed away as she stared out the window.

The muscles in the Captain’s arms flexed. He was starting to lose his patience. He took a second to calm himself, something he had to do often in this woman’s presence, which Sanders had some experience with, and changed gears. “Where are you from?”

“That is not working, and I am not planning to tell you.”

Sanders look around in confusion. What wasn’t working?

The Captain said, “I had a meeting yesterday with an interested trading party. Sanders can confirm—he was there. He often organizes protection for trade routes. He has a head for numbers. I value his opinion in those matters. As I do in this matter.”

“I’m fascinated, both by the news and also by the randomness of this continued conversation.” Shanti continued to stare out the window.

“In addition to setting up a possible trade route, they inquired if we had seen a young woman pass this way. They described her as not exactly beautiful, but visually arresting. Tall, light features and hair, regal…”

Shanti had turned to the Captain, her eyes on fire, her face devoid of all color. Fear lurked just behind the death in her eyes.

“They said she was the wife of their Lord,” the Captain went on in a smooth voice. “She was apparently taken by a hostile party when traveling and was now feared lost. They are searching for her. They brought her up before I could ask about you, as a matter of fact…”

Shanti stared, a rigid figure in a loose robe standing in front of a bright window. Her eyes started to glow faintly. The room condensed and blazed. Spikes of pain assaulted him. His bones started to vibrate until they felt like they were cracking. His skull was too tight. His eyes sandy and raw.

The Captain’s eyebrows crawled down the bridge of his nose like two caterpillars. He stood slowly, his whole body flexed, the thick cords of muscles making ropes and ditches down his arms, legs and torso. “They mentioned she had violet eyes.”

A thick pulse of electric energy flashed into Sanders. He could swear his skin was peeling off. Her eyes were glowing more now, power within them dancing, the air in the room forcing his breath out in painful gasps. His brain started to buzz, slowly at first, then like knives were scraping against it. Needles stabbed into his ears. He clutched at his skull, the deep ache exploding out, forcing out a scream.

A second later he was devoid of pain. Panting. Scared—he’d never been so scared in all his life. He huddled in the corner. What the hell had just happened?

A second after that he felt invisible hands crawl up his body. Small, tickling spirals, trailing up the small hairs on his inner thighs. He brushed at his legs. Nothing was there. But it felt like something was there. Like a caress, firm and loving.

He gulped loudly, patting at the feeling. Trying to wipe it off. What the—

No, now he had never been so scared in all his life. Especially since that tickle felt so, so fucking good.

An invisible hand cupped his ball sack. He yelped, dancing around the floor, swatting at his nuts. Something lightly stroked his dick.

He froze.

It was logically uncomfortable, the pressure from invisible hands. Soon logic was gone, though. He couldn’t think past the rubbing. Pain he could ignore, but this…

The pressure. Where was it coming from?

It wasn’t a real person, did he care?

Oh… he probably should…

He fell back against the wall with his eyes closed. This was wrong. Whatever was happening was not good. Except it felt good. He couldn’t stop—he wanted to—

Another blast of pain cut through the pleasure. A flash of light burst behind his eyes. He staggered against the wall, blinded momentarily with the hot spikes of pain.

“ENOUGH!”

It sounded like the Captain, but Sanders couldn’t focus. His cock was hard, his head felt like someone had stabbed a knife through his forehead—what…the fuck…was happening in this room? Every time he had to deal with the woman, something like this happened. Every time.

Why was it always him? Why didn’t the Captain give someone else a turn to deal with her?

Sanders glanced at the door. He might just brave the Captain’s punishment for leaving right now.

Chapter XXII

SHANTI WATCHED THE CAPTAIN APPROACH slowly, his eyes trying to hide the fear. She had been too weak to kill him from even a few spans and was afraid to touch him. He learned fast. Touching would make her ten times more powerful, but him as well. If he tried to block, or reciprocate, she would struggle, and he could then snap her neck. She had no weapons and could barely stand. She was practically defenseless.

“If you turn me over to them I will kill myself immediately, leaving you with nothing to trade,” she said in a seething whisper, trying to keep herself upright.

He stopped directly in front of her. “How?”

“By reversing what I just did to you.”

“Were you intending to kill me just then?”

“You’ve caught me at a bad time. You’re lucky.”

“Why shouldn’t I turn you in and take my chances? They’re offering me a sweet deal. The amount of money they’re throwing at me, at this city, is staggering. They even offered to end our troubles with the Mugdock. Our people would be safe. Trading you would be to our advantage.”

Shanti’s stomach twisted. “They are offering you slavery. They don’t trade, they own. You, as a leader, are too powerful. You would be killed immediately. Your army, as you call it, would be destroyed or taken into their ranks. Your people would be spread apart so you couldn’t band together. The prettiest in your city would be taken—you’ll be told they’ll be put up in the best houses, given the best schools, then can come back when they are enlightened. Instead, they will be granted to the seniority battle commanders or government to play with. Some will go to the ranked men to be used. They have all sorts of interests, women are just one. Little boys are a favorite. Watching torture, bestiality, whipping—they love fresh meat, no matter the flavor.

“And that’s if you don’t reveal what you are. As soon as you lose control and fill the room with a display of power, they will know. Then you will be taken. Drugged. You are handsome and well built, so the rich women and men will want to use you. Their leader likes men—he likes to take other leaders by force as he captures their cities, but with your Hasneas—your Gift—he won’t be able to. He can still drug you and chain you to his bed, though. You will like it. You will like what—“

The Captain grabbed her throat and squeezed. Air caught in her lungs, nowhere to go. Lights danced in her eyes from the pressure of his fingers. The bastard was strong.

She used the contact to send a pulse of pure, heavy lust into his brain, throwing him off. He was close enough that his erection was prodding her. His eyes lit on fire. Sanders groaned in the corner, in the radius of power but not getting the full dose. She switched to pricks of pain, searing his skin, aiming for the hand that held her, but too weak to hit it properly. Back to pleasure, confusing him, noticing his hand weakening as he tried to figure out what she was doing. Also trying to resist—men had an easier time resisting pain than pleasure. It had been a wonderful discovery. Back to pleasure, pulsing, prodding at his backside, freaking him out with how good it felt. Testing his sensibilities. Experimenting a little, too. Might as well screw with him as a farewell gift.

She shifted her power, noticing his eyes starting to dull as they looked into hers. Sucking in a breath of air as his hand loosened from her throat. The last of her power swelled, Sanders having fallen over, like a board, straight to his back.

She looked straight into the Captain’s eyes, gripped his mind as hard as she could, and prepared the knife. She stabbed.

And splintered on a block.

The Captain’s eyes had cleared. She hadn’t noticed. She was clutching to her strength as weakly as a leaf clutching to a branch in Fall.

He had been hanging on to try and figure out how she constantly blocked him. She’d been doing it since he came into the room. He would never know how close he came, because she could have done it. With contact, she would have ended him and probably taken Sanders with him. At full strength she could shatter that block and the mind behind it. She was far, far from full strength.

“You would’ve regretted it,” he said softly, his voice all kinds of strain, his face showing none of it. “You would have regretted killing me.”

Oh. So he did know how close. Which meant he had picked up another little trick. Which also meant he was capable to using that trick. It was not a pleasant discovery, though it wasn’t exactly a surprise, either.

She was out of options. “No, I wouldn’t have. I would have been close behind you when your people found out. If they didn’t kill me right away, Commander Daniels would’ve traded me in a heartbeat. My people, however, would have regretted it.”

The Captain removed his hand and Shanti fell. He scooped her up before she hit the ground and laid her on the bed. She didn’t bother trying to hide her trembling. Her body and mind both were spent.

“That was fucked up,” Sanders shouted from the corner.

The Captain regained his chair. “Hasnias?”

“A divine gift given to us by the Elders—your gods. An immortal weapon or tool in the hands of mortals. In my language, it is Hasneas, which means Gift.”

A hunger flashed into the Captain’s eyes, and then wariness. After a moment, he changed the subject.

“Your Honor Guard disobeyed my orders.” His tone was smug. He’d felt like he won that battle, blast him.

Shanti didn’t bother answering.

“They were responsible for killing over a dozen men,” he continued.

“Good. Who got the most?”

“Leilius. Apparently he has a knack for sneaking around. His father said he got in trouble a lot for picking on his little sister and hid to try and escape trouble.”

“Good trait. Take him hunting, let him define those attributes.”

The Captain studied her.

“If you want to, obviously.” She was probably supposed to go through the chain of command for that suggestion.

“The men they killed did not look like Mugdock,” the Captain volunteered.

“Is that right? Were they women? If so, check for missing soldiers. They’ll kill anything they can’t screw, and take anything they can. They are great with nets, ropes, and knives. They also like strap-ons a great deal, so beware.”

“They were slight men with fair skin, like yours.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. All.”

Shanti felt a jab of fear. Again. It was getting irritating. “What type of weapons did they carry?”

“Large swords with a wide tip, or wicked looking knives.”

“Yarn or string on the hilts?”

“Yes.”

Shanti sighed in relief. “Not Graygual. Thank the Elders their mercy. The Graygual do not know I’m here. Not yet.”

Sanders staggered into view, his hair mussed and his eyes wild. “Why the fuck am I in this room with this perversion? What the fuck is going on? Sir. Let’s give her over and be done with it!”

“None of that was aimed at you, Sanders.” Shanti closed her eyes. “It was aimed at your Captain. You only got the backlash. He got the full blast. And he wasn’t witching.”

“Bitching, I think you mean,” the Captain helped.

“Bitching? Female mongrel?”

“Female dog, yes. Also slang—a derogatory word for a female. Also slang for whining.”

“For all your culture says you love women, you certainly have a lot of nasty terms to describe them.”

“I now know why,” Sanders said viciously.

“Who are the men we found? Where are they from and what do they want?” the Captain asked, easily ignoring the man foaming at the mouth in the corner.

“Inkna,” Shanti said weakly, also ignoring Sanders. “They are the financial minds behind the Graygual. They are extremely loyal because the Graygual keeps them in wealth. They are checking your city—analyzing your worth. They are realizing how very rich you are. And how good at defense. They probably now know they cannot take you by force. Not without heavy losses. They are good fighters, but you, as a whole, are better.

“They’ll establish trade. Let them. Start very small. Say you are trying to establish commerce, establishing trust and credit. Make something up. Let the trade trickle increase. Dazzle them with some of your best wares, but keep them constantly trading those that are worst. They know you have much, but they probably don’t know quality. Keep them thinking your quantity is in something not worth as much, and the quality items are sparse.”

“That will hurt our income,” Sanders said, working on breathing to calm himself. His fists were still white-knuckled.

“When they know you have quantity in quality wares, the Graygual will want to run this operation themselves. Your city is small and rich. All your people benefit. It is not how their system works. With them, their cities are giant. Everything is for sale, including sex. Including…um, mind changing devices. I don’t know the word—“

“Drugs,” the Captain supplied.

“Yes, that’s right.” Her eyes drooped. She was so tired. “The rich are about ten percent, mostly nestled in the folds of military. The mid-tier is about twenty. The rest are under the boot. You have too many profiting. If you divide up the wealth in smaller shares, a few get much more. That is how the Graygual work. The few run things. The rest try to find a good place to hide.”

“And your people…”

Shanti felt her heart drop in defeat. There wasn’t much more to hide and he was too strong to kill. Besides, he now knew her value to her enemy. What was the point in hiding the rest? “The Shamas. We were a quiet people with no wealth. Not in material goods, anyway. Our choice. The Graygual were a young, power-hungry nation when they first came to us. They were starting to branch out and wanted to bring us into the fold. They needed fighters—military. They needed muscle. My people fight. It’s what we do. We fight with mind and body. We train all our lives for the conditioning of it. From the memory of a violent past. But we are a small nation. Tiny, really. We don’t procreate well.

“The Graygual didn’t like that we said no. The next time they came it was to teach us a lesson. They didn’t realize women fought right beside the men. They didn’t realize that one of us equaled five of their mercenaries. They didn’t realize that one little girl in the small, northeastern village could kill people from a distance by thinking of stabbing a knife in their brains. She hadn’t known it at the time, either—not until she was pushed to it. Not until survival instinct took over.”

Sanders took a noisy breath and sat down with a heavy plop. The Captain stared, his face blank, his eyes riveted.

“The second time they came was much later. The little girl was a woman. She’d lost her parents in the first skirmish. She then inherited the leadership. The doctrines said that when a girl is born from magic and none, who takes the role of a man, and desecrates with thought, she is the Chosen. She will connect the distant halves into a whole and lead her people to salvation. My father had the Ahna Hasneas—the Warring Gift in your language. My mother had no Gift at all. He took her as his mate anyway, love trumping all, expecting not to have children. They had me. I inherited his leadership when he died in the first battle. I am the Chosen. Apparently.

“Anyway, false labels aside, I had to learn to lead from age five. I had to hone my Gift. I had to be the best fighter anyone had ever seen. I was trained for it mercilessly. I grew into it painfully. The next time they came I was ready, but it was not to be. The Graygual had grown into their leadership, too. They had consumed all nations along the coast and a great many inland. We were their only failure.

“They showed up early one morning, not unlike the Mugdock did the other day. We were long since ready. We had a Seer. She foresaw them coming. Also their numbers. We could not win. I lost the rest of my people two days later. I was ferreted out by my Chance. He was also my Sacrifice when they caught our trail. He stayed behind.”

“How long ago was this?” the Captain asked, leaning forward in his chair with his forearms resting against his thighs.

“A little over a year.”

“You were never captured?”

“You are the first.”

“And they want to finish their task? To wipe out the last of you? You being the last?”

Shanti met his gaze. “No. They want to breed me. They want to build an army out of me. Xandre, their leader, the Being Supreme, wants me for his own. He wants the next generation of super fighter to be of his seed. I thought that threat had ended with me gone. But now there is you. And you have learned to block me. You are also easier to breed. You make semen constantly. You can be drugged to give it willingly. They can impregnate a whole city with you and hope a few babies pop out with your Gift. Or, they can mix our bodies and have a better probability of success, though I am not sure if they know that.”

“What do you mean, better probability of success?” the Captain asked gruffly.

“My people did not procreate well because like talent has a better chance of producing offspring with like talent. Two Warring Gifts would have about a fifty percent easier time producing an offspring than a Warring Gift and a…Sadna Hasneas. Um…Empathic, I think is your word. Empathic Gift. A Gifted and non-Gifted would have an even worse chance still. The offspring might have some Gift, but not always. Until now I knew nobody with a like Gift. Now, together we are extremely dangerous, both to current military and future military. We should both be killed. But there might be others. Now I’m not sure. Maybe the Graygual already have some? Maybe there are stronger Gifts than mine, or yours. Maybe the breeding is already taking place? Who’s to say?”

“Well, I guess that means war is coming, and we’ll be on the side with a hard road,” Sanders said with his head in his hands. “I wish I stayed in bed today.”

“Did they take any of your people?” the Captain asked quietly.

“Yes. A few. Twenty or so.”

“To…breed?”

“Disgusting,” Sanders spat, pacing.

“I believe so,” Shanti replied with a straight face.

“So there is a chance another you—us…another one of us is already created.”

“No. They expired.”

“What’s that?”

Shanti rubbed her temples. “They were taken. They would have been raped repeatedly. Because they were unable to do it themselves, I killed them. I would rather not go over the specifics right now. I need to sleep.”

“You killed your own people?” Sanders stopped and stared with a gaping mouth.

“You didn’t try to save them, first?” Cayan asked in a sympathetic voice, but with an edge.

Hot tears rolled down her face. “Yes, and yes. The enemy had a city of fighters larger than your city of civilians. I got close, but I couldn’t get them out. So I killed them. They begged it of me, and I complied. Please leave. I don’t have the strength to make you.”

The Captain stood and nodded for Sanders to leave. “Wait for me.”

Sanders wasted no time. He was through the door as if the room were on fire.

In the silence the Captain neared. He approached her slowly, reading her face. “What of the children? You still have people waiting for you, don’t you? Hoping you will succeed? Where are you going? Let me help.”

Tears were still rolling. She felt the brush of his mind on hers, trying to reestablish that link they’d shared in his bedroom. Trying to get in and form a deeper connection. She closed up tight, locking herself in.

He put his hand on her bare arm. His power seeped into her skin, lighting her on fire. So much power. It was flash boiling her blood. He poked at her barriers gently, seeking a way in, searching for a chink in the armor. His eyes glowed as they looked down on her, blue like the sky. Dark rimmed like thunderclouds rolling through.

“There is no one else. They are all gone,” Shanti whispered.

“Then how can you reunite them?”

Good question. He was too smart for his own good.

“What of the children?” he asked again.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I am of the Old Blood. Like you. Procreation was always hard with my family, too, on my mother’s side. The gifts, as you call them, are carried with the mother. I know the history. You know the use. Together we are more powerful than each of us alone. We stand a better chance.”

“I am at war with the Graygual. You are not. If I were you, I would hide. They are… you stand no chance. For your people’s sake, hide.”

“I think we both know it is too late for that. As you say, we have wealth—we have extremely fertile lands and are well managed. This Inkna was behind the Mugdock attack. They were dressed as Mugdock. They have been poking around our mines, our leather factories—they were getting a good look. War is coming, and I do not bend my knee. We are on your side.”

“You are on your side. I am alone.”

The Captain withdrew his hand, his mind lingering. “As I said, I do not bend my knee. Not even to visually arresting outcasts. You will see it my way in the end. You will eventually need a friend, and then you will realize I am that friend.”

“I need a bed buddy and you don’t fit that role, so I’m good without you. Except, uh…for that other thing. Thank you. For that.”

“For what, exactly?” His eyes were twinkling so hard they belonged on a dance floor as a sparkly ball. Or in Rachie’s room, where she’d seen it. Cayan definitely knew what for.

Shanti cleared her throat. She hated saying she was wrong, she hated saying she was sorry, and she hated having to tell this egotistical ass that she was thankful he saved her life against overwhelming odds. Still, honor dictated that it be done. “For, uh, coming for me. On the battlefield. I would not have made it out without you. So, thanks.”

He looked at her with gravity, his eyes still sparkling, but grounded. “You’re welcome.”

She nodded. He continued to try and lock eyes.

“Okay,” she said, too tired to play at holding the intense gaze—she’d hoped that would get easier. “Now get out.”

“I like it better when you’re vulnerable.” The Captain took a step back.

“Liar. It makes you nervous. You aren’t as good at blocking as you think you are.”

A grin ghosted Cayan’s lips, his dimples making a brief appearance. When he got to the door he stopped for a brief second, his hand on the shiny knob. “Who was this man that turned you down?”

“Why? Going to give him a pat on the back?”

The Captain turned his face to her, his eyes burning into her for a second. He did the equivalent of flicking her in the head. It was a weird sensation, bouncing off her block and tingling her skin. A second later, with a half-smile this time, he was out the door and gone.

The Captain strode past Sanders, not slowing to let the other man catch up. “Do you know why I needed you in there?”

Sanders had no fucking idea, but he wished he’d left that girl by the tree where he found her.

“You have never balked at the fact that she can fight,” the Captain went on. “You have always taken her at face value. You see a dangerous person, while the others see a woman playing with knives. I need the other two commanders on board with this—I need a unified front—and we all need what is in Shanti’s head, me most of all. I need you to help me turn them to my way of thinking.”

“You’ve never had a problem with that before.”

“We’ve never had a situation that confronts our prejudices. All our problems have been within the realm of war. They don’t see that this is, too.”

“She has been nothing but disruptive to my life,” Sanders growled.

“Just think what war will be when we meet it unprepared.”

Sanders blew out a breath. That was true. He hated when the Captain used logic.

They walked a while in silence before the Captain said, “Sorry about the… other thing. That was meant for me, I believe. I am not telling you your business, but there is no need to relay that to…anyone else. I would prefer that stayed under the hat.”

“The other thing? You mean the invisible hand on my bells and whistle? Yeah, I don’t need anyone knowing that shit. Sir.”

The Captain nodded once.

They continued out the door and back to business. Sanders couldn’t help wondering how much this strange woman was going to mess up their way of life.

Chapter XXIII

SHANTI WAS ON A BLUFF above the tent on the edge of the fighting camp. They had taken Simon and left his twin sister Simone in the holding cell. Now they marched him toward a tent at the edge of the huge camp, to one of the higher-level battle commanders who waited outside to receive him.

Simon had his hands tied in front of him and four guards surrounded him. His mind-power was weak and his fighting only decent. It was why they had been able to take him. It was also why only four men could hold him.

“The man you requested, Battle Lord.”

“Yes, thank you. Pass it down that the women aren’t to be touched. The Supreme Being doesn’t want any man’s seed in them but those appointed. Anyone who breaks that rule will be killed slowly and painfully on full display.”

“Yes, Battle Lord.”

The filth gestured to Simon. “Tie him to the bed inside. Make sure he cannot inflict harm. The rest can be distributed. I only require this one.”

“Yes, Battle Lord.”

Shanti closed her eyes as Simon was led out of her sight, into the tent.

Shanti could free him. She could kill the man about to do this thing and take Simon right now. Maybe Simone, too. But she couldn’t get to the rest. They were within the clusters of fighters, spread around. The men would be used like Simon. The girls were being herded to a tent with guards, keeping the others away. She would reveal herself, cause a giant manhunt, and probably eventually get captured herself. She could kill herself, though. She could free herself from a life of rape and torture. She would also kill the hope of all of her people with her, leaving these few to the same existence they faced right now without her help.

Shanti touched Simon’s mind. Gave him a nudge.

She felt his awareness. Then his surprise. Finally…his desire for death.

She spread out her mind, found each of her people. Did the same. And with each, felt the same. Even the women—they knew their fate. They were safe now, but not for long. They couldn’t end it themselves; they needed her.

That’s when she felt it. Simon—his horror. His fear. His grossly intimate abuse.

Something snapped.

Bowing her head, not caring if this was the end, she latched on to each and every mind belonging to her people. So different than the beastly brain patterns of their captors. She focused on them, feeling that two others were going through the same treatment as Simon. They were suffering. She felt it.

With one blast of pure, intense power, she fried them. It took more energy, but it was quicker. Less painful. Most fell dead immediately. The three strongest fell into the pain, not allowing themselves to scream, until finally succumbing to it.

Simon went limp on the crate, his face clearing.

Barely able to stand, sobs choking her, knowing she had just killed people she had known all her life, she fled. Stumbled and ran. Nearly blind, no strength, she made herself keep going. Legs catching on brambles. Dogs barking, chasing her. Men shouting. She had to keep going.

Had to keep going.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Shanti thrashed at the arms, crying out, struggling away. Her face was pressed against a chest with no give. The arms that held her were like giant bands of cable. She lashed out mentally and splintered on a hard block. Cayan.

“Sssshhhhh. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” His rough voice calmed her. Reassuring.

She drifted back into dreamless sleep. If only keeping going wasn’t so painful.

Chapter XXIV

THE GROUND COOLED SLOWLY AS the sizzling sun disappeared entirely from the sky. The electrifying colors of dusk settled into the blues and blacks of night, cloaking the land and hiding its mysteries. Somewhere within the large park Leilius roamed, looking for Shanti, skulking behind trees and blending into bushes, cloaked in black and trying to become the darkness. He was great at hiding, but not so great at moving silently. It was a work in progress.

Five days after the battle, Shanti was recovering yet again, still in the Captain’s city. Cayan had offered her a place as long as she wanted. When she was ready to go, he offered her any help he could provide. And while she was thankful, because she needed to heal again, she wasn’t exactly comfortable. She felt the pull of the East, the urge to continue with her duty and move the war effort along. Not only that, but she had dragged his people into her struggle. He and his commanders were starting to think of the overall picture now, having an idea of what was coming, and already choosing a side. That was good, obviously, but they were such a small nation—Shanti couldn’t help but think she had made a grave mistake by not killing him. He’d be taken, and he’d be used. And right now, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it.

So here she sat, trying to block out the pressure of her duty, her mistakes and failures, and keeping her mind completely closed so Leilius wouldn’t have a chance to sneak up on her. It was amazing, and more than a little frustrating, how mangled her plans had become in the space of a month.

As night settled, she heard stomping to her right. It was loud enough to be a massive land animal. If that was Leilius, he would get his ass kicked, no two ways about it.

“Tasha, wait.” A male’s voice rang through the clearing. Commanding. Controlling, more like.

“Tasha!”

A pretty young woman stomped into view with tears rolling down her face. She had a look of determination intermixed with fear. Behind her stepped a man the usual height for this land, but he was lean for these people. There was a confidence in his bearing that said he could hold his own, but wasn’t an excellent fighter. Dirty fighter, perhaps. Punched people when they weren’t looking.

He grabbed the young woman’s arm and swung her to face him. She collided with his chest, her arms coming up immediately to push away.

“I just want to talk,” he said gruffly. By the way his body loomed over hers, and the way his hips slightly protruded, that was horseshit.

The fear in the girl’s body said she thought the same thing.

“No. I don’t want to. I’m not ready.” She had tears in her voice. “Please.”

He grabbed her with both hands. “You can’t lead me on and then walk away, Tasha. That’s not how this works. What am I supposed to do…” He shook her a little, pulling her back toward the trees.

Boy-oh-boy did he pick the wrong time to step into Shanti’s life. With her nightmares waking her up screaming three nights out of four, she was not in the mood to witness any more social injustices.

Shanti stood up silently and walked closer slowly, trying to control herself before she jumped into this altercation. Because she would absolutely be jumping in. In this city, based on its rules, no woman should be manhandled. It was like roughing up an Empathic in her village. Or someone not engaged in the fighting arts, man or woman. The strong didn’t pick on the weak.

“No, Tommas. Please…” the girl begged.

“Oh, hello,” Shanti said casually, walking into a spot of moonlight in the small clearing.

Tommas startled but held on, not letting go of his prize. Tasha stayed mute, mouth closed tight. Her eyes said help, but they also revealed guilt. Possibly she had been making out with him in the trees and he tried to go too far. Didn’t make it right, but this woman was too young, or too entrenched in social customs, to know that.

“What do you want, bitch?” Tommas asked with a snarl. “Can’t you see I’m having a private moment with my girlfriend?”

“Ah yes, bitch. I don’t love that word, myself. Passive aggressive. I much prefer cunt if you are looking to make a point. Much more vulgar, don’t you agree? Widens people’s eyes. Regardless, I wanted to know if I can assist in any way? It seems there is need of a mediator.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You seem to be having a dispute. I thought I might be able to solve the situation logically. As an impartial third party, of course.”

“Fuck off, you stupid cunt!”

“Oh, lovely. Two of my favorites in the same sentence. I just love the word fuck. It’s very similar to flak, in my homeland. You can hear the similarities. The meaning is slightly different, however. Flak is more of ‘everything good in the world suddenly going wrong’. Turning to shit, you might say. Fuck seems to be more sexually based, however loosely. But oh the things you can do with it, am I right?”

Tommas just stared. He had no idea what she was talking about, what was going on, and why his vehemence wasn’t scaring her off. She used this distraction to move ever closer, lackadaisically getting into range so that she could get Tasha away and then have some sport with Tommas.

“For example,” Shanti continued. “You can use it as an action: I am going to fuck you sideways and call you Martha. Or as a thing: you are a dumb fuck. Or as—“

“What the fu—what do you want?” Tommas spat.

“It is certainly used more often when angry, yes. I have noticed that.” Shanti was a step away now, her feet light on the ground, in predator mood.

“Fuck off!” Tommas threw out a hand to push Shanti away at the shoulder. Instead of blocking, or swiping it away, or even letting it reach its destination, she instead grabbed it and pulled.

Tommas lost his balance immediately and took a giant step in Shanti’s direction. He let go of Tasha in anticipation of landing on his face. Shanti stepped around him deftly, putting herself between the two.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tommas growled. He’d just decided to kick her ass.

What a small minded idiot. As Rachie would say, he was in bad need of a bitch slap.

“Tasha, there is about to be violence. You’d best run off now,” Shanti said calmly, her eyes never leaving Tommas. “If you head east, you will probably run into a fifteen-year-old kid called Leilius. Ask him to take you home. Stay away from this Tommas creep. If he comes near you again, you let me know and I will sort him out. Yes? Hurry along.”

And she was running away east. Good girl. Now for the creep.

“What the fuck, Tasha?” Tommas frothed. His disheveled glare found hers. Something was wrong at the basic level with this youth. He wasn’t safe and probably just starting to show the signs.

Luckily, she had a great deterrent for future violence in others. It was called fear.

Tommas’s body was square to her. “What do you want, you nosey slut? To take her place?”

“Slut? I’m unfamiliar with that one. But since you were so kind to use it in context, I think I get the jest. Gist? Jest is a joke, I think. Although, that also works.”

“Screw this. No one will believe you over me.” Tommas struck out, the back of his hand swinging at her from across his body. He was impossibly slow.

She ducked under.

“Oh, you’re fast, huh? Had a father that beat on you?” Tommas asked, the bravado having slipped a bit.

“Ah, yes, pouring salt in the cut. I must warn you, that is not wise, Tommas. Not with me.”

He reached to grab her, apparently not realizing his body advertised the move a full two seconds before he actually did it. She simply slapped his hand away. She was getting bored.

“You aren’t in the army in this city are you?” she asked even though she already knew the answer. Sanders would throw him over the wall in frustration.

“With those deadbeats and that fairy Captain? Yeah, right.”

“Dead. Beat.” Shanti shook her head, spinning around as he circled her. “Fairy Captain. Your slang is way beyond what I know. You cannot control your anger, and you don’t have much stock in morals. This is not a good combination. I can cure you of that—“

He rushed her with the intent to tackle. With his whole body bent and his arms spread wide—he wasn’t great at judging opponent size—he shuffled toward her and prepared to dive. Since she had plenty of time to think about it, she let him tackle her, making sure she fell slightly to the side. She was curious to see if he was any better on the ground.

He tried to pin her with his body, rage taking over his movements. Since she was to the side, she angled out and gave him a sharp blow to the middle of this back. He cried out, his adrenaline rushing in to fill his body. It would make him faster and slightly stronger. Hopefully.

He angled up with his torso and tried to yank her body back to the ground. She grabbed his wrist and twisted it painfully behind him, then let go when he gave a hoarse yell and his chest hit the dirt. It really seemed like he was trying to lose.

He tried to grab her around the waist, turning on his back to do it. She let him, angling her body to the top of him and straddling his stomach. Then she grabbed his fingers, bending them across the back of his hand, twisting back and down, making the nerves and tendons tweak painfully. It was an extremely easy, and extremely effective, arm lock. He cried out again, his body trying to turn, but since both hands were captured, he just wriggled around.

She bent his arms under her legs, braced herself, then let go. She quickly pulled out her pack of needles from around her belt, and before he could get his arms freed, put one in the nerve at the top of each arm, near the shoulder, to give him a sleeping sensation. It would be painful to move. He was too much of a coward to push through it.

“Well, Tommas. You’ve got yourself in a right pickle this time. See, I do know some slang, huh? Anyway, here’s what I’m going to do. I am going to teach you a lesson.” She licked her hand, then gave him a hard slap across the side of his face. To his whimpers she said, “Yes, it hurts more when the slap is wet.”

She did the other side, leaving an identical welt. He cried out.

“Tommas, you should know that only cowards pick on the weak. And while, by definition, that makes me a coward, you were posing as a big man, so I think I am just, don’t you? I mean, I have talked myself out of killing you, so that is a step in the right direction, don’t you think?”

“Fuck you!”

“Yes, we’ve covered that.” She punched him in the kidney, then the other kidney. She gave him a dead leg and then the kidney again, careful to hit in exactly the same places. The damage would last longer.

When she finished she raised her voice above his sobbing. “Also, only dead men rape women. Or bully them. If I hear you’ve raped anyone, Tommas, I will finish this. Do you understand what I am saying?”

It was then that she heard the footfall to her right, soft and at the tree line. The person either had a weapon, was Leilius, or wasn’t planning to hurt her just yet. She very nearly opened her mind to make sure, but she trusted Cayan to be right behind the person if they were dangerous. It was a huge leap of faith, yes, but judging by their dealings so far, he considered it his duty. And he viewed duty similar to how she did.

Not bothering to get up, or secure Tommas any more than she already had, she looked up in that direction. Sterling stepped slowly out of the shadows, his eyes hard and his face a mask of vehemence.

“Oh. Hello. He a friend of yours?” Shanti asked conversationally. Tommas whimpered.

“We don’t generally punish our citizens with immediate violence.”

“How do you know I am punishing him? Possibly I am trying a new sexual experience.”

“I was drawn by his argument with a woman. Tasha, I believe. You stepped out from your hiding place before I was upon them. I didn’t expect you to defend her honor.”

“What did you expect, that I would help Tommas?” Her voice took on a dangerous edge, directly reflecting her feelings.

“You are a woman who knows how to fight. It was possible your tastes border on perversion.”

“Interesting thought process. What judgment does a woman get if she knows solely how to defend herself? Light disgust and minute snubbing in social settings? And what if she is actually raped because she doesn’t know? Pity from everyone she meets? Lose-lose situation, then, huh? You like your women helpless, is that it?”

“When I was a teenager I met a woman who was passing through. She fought for a living. She indicated it was her culture’s way. She… Her tastes…”

“Mardis. Is that who you are speaking of? Generally a short people with big breasts, black hair, whether died or natural, and a tendency toward domination? Whips and chains and leather? It seems I am compared to that nation a lot in this city.”

Sterling’s eyes got harder. He tried not to grimace, and failed.

Shanti got up with a light kick to Tommas’ ribs. “Then you’re forgiven your judgment. I had a run in with one of them. She offered that I join their clan—that’s what they call a small hunting party. Their prey were men. Younger the better. Lure them in and debase them. Try to strip them of their manhood for sport. Yeah, I went back to her clan. Then I killed all five. Maybe the woman you…met was in that party. Maybe I’ll find her another day and bring her back to you. Who’s to say?”

“I would never hurt a woman, regardless…”

“Sterling, I got newspaper for you. There are a lot of nations in this little world of ours. A whole lot. And most of them have only fighting men; it’s true. But a great many have women in the ranks, too. A great many, Sterling. If a woman takes up arms against you, you will either need to kill her, or train up your own women to do it for you. Because one thing I know: they will destroy all that you hold dear, despite your sentiments regarding my sex.

“And with regard to punishing with violence… well, I wasn’t punishing. I was teaching him a lesson. And if he rapes anyone, woman or man, I will kill him. That is a truth, Sterling. I have put my word on it, and so it will be done.”

Tommas whimpered again.

“You will hang for it,” Sterling said easily.

“No, I won’t.”

“Why, because you think you have favor with the Captain and Sanders?”

“Favor with the Captain? I couldn’t think of anything more intolerable. Being controlled is not one of my loves. And Sanders would probably tie the rope for you. No, I won’t be hanged. If it comes to that, I’ll be on my way sooner rather than later. Leaving is inevitable, anyway. ”

Sterling’s eyes squinted. “You helped us. This is not your land. Why should you care?”

“Wow. You must’ve learned conversational direction changes from Cayan, huh? Well, by asking that question you have proved you are an idiot, Sterling, or a bad person.”

Shanti walked to the head of a quivering Tommas. She extracted her needles and tucked them back into her pouch. Tommas curled up in a little ball at her feet.

Shanti looked at Sterling, who was still judging her, “I’ll let you take care of the rest, shall I?” She didn’t bother waiting for his nod before heading back to the hospital wing. She technically wasn’t permitted to leave—Captain’s orders. She had to admire the Captain’s tenacity; he kept trying. Unfortunately, he wasn’t getting any better at being let down.

Chapter XXV

“RACHIE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, boy?” Sanders yelled as he marched toward the two fighting cadets.

Rachie was standing with his hands in the air, surrendering. The boy opposite him was crouched in the attack position, unclear what to do when the enemy surrendered before the fight had begun.

“Sir, he plans on clobbering me, sir, but he is standing off-kilter and it won’t be effective. I’d rather not waste my energy.”

Sanders stared mutely at the curly haired idiot. He was too flabbergasted to be mad. “Do it anyway.”

“But, sir—“

“That’s an order!”

Rachie sighed and mumbled, “I’ll just hurt him and you’ll be pissed.”

“What was that, Cadet?”

Rachie jumped and shook his head. Apparently Shanti hadn’t completely beat sense into the lad.

Cadet Jonhas waited for Rachie to look at him, then jumped at the other boy, arms moving in small circles to the side, wrestling style. He feinted once, throwing his whole body to the right. Rachie didn’t bite. Didn’t even flinch. Jonhas feinted a second time, straight at Rachie. Rachie sighed again with a resigned expression.

The third lunge would go live. Jonhas was indeed a little preplanned, but he was still a Cadet. He had some things to learn in the arena of reality that he could only learn with more experienced fighters. Of which Rachie shouldn’t be one. Not with only a month and a half’s worth of whatever it was he did with Shanti and his fellow Honor Guard members. And though it was his job to be neutral, Sanders hoped Jonhas would ring the kid’s bell. Jonhas was the best of the Cadets and soon to move up in the ranks. He’d been at this a year longer than Rachie and showed ten times the promise.

As if reading Sanders’s mind, Jonhas rushed in, arms and legs everywhere, trying to mix up his opponent before he smacked him down… and landed on his back.

Rachie had barely moved. His movements had been straightforward and efficient, and now he stared down at Jonhas with a distraught expression.

“I didn’t want to,” Rachie said in slight embarrassment. “I told you that—”

“Enough!” Sanders barked. Rachie flinched. It shouldn’t have been as gratifying as it was. “Rachie, head to the Pit. Jonhas, keep at it.”

It was time for Shanti’s Honor Guard to get evaluated. He didn’t understand their style, but he couldn’t argue with results. Rachie had been way behind everyone else before the foreign woman showed up, and he’d just won the fight with no strain. The other guys she trained were showing the same sort of results. If they didn’t excel at one art, they were masters at another. Leilius could barely hold a sword, but with a long knife and some cover, he was silent and deadly. Rachie had just proved that hand-to-hand combat was his forte. Marc was now apprenticing with the doctor, who had always known the kid had talent, but hadn’t been able to get it out of him until recently. Gracas was a blur with any weapon he used and often surprised himself when he won mock battles. That kid was under-confident, if anything.

And then there was Xavier. He was a leader. Even the Captain was taking special interest. He was large but still fast. He could work with nearly any weapon he tried. He had great aim with arrows and knives. And most of all, when he talked, men listened. The group was turning into Xavier’s Honor Guard more than Shanti’s. She talked to him, he talked to his men, and they all excelled.

Sanders had asked Shanti about it the other day, wondering if she didn’t feel the pinch of Xavier taking her power. She had shrugged in her unconcerned way and said, “The Captain thinks I can’t be reasonable. So I am giving him his chain of command. What do I care who gives the orders, as long as the goal is met?”

Sanders would care a great deal, actually, but he didn’t want to sound insecure by saying so. But one thing he couldn’t ignore anymore—Shanti had great skill, and she could train. She could be a valuable asset. Sanders hated to admit it, but it was best for all of them if she stuck around. He just wondered how long that would last.

Chapter XXVI

TWO WEEKS LATER, LUCIUS STOOD with his back to the window, completely naked, when Shanti walked in. The man had a well-shaped body with wide shoulders, but he wasn’t overbearing. His muscles were cut and defined, and he stood balanced. He was an attractive man with a calm demeanor and patient air about him. He was a good Chance. Steady, strong, a good fighter, and reasonable. He also wasn’t bashful like so many of the men here were.

“I hear you are able to leave this jip-joint?” Shanti asked as she sat on the bed.

“Oh good, she has another wonderful little colloquialism,” the doctor remarked in his usual dry tone. He was sitting in the chair, putting his instruments into a leather bag. “With apparently a complete disregard for privacy. I wonder why no one has tried to take her home to mother?”

“I am being released today,” Lucius said, ignoring the doctor.

“I hear you are to return as my Chance. Was that your choice, or were you appointed?”

“Your Chance? I’ve heard you use term before. What does it mean?”

“My…co-fighter, I guess. My teammate. The one who watches my back, you might say. When I need protection to use my Gift, you provide it.”

“Caretaker comes to mind,” the doctor commented.

Shanti shook her head in frustration. “It’s hard to explain, I guess. You are my charge, I am yours. We are—we trust each other—“ She shook her head again. “It’s hard to explain.”

Lucius nodded slowly. “I volunteered.”

“Good. Otherwise it wouldn’t work. You’ll be like a sibling to me. A brother. It forbids anything sexual. Our bond, when it comes, needs to be closer than that. You need to leave me behind if that is for the good of the people. And I you. Love and sex make people crazy—makes people irrational. They do stupid things, especially men. There is no logic in it. It does not belong on the battlefield.”

“Understood.”

“Not only men do stupid things for love,” the doctor chimed in, placing his bag on the ground and clasping his fingers in his lap. For a man who loathed dealing with Shanti in any capacity, he was happy enough to banter against her comments.

“On the battlefield, I meant,” she clarified. “Off the battlefield women are their own force. I once tied a woman up and hung her from a tree by her ankles because she went after my—“ Shanti broke off immediately as an image arrested her—her love, lying with opened, sightless brown eyes covered with a film of blood. She lowered her head and focused on her breath, forcing the image away.

The room went deathly still; apparently the doctor and Lucius were unsure what to say to a strong woman showing weakness. The door opening was a welcome relief.

“Oh, Captain, I’ve been meaning to ask you—“ Shanti said after the large figure came to a slow halt in the doorway, studying naked Lucius for a second before swiveling his gaze to Shanti. “What does it mean that you are a fairy?”

The room went very still for a second time, but for an entirely different reason.

“Where did you hear that?” His gravel voice gave her a shiver. It was the “I’m not happy, and despite the fact that my face is showing no discernible expression, someone will die” tone. In addition, his mental touch slammed against her barriers, giving her a weird, spicy tingle deep in her body.

“Even though I would love to explore that sensation,” Shanti said, crossing her legs in relaxation, “since it is strange but not unpleasant, it’s rude to force a connection. You need to stick out a bare piece of skin to ask for permission, or it is considered a punishable and grave offense. It is like me perching in your window and watching a private moment.”

“Are you saying you haven’t?” The Captain’s voice was now amused. His electric blue eyes hadn’t looked away, but his mental touch backed off.

“No, I jumped through. That’s an entirely different situation that could have been avoided had your door been unlocked.”

“I don’t ask for permission, I grant it.”

“Then I guess you are out of chuck.”

“Luck, you mean,” Lucius said quietly, his eyes on the ground.

“Ah, that makes much more sense. Out of luck, yes. Good expression.”

“Chuck doesn’t make any sense,” the doctor noted, motioning for Lucius to get dressed. “You are sliding backwards in speech.”

“Out of cow. That makes sense! Out of nourishment. Hungry. We have a similar saying, but since your people are rarely ever hungry, the context was flimsy. Luck makes much more sense since your city puts stock in that strange fantasy. Anyway, Captain, was there something you wanted, because I had hoped to introduce Lucius to the pesky boys who will begin their practice in half an hour.”

“I will be accompanying you to this practice.” The Captain finally crossed the threshold. “The men assigned to you are ready for evaluation but no one has seen them work.”

“Oh, they have tried. It has become a game to hide from Sterling—“

“Commander Sterling,” the Captain interrupted.

“—but we have so far done a great job of it. According to Gracas: if you see us, you will have to be killed. Top Secret, he calls it. Something about hidden files.”

The dimples made a brief appearance in the Captain’s face. “You are welcomed to try to kill me.”

“I have tried. It hasn’t gone well so far. But I am still hopeful.”

“Lucius,” the Captain commanded.

Lucius looked up at Shanti. “The Captain has a knack for tracking. He won’t have a problem finding us, and then he’ll just get in the way.”

Shanti smiled. “He hasn’t met someone else who can cheat, but you’re right. That is possibly a game for later. Let’s go, we are wasting time.”

“Fantastic, she is granting hospital releases now. Well, then, what am I needed for?” the doctor asked as he stood.

Cayan didn’t hide his smile.

Down the corridor, a middle-aged man hurried up to their party and stepped next to the Captain’s side. “Sir, he is awake.”

“Give him water but no food. Don’t talk to him or answer questions. I’ll be along later.”

“Yes, sir.” The man hurried away.

Outside into the fresh, though still hot, air, another man approached, holding a clipboard and not wearing the customary blue army uniform army. He was small for this town, and balding. “Captain, the ball is set for Sunday week. I require the name of your date when you have a moment. If you require, I can prime her to match your dress. Also, the trade agreements have been drawn up. Those will need to be gone over. The first delivery is past the Mugdock lands but the cargo is small. The rewards will be plenty.”

“I’ll see to it this evening,” the Captain answered, not sparing a glance as they moved down the hospital steps.

“In your office, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very good, sir.”

And the man was gone.

Half way through the city someone else approached about repairs to the fence. Further still someone found him and asked about agriculture. Someone else about some mining operation. Shanti realized that this man was the hub of the entire city. Everything went through him. If he were removed, it would cripple the city. It would then become the civilians clashing with each other for power, and the military men fighting for top command. The wealth and prosperity of the city would fall into mayhem.

And the fool had risked everything to pull her from the middle of a battle. Stupid, but also, what an incredibly steep price to repay for her people’s lives.

As they entered the trees, Shanti slowed her pace. The fresh breeze tickled her cheeks as the lush vitality from the trees infused her Gift. Her feet sank into the loosely packed dirt. Shade cooled her sun-kissed skin, her coloring a few shades tanner from the intense sun. She closed her eyes as she pushed her mind wide, seeing in her mind’s eye the swirling colors of Cayan and the Lucius’s steadfast tones. Wider she pushed, finding the boys waiting for her over a hundred spans in the trees, and the edges of citizens going about their business in the town. Wider she stretched, pushing until the whole city looked like a collection of small, pulsing orbs. In the short time since the battle, she’d regained her strength nicely.

When she opened her eyes the Captain was facing her. She hadn’t heard him move. Or Lucius, who had stepped away. Cayan was holding out his hand.

So he did ask permission if he really wanted something. Interesting.

She touched his arm, skin on skin. His mental touch brushed her barriers and she opened up, allowing him a shallow connection. She’d done this a million times before; sharing feelings and sensations with another. Her people used it to establish a connection for support, to train the young or get trained by the old, to share knowledge, or cement a deeper level of intimacy. The last thought called up a picture of Romie, his earth eyes shining with love.

Pain gripped her heart and ripped. Staggering, she felt Cayan’s strong hand bracing her, keeping her upright.

“Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head a little to get her mind in the right place.

Before she knew what was happening, a deep blast of profound compassion washed over her. Cayan had felt her tortured past and was responding. He hadn’t learned to keep his feelings to himself, and with a deep well of power to rival hers, she couldn’t stop him from intensifying their connection.

He pushed deep down into her, filling her up and merging their power. Her whole body went light. The ground dropped away and her mind soared, pushed so far out that the world became a map of colors. Glittering, glowing, and tinkling, it was like sun flares. Her skin sizzled with the power flowing through her. It danced and played, meeting his. Growing. Blooming, and then blazing. Her eyes started to water and her skin began to singe. It was wild and raw and completely out of control. It was a warning.

“Ease up,” Shanti said through clenched teeth, feeling like she was floating in a void, no sense of direction. She clutched onto his arm with both hands, needing solidity. She felt his hands grab her shoulders then reel her in, needing the same thing.

“Ease up! Pull it back in!” she shouted, pushing at his steady torrent of power. Struggling with it. Molding it. Trying to force it out of her. It was like trying to build a dam in a flood.

Lights blazed brighter, power surged around her, pulling at the seams in the fabric of her being. Her Gift wrapped around Cayan’s, melding the two, and then blazing brighter still. Color bleached and reformed in crystal clear imagery. The brain paths of every living thing for almost a league presented themselves in dots like a heat map. They pulsed and throbbed, matching her body. Emotions flooded her. Intents, desires, motives—her mind was fraying, Cayan’s with her. And then suddenly it all shut off.

Shanti struggled for breath, flat on her back. Wrung out, the hot tingle of warning electrocuted her skin. Beyond that, though, was such an intense joy she was high off of it. It was probably the most grounding of all. A joy that intense was habit forming, and that was a terrifying thing with that much power. Especially with a man she barely knew who had no control.

“Is it always like that?” the Captain asked in a shaky voice, getting slowly to his feet. Lucius was standing between them, white faced.

“No. Do you feel tingling in your skin?”

“Yes.”

“That is not good.”

“I figured. And the elation?” He reached around Lucius to help her up, but she shied away from his touch and hopped up.

“What’s elation?”

“Intense happiness. Almost too sweet.”

“Also not good.”

“I figured that, too.”

“What was that?” Lucius asked with wide eyes. “Your skin burned my hands when I tried to separate you two.”

“It is something best kept to yourself,” Cayan said in a flat voice.

Lucius nodded, troubled. Shanti knew how he felt; she wasn’t much better off. And she certainly didn’t like the speculation in the Captain’s eyes.

“Let’s go.” She nearly sprinted ahead. She had no idea what happened, but it wasn’t the time to dissect.

It was a short walk made long by Shanti’s acute analysis of the boys who had gone before her. They were supposed to leave no trace of their passing. Instead, there were broken tree branches, Gracas’ footfall, Xavier’s large frame knocking down leaves, and any number of little things an experienced tracker would see. Like Sterling, who was on their trail constantly.

When Shanti and crew finally reached the large clearing chosen for that day, the boys were play fighting and horsing around. Shanti cleared her throat. As if she’d shouted, everyone immediately fell into line, facing her in order of seniority. How they figured who was ahead of whom, she had no idea, nor did she care. That was Xavier’s department. To her they were all one and the same, in need of different types of training because they had different skill sets.

“I take it you didn’t hear the three of us coming?” Shanti began, strolling toward them, though not directly in front of them. She didn’t like addressing them in the weird line formation. It was too contrived.

Cayan, however, felt perfectly fine standing directly in front of them, their backs perfectly straight.

“No, s’am,” they answered in chorus.

“Please take a moment to notice how large the men are who accompanied me.” They did. “They made no sound and probably left no trace of their passing. Xavier, how does that correlate to yesterday’s excuse?”

“They are larger, or as big as me, and therefore I have no leg to stand on,” Xavier answered dutifully.

“Precisely. Gracas—you salute me again and I will use that hand to painfully put your face in the mud. Yes?”

“Yes, s’am.”

“Why is it that when you have a sword in your hand, you are light footed, but when you walk naturally you leave a heavy tread? Are you worried the ground will disappear unless you stomp on it?”

“No, s’am.”

“You will spend half of tonight and half of tomorrow night practicing in the dark. Take a sword with you. In the morning you will take me along your trail and point out places you performed a misstep. Yes?”

“Yes, s’am.”

“I am glad to hear you cleverly disguising your distaste for that punishment. Okay, Sterling is making his way in our direction. We need to change locations. Xavier, you will have Leilius at your back. Leilius, count the infractions, but cover them up. Gracas, you lead Marc—excellent work, by the way, Marc. It seems you finally realize this training is useful. Or maybe that you’ve come to grips with the fact that you will someday have to be in the field.”

Mark pouted. “The doctor said that the next time you follow us and jump out to yell ‘boo’ he’ll no longer train me. Since that is always your punishment, because you know the doctor hates surprises, I figure I should stop messing up.”

“Too bad. I love scaring you two. Fair enough. Rachie, you are doing well. You can follow the group of your choice. My team will follow the other. Yes?”

“Yes, s’am.”

“Good. Off you go. And hurry, Sterling is moving fast this time.”

They all looked at Xavier, who looked at Lucius. Who looked at the Captain. Who nodded.

As all the boys took off, Cayan fell in beside Shanti. “Sam?”

“Do you not realize how much longer that chain of command takes?” she asked, noticing Lucius falling in behind them.

“If I were giving the orders, there would be no reason to check in,” the Captain said with a pompous air.

“But you’re not giving the orders.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shanti pushed down the irrational urge to punch him in the throat. “S’am is a mix between sir and ma’am. It was the only title Leilius could get right more than once.”

“How often does Commander Sterling try to find you?”

“Nearly every day. I used to change the times we met to keep him away, but it turned into a sort of game, and it is great practice, so I changed the times of our practice to his idle times.”

“Has he ever found you?”

“Not so far.”

“Has he asked to watch your training outright?”

Shanti snickered. “Nope. He took it upon himself to snoop. Then he realized we were on to him, so he did it to prove a point, I think. He was exuding determination for a solid week. Now I think he is playing the same game. He wants to best us. We want to keep besting him. A merry chase it has become.”

“He doesn’t mean you harm?”

“No, I don’t think so. He is intrigued, is my best guess. And like I said, now it’s a game.”

“Commander Sterling doesn’t play games.”

Shanti shot him a sideward glance. “Maybe you just don’t know the ones that turn him on.”

“Is he the one that turned you down, then?” His tone was light, but the air got heavy. Shanti could tell Cayan was trying to hold his power at bay. He wanted to reach out and find out for himself, since he was a nosey bastard, but it seemed he also wanted to start controlling his Gift. Restraint was a very good thing with him.

“No, but thanks for reminding me about that. I hate having unanswered questions.”

The sound was not quite a growl, but it was close. It seemed the Captain hated mysteries. Men were incredible gossips!

They met up with the boys again. Shanti congratulated them on doing better, then put them to work. Knife throwing was first. It was a handy skill to have no matter the overall discipline. If a baker needed to escape in a hurry, and saw someone coming through the door, throw the knife and run. It was an easy item to carry on one’s person; you didn’t have to be close to use it effectively, and one throw could kill with a small amount of exertion. The boys worked hard at it, and Shanti helped them in each stage of their training. Only Xavier and Gracas were able to hit revolving and rotating targets effectively, but the rest were definitely coming along.

Next was archery. Rachie was excused, as was Leilius. They were crap. There was no point in wasting anybody’s time. Instead, those two worked on creating traps that could be left behind on a trail, intended to ensnare their victim, or simply kill or chop something off. Lucius and the Captain were extremely interested in that discipline.

“Your people did this often?” Cayan asked, memorizing the construction of one particularly gruesome contraption.

“Not often, no. I have, though. I have been hunted for the past year. Leaving these in my wake has…well, I’m still alive, so…”

“They work.”

“Very well.”

Cayan straightened up and put his hands on his hips, analyzing her. “But anyone could fall victim. Civilians.”

“Yes, which is why you only leave it when your life depends on it. Okay, boys, take it down.”

His mind brushed hers again. “You’ve had some close calls.”

“Very.” Shanti turned away from those probing eyes.

“All right—“ What she recognized as Sterling’s brain pattern was winding closer. They were taking too long. They had about half an hour before he would find them. Bloody good tracker.

“Time for your disciplines. Let’s push ourselves this time. Rachie, you are fighting with Lucius. No weapons. Give him hell. Leilius, I want you to see how close you can get to Sterling before he recognizes you. If he spots you, throw the fake knife and run like hell. If he chases you… well, I guess you’ll see how fast you are because you’ll surely get in trouble. Marc, watch Lucius like a hawk. He is one of us now. If he pushes too hard or gets hurt in any way, you are responsible—I can run very fast, so attempted escape will not help. Gracas, grab the real sword. You are with me. Xavier, try your size against the Captain. I have a feeling he’ll wipe that stupid smile off your face. Or he’ll make that face less handsome, and Miss Baker’s daughter won’t like you anymore.”

The other boys chortled with laughter. Red filled Xavier’s cheeks.

“All right, get gone.”

Shanti took a moment to watch as Xavier walked up to the Captain very slowly, analyzing. Trying to figure out the way the Captain’s body worked. Trying to work out the best method of attack. He didn’t get long. Cayan was experienced, and battle didn’t allow slow, analytical thought. He lunged, movement so fast it was almost blurry. Xavier parried and retreated immediately, backpedaling in surprise.

Cayan slowed down for the younger man, picking a pace faster and more aggressive than Xavier was used to, but within his reach. Xavier saw this, blew out a breath that probably emptied his ego balloon, and got to work.

Well done, Captain.

Shanti connected with Lucius’ mind, not trusting the medic-in-training to recognize the warning signs. She felt the spicy touch of Cayan doing the same thing. The bugger learned way too fast. But maybe that was a good thing now?

She still wasn’t sure.

All of a sudden, a blur of metal whisked by her face. Gracas had turned on. The kid was like a switch. On or off, no warm up, no half way. He barely knew how his body worked, but the small control he did have was thrilling. Someday he might surpass Shanti with his skill in weaponry.

Someday.

The clang of metal rang through the clearing as Shanti’s sword rushed into the fray. Shanti couldn’t help a smile as they got to work.

Twenty minutes and a solid sweat in, Shanti was on the attack, attempting to teach Gracas never to retreat straight back. That he should angle to one side or the other, trying to figure out how to turn a retreat into an attack. He was learning, but slowly. He’d fallen over every rock and stump in the clearing.

As they fought, Shanti and Cayan paid attention to each other so they didn’t direct their fighters into one another. Suddenly Marc yelled, “Enough!”

In a flash of an eye she had disarmed Gracas and was at Lucius’ side, evaluating.

“I’m fine for now,” Lucius said, breathing fast but not overly taxed. Shanti would have let him go a little longer.

Cayan had thrown Xavier across the clearing and was walking over with a stern expression. He looked at Marc. “Report.”

The color drained out of Marc’s face. His body bowed and his face tilted toward the ground. Scrubbing at his nail, he muttered, “He is fine for now, yes, but his state has been weakening exponentially. He would injure himself before realizing he’d passed the line. It’s wise to stop him now, or at least dramatically slow his exertion.”

Shanti shook her head. “Too many unknown words.”

Marc peeked up from under his lashes. “It’s like eating fast when really hungry. You eat too fast for your stomach to process how full it is. Before you know it you are too full and feel sick. If you get nearly full, then slow way down, you’ll stop just as you hit the full line.”

“Ah.”

Cayan raised his eyebrows at Marc.

“She understands food analogies best,” Marc explained.

“Well,” Shanti said, taking stock of Sterling. He was now heading toward the west, which would not intersect with their practice. “Sterling—“

“Commander Sterling,” Cayan interjected with a warning in his voice.

Shanti turned her face to the Captain, met his stern gaze, and then turned back. “Sterling is either chasing Leilius, or taking him to a whipping post. We are good to stop for today. Thank the Captain for beating the stuffing out of Xavier.”

Everyone clapped.

“Give a nod to Marc, who actually gave an order based on his profession, to a superior officer, in front of the superior officer, and still had enough fornicas to insist.”

Nods all around.

“Hoenista.”

Everyone did a slight bow and started wandering back toward the inner city. Except Cayan. He stood where he was, watching Shanti. Lucius, unsure, waited with him.

Shanti, finished talking with Gracas about ways to practice, noticed the scrutiny, and furrowed her brow. “What?”

Cayan waited for everyone to disappear before saying, “I need a favor.”

Chapter XXVII

THE DUNGEON SMELLED LIKE URINE and fecal matter. Sanders stood against the wall, trying not to inhale through his nose, eyeing the two recently captured prisoners occupying the cells. The large, dumb, lumbering Mugdock paced and swore, threatening the guards with pain and retribution, banging at the bars and kicking at the ground. The other, a foreigner, sat peacefully, watching his surroundings with calculating eyes.

It was the foreigner who gave Sanders pause. The slight man sat as peacefully as could be, not at all worried about possible torture. Almost as if he had the upper hand.

Delusion, that was. If left up to the prison guards, the torture would’ve started, asking questions of the stranger’s involvement in this land. None of Sanders’ men liked anomalies in general, and certainly not anomalies in league with their sworn enemy.

Speaking of the sworn enemy, that filthy Mugdock was the reason for the incredible stink. It was like a farm animal that stayed out of the rain. It almost singed the nostrils it was so potent.

Did they not have the ability to smell? How could they stand themselves?

The Mugdock would’ve been tortured for a different reason—for revenge of comrades lost, of ancestors stolen, and material goods destroyed. Pretty simple, but the two Peoples had a long history.

Sanders, of course, would just as soon kill them both and be done with it. He didn’t have the stomach for torture. Nor the patience, if he was being honest. A clean, fast death was the way to go. It’s what he’d want for himself, and what he would give to someone else.

Wasn’t his show, though. He was just the grunt. And, unfortunately, in charge of the prison. And that was only because the men listened to him where they wouldn’t Sterling or Daniels. The Captain didn’t want these prisoners roughed up just yet, and Sanders was the man keeping everyone at bay.

Sometimes he hated being good at his job. Especially when it smelled this bad.

As if hearing the thought, the Captain walked in, an eraser wiping all Sanders’ thoughts from his head. Shanti stood right behind his boss, Lucius in tow. All the men already standing around the prison backed against the wall, giving ample room for the leader of the city.

“Have they told you anything?” the Captain asked in that low, gravely rumble that could loosen a man’s bowels.

Sanders shook his head. “We’ve done some light coaxing, but nothing too extreme.”

The Captain turned to Shanti, who was staring at the occupant furthest from the door. The foreigner. Her face looked like a freshly peeled scab, pain dripping down her face. She didn’t notice the Mugdock, even though he was reaching through the bars at her. She didn’t notice Sanders or any of Sanders’ men. She only had eyes for that man in the far cell, silently gazing back.

The Captain stared at the Mugdock, a small nerve pulsing in his jaw. He spoke to Shanti. “We need information out of them. They won’t tell us anything. I would rather not torture, but that is the next step. Can you…convince them to give us anything?”

Shanti’s arm drifted toward the Captain, her gaze still locked with the far prisoner. “Touch lightly but keep within yourself. Don’t reach. Lucius, don’t wait so long if we lose ourselves.”

Lucius shifted nervously, shuffling closer to the two as if it was the last thing he wanted to do. The Captain stared at Shanti’s outstretched hand with determination, probably the only pretty girl he was afraid to touch. The Captain reached out tentatively and touched her arm with his pointer finger. His face strained immediately; hers cleared. Both of their eyes started glowing faintly, which was Lucius’ cue to step closer, his hands reaching for their shoulders. In a few seconds it was over, Shanti stepping back quickly and the Captain reaching for the wall to steady himself. Sanders just shook his head.

“Better,” Shanti said distractedly, her gaze finding the man in the last cell again. A small smile played on the prisoner’s face.

“Start with the Mugdock. It won’t matter if you kill him,” the Captain said gently, his face all kinds of compassionate. “Hopefully you won’t be so keyed up by the time you get to the other.” Without looking away, he addressed the cluster of men in the room. “Everyone besides Lieutenant Lucius and Commander Sanders, clear out.”

Sanders took two steps toward the door, watching the retreating backs of the prison guards with envy. Being in the same room with the Captain and the foreign woman was enough to get a man stabbed. Or worse. Much, much worse, in fact. Even though it might feel good. Which made it even worse still.

Shanti approached the Mugdock slowly with that panther’s grace, her gaze often straying toward the man in the last cell.

“So you do exist,” the foreigner said. His thick accent curled the words at the ends like burnt paper. His trickle of a smile was just visible in the gloom.

Shanti didn’t stop at the Mugdock’s cell. Instead, she kept stalking toward the smug foreigner. “Yes. You have found me.”

“And you found a mate. We thought it was impossible.” His gaze flicked toward the Captain.

“No. No mate. Not your master, nor anyone else.”

“He is only my master when it suits. Until now, it has suited. But now I have found you, and you have found a mate. The legends say that once you find a mate, your power will increase. I like to be on the side of the winner. And you have a wealthy mate with knowledge to turn rocks into treasures. I could be an asset to you. I know how to multiply treasures.”

Shanti squared her shoulders at the man in the cell. “The legends are wrong. I had a mate before, and I did not get stronger. Your kind killed him.”

“I do not think you understand how I use the term mate.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll play both sides if allowed. But you will not be allowed. I will kill you long before then.”

The man tilted his head, his light eyes filled with humor. “Confident, I see. But what if I escape?”

“You aren’t fast enough to outrun my reach.”

“You think you are that strong.”

“Yes.”

From his seat on the stone floor, the man leaned forward to analyze the girl. His pale eyes started to glow faintly, a smug smile crossing his face. Those sickly eyes turned to look directly at the Captain. “Maybe we should kill another one of your favorites. Or have you grown used to it?”

The Captain sucked in a noisy breath, his whole body flexing. His fists curled into tight balls, his face started to turn red from pain or anger, Sanders couldn’t tell.

The prisoner’s lips curled in a smile. “He is untrained. Amazing turn of luck.”

“Cayan,” Shanti said quietly, studying the foreigner. “Think of a shade behind your eyes. Envision the shade closed. If it is too hard, then envision using both hands to reach up, grab the shade with all your strength, and bring it down over your eyes.”

The prisoner squinted, the curl of his lips dwindling. The smugness dripped off his face as he stared at the Captain.

“Yes, he learns fast. Shocking, I know,” Shanti said conversationally. “In related news, that is a neat trick. Can you all do that?”

The foreign prisoner leaned back with a startled release of breath, then stood in a rush. He backed against the wall until his back slapped stone. Shock and incredulity warred on his face…until fear took over.

“Uh oh, now you can’t get away.” Shanti chuckled darkly, pain never having left her face. Her voice dipped an octave, hoarse with feeling. “You see, when you use little tricks like that, I learn them. Then I adapt them. Then I exploit them. Now I have you, little mouse. Where will you hide? Shall I make you dance?”

“No! That is impossible!”

“You have very little power, mouse. You were so confident before, but I bet you see now why I am sought. Do they know there is another? He is just as strong and his power hasn’t even opened fully. He is raw power, and I am excellent at finesse. You see?”

The man started screaming, clawing at his face. He began swatting away invisible flies from his back and arms, terrified of something he couldn’t see. Shanti leaned forward ever so slightly, her eyes glowing more now, her mouth turned down at the corners.

“Your people should not have killed someone I loved, little mouse,” she said softly. “It makes for very little pity.”

“No! It was not me. I did not touch him! ”

“But you know who did. You were there,” Shanti whispered, her face cracking, revealing visions of death. Of loss. Of misery so intense it sucked all the happy thoughts from the room and corroded their memories.

Sanders took a step forward even as the Captain did, not knowing exactly what to do, but wanting to cure this woman of that pain. The sight of it broke his heart. No one deserved to see a loved one killed, and then get confronted with it like this. No one.

He flinched when the prisoner yelled, stopping his advance. With a terrified expression, the foreigner jumped up and circled the small cell like a trapped animal. Panicked grunts escaped his mouth. Then whimpers. He turned toward the wall and started running with his head bent. He was trying to knock himself out to get away! After two steps, his legs lost their locomotion. He fell over sideways, crying in huge wracking sobs on the dirty floor.

“I can’t let you kill yourself, little mouse. Not yet. I need you. I need more tricks. You will die soon, though. All of you. For the things you have done. And the things you have allowed to happen.”

The man started screaming again. A high-pitched pronouncement of the utmost level of anguish. Lucius started forward, but the Captain was there before him, placing his hand on Shanti’s shoulder.

“How extraordinary, I can keep him from blacking out. Do you feel that, Cayan? His life is literally in my hands. What a nasty little mouse to think that up.”

“That’s enough, mesasha,” the Captain said softly.

Alarm caused Sanders to turn away from the charged scene to stare at the Captain. Then at Lucius, who had just stepped forward in concern, hands reaching toward their shoulders again.

“If I’ve landed in a lover’s triangle of some sort, I am going to quit,” Sanders muttered. He scratched the center of his chest where the lump had formed. “And if I develop a soft spot for that fool girl, I’m going to throw myself down a cliff.”

His muttering cut off as Shanti swayed. The Captain scooped her up as if she weighed ten pounds. Then those fierce blue eyes were looking at Sanders. “Make sure that man doesn’t kill himself. Talk to the Mugdock again. Tell him we will spare him the pain if he answers our questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Sanders answered crisply.

They swooshed out of the room, plunging Sanders and the prisoners into thick, syrupy silence, only broken by the occasional whimpers of the foreign man.

The Mugdock said, “You ask, I answer.”

Chapter XXVIII

IT HAD BEEN THREE DAYS since Shanti had started on the Inkna man. She had learned a handful of torture techniques the man was very familiar with, but nothing else of value. He didn’t know what the plans were concerning the trading, only that he was in charge of killing the Captain. It seemed he allowed himself to be taken to this end. He hadn’t thought anyone in the city had mental abilities.

His mistake.

Unfortunately, for the fact that he understood how important Cayan was to the city meant his kind did, too. If they knew, it was only a matter of time before the Graygual knew. A timer had started on Cayan’s life. On the lives of everyone in the city, actually. Shanti had prolonged the inevitable, but eventually Black Death would come calling, trying to snatch another soul for the Underworld.

Her duty was growing by the day.

Sanders had been gone for two days on the first trade run. Knowing that one of the Inkna wanted to kill the Captain was enough to make Shanti advise cancelling the trip. Sanders and the other blockheads decided, however, that it would be best to act like they had no idea of the treachery. They had brought plenty of guys, they were going to an open location, and they doubted anything more serious than failure to pay could happen.

It had not helped her rapport with the Captain and his top tier of men that she cursed them all and told them how absolutely stupid they all were.

“You look wonderful.”

Shanti came out of her reverie to notice Molly standing over her, holding a strand of green, sparkling gems. It was a half an hour until the ball, which was mainly for the city’s elite. Apparently anyone with some power wanted a reason to pat themselves on the back. She had no idea why the Captain insisted she go.

Shanti threw a quick glance down at her silk dress, which clung and flowed over her peaks and valleys, like a cascade of water over glistening rocks. She’d been asked to dress in something appropriate for her people, and so she’d given specifications to a dressmaker for the design. She had not specified a color. What she received back was almost exactly the shade of green she’d worn and discarded in front of the Captain at their first meeting. She had a suspicion the dressmaker had a sense of humor. Also that Molly was a gossip.

“Wearing paint on my face isn’t a great idea,” Shanti declared. “When I rub my eyes, I’ll smear it down my face.”

“Yes, dear, but it makes you look glamorous. Very exotic.”

Exotic. That was Molly’s favorite descriptor. That, or striking. In other words, not beautiful, but well appreciated for putting in the effort.

Shanti didn’t care. She wasn’t here to find suitors.

She pulled her long, blond hair off her shoulders so Molly could fasten the necklace. “A necklace is a great way to allow someone to choke you without having to bring their own supplies,” she muttered.

Molly tsk’ed. “Hush, now. The Captain won’t let anything happen to you.”

She stepped back and turned Shanti around. Her gaze glided over Shanti’s form. “I do wish you would’ve worn something a little more…usual. I can see the outline of your thighs!”

Shanti ignored her.

“Anyway, the buggy is here. You look striking, dear.”

A jostling ride in a horse drawn cabbage cart later—why she wasn’t allowed to walk was beyond her—she and Molly, who was going as something called a chaperone, walked into Cayan’s large mansion in the middle of the city. The residence was ablaze with candles, showing off spacious rooms with large windows and high ceilings. The furniture and decorations expressed the utter wealth of the city and the many extravagances they took for granted: metal stands holding candles, huge canvas tapestries on the walls, wood and leather furniture. The Inkna had a good eye for such things. It was only a matter of time before they showed up again, like sea foam before the tide.

They entered a spacious main room with candles hanging from large, shining metal and gem contraptions that looked like upside-down spiders. Candles on stands, like in the streets but more delicate, stood on tables and graced the walls. There were flames everywhere. Apparently no one realized how dangerous fire was.

“This mansion is a family heirloom,” Molly said conversationally, gesturing around them at the finery of the large mansion. “It has been in the family as long as the family has been in charge of running the city. Way back when they were called kings. Now they are Captains. That change came with our Captain’s great-great-grandfather, of course.”

“Uh huh.” Shanti didn’t care. She also had no idea why she said she’d come.

“Oh look, there he is now.”

Cayan was standing across the room dressed in a black, long sleeved shirt that hugged his upper body. His cloth pants moved and sighed with his body, proving men’s fashion, unlike women’s, was reasonably comfortable. His features were straight and bold, softened by his blue eyes and luscious mouth, especially when he dared smile and reveal the dimples. The shadow of raven facial hair had been removed for the occasion.

He cleaned up well.

Which was an understatement.

He lounged next to a willowy woman with slim shoulders, a long, delicate neck, and hair pulled up in weaves and twists accented with small flowers and buds. Her breasts heaved out of her cream colored dress in a display of cleavage most babies would reach for, and her waist cinched down in fashionable torture. Her skin was a hair darker than Cayan’s bronze, and her hair a touch lighter than Cayan’s wavy dark brown. She was distractingly beautiful.

“We’ll say hello to him later, dear. They are talking to a counselor.” Molly patted her arm and led her to a stand of drinks like a goat with a leash.

They hadn’t been there two heartbeats before Shanti heard, “Hello.”

Sterling was standing to her right, straight faced and grim, as usual, this time with his hand held out, palm up. He was a handsome man, if a girl didn’t have a sense of humor.

Shanti stared at his hand in confusion. He didn’t have the Gift, why would he request a mind link?

“Shake his hand, dear,” Molly whispered.

“It’s okay.” Sterling lowered his hand to his side. “That is just our custom. How do you greet someone in your land?” His stare was flat and intense, his complete focus on the conversation. Shanti tried not to squirm under the heavy gaze, strangely wanting to punch him.

“We offer a slight bow. If we are great friends or feel so inclined, we’ll touch, as you just did, but that represents a deeper intimacy. However, since I’m in your city, I won’t be rude.” She extended her hand, palm up.

“The woman has palm down, dear,” Molly murmured.

Shanti flipped her hand. Without hesitation, gaze locked with hers in a flat stare, Sterling raised his hand, palm up, until it met Shanti’s. Warm and calloused—if her eyes were closed, she’d know he was good with a bow and decent with a sword. Which was strange, since he was excellent with a bow and more than decent with a sword. He must’ve taken pains to soften his hands. Interesting.

The touch lingered for a second, then he pulled away. “You know that I have been trying to find your trainings.”

“You know that I’ve been trying to evade.”

He smiled slightly. “Yes. Not at first—I thought I was unlucky. Then you started having them when it was most convenient for me. Always a step ahead. It was not a subtle clue.”

Shanti laughed. “It was good training for us. Is good training, I should say.”

“They’re getting better.”

“That’s funny, I would’ve said the same about you.”

He laughed this time. “No. I’m learning the signs. I thought I was learning faster than you could teach. Then you sent me on a ghost trail.”

“That was Leilius.”

Sterling glanced over Shanti’s shoulder then back to her. “I have left my date. I should get back to her. Before I do, I would just like to say… I wrongly judged you. I see that you’re not like… I see that you mean well, and are what you say.”

She couldn’t repay the sentiment. He was exactly how she’d judged.

“Have a good evening.” He gave her a deep bow, his interpretation of her custom, and walked away smoothly.

Without a moment for reflection, Molly took her by the arm and led her across the room. Why? Who could say. They picked a new place to stand seemingly at random, that spot just as good as the first. The next spot was, too. If Molly wanted exercise, they could have walked to the ball in the first place.

“How long do we have to stay?” Shanti asked as they followed a slowly moving crowd around the room like cattle.

“At least until the dancing. Do you want something to drink besides water?”

“No. Thank you.”

For the next couple dozen minutes Molly chatted, introduced her to a handful of people who stared, and walked around the room slowly. It was boring and awful and Shanti just wanted to go home. Until she saw Jerrol. He was with a woman who had many gems on her neck, all different colors, and a bright purple dress. She was pretty and he was beautiful. Shanti wanted him if only to make love while looking into those earth brown eyes, so like Romie’s she got a tight feeling in her gut every time she saw him.

“Shanti.”

And that ruined it.

She turned to Cayan, standing tall and broad, no willowy woman in sight. In fact, Molly had wandered away as well. Just great.

“Hi Cayan.”

His gaze connected with hers, giving her a similar stare as Sterling had, but not as strangely flat. He raised his hand slowly, palm up. It wasn’t a good idea, but then, people were watching—he probably wanted to look normal.

After a brief hesitation she touched her palm to his, holding her mind in check and ready to battle. Instead of his torrent, though, she got a pleasant vibration of power, available but not used. In addition, that strange spicy feeling unfurled deep in her stomach, sizzling up her ribcage and fizzing through her limbs. She asked him about the latter.

“The spicy feeling—yes. I like it. Is it not normal?”

“I don’t know. No one has ever mentioned it to me if it is. You’re doing well with your control.”

“I’ve been practicing religiously.”

“Good.”

They broke contact, Cayan letting his focus flick to her dress and back. “Your dress is exquisite. It is risque but covers everything. Artistic but simple. Cut beautifully. I think the dressmakers are already trying to fabricate it. Many women are jealous.”

“Jealous of a dress. Silly.”

“Jealous of the enchanting woman, not the dress she is in.”

“Enchanting—spell casting?”

Cayan’s eyes twinkled. “If you please.”

Shanti turned away to look at the crowd laughing and chatting, most of the party often glancing toward her and the Captain. “I’ve never heard witches talked of in a positive way. I think the jealousy is of your date. She is the staple of beauty, is she not?”

Cayan’s gaze was still on her. “She is, yes. How are your nightmares? Lucius tells me you have them every night.” To her scathing glance he said, “Your walls are thin and your screams loud.”

The Captain had stuck her in a tiny, one bedroom house, more aptly called a hut, attached to Lucius’ much larger house at the back of the city. She had been given the illusion of privacy while Lucius’ duty of spying was made easy.

“Enough about me, let’s talk about me…” Shanti articulated in a voice so dry it was amazing one of the nearby candles didn’t light it on fire. She looked away.

“Sterling spoke to you earlier. What did he say?” the Captain asked.

“Aren’t real nosey, are you?”

“Not real nosey, no.”

Her glare promised eternal pain. He answered by smiling, his dimples transforming his face into something just shy of perfection. Why did she want to punch everyone she talked to tonight?

“My clothes are easy to move in, and yours aren’t. There isn’t much you can do,” the Captain said easily, reading her mind. Or her face.

“Isn’t there?” Like a needled child, wanting to get even, she gathered power and let it blossom, the air around them crackling with the electricity of it.

His smile disappeared immediately. He grabbed her arm with a quick hand, turning her body toward the wall, probably trying to hide her glowing eyes from onlookers. Her power leapt to him, mingled and spread, vibrating between his body and hers, traveling across their skin like a fizzling plague, igniting little pulses that pooled into their bodies. The spicy feeling became a pleasing scent. His own power rose, unasked, calling to her, desperate to open out and join, barely kept at bay by his massive strength of will.

The seconds ticked away, chaotic power surging around them, threatening to break free. Shanti desperately forced it down, trying to collapse it, using her life’s training to try and tuck it away. She struggled against Cayan’s answering attraction, the power so intense it seemed to draw from deep in the earth, quaking the air around them with his raw power.

“He informed me of his amendment to his previous judgments,” Shanti said in a strained voice, trying to control her breathing, jerking her arm away from his bare hand, then grabbing his arm, encased in fabric, to turn him to the wall, too. His eyes glowed more now than they ever had.

“I don’t know that I can hold it, Shanti,” Cayan whispered in a tension-filled voice.

“Step outside. Look at the sky, and envision throwing your mind up to the nearest star. If that isn’t enough, envision roaring with the power. Just make sure to direct it up or we’ll all get a blast. I’ll find Lucius and send him out in case you throw all your life’s energy with it.”

He nodded, his whole body tight, and walked swiftly to the door. Their power ripped in half, fizzling in his wake. Shanti clutched her own power tightly, used to managing its surges, although struggling with the amount now battering against her. She spotted Lucius across the room, speaking to a pretty girl with lust-filled eyes. Still struggling for control, though grappling with less of a burden now that Cayan wasn’t coaxing her power higher, she walked gracefully, attempting to fit in. But when older men edged away warily, she realized her grace was another man’s nightmare. So she settled for a fast walk and a lazy hand on Lucius’ arm.

Lucius turned to her with a question in his eyes.

“The Captain needs you outside. Quickly. Possibly Sterling, too. But only you two. You might need to… carry the conversation…”

Lucius barely gave a parting word to the woman he had been leaning into a moment before, leaving Shanti with the impression that they were either very close, or she wasn’t all that important to him. One would understand, and the other didn’t matter. And since she had nothing else to do, she figured she might as well meddle.

“Hello, I’m Shanti.” She couldn’t hide the strain in her voice, wondering when this flux would die down.

The woman, sweet and delicate, tore her gaze from Lucius’ back and met Shanti’s. She smiled in a practiced way. “Yes, hi. Lucius mentioned you. You are foreign.”

There was no movement toward hand touching. Possibly only men and women shook? A glance at Molly told Shanti that the older woman was irritated, but that didn’t help much.

“I am foreign, yes, that’s right. Did you come with Lucius?”

“No. We are friendly, but I am just getting to know him.”

“Ah. Well, he should be ba—“

A burst of power rocked her body, making currents in her blood and wiring her jaw shut. She reached for the wall and just barely found it before toppling. Molly was there in a minute, straightening her. Asking if she was all right. Shanti heard a ripple of nervous laughter around the room, everyone having felt something bizarre with no explanation.

“I’m okay,” Shanti managed, her voice shaky and her body starting an answering growl. Power started to build on its own, reaching away from her body, thrashing against her ironclad self-control. It was reaching toward Cayan. It was reaching toward its mate. The little mouse had been right.

Blood boiled, bubbling up her spine and infusing her with an elation, the equal to which she had never before felt. She stumbled outside, Molly trying to cover for her. Once there she broke away and ran, not knowing what her body was doing, not understanding what this power was, or how to control it. Her dress tore down the sides, her hair flew from her back. She pushed faster, trying to run it off, feeling the night embrace her, feeling like a wild animal on the hunt.

She made it to the park and kept going until she was at the wall. Flipping off her sandals and scraping all available skin, she was up and over and running again, trying to overcome the feeling. Trying to outsprint it. Trying to get to a safe distance where she could figure out a way to extinguish it.

She felt the minds of sentries around her, watching, in their trees, protecting the people, wondering why this half clothed, bloody woman was running. She felt an arrow nock. She didn’t know how she knew—it was an action, not an emotion, but she did. They probably thought she was trying to escape. She stopped and knelt, grabbing each mind with ease, the power bubbling, needing action.

Using a trick she’d learned from the nasty little mouse, she cut out the function of their minds. Not dead, just unconscious. A sleeping spell of sorts, like a coma. One sentry fell and she hoped he’d be okay. Following her own advice, feeling ripped in half, she looked up to the sky, and ROARED.

It all went black.

Chapter XXIX

SANDERS OPENED HIS EYES SLOWLY. His head pounded. The last thing he remembered was a swarm of little guys descending on his trade party. He’d planned for that, of course. He hadn’t planned on the feeling of needles prickling his eyes. That had hurt. Real bad. He’d tried to keep fighting, but fighting three guys when you’re nearly blind wasn’t an easy chore. And now he knew.

He hated that that foreign girl had been right. She’d probably insist on rescuing him just to rub it in his face.

“You are awake.”

“Yes, that is exactly the accent I was expecting to hear,” Sanders said, not bothering to sit up. He lay on cold, hard stone in near darkness. The only light came from one torch on the opposite wall. Being that it was a dungeon, there wasn’t a ton of natural lighting. “Did I piss myself, or is that smell just an added attraction of his lovely little bed and breakfast?”

“I am told you are the leader of this outfit.”

“Yup.”

A soft scrap sounded somewhere to the right, beyond the bars. “I am not planning to kill you. I simply need to know some information.”

“You might as well just say ‘the shoe’s on the other foot’.”

“The shoe on the foot?”

Sanders snorted in a self-deprecating sort of way. “Never mind. What did you want to know?”

“Would you like some food?”

“Easy ones first, huh? Food would be great. Unless it’s poisoned. Then no thanks.”

The gloom was dank and smelt musty, the space he was imprisoned in barely larger than his outstretched body. Men shifted at the door, keeping watch.

Well, he hurt too bad to escape anyway, so before the torture started he might as well just take a little nap.

Chapter XXX

“I DON’T KNOW WHY THEY even gave you your own place. You always end up in mine.”

Shanti was in the familiar hospital room with the familiar nightgown that tangled her legs and gave her nightmares of people tackling her. And, of course, the same dry witted doctor who thought lecturing her would do some good. He’d made it clear he didn’t care about her sleeping preferences.

“Did they find me outside the wall or did I stumble in somehow?” Shanti asked as she wiped the sleep from her eyes.

“Same old story. The Captain miraculously found you even though Molly had nearly the whole town looking, then brought you in, yelled for everyone to drop everything and see to the foreign girl who can’t stand on her own two feet for longer than ten minutes, and left with a promise to return. Well, promise and threat are synonymous.”

“He was okay?”

“Actually, no. But that might be the first time you’ve asked. Finally starting to think of someone other than yourself?” The doctor stopped putting his items into a leather bag for a moment as he looked at Shanti. “Ah, the permanent scowl must mean no. Dare to dream. Oh well. To answer your question, the Captain could barely stand. He apparently walked out of the ball fine but didn’t return. He wouldn’t let me see to him, though, so I have no idea what ails him. Though it seems you do. Care to enlighten?”

“I don’t make a habit of messing around in the Captain’s business.”

“Hmmm, I see a shocking lack of proof to that statement. Regardless, I must leave you. I have five sentries to care for. It seems they all fell asleep at their posts. One even fell out of his tree. Amazingly, he didn’t wake up upon hitting the ground. Suspiciously, they happened to be in your vicinity at the time. How strange. But the Captain says there is no correlation so, as the lowly working man, I must defer.”

“I didn’t catch half of what you said, but you seem bitter.”

The doctor stopped halfway out of his crouch and gave Shanti a flat look intended to portray his suffering at her presence. She smiled in response.

“I used to have an easy life,” he said whimsically, picking up his things. “Colds, muscle strains, the occasional accident with a weapon. Now I have unexplained mental weakness, everyone has holes in them, broken limbs—“

Still mumbling, the doctor left the room. A second after that, still in her nightgown, Shanti left behind him. Her head was fine, her body felt great, and that bloody power was starting to build again. She needed to start working with the larger flow or move out of the city. Only two choices at the moment.

As she neared her small bedroom, she breathed in the rich smell of living forest. Her living quarters, which were barely big enough to turn around in, were an add-on to Lucius’ much larger residence. Currently he either wasn’t home or had someone over because his front door was closed. It was too bad—she wanted to ask him about Cayan’s release of power. She knew Lucius would be honest with her.

Halfway through her door she froze, sucking in a familiar masculine smell she hadn’t realized she recognized. Lying on her bed with one arm thrown over his face and the other resting on his flat stomach was none other than Cayan. He was in his normal blue uniform but his shoes were off and set neatly beside the bed. His large feet hung slightly off the end.

“What are you doing here?” Her words sounded like a hasty release of breath.

He lifted his arm away, revealing his clear blue eyes with their dark blue rim surrounded by a tired red. Seeing her, he sat up slowly, moving as though he was a hundred years old. “I needed a place to rest without disturbance and without being in a hospital room.”

“What about Lucius?”

“He’s entertaining a young lady. And he judges. Then lectures.”

Having the city’s hub in her room without the proper control over her power was bordering on disastrous. Plus…what about privacy? She didn’t need much, nor did she have many possessions, but having someone lying in her bed who wasn’t a lover was a bit…awkward. Her personal things, such as they were, were out in the open. He needed to know a few things about her, sure, but those were historical in nature so as to arm himself and his city with knowledge of what would come. There was absolutely no need for him to know the color of her undergarments, or how she liked her weapons stowed, or… how sometimes she wasn’t the most tidy of people. That stuff was embarrassing and bordering on intimate. It was stuff to share with people close to you, not a city leader, handsome army Captain, and serious pain in the ass.

She crossed to the single chair opposite the bed and sat. This room had a closet, a dresser for the few clothes she had, her bed, a tiny table with candle supplies, and the chair she currently sat in. Through a door to her right was the tiny kitchen: not much more than a sink, stove, and small table. There was no place in her living quarters to entertain a non-naked guest. And despite his near perfect form, she absolutely did not want this man naked anywhere near her person. Only bad things could happen.

“Why did that happen?” Cayan asked with a grave look into her silent mental turmoil. The space issue apparently wasn’t playing hell on his nerves.

All Shanti could do was shake her head. She didn’t know. And it scared her. It was so much power. Too much. She didn’t know how to control it, and it was still pinging in her body, dancing around like skeletons in an earthquake, waiting to be used. She didn’t even have to open her awareness to feel the minds around her anymore. She didn’t have to try to clutch them. Those minds were hers; they were just on loan to their owners.

“Did you ask the prisoner?” Cayan asked, settling back down and throwing his arm over his tired eyes.

“Yes. He just repeated what he said before. If I find a mate, my power will increase. Mate is not wife. Or manwife—I forget the term Junice used.“

“Husband.”

“Mate is…the power’s mate. The other half. I’m not sure if it has to be in a man’s body, but it sounded like it. It’s time for you to tell me what you know. But maybe…outside…”

“It’s time for you to show me what you know. Teach me.”

“I’ve shown you a portion. So far this is all one-sided.” Should she mention moving outside again? Was he not uncomfortable? Because she was uncomfortable.

Cayan scratched his head then wiggled deeper into the mattress. “The power comes from the Ancient’s. The Old Blood. No matter your belief system, there were a People who walked this land at the beginning. Every religion talks of them. They were the dawning of human kind. To them, power was another sense. Touch, see, hear, taste, smell, perceive. No one knows where they originated, or even if they were a myth.

“Then, as humankind grew, the trail of the Old Blood got weaker. With each generation it got weaker still. In some places it vanished entirely. That is because the bounty of the blood is passed from mother to child. The sex of the child is unimportant, but the Gifts, as you call them, are in linage with the mother.” He paused for a second, letting that sink in.

“So spreading your seed to a city full of people won’t matter? You’ll sire large, strong men, but none with Gifts?”

“That’s what the stories say. I have nothing written on this, of course. This is all from my grandmother’s diaries, left for me when I was born. She died shortly after. As did my mother.”

Barely suppressed emotion colored his words, but he hid it within the deep rumble of his voice. He wasn’t hiding the flashes of pain from his mind, though. He hadn’t known his mother, not in any real way. Unlike Shanti, who at least had vague memories from her youth, Cayan only had a longing.

“Then you are right, I would’ve regretted killing you,” Shanti said quietly.

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “The bounty bestowed can come in many forms. You are probably an expert on that, from what you’ve said. Your people were isolated; the blood stayed strong. Mothers passed it to daughters who had daughters who stayed within the land to continue to pass it on. Various gifts were bestowed, all in partial potency, until you showed up and got a full blast.”

“Why don’t more of your people have it? And how come you didn’t know you had it?”

“My great-great-grandmother was of the Old Blood. She was a wanderer—not originally from this area. Met my great-great-grandfather on one of her travels and fell in love. She decided to settle in. It’s from her this information, and my Gift, is passed down. Since her, I come from a line of daughters, each having only one child, until me. I am the first boy. And while each mother tried constantly for more children, they only had one to term. It is another reason the blood has nearly disappeared from the land. Fertility. I was told that women with the Old Blood have a harder time bringing a baby to term. She did not know why…but it sounds like your people had the concentration to figure it out…”

“Like-Gifts with like-Gifts often had two or three.” Shanti cut in. “One family, both parents with the Warring Gift, had four. It was the record. Non-like-Gifts but still having a Gift was less. Usually one, maybe two. A Gift with a non- Gift had one if they were lucky. It was why my father didn’t think he’d have a child. It was why my grandfather hated the match with my mother—until I came, of course. Then my mother rubbed it in his face constantly. Until—“ Shanti cut off and swallowed. No need to go down that road. They both knew what happened; Shanti didn’t need to voice it.

Without sitting up, eyes still closed, Cayan spread out an arm and put his hand on her knee. The touch vibrated, and the power shifted deep within, but it continued to simmer rather than explode. He left his hand for a second, the spicy feeling igniting, then removed it back to his flat, bumpy stomach. Aside from potentially city-damaging behavior, the gesture, however small, was welcomed. It had helped for the moment, which was all she could ask for with a history like hers.

“I…suspected,” Cayan said in a reflective tone. “I wondered if anything materialized. I mean, I could miraculously bend people to my will at times. Nothing immoral, just… And I occasionally had this extra awareness. But my Grandmother thought my mother would be around to identify any potential. To train it. Since she wasn’t…”

“All you had was wondering.”

Shanti couldn’t guess what that must’ve been like. Possibly having such a wonderful, necessary element and having no way to really know. To work with it, or use it. She couldn’t imagine not having it.

“Did like-Gifts see a flux in power?” Cayan asked with his eyes closed.

Shanti thought back. The Warring family had all been very strong. Both Jacinti and Franie could cripple from many spans away, but they were older. She hadn’t known them before they’d connected. Although—

“It shouldn’t matter if they were together,” she said out loud, voicing her thoughts. “We aren’t mated, but the power reaches for the other half. We always had like-Gifts training with like—I had always assumed it was because they needed to learn within their element. But maybe the power fed off each other, too. Women have always fought and trained with men, so both halves were always present.”

“Maybe that’s why women have always fought in your culture...”

“Or maybe it is a bonus for having the foresight to understand that women can be effective if trained correctly.”

“Maybe.” Cayan’s mouth turned up in a toothy grin just visible under the large bicep thrown over his eyes.

He was taunting her. If anything, it made the proximity more awkward. Business, okay fine, she was getting by. Playful…no, absolutely not. As Sanders would say, they weren’t friends and they weren’t screwing, so they didn’t need to have a potluck. And because they weren’t friends or screwing there was no way he should be still lying—not even sitting after an invitation, but lying—on her bed! Her bed! On which also lay some deep purple undergarments that she’d ordered from the dressmaker. They were silk and shiny and luxurious, not to mention small so he probably hadn’t unnoticed, but…some intimate areas had rubbed against the fabric currently against his thigh. How embarrassing was that?

Shifting in her seat, she thought about making a grab for that fabric. But more important was trying to get this conversation over with as fast as possible. “So, there might be more of me? Us?”

“In theory.”

“But it’s unlikely they’d have the full range of ability.”

“Maybe it crops up when it is needed. Like in a time of war. Now, for example. But regardless,” he took his arm away from his face and met her eyes, “you only thought there was you. Now there is us. There could be more.”

Shanti sighed. “Well, there is us for now.”

He nodded. “There is us for now.”

“And that’s all you have?”

“Um, yes. I thought it would make a bigger impact.”

“Uh huh.” Shanti felt drained even though the power lay in wait, simmering just below the surface. “Interesting that I would end up here.”

“Not really. You tend to gravitate toward the thick trees. Your people made a dwelling in a forest even though sometimes you had barely enough. Maybe the trees call.”

“They do.”

“Then is it so strange you headed for the trees where someone else with the same ability might reside?”

“Yes.”

He smiled again. “Right, okay. A cynic.”

“If what you say is true, the Graygual can only breed you if they have me. So you will be useless.”

“Unless they find others.”

“Yes, there is that.”

“Or don’t believe the legends.”

“That, too.”

“Now it’s your turn.” His eyes were hungry and wary at the same time.

It was slightly reassuring, knowing that he couldn’t create little war monsters on his own. It settled her turmoil somewhat. However, they could never get caught together, which meant they should separate. At the same time, they were stronger within the vicinity of each other’s power. It was a complicated problem with no easy solution. Currently, she was too tired to try and unravel it.

Bringing her mind back to the problem of his inexperience, she said, “We’ll start tonight. Wear black so we blend into the night.”

“Does that help?”

“You being undisturbed? Yes.”

He nodded but didn’t make a move to leave.

“Should, uhh, I give you a minute?” To get out?

She didn’t want to rush him, him being the Captain and everything, but she was tired, strung out, and wanted to battle with him in a large office somewhere instead of her tight quarters.

“I need a nap. Join me.” He patted the bed next to him, his eyes still closed.

He wasn’t smiling but his tone was light. He was telling a joke, she was sure of it. It wasn’t amusing.

“I’ll just… give you some time. On your own.” And she flew out the door in search of a cluster of trees where she could wait him out. She didn’t miss the dark chuckle as she shut the door behind her.

Chapter XXXI

IT FELT LIKE HIS HAIR was on fire, starting from the follicles. Sanders blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to rid his head of the constant stream of sweat.

In the dark hovel where they kept him, they had hit him with pain before even bothering with the first question. Still panting, they’d stripped bare and sprayed him with freezing water. Still no questions came. Next they strapped him to a chair and hit him with more pain.

And here he sat, clenching his teeth so as not to scream, waiting patiently for eventual death. Part of him hoped Shanti would come. She would strut through the door in a violet-eyed rage, throw her brain around however she did it, and have them groveling to tell her all they knew. He’d seen it. He was positive that what he was feeling was nothing compared to what she could do.

He sighed in relief as the pain washed away.

“Now, Sir Commander, we have a couple questions for you.”

Sanders nodded at the familiar voice, his breath rising and falling, his heart hammering so hard his chest vibrated. “Fire away.”

“Auh-hem.” It was a throat clear. A small man stepped into view behind the bars. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and gray pants. His hair was muddy brown and his skin was as fair as Shanti’s. Next to him stood a man with a similar stature, though hunched slightly, wearing all black.

“I am so sorry to do this to you, of course,” said the white shirted man.

“Oh, of course, yes.” Sanders chuckled darkly. What was the point of being polite when you were torturing somebody?

“If you answer my questions the pain will stop. If you do not, then it will continue.”

“Seems straight forward. How will you know if I lie?”

White Shirt gestured toward Black Shirt. “He will know.”

“I guess I’ll just take your word for it.”

A man wearing a brown sack scurried up with a stool and placed it directly behind White Shirt. He then scurried away like a rodent. Although, even a rodent would be noticed. That man had been invisible. This must be the hierarchy Shanti had been talking about.

“Tell me about this Captain of yours.” White Shirt sat down and crossed his legs, the model of patience. He had all day. Or night. It was impossible to tell time in the belly of a dungeon. That was part of the purpose of the environment—that alone could drive people to madness.

Sanders pretended to think, angling his head to the dungeon ceiling. “Well, he is a tall man, prone to fits of anger, but really just a soft little teddy bear on the inside—”

Pain. Like sand blasting his open eye, scrubbing away at the retina, digging into his soft membranes. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help, the pain so acute he could barely think.

Sanders’ whole body flexed, trying to rip his hands away from the chair legs where they were tied and so he could shield himself. After a year or a minute, the pain stopped suddenly, the memory of the pain lingering.

“Shall we try that again?” Rhetorical question. Sanders didn’t bother answering. “What type of person is this Captain?”

“He likes reading, long walks in the forest, has a warm heart and a soft spot for perky—“ A blast so hot it turned his vision white. Razors scraped across his bare eye.

When he could breathe again, Sanders said, “—women, but I bet you thought I was going to say breasts!”

White Shirt stared at him for a long moment. “Full power.”

Black Shirt answered in a brutal, concise language Sanders had only heard for the first time recently. He wished again that Shanti were here. She would know what they were saying. She had spent a few sessions with their guest speaking his language. That had really rattled him. Sanders should have tried to learn.

The next stretch of pain wrapped around Time and warped it. Small needles sticking into his retina, then moving out to the whites. Nowhere else, just his eyes. Sanders wondered if they could blind him. He wondered if it would hurt just as much after. He bet it probably would. They weren’t actually touching him, so this was something going on in his head. It would remain even if his eyes were plucked out, he was sure of it.

“Now, again, tell me about this Captain. What are his weaknesses?” White Shirt was a persistent little fucker.

“Beautiful women. But then, we all have that problem, don’t we?”

“Not all. Does he have a particular beautiful woman?”

“He has a whole list of them, actually.” Sanders panted for a moment, light headed. Then went on. “If you are trying to get in his pants, you have a lot of competition. He is a bit of a ladies man, if you know what I mean.”

Another blast, but this time much less potent. A mild finger prod instead of a sharp needle prick.

Black Shirt swayed wildly, falling into the wall. The pain cut off as he muttered something to White Shirt.

White Shirt waved him away, staring at Sanders with a patient air.

“Staring contest, huh? Just as bad. I’ll sit this one out.” Sanders hung his head, wishing for another nap.

A shuffle had him glancing up, noticing another guy in a black shirt, this one the size of a woman but lacking the breasts. He took the place of the first.

“Oh good, we have enough for a party,” Sanders said flippantly, wondering how many torturers they had. “I hope you guys dance.”

“How is the government set up?” White Shirt asked.

“You need a name,” Sanders decided. “I like to get names of those I am intimate with. I will call you Betty. And your friend there will be Martha.” Betty raised his eyebrows, his smile dwindling. “Our government is set up with members who care. Bleeding hearts, some of them. Dull lot of—“

This time the pain was all around his skull in a throb. It was kind of a dull ache. It was the worst headache he’d ever had, basically. Less awful than the eye scrub. Small miracles.

“Seems Martha has different talents,” Sanders wheezed. “Not fair taking turns, though. There is only one of me and two of you. But I guess we know who has the most stamina.”

“Do you have reason to believe your Captain will come for you?”

“Oh no, why would he? He and I rarely see each other. He’ll probably send some other troop, if he sends anyone at all.”

Martha said a couple words in their choking language.

White Shirt smiled in a placating sort of way. “You are lying.”

“Yup. But about which part? Him coming, or him and I seeing each other?”

Martha shook his head. There was another exchange and suddenly it felt like his head was being split down the middle. He wanted to reach up and see if his brain was oozing out the sides.

He missed Junice. He didn’t want to die down in this hovel and never see his baby. The selfish part of him did hope the Captain came. If anyone could get him out, it was the Captain. Or Shanti.

When the pain receded, Martha was swaying.

“You boys don’t last long do ya?” Sanders rasped.

“They will regain strength. Will you?”

Sanders tried to shrug. He tried not to let his head hang. He managed neither. Thankfully they were out of torturers for the moment. They apparently didn’t believe in physical labor, which was fine by him. He closed his eyes and let sleep take the pain away.

Chapter XXXII

LATER THAT NIGHT, SHANTI FOUND herself sitting cross legged under a large Elm tree, balanced and relaxed, making peace with the undercurrent of power alive in her body. Cayan sat across from her, also cross-legged, dressed in loose sweats. It was slightly disconcerting having such a large man, mostly a stranger, so close without weapons handy, especially after the last year of being alone and hunted, but she was determined to attempt this. She needed to see where her future lay, and he was pivotal in that. Plus, there was no embarrassing personal mess outdoors, and there was much more room to scuffle or run away, so this was probably a better situation.

Cayan sat peacefully, focused on Shanti, his hands on his thighs. He’d slept in her bed all afternoon while she’d slept in a copse of trees, cursing him. Finally, when he left, she headed back and stared in disbelief at the disturbed sheets. He’d crawled inside. He’d also moved her strip of purple undergarment to the table with the candle supplies. It was crossing the line, but she was too embarrassed to complain to Lucius about it and ask about retaliation protocol. Instead, she’d stripped the sheets so as to have Molly wash them of his smell, which was some sort of mannish musk. It wasn’t unpleasant but…still.

He’d met her in the trees at dark, as she’d asked. She hadn’t told him where she was, knowing he’d find her regardless. And he had.

“You need to ground yourself,” she started, not sure where to look but not wanting to meet his eyes. “Feel the trees around you. Feel the ground under you. Feel the air, notice if it moves, notice how it interacts with the leaves. Center yourself in the world around you. Try to clear your mind.”

A quick glance revealed that he was looking at her.

“It helps if you close your eyes when you’re learning…”

He held her gaze for a moment before closing his eyes.

“Let me know when you feel balanced. When you let go of all your worries, and all the things you have to do, and whatever else that goes on in your head.”

She could just make out a dimple deepening in the moonlight. It meant he was smiling. Or smirking. Probably thinking she sounded ridiculous. Which she kind of did. She was used to working with kids.

“Ready,” he said quietly in his deep gravel.

“Now you need to open your mind like a flower.”

She watched him, noting a crease between his eyebrows as he looked inward. She took this opportunity to assess him without interruption. His masculine face looked like it was chiseled from stone, then sanded by a great artist. His bone structure was defined and symmetrical, with dark bushy brows that gave his eye sockets a striking depth. When he wasn’t busy being so serious and in control, he had a pleasant vibe about him—a charisma that exuded a sort of animalistic primal quality. He was one well-made, handsome bastard. And judging by all the women batting their eyes at him, he was in demand. Some men just had it all.

Too rich for her blood, though—as Xavier said about the baker’s daughter, much too high-maintenance. Chocolate was delicious, but when it was too rich, it rotted the teeth.

“I feel your laughter,” Cayan murmured, his eyebrow crease more pronounced. “Is it me?”

“I didn’t turn my humor into a physical reaction, so you felt my funny.”

“Mirth.”

“Okay, linguist, you felt my mirth. And yes it was you, but no, not your practice. Anyway, what do you feel?”

“What do you mean it was me but not my practice?” he pushed.

“I was laughing at your personal life, rather than this specific moment.”

“What about my personal life?”

“You are being sidetracked. Return to your practice. Focus.” She waited a beat, then said, “What do you feel?”

“Can’t you touch me and find out?”

“Normally I would be in constant contact, yes. But I can’t control the amount of power in me right now, and don’t want your half to excite it.”

“It, or you?”

“Same th—“ His dimples dug deeply into his cheeks. He was playing with her again.

“Give me your hand and we’ll try,” Shanti said warily.

The humor wiped from his face like dew from a window. His hand, palm upward, reached out from his body. She softly slid her hand along his, marveling at the size difference between them. An electric tingle vibrated her skin and flashed up her arm, but no surge. No whirlwind. No ground dropping away…

Their sighs chorused.

“For one,” she said, “your mind is closed up. Which is actually helpful at the moment. For two, I’m glad to see your hands are not soft.”

She felt confusion softly drift around her awareness. His hand involuntarily squeezed.

“Sterling’s hand is weirdly soft,” she replied to his unasked question.

“He uses a lot of lotion. His woman doesn’t like rough hands.”

“Then she is with the wrong man.”

“I think he likes that she is delicate.”

Shanti rubbed her palm around the rough skin of Cayan’s, his callouses screaming out his prowess with weapons. Screaming out safety and protection. “Ah. I’m sure he does with his history—don’t freak out, he told me. It isn’t gossip. I informed him that I killed five of those women. I have an idea what he’s been through. Unlucky.”

“I remember when he was returned. He is a few years older than me—he was in a higher level of training—but I was home when he was brought to my father. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Neither was the way I killed the clan I found.”

“He won’t admit it, but I’m sure he’s grateful.”

“Let’s get back to it. If we don’t figure you out, then he and many others might end up being subjected to worse.”

“Many women have tried to figure me out. Haven’t been able to.”

“I liked you better when you were always serious,” Shanti mumbled.

“I liked you better when you were naked.”

“Most men do. Now focus.”

She scootched a little closer and took his other hand. “You are holding everything so deeply within you. It probably feels like a weight, or a heavy ball, right behind your rib cage. Imagine it…dissolving, bubbling upwards and spreading out, like tentacles…”

She felt the blockage within curl tighter.

“Are you afraid of losing control?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t be. Hopefully we’ve already hit the ceiling, and we both survived. I think we’ll be okay. I’m more comfortable now; I can be your safety net.”

He took a deep breath. “Since my dad died, I’m not used to relying on anyone.”

“I care about that, and later I would love to talk about it in length, but right now I am not interested in excuses. Let go of your hold.”

He started chuckling. “Is that your default sensitive response?”

“Not usually, but we don’t have the time. Usually I…” Shanti shook her head, shedding her distraction. “Focus.”

“You’re tough,” he muttered with a smile, his mind going inward.

“You do this naturally. How do you normally access your power?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I think about things I want to know, then I just kind of…know them.”

Shanti blew out a breath. “I suddenly know why trainers hate starting with talent late. Erasing bad habits… Okay, take off your shirt.”

Cayan’s eyes snapped open. He stared at her for one long beat before doing as instructed.

“Okay.” She crawled to his side and kneeled, positioning one hand in the center of his warm back, and one nestled between his pecs. She couldn’t stop a flitted grin, fighting her desire to let that hand roam around his well-built chest. The man was a perfectly defined powerhouse. She hadn’t seen anyone this well-proportioned in useful muscle…ever, maybe. The men from her land were thinner, lithe. He was…not.

Shanti tried to clear her mind, somewhat distracted by the tingling in both her palms. The warm spicy feeling in her body grew, the effect of extended contact. “You need to stop focusing on that lump of power. Return to balancing yourself. Listen to the night. Feel the trees. Let your head get light. Let me know when you are in that headspace.”

After about a minute he nodded. The tingle spread up her arms and into her chest. Heat kindled somewhere deep, whether from the power merging, or something else. Half of her mind was focusing on the task at hand. The other half scanned the cords of muscular armor for weaknesses. She would eventually fight him again, and hopefully, with a little scrutiny, she could find some weak points. It might be cheating, but she was smaller—it was allowed.

“Don’t focus on my hands,” she murmured, scanning his body. She couldn’t help it—it was chocolate for the eyes. “Think of the trees. Hear them move in the wind. Hear the small animals flit from branch to branch. Hear the whine of the insects around you. Stay balanced…”

She drew her hands up his chest and back slowly and lightly, trailing her fingertips across his smooth skin. She spread out her fingers and brushed his skin, hoping he was loose enough that the power would flow. His mind relaxed further as her hands went wide, moving in large circles, working with her mind to release his unconscious hold. They should have done this before now. She shouldn’t have let him lose control before he’d ever tried to gain it in the first place. His personality didn’t respect failure, and now he would try that much harder for control. It made her job so much harder.

An hour in and energy crackled between them, but nothing more. No progression. His body was brimming with power, his hold thankfully dissolved, but his control not engaged. He was letting her solidly lead, which would have been great if she was dealing with a five-year-old and a tenth of the power he possessed.

“I want you to envision that flower.” She worked her hands higher up his chest, feeling his power unconsciously following, and his mind focusing on the night and her touch. “A tulip. It is a bulb, planted in your sternum. In the spring it crawls up through the dirt, which is what you are feeling now. The tulip is flowering right behind your eyes. What color is the stem?”

“Bright, healthy green,” he whispered.

“What color is the closed bud?”

“Deep red.”

“What color is the pollen on the inside?”

His power blossomed outward, shooting out in all directions. She kept her hands on his body so he had a point of solidity—she didn’t need him grabbing her mind like a safety raft.

“Keep balanced,” she cautioned quietly. “You have found the extra sense you spoke of. It is fragile, though. A life of its own. Don’t try at it too hard or it will collapse. Have confidence it is there, and it will not fail you. Now let it go, and we’ll try that again.”

Cayan took a huge breath and opened his eyes. His power shriveled down into himself.

“Well, it seems you are really good at pushing it back down,” Shanti surmised.

“I’ve worked on it all day. I didn’t want a repeat of last night.”

“In my bed…” she muttered sulkily.

“It smelled good. Like fresh, clean woman.” He didn’t sound repentant.

“Yeah, well, you should put in a request to have your women bathe more often. Focus.”

They went through the exercise three more times, Cayan able to easily cast his power outwards by the end. Unfortunately, soon after, he pulled it all back in tightly again, not letting it expand. He had a lot of work to do.

“Okay, I think that’s it for tonight.” Shanti sighed deeply, curling her legs back under her and getting ready to find her peace.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I want to let my mind wander, soak up the life around me. I can’t do that when I am focused on you.”

“Can I… Is there a way…”

“Hitch a ride? Possibly, but chances are you will retreat when I start to spread out. Which is normal. Sit next to me.”

He changed positions, closed his eyes, and reached out his hand. She grabbed it, then startled when his fingers threaded with hers. Electricity worked its way up her arm and into her middle, quickening her heart. Making her breath speed up. Melting the ice of her past and letting the memories trickle out.

“That is more of an intimate hand hold,” she uttered in choked voice. “Usually it is resting hands together, like your handshake, rather than entwining them.”

“I need more contact than palms.” His voice wasn’t shaking, per se, but he was nervous. It was as if the man hadn’t done it a million times on his own before she’d come. He just needed to get out of his own way.

Resigned, fighting the memories, Shanti said, “Open up your mind. After you do, I will connect with you and lead. You can just close your eyes and go for the ride. If you get…nervous, just let go of my hand. You can leave, then. I will continue on.”

He nodded. She waited for him to open up his power, needing only a couple prompts, then she connected gently, trying not to be distracted his hand squeezing hers. She expanded her mind with a heavy heart, unable to keep from thinking of her lost love. Thinking of the many times she had intertwined fingers with him. The warmth of his hands. The beauty of his face. Those deep brown, earth-colored eyes.

Her mind skipped, calling up her mother’s smiling face. So proud of Shanti for opening up at such a young age. Nearly four. It had been a record. They’d worked together all afternoon in the soft sunshine, her mother holding both her hands and encouraging with jokes and laughter. Keeping it light. Fun.

Then to her father—she barely remembered the scratchy feel of his chin. His large hand taking hers. The sun shining in his green eyes. She’d inherited those eyes, before the power had singed the color away. She was the spitting image of her mother, except for the eyes. And now all she had was her father’s ring.

As if thunderclouds had rolled through, sullen grey shadowed those happy times. The picture faded, and then bleached. Death showed up, ripping it all away.

Grief blurring the edges, Shanti pushed out past the city limits and out past the sentries. There was no effort to go this far anymore. She was well within her comfort zone, so she went farther still, seeing how far she could travel without strain. When she reached that limit, she drew back in and got more specific. She checked on the minds of the sentries, making sure each was alive and awake. One wasn’t. She gave him a prod.

She found her Honor Guard, knowing their brain signatures. They were sleeping, except for Leilius, who was sneaking around the city trying to catch cats. It was a punishment he was actually enjoying. He hadn’t caught one yet, but he was hopeful. She found Sterling and immediately bounded away—he was in an intimate moment. Hopefully Cayan would notice that that was a breach of privacy. She found Lucius next, who was worried. He probably wondered what kept her and Cayan. She hadn’t told him where they were going.

She pulled everything back in slowly so Cayan would have time to adjust, then gently disengaged. When she opened her moist eyes he was looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize.”

“Oh, Lucius will get over it. I often disappear without telling him.”

“No, about holding hands. I didn’t realize…what it meant to you. Memories it must have called up.”

That was the bad news about sharing a more in-depth mind space while touching. It was harder to keep things to yourself. She brushed it off. “It’s to be expected.”

His large hand squeezed hers gently. His soft gaze held hers. The spicy feeling made her heart race.

“Okay, then. Practice, practice. Good luck.” Shanti jumped up, ripping her hand away from his. She didn’t know what had made her so uncomfortable, but she wasn’t in the mood to find out. Without a backward glance, she was trotting home, eager for her bed. And her fresh sheets.

Chapter XXXIII

SANDERS LAY IN A PUDDLE of himself. They had come to question him again, asking the same ones as the day before. It meant they weren’t getting answers, which meant the other men they’d captured weren’t talking. It was a blessing. He had taken experienced men, but not the top tier, in case the city was attacked again. This crew hadn’t seen the foreign woman fight or heard about her mental abilities, and for the first time, he was thankful for the Captain’s foresight in keeping that information among only those who had seen it. That was just one juicy piece of info on their city, though. There were plenty others.

It was quiet as he lay. He could hear his own rasping breath, raking his burnt lungs. They’d brought in another torturer. Now they had four. He could hear the men screaming down the hall as the day wore on. Or night—he had no concept of time; how long it had been since he was brought in or how long the painful sessions lasted. He did know that each black-suited man didn’t last as long as he used to. They only had one or two good punches before their energy gave out. It was a good sign. Or a terrible one—he would rather they just kill him already.

He counted four different screams. He had counted eight dead before they took him. That left two. It was a slim hope that they had survived to get help. And if they didn’t, it would be too long before the Captain sent someone to look.

“How are you feeling?”

Sanders nearly growled. What a dumb fucking question. He had no strength to lift his head, let alone get up to his chair, and they asked how he was doing.

“I was hoping you would come by. I was beginning to miss our chats,” Sanders ground out.

“I came to inform you that we’ve gotten some information off of one your men. It won’t be long now before we piece it all together.”

“Well whoop-dee-do for you.”

“I also regret to inform you that we have accidently killed one of your men. Casualties are an unfortunate practice in this sort of thing.”

Sanders showed his teeth in a silent laugh. “Don’t have perfect use of the language, huh?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, we aren’t friends. I am enjoying a little R&R. Go away.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you again in another sun’s turn.”

“I’ll try to fit it into my busy schedule.”

So one more man had lost his life. Sanders wondered what he’d said. He wondered how important it was. He wondered whose family had just lost a loved one. And most of all, he wondered how long it would be before Junice lost one, too.

Chapter XXXIV

THE MORNING AFTER SHANTI’S TRAINING with Cayan, she and the Guard were gathered in the park for their daily training. She felt refreshed and alive, having had a deep sleep and a better overall grasp on this new well of power. She was still wary of the power she shared with Cayan, but working with him made her feel more secure with it.

“S’ally, something is going on.” Leilius danced in front of her, hopping from foot to foot. Apparently her title was about to change again—which happened whenever Leilius’ brain short-circuited in fear or excitement. When she got used to rarely knowing if he was addressing her, or someone else, it became quite funny. Even now everyone was smirking.

It apparently pissed Sanders off to no end, however, prompting more fear in Leilius. And then prompting weirder titles. And then prompting Leilius airborne as Sanders lost his patience… Apparently that was normal when dealing with Sanders, though Shanti had never seen it.

Shanti nodded for him to go on. The rest of the boys stopped what they were doing and watched. She could feel Sterling winding his way toward them. Just another day of training.

“I was in the bush waiting for Commandant Sterling when two of the Captain’s men went rushing by. They were the guys on the gate. They were hurrying and flustered. Said something about one of them telling the Captain, the other getting aid. Medical aid. I heard Commodore Sanders’ name.”

Shanti’s mind was already spread wide—keeping her feelers out was so easy now, it seemed silly not to—but now she honed in, looking for the emotions that would be associated with the news. Most of the city was as it usually was, but by the gate, just as Leilius had said, there was anxiety. Worry, fear, anger, denial—they were shifting and changing like a color changing fabric.

“Sanders wasn’t with them? Coming along behind?” Shanti demanded of Leilius.

“No, s’am.”

Shanti searched, looking for the bundle of intents and emotions she’d come to recognize as Sanders. It was hard not to—pulses and flares of impatience and anger were always prominent, hiding a soft, tranquil bay of deep emotion and honor. The man played at being gruff, dominating, and callous, but you would find no man more loyal and ready to help.

That mind path was absent. He hadn’t returned. He was probably captured, and the Inkna were an especially gruesome people with a fondness for torture. Based on what she had learned from the little mouse, they were also exceptionally good at it.

“Lucius, go find out what’s going on,” Shanti commanded. “Leilius, you go sneak closer. Spy. Find out whatever Lucius can’t. Marc, go huddle near the doctor. If you find out it is Sanders, let your sorrow sink into you. I will find you, then.”

“What about the rest of us?” Xavier was looking at her with a hard face. He wanted to be in the middle of the action, like a warrior should. So did Rachie and Gracas, judging by their equally intense looks. Unfortunately, they were far from ready.

“Continue with your day. I’ll fill you in when I know more.”

Sterling burst through the trees with sparkling eyes and a winning smile, which were short lived. As the men ignored him and ran from the trees, he looked around in confusion. “What is it?”

Shanti started toward the prison. No more stalling. No more questioning. Shanti wasn’t good at torture, but she was great at pain. It might not last a long time, but it would last long enough to get what she needed to find Sanders. The Elders would not turn away for this, not when the innocent were at stake. Not when it was her duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

“What is it?” Sterling asked.

As she passed, she said, “Someone has come into the city injured. The Captain will probably want you—“

A blast of power rocked the city. Shanti slammed down her shields as the rest of the men froze with wide eyes. They didn’t know what it was—just that something had made the air freeze around them.

“—now,” Shanti finished, not stopping in her stride.

Sterling fell in beside her. “How do you know?”

“Leilius was hiding from you and heard a conversation as gate guards rushed past. I don’t know if it is Sanders, but I can think of no other thing.”

Sterling immediately pivoted and headed off north. Cayan had picked his officers well.

When Shanti finally got to the Captain’s office, all the first and second tier commanding officers were there. Leilius had managed to sneak in and was hiding in the back like an unwanted rodent. It was a testimony to how distracted Cayan was that he didn’t notice.

The door had been locked.

Now it was broken.

She took unhurried steps toward the desk as Cayan stood up, flexed from head to toe. “Get out!” he bellowed.

A blast of emotion rocked her shields. Embarrassingly, her body’s first impulse was to flee. She smiled it away. “Sanders is caught. I am going to break him free.”

His blue gaze blazed into her. Wrath and turmoil slapped against her shields. “You are going to stay here and stay alive. End of discussion.”

“Let me take this opportunity to remind you that I am not under your command. He saved my life. I will save his. I am going.”

“Get her out of here,” the Captain yelled, looking down at his desk.

Oh, really?

Two gruff men peeled away from the others, marching toward her with grim faces. She squeezed them, dropping each to his knees. Shaking hands grabbed their heads with terrified eyes.

Cayan’s head jerked upward. War lit up his features.

Shanti stood her ground. “What are you going to do if they come at you with mental warfare?” she asked before he exploded. “You can block it, yes, but what about your men? I used barely a fraction of power just now, and they sank to the ground, ready for slaughter. I am one person. They’ll have many.”

Cayan stared at her, his hands braced on the desk, his men itchy to move away from the battle in front of them.

“You cannot retaliate,” she went on. “You can search, yes, but so what? You’ll point out that men are coming…and then what? How will you disband them when they are a hundred paces away and your archers are crumpled at your feet?”

“With respect, my Lord,” Daniels cut in. “She can fight, but outside that she is unimportant. Let her run to her death, if she wishes.”

A vein in the Captain’s clenched jaw started to throb.

Daniels didn’t realize he was mostly ignorant concerning Shanti. He wasn’t helping.

Cayan’s eyes flickered. He’d just made a decision he didn’t like. “If I allow you to go, you are under my command. You will do as I say. You are not a leader anymore—you no longer have an army. You will remember that.”

Ouch. “Okay.”

“You will follow orders or you will be outcast.”

I’ll be outcast anyway. “Yes.”

She felt his mind brush hers, then linger. He wanted more confirmation than her verbal acknowledgement. Smart. He thought mind touch couldn’t be fooled. Naïve.

Getting what he was after, he nodded and looked down at his desk, his shoulders tight with stress. “We have the trade location. Based on what the survivors said…“ Cayan’s words hitched imperceptibly, causing him to roll his massive shoulders, fighting down the rage. Shanti’s stomach wiggled—she was interested to see him in battle. “They didn’t make it that far. So then, based on their description, I would imagine they were taken somewhere along here…” He traced a groove in the map with his finger. Daniels leaned in to note the coordinates. “But we can only speculate where they were taken after capture.”

“I have the exact location, should you need it,” Shanti noted quietly, trying not to further ruffle his razor-like feathers.

All eyes found her. Lucius smirked.

“How?” Daniels asked with a pompous air, his voice as hard as his eyes. He still didn’t trust her.

“I asked the prisoner. Unfortunately, even though I said ‘pretty please,’ he tried to keep it a secret. I had to pry the knowledge from him. He’s no longer…much use.”

“Point to it on the map,” Cayan commanded.

She produced a hand drawn sketch made with a shaky hand. A boxy picture of a house or castle—not much was to scale—was on a bluff along a large river. Sterling took it and laid it in front of the Captain. He traced the areas that seemed to line up on both maps and put a big “X” to indicate the goal. They would have found it, but it would have taken a day or so. That one day could’ve made the difference in Sanders’ life.

Because it was Sanders who had been taken. Him and a few others. The half-dead man who made it back had said that in Leilius’ earshot. And if Sanders had even a glimmer of a chance at being alive, he would be. Shanti had to believe that.

“We leave at dusk. Assemble the troops.” Cayan straightened up.

“I would like to take Leilius,” Shanti said quietly with bowed head. Now was not the time to poke at the Captain, so she kept her tone light and small. “And you probably want to take Marc.” She cleared her throat into the thick silence.

Of all the incredulous staring, Cayan’s blue stare was easily the hardest. “No.”

“I think Leilius can be of great value. He can get to places where not many others can. He has a gift for it.”

“He’s too young. He’s not ready.”

“Well, he’s sitting ten feet from you, and since no one has noticed, I would say he might be close to ready…”

Everyone looked toward the nearest window.

“Stand up Leilius,” Shanti instructed, trying not to lounge in any way. Everyone else had such straight posture when the Captain was around, she thought it best to try and follow suit. At least until they were on the road.

The rustle behind Daniels had the older man jumping and whirling around, grabbing a big eyed Leilius. Cayan was still staring at Shanti.

“And Marc?” Cayan asked calmly, like an executioner sharpening his axe. All the men in the room stiffened.

“He is the most talented of all the medic trainees by far, and has been training for combat. He isn’t great with weapons, but he knows to stay out of the way, and he doesn’t balk when he is needed. Assuming the doctor is too old to go, of course. Obviously experience is better.”

“And the others?”

“Are too young and not ready. Except for Lucius, who is under your command. So that’s…uh, your choice. Obviously.” She cleared her throat again, hoping to dislodge a stare or two. This was starting to get awkward.

Cayan nodded his head slightly, his eyes on fire. “Dusk. Meet at the front gate. Daniels, I’ll hear your plan then, but you will be staying behind. If this goes sour someone has to take over, and Sterling stayed last time.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniels responded. The disappointment in his mind didn’t convey in his tone. His warning look at Shanti wasn’t missed, either.

Shanti stayed out of the arrangements as the day wore on. She wasn’t even allowed to sit in to hear the strategy, which was actually fine because she’d always had people to do that for her anyway. She was a decision-maker, not a planner. And now she was a follower and nameless fighter. Chosen, indeed.

When dusk finally came, she and the two Guard members waited at the back of a long line, mostly overlooked or ignored.

“Why me, S’am?” Leilius asked in a tiny voice as he and Marc huddled close.

Since they learned they’d be going to rescue Sanders, the two boys had been following her around with wide, fear-crusted eyes.

“Because you are excellent at your craft,” Shanti replied distractedly as she monitored Lucius. Her Chance was checking men in line, saying a few words, then nodding with responses. Though he wasn’t a commander, he was the Captain’s right-hand man. It twisted her stomach painfully, worry eating away like acid. She hoped he would be there for her if she needed him, but knew that if his Captain needed him more, his decision might leave her vulnerable.

“But why not Xavier? He actually wanted to go…”

“Don’t whine, Leilius. It will be harder to fit in.”

“We’re the youngest here, hanging out with a woman wearing men’s clothes. There isn’t much hope of us fitting in,” Marc reflected.

Shanti had to agree there.

A huge man with a ragged scar across his forehead stopped in front of Shanti. “You, woman—to the front.”

Leilius jumped and clutched onto her, his wide eyes staring at the experienced fighter in front of them. She gently shrugged off the kid and stepped out of the line, sparing a wink for the boys.

“Kind of rude,” Marc mumbled as he crossed his arms in front of his scrawny chest.

The grim warrior walked up the line at a measured pace, giving Shanti plenty of time to check out her comrades. Men waited by twos, swords on their belts and arrows on their backs. Hard, expectant eyes adorned eager faces. Their metal gleamed and their crisp blue uniforms identified their ranks.

Shanti couldn’t help looking down at herself. She had a pair of faded brown pants of Marc’s with three patched up holes. Her shirt hung loosely, wrinkled and stained with dirt. And while her weapon did gleam with a high shine, the leather work looked poor and uncared for compared to their expertise.

Oh yeah, and she was a woman. There wasn’t a chance in all Death’s Playground that she would fit into this crowd.

As they reached the horses she inwardly sighed. She didn’t have a great love of horses. They didn’t have their own mind, and just when you thought you had a nice rapport, they freaked out and tried to run away. Granted, the only time she rode horses was right after she killed the owner and stole them, but none of her experiences had been good. Except she had never ridden one like she saw before her. Fierce eyed and large hoofed, these beasts had about as much gloss as her sword. As she walked around them, skittish and not afraid to show it, more than one stamped its foot.

“They are reacting to your fear,” Lucius said from the second row of horses. His brown beast scowled down at her.

“It’s not fear. I’ve just heard the horses in this land bite. I’m not in a hurry to lose my shoulder.” Shanti continued following her guide past Sterling on a deep brown animal.

“Only the war horses with a bad attitude,” Lucius responded.

“So, all of these, then…”

A crowd of people waited to see the heroes off, the beautiful women giving doe eyes at Cayan. And there he sat, atop the largest horse in the horde. Black as night and mean as Time, the beast stared at Shanti like he might her for dinner. Cayan was only slightly more agreeable as his cold blue gaze tracked her progress.

“Well? How do they look?” he asked. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck, ready for battle. His shoulders strained his uniform and his powerful legs gripped the moody beast below him.

“Like their bites would hurt,” Shanti replied.

Cayan’s brow furrowed. “The men, I meant.”

“Oh.” Shanti glanced back the way she’d come. “Ready. Eager. Vengeance walking. Keep them busy or the less experienced will pick fights because they don’t know what to do with the anticipation of violence.”

“Walk with me,” he said. “I have some questions. Come here, you can ride with me for a while.” He reached down a large palm.

Sterling’s horse side-pranced, giving her room and making her uncomfortably jittery. Shanti had been on the receiving end of a couple of hooves. That had hurt more than a little.

“I’m okay. I’ll walk. It hurts falling off of those things.”

Cayan’s laugh was loud and throaty. It hadn’t been a joke.

With no discernible movement, suddenly the large black warhorse was in action. It stepped forward, shaking its head proudly. Shanti jogged farther ahead, wanting to stay out of the way. Thankfully, Sterling fell behind so she wouldn’t be trampled. The crowd started yelling and waving, seeing their men off to the battle. It wasn’t until the roar of the crowd diminished that Cayan spoke again.

“Do you know how they fight?” he asked, looking down at her.

Shanti drifted a little closer so they didn’t have to yell. Unfortunately, Sterling and the others had the same idea. Before she knew it, she was walking among spindly legs and sharp chompers.

“This is not the safest of places for a walker,” Shanti acknowledged as she pushed Sterling’s horse with an outstretched hand. Its head bent around, eyeing her. She jerked her hand back into her chest as Cayan’s tree trunk arm reached down and snatched her. Before she could shake him off, she was being hoisted up the side of the shiny black animal, dangling until she was lobbed on the back, forcing her to scrabble up behind him.

“That wasn’t the solution I was going for,” Shanti huffed, clutching onto Cayan’s broad back.

“Would you rather be in front?” The way Cayan said it sounded like on top.

She ignored him. “Their fighters are small and quick, but not excellent. They aren’t ones for head-on combat. They’ll come from the sides, or descend in a horde over a hill. As you saw, they’ll sneak over walls or come in the back way, content to let some other nation get chopped down.”

“Do they all have the Gift? The ability for mental warfare?”

Shanti shook her head, clutching onto Cayan so she didn’t slip off the saddle. She had no idea how to properly ride one of these—a gaping hole in her education. “From what I’ve heard, one in forty has some sort of Gift, but not usually with any real strength. They are working on it, though. They push arranged marriages, which is usual with the top tier of a class system, but from what I’ve heard, they peel their eyes for any new talent, then work them into the arrangement system. Still, they are lacking as a whole, I believe.”

“In comparison to who?” Sterling asked.

That gave Shanti pause. She was used to thinking in terms of large quantities of excellent fighters with strong Gifts. She looked behind her at the sea of solemn faces. She still traveled with excellent fighters, but none had the Gift save Cayan. Every one of them would be vulnerable to an attack, no matter the strength of the Gift used.

“Do you think any will match you? Or I?” Cayan asked through her worried fog.

“No. I am nearly a myth and you are completely unknown. But they are trained. You are not.”

“How many can you take?”

“Take, or kill?”

He didn’t even pause. “Kill.”

Shanti resisted the urge to lean her head against Cayan’s back. It seemed her life was only about killing these days. All hate, fear, and death—no family, no love. Some day she would have to answer for the things she’d done. She would have to face her ancestors and explain herself. It was a good reason to stay alive.

“With the new surge of power, or while linked to you, a great many I should think.”

“What are they after?” Sterling asked.

“Your city and its wealth. If they kill the Captain, they can move in while you are all in turmoil and take over the moneymaking operations. Their chief concern is wealth. Even before power. That’s why they are a Graygual favorite—keep them in riches and they won’t strive to steal their leader’s power.”

“And by the Captain going to them, we are giving these Inkna exactly what they are after,” Lucius said from behind them.

“Yes. If I were granted any sort of opinion, which I realize is doubtful in this company, I would say it is the least wise thing in this whole venture. I can handle mental warfare, the rest of this crew can handle the arms. The Captain should stay at a safe distance when his leadership is no longer needed. But I am just following orders; therefore, I have no opinion.”

“I cannot let my countrymen die for a decision I made,” Cayan stated.

“Then you will find war extremely difficult.”

“This isn’t war,” Cayan growled.

“Wrong. This is the beginning stages of it. You are choosing a side by going against the Inkna. By not turning me in. By not turning yourself in. You are choosing a side, and it will lead directly to war.”

“Shall we run, like you are doing?” he growled.

Shanti clenched her jaw. The man could get under her skin like no one she’d ever known. And right now, he was trying to. “I’m not running; I am uniting two halves into a whole. I’m seeking out our distant relations and hoping they’ll give aid. I’m hoping to bring the largest war this land has ever seen, which is what it will take to tear down the empire the Being Supreme has already created. You’re a stop on my journey. Your Gift is a new dimension to the overall situation. But I’m not running, because there is nowhere to run to.”

“But your half has been destroyed.” Cayan wasn’t trying to hurt her; he was trying to understand. He was just hurting her in the process. And being a jerk at the same time, something he could always do effectively.

“That’s right. None left save me. But I am quite a prize, am I right, boys?” Shanti swung down from the saddle and walked back to her boys.

Chapter XXXV

SANDERS WAS HALF LUCID. BUT only half. He was close to the end now. He didn’t even understand half of the questions anymore. He was praying for death. There were two others save him, and they were close to cracking. Sanders could hear it in their screams. Death wasn’t coming fast enough and there was only so much a mind could take.

Chapter XXXVI

THE FIRES WERE QUIET AS the troop ate their meal. The day had been eventful. Three different bands of Mugdock charged as Cayan passed through their lands. Shanti didn’t have to warn Cayan of their approach; he was well aware. That part of the lesson he was close to mastering. Marc had to work on two people, but no one was lost. The Mugdock weren’t so lucky, especially because they weren’t allowed to retreat and they weren’t captured. Their graves were the burnt land they had created and none of Cayan’s people seemed bothered by it.

Beside those minor delays, the troop made great time. They had pushed hard and fast, covering a lot of ground, and now would rest for the night. It would take another half day to the destination. Hurrying hadn’t been planned, but it was hard to resist. Sanders and the other survivors wouldn’t have much time. They had been subject to pain for days by now, and Shanti doubted the Inkna were taking it any easier than she had after she found out Sanders had been captured.

“Shanti, right?”

She forced down a white-hot surge of violence at that last thought. It wouldn’t help right now. She turned to regard the speaker, currently taking a seat by her fire. Marc and Leilius had both already wandered away to go to sleep, and no one else dared go near the strange foreign woman with glowing eyes who cleaved through the Mugdock as though wading through shallow water.

Jerrol was lowering himself to the ground next to her. She couldn’t make out the brown of his eyes in the fire, but she could see the lines of his handsome, nearly pretty face. It was exactly what she needed, a distraction. Hopefully that was the reason he stopped by.

“Yes. Jerrol. Hello. I haven’t seen you since you turned me down.” She smiled and attempted a sultry pose. Being without practice she looked pitiful, so settled instead for sticking her chest out. This land greatly loved breasts. It was as good of enticement as any, even though she could’ve done with a bit more in that department.

A slow smile crept up his face. “I don’t think you are remembering that right. I didn’t turn you down; I clammed up and made a fool of myself. I came over to repair the damage.”

She had no idea what “clammed up” meant, but repairing damage she understood well enough. It matched the lust pouring off him. Then she matched the lust pouring off him.

“No damage to repair. I thought you had a woman, though?”

He crinkled his brow and lightly shook his head. Then his face cleared. “The ball, right?”

She nodded, leaning closer. They should probably get out of sight for what came next. She searched through the nearby bushes and trees to find a place not inhabited by a sleeping man.

“She is a…friend. We are not attached.”

They matched smiles, their mutual desire offered, and accepted. Jerrol’s gaze flicked to the side. “Well, do you—“

“Did you have a question, Jerrol?”

Shanti groaned at the familiar voice.

Jerrol’s eyes went wide and he stood immediately. “No, sir. I was just talking with Shanti, sir.”

“It’s time you caught some sleep, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shanti didn’t even get a chance to interject before Jerrol took off running like teeth were chomping at his backside.

“Was that necessary?” Shanti asked in a pout as she turned back to the fire. Even if she followed, Jerrol wouldn’t defy his Captain’s unspoken command to keep his dick in his pants.

Cayan sat down beside her, gaze glued to the flame. “He’s not your type.”

“Actually, he is very much my type. He is a man, he is warm, and he has nice eyes.”

Cayan’s gaze found her face. “Is that all you require? A warm body?”

Shanti swung her shoulders so she was facing him, matching his blank face and acute stare. The glow of the fire flickered against his cheek. The other half of him was lost to shadow, much like the other half of her soul. “I have lost all I hold dear, Cayan. I have been alone for over a year. I have no one to talk to that knows anything about me, no one I trust to lean on when things get tough, and no one that cares about me outside of what I can do with my Gift or my body. I have no family, no friends, and no idea how my future will unravel from one day to the next. And now I barely have control over my present or my choices. So yes, a warm body that wants me, however superficial, is all that I require. I’m no longer a prime candidate for a mate, I can assure you. All that awaits my home fire is death.”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer, his face softening but hiding his feelings. She didn’t dare touch his mind; she didn’t want to feel the pity she knew was there. She was designated the Chosen, and she had a job to do. She was alive and her people were dead. She would do her part so she could earn a place among her ancestors. Other than that she didn’t care what people thought of her existence, least of all this mood spoiling, control assuming, stoic horse’s ass.

“You should get some sleep,” he said curtly.

She turned away, showing him her back, powerless to do anything else. She would follow his command in front of his people until Sanders was safe and his prisoners had paid, but after that the illustrious Captain could shove his dictatorship up his ass.

She heard him leave quietly and continued to stare at the fire, grateful when Lucius quietly sat down next to her a moment later. His quiet support helped.

Soon after she lay down where she was and went to sleep.

Chapter XXXVII

AS THE SUN CRESTED THE tree tops, the battle party was under way, everyone trying to hide anxiousness with stern faces. The upper tier of command looked at the maps often, delimitating, figuring out the land as it changed. Archers rode or walked around the outside of the ranks, ready to shoot anything they didn’t trust. Sterling took the front, arrow already nocked. She had perceived correctly, he was an expert shot. At least, that’s what she’d eavesdropped from the gossip around the campfire.

Shanti’s mind was open, and stretched out over a league, but so far there wasn’t much in the way of habitation. A fact she’d told those around her, trying to loosen the hands clutching their swords, or slow their darting eyes, but they didn’t trust the strange foreign woman who spoke with a harsh tongue to their Captain. They probably figured that at any moment she would cut herself with her sword.

About midday everyone came to a halt. A young man came trotting down the line, young but self-important, until he stopped even with Shanti. “The Captain wants you.”

“Oh well, I better hurry then, shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want to offend his majesty.”

Three men surrounding her sucked in a hasty breath. For a Captain that hardly ever punished anyone, she had no idea how he inspired this much fear. It was a thing she actually wanted to learn. Quite useful at times.

Antsy men shifted their stances as Shanti walked past, loose dust kicked up from a hundred men and twenty or so beasts. The midday sun baked down on the line, stifling the air, glistening the brow. Battle was near. They could all sense it. Expectation buzzed louder than a swarm of flies, battering her shields and pumping her blood. This was what she was born for. To lead men into battle.

Duty hummed through her bones as she rounded the horses and glanced up at the Captain, tall and strong atop his horse, shoulders and head high, a similar feeling coursing through his body. The only difference was, these were his men, and the leadership was his duty. She was but a sword within his arsenal.

Chosen, my stubbed toe.

“We are getting close,” Cayan said without preamble, sparing her no more than a glance. “They will have sentries soon. We need to make a plan of entry now, in the event we meet the enemy.”

“You’re aware this isn’t their home land, right?” Shanti asked as she stopped beside Sterling’s horse.

“But they reside here now,” a stern man on a dapper horse said.

It was time for serious and hostile, was it? She hadn’t gotten the decree.

Pushing down an insane urge to stick a knife in his shoulder just for giggles, she said, “A faction of Inkna reside here, yes. But their people, as a whole, are spread across the land, trying to dip their fingers in everything profitable. This faction will be attached to a small city the same size as yours or less. They will be running things, but the work donkeys will not be theirs. They will have a few sentries to monitor trade routes, or crazed indigenous peoples wanting their land back, but they belong to a giant nation dominating the west, plus they have capable mental warfare that has probably so far been unimpeded. They are not overly concerned with the probability of assaults from a foreign nation.”

“But even though they aren’t the work horses...” A balding, stodgy character paused in his speech, giving her a weighty stare, before continuing, “Their forces will double ours in size.

Shanti pondered that statement. “Possibly. They are branching out, which means they have a stable horde here in which to sustain their leadership. Assuming they are torturing Sanders for information with which to spread their forces to your city, they probably have enough to cover both areas. Which means that, yes, they probably double this war party in size. At least.”

“Well, that’s terrible news,” a furry-browed man said, his lips in a thin line.

“Tobias,” the Captain barked, silencing the other man immediately. He squinted ahead, thinking. Grim blue stare met Shanti’s. “You think their sentries will be light?”

“I do.”

“They’ll be expecting us, though.”

Shanti blew out a breath, slowly shaking her head. “There are not many leaders that would send this kind of response if a few of their men were taken.”

Three horses started to prance, and Shanti, the only one on foot, backed away quickly. Getting trampled before the battle would be just her luck.

“I assume you imply that their leaders are wanting, and not a judgment on my leadership,” the Captain said with a warning in his tone.

“This isn’t the time to be prickly, but that is correct. As I’ve said—“

“I’m not interested in what you’ve said. Do you think they expect us?”

Shanti took another couple steps back, Cayan’s gaze nearly a physical push. “Not so soon, no. And not with your best men. We will have surprise on our side. And skilled fighters. The only thing of concern is mental warfare.”

“Regardless of whether or not they are expecting us, they will have some warning system in place,” Sterling stated mildly.

A baby-faced man spoke up. “Not if we kill them before they get the signal up.”

“Well, now, that is the question, isn’t it?” Shanti said. “What is their signal? Is it a light or sound device, like your city has? If that is the case, then yes, killing them will solve the problem.”

“You wonder if they are monitored mentally,” Cayan said with a grim voice. The men tried to hide masks of confusion at the mention of mental abilities.

She nodded. “I don’t know how powerful they are. If their power matched the little mouse I spoke with, then they can probably reach about two hundred spans, maybe less. But if they have a few powerful men, they can space themselves out and monitor each other, making the first sentry you come across as good as a siren for the rest.”

“Can you cut the link?” Lucius asked.

“I can disguise it, certainly, but that limits my power for when we go into their hold. If it were my call, I wouldn’t waste valuable power on the sentries, unless they try to attack us mentally. They will have their most valuable members behind the walls. I will need to attack them or shield you once we go in.”

“We kill them on sight,” Cayan decided. “If they are warned prior to our coming, then all of their mental defenses will be lined up waiting. They will at least be all in one place. No surprises.”

Shanti nodded and shrugged at the same time. Battles always brought surprises, but she didn’t want to rile him up further.

Cayan, Sterling, and a circling of other experienced men dismounted from their horses and gathered in a circle, dissecting the maps and making final arrangements. Each lieutenant had a group of men under his guidance, which then sectioned out again to a staff sergeant. They listened and nodded, the lower tiered men leaving much of the arrangements to the officers.

When they had finished, the circle broke up and they stowed their maps, walking determinedly back to their mounts with hard faces. As Shanti turned toward her spot in the middle of the line, Cayan said, “Shanti, I want you up front. I am led to believe you are a good shot with the bow. I also know you can use my power to search out the enemy from a great distance. Both are useful.”

“If the horses spook, I’ll be trampled.”

“You’ll be riding behind me.”

She was in the process of saying, “No,” when hard blue eyes rooted her to the spot. Her tongue got thick and melded to the roof of her mouth. She wanted to shrivel away, to look anywhere but at those eyes. But she’d be blasted if this man would intimidate her, so she held that stare, trying to ignore the shivers running up her back and weakening her legs.

“It was not a question,” he said, his eyes and bearing reinforcing his words.

She nodded indifferently, telling herself it was because she said she would follow his command for now, rather than admitting to being scared shitless to refuse. She waited for him to climb on and allowed herself to be hoisted up after him.

It appeared she had her answer for how he inspired fear…

“It won’t be easy to shoot from behind your big body.” Her voice had only a hint of pout.

“Sterling will hit anything to the right. You to the left. I will hit anything in front. What we miss those behind us will hit.” After a pause he finished with: “I want you to connect with me. Use my power to reach.”

“Together our power is unpredictable.”

“I need you 100% for when we go in the hold. Use me. It wasn’t a request.”

And the hits just kept on coming.

The progression continued with everyone on point. Shanti put her hand up the bottom of Cayan’s shirt onto his smooth, muscled back. She tagged along as he opened his mind and spread it out, letting him use the brunt of power required, even though it was only a trickle. Being linked mentally, she couldn’t help but feel his apprehension for the coming battle. He was worried of his decision, he was scared Sanders was dead, and the incredible burden of his position weighed on his mind.

“You made the right choice,” she murmured for his ears alone. “Your people will make it through this. If you didn’t act, they would’ve come for you in numbers, and you would’ve still had to fight.”

“I know that. I just hate sentencing my people to death.”

For a brief moment she leaned against him, supporting. She knew what he was going through from experience. Some decisions weren’t easy, but they still needed to be made. Death was inevitable and so was this battle. It might as well happen now as later. It might as well happen far from home, rather than where innocents might get killed.

It was another hour before Shanti and Cayan felt the mind ahead and slightly to the right. They were traveling over hard dirt, making a large dust cloud that billowed out and above the trees. Only someone asleep wouldn’t see them from a great distance. Then, when they got closer, the tromp of hooves and murmur of voices would surely wake the dead.

“We should send someone ahead,” Cayan mumbled to himself. He had realized their predicament.

“Let me go,” she responded quietly. “It will be an easy thing.”

Fear of a different sort swirled through his thoughts. For her. For her safety. He thought of her as one of his, now. She had become his responsibility and he didn’t want to see her hurt any more than Sterling or Lucius. Those fears were tempered with hard logic. He knew it was the best course of action, quick and efficient.

She had no idea why he hated that fact.

“Sterling,” Cayan said in his commanding voice, “take Shanti, Lucius, and Tobias. Cut them down.”

Lucius kicked his horse forward until he was even with Cayan.

“Lucius, I can’t get down when you’re—“ Shanti’s words were cut off by Lucius dragging her over to his saddle. “What am I, a sack of cabbage?”

“You are much louder than a sack of cabbage,” Cayan drawled as Lucius kicked his horse into a trot.

Their small party rode ahead. Tobias, knowing nothing about Shanti, couldn’t contain his displeasure at a woman tagging along. He kept his distaste to huffs, however, being a well versed fighter—he knew better than to piss off the Captain. Shanti, knowing better than to waste time, didn’t punch him in the throat. All in all, they got along.

“Sterling, what is your range?” Shanti asked as they ate away the hard packed earth, closing the distance to the first sentry. It was a well-traversed road though not badly eaten away, indicating there was more foot traffic than heavy animals or carts.

“Dead on for three-hundred spans,” Sterling answered in a flat tone, eyes scouting the foliage and road ahead.

“Tobias?”

“Two-hundred at most, but that is while steady.”

“Then one-hundred on horseback?”

He nodded, eyes swiveling, trying to catch every movement, whether natural or otherwise.

Shanti leaned into Lucius and closed her eyes, drawing power off of Cayan even with the distance. She wasn’t as interested in the sentries as what lay ahead. She wanted to know how hard it would be to get Sanders. She wanted to know what sort of mental capability they had. Even minimal power could still overcome her if there were enough of them.

“Are we close?” Sterling asked in a hush.

Shanti searched, dots of pulsing color laid out before her, sparse at first, then more dense, throbbing points of emotion that signified humans, and other subtler nuances signifying males. She could sense idleness and boredom, no prevailing worries of their troupe, or any other violent group, traversing the road.

“Okay, Sterling, there will be a man to your right. He is off the ground. I’ll know more as we get closer. Behind him will be a man way off to the left. Based on the trees, I am thinking they can both see the road.”

“How do you know?” Tobias was skeptical.

“Because I get my menstrual cycle,” Shanti said in a flat tone.

“Trust her,” Lucius said fiercely. “She knows what she’s saying.”

“How far can you see?” Sterling asked, arrow nocked.

“I can’t see far enough for my taste, even with Cayan feeding me power.”

In another couple minutes Shanti said, “To the right, up ten yards. Male. Bored. Not expecting us. In range.”

Sterling’s eyes followed her directions in perfect trust, waiting patiently for the man she said would be there. Not understanding the nature of her Gift, it was a little too trusting for her taste, but it was how Cayan’s men operated, and since she was correct, she said nothing.

A small wooden circle crouched at the top of a tree in plain view, a man leaning against the edge in utter dullness, asleep while standing up. With a practiced movement that gave Shanti pause, Sterling sighted, pulled, and loosed his arrow in one smooth, clean stroke. The arrow flew true, sticking into the mid-chest and dropping the man out of the tree.

“Lucius, you want the one on the left or shall I take him?”

“I’ll take him,” Lucius said, using his knees to steer the horse. The beasts were well trained. Probably still bit, though.

“Left, forty-five degrees. Male. Aroused—probably playing with himself. They must not see many people come through this way.”

“How the hell do you know—“

“Silence Tobias,” Sterling barked. “The Captain trusts her. That should be enough.”

Lucius spotted the man, but didn’t have the range Sterling did. They got closer, Lucius looking down the arrow as the distance closed.

“He’s spotted us,” Shanti whispered. She had her own bow nocked just in case Lucius missed.

The arrow pinged into the air. They watched it travel until it slid into the neck of a ducking sentry. Any later and it would’ve missed.

“Lucky. One on the right, Sterling. Close to the road. I’ll take the one way left. There must be another road off that way.”

Shanti leaned back from Lucius, nocked her arrow, sighted, waiting until the man came in range, and released, as Sterling did the same. A second later another arrow flew, traveling a similar path as Shanti’s.

“That was a waste of an arrow, Tobias,” Shanti said evenly. “And a bad shot. Make sure you can improve on me before you try to cover for me. Sterling, to the right. They are denser up ahead.”

Sterling was ready, and as good as everyone said. He made it look effortless as he pulled his mighty bow back and sighted his arrow; his form perfect. He topped Shanti in range with the ability and strength to operate that giant bow. She thanked Cayan for sending him.

“Lucius, left. Two coming on the right, in the same tree. Sterling, I don’t know if you can take them both or split the victory with Tobias. We should stop after that. We’re approaching a busy area.”

Lucius drew; so did the other two. A second later, Shanti did too. There were men in trees and on the ground, all active. The area beyond was a sort of hub. Probably an outcropping of the city where people traded or conversed, away from the castle or city walls. They would be citizens, and she had the feeling the Captain wouldn’t want them killed.

“Hold up, here,” Shanti said softly, patting Lucius on the back.

Sterling looked at Shanti. “Should we take the rest on foot?”

She shook her head and relayed what she thought was coming up. Sterling nodded. “We should wait for the others, then. No one else will see their approach?”

“Not at present, no.”

“And beyond the hub, as you called it?”

“My range wavers. There are a few people and a few large mammals. Probably cows or oxen or something like that. A couple dogs. A horse or donkey. I would imagine farmers are on the road leading to the city. There are men and women and children. All mundane types.”

“What are you, a witch?”

Shanti lazily glanced at Tobias. His eyes were hard as he sneered. Before Sterling could react, she shrugged him off. “I am the one who will keep you alive if someone decides to mind-fuck you, Tobias. If you keep talking like an ignorant simpleton, I won’t bother.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Fair enough.” To Sterling she said, “Should we ride back to the Captain or wait out of sight?”

“No sense riding back and wearing out the horses. Let’s duck off to the side.”

They did, waiting quietly, Shanti coating Cayan’s anxiety with tranquility so he knew they were okay. His turmoil dwindled but didn’t disappear. He probably looked calm and relaxed, but his mind whirled and his nerves were strung out. She selfishly hadn’t taught him how to hide his inner emotions. A woman in her position needed a failsafe. Hopefully there’d be no hard feelings if he ever figured that out.

With a slight tremor in the ground, the horses and men following came into sight slowly, the pace slightly picked up since Shanti and crew had left. As they thundered closer, Shanti slid off her horse and stepped closer to Sterling. “Was it discussed to sneak in and ferret Sanders out without raising the alarm?”

Sterling glanced to Lucius and Tobias, watching the approaching mass draw nearer. “The idea was presented, yes.”

“And discarded how quickly?”

A brief smile flashed across Sterling’s lips. “Almost immediately.”

“You don’t take one of ours and get away with it?”

Sterling answered with a small nod. “It was thought that they would come for us anyway. The Inkna raised the question. The Captain is answering.”

“So Cayan—the Captain—is sending a message. And yet, he is still facing tough odds. Interesting.”

Sterling’s intense, flat stare turned down to Shanti. “The Captain is doing what’s right. Taking our men, as they did, under the guise of trade, must needs an answer. A brutal answer.”

Shanti glanced at him briefly, then returned to mentally checking on the men to come. “Oh yes, I agree. If I were in his shoes, I would’ve planned to devastate this People as well. But then, I know what they are capable of. I know how they operate. I am just surprised by the Captain’s foresight. He is a capable leader.”

“Did you doubt before now?”

Shanti shrugged. When you were near death half the time, and getting into trouble the other half, it was hard to properly assess the leader of a prosperous city. But now, in a time of peril, away from protective walls and early morning raids, she had a chance to take notice.

As Cayan came to rest beside their small party his gaze scanned Shanti’s body, probably looking for wounds. Not seeing any he turned his attention to Sterling. “Report.”

“Shanti thinks there are citizens—“

“He knows what I do,” Shanti interrupted in the interest of time.

The Captain turned to the young man on his right. “Bring up Leilius.” To Shanti he said, “Any reason to believe these people have your coloring?”

“Leilius would stick out like a tree among bushes if so,” she said with a smile. “But no. The Inkna are from near my neck of the woods, but their people wouldn’t be farming out here. They probably moved in and took over, similar to what they are trying to do with you. Whoever was here first still works the land. So…”

The Captain nodded. Apparently the coloring was bronze skin and dark hair, like him. It was a hot climate, so that made sense. Natural sunblock prevented constant sunburns. She should know, she had to be covered most of the time.

Leilius skulked up a few minutes later, looking sheepish and happy to see Shanti. He didn’t feel like he belonged in this battle-hardened crew twice his age. Shanti understood where he was coming from, but he was just about to earn a reputation, whereas she never would. She didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

“Leilius, I need you to change into poor man’s clothes and travel up the road,” the Captain said without preamble. “Blend in. Find out everything you can. If you get into trouble I will know. Go.”

Leilius got changed with a fearful glower and took off at an easy walk, seemingly an average boy going to market. Shanti got caught in a moment of panic as his slouch carried him down the road, away from her protection. His thin body bent like a reed in a gale as he trudged, fearful but observant. He was ready for this—he needed to learn to operate on his own—but he was so young. Shanti still owed him for her life, but more than that, he and her Honor Guard were as close to friends as she had in this strange land. They were shining lights in a year of solitary darkness. Even Sanders, as much as he raged and bickered, was someone she cared for. Was someone she wanted to see safe behind his large stone walls. She was so afraid she’d lose someone else she cared about it choked her, closed her throat until sweat beaded her forehead. She pushed the feelings down, trying to get control, and felt a pulse of relief ping through her body.

It was Cayan trying to ease her mind. He was about as deft as a deaf man learning to sing, but the thought of it did help. She wasn’t a mother bird, and she needed to remember that this was a war. There would be casualties. She needed to stay focused.

If they killed Cayan, though, she would tear that city down around their knees without mercy. If they had killed Sanders, same result. Then she’d beat them bloody with their own limbs.

“Easy mesasha,” Cayan murmured.

Shanti took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Hope and wait.

It was two hours before Leilius came back up the road, a dead bird clutched by the feet hanging at his side. As he approached, his slouch more prominent, he handed up the large fowl in embarrassment. “I was offered this by a woman trying to marry me off to her daughter.” He shrugged. “She was pretty but older.”

Cayan’s gaze was calculating as he motioned for someone to take the wedding bribe. “What did you find out?”

“The Inkna aren’t well liked. I was told to think twice before moving closer. They killed the old government and started making changes right away.” Leilius dug his hands into his pockets. “The farmers are nearly starving, the working man is little more than a slave, and the foreign people are rich. Those that are beautiful, or gifted in a necessary craft, are doing well, though, so no one has tried to kick the Inkna out.”

Cayan ignored the young man’s hands. “Could you see the city walls?”

“I went in. That’s what took me so long. There is a large metal gate. Inside—“

“The gate is up?” Sterling asked.

“Um, yeah. A couple guys are—“

“Details, please,” Shanti said in a low tone.

Leilius straightened and took his hands out of his pockets. He probably thought Shanti was going to kick him. Cayan gave her a brief glance before Leilius focused once again. “Two men on each side, but lazy. Inkna—they are light and small—but they are bored. I don’t think they get much action. And inside there is a large area with traders stalls. If that gate were to close, there are a few places to sneak in, but only for a few at a time. That gate has to be open for us to get through with enough to pose a problem for their guards. They all have wicked looking swords and beady eyes.”

“Are the guards inside our coloring or Shanti’s?” Sterling asked.

“They are all Inkna. Small but maybe fast. Just like the ones that came into our city. A few loiter around the trading stalls, making trouble for the younger girls.” Leilius’s jaw clenched briefly before he went on. “A few dot the walls, and others wander around the inside of the city.”

“Are any outside?” Lucius asked with a focused stare, leaning forward on his mount.

Leilius shook his head. “Only those originally from this land are outside. They would scatter if we came through. Or take up arms with us. They really aren’t happy. Desperate, too. That girl’s mother wanted me to take her daughter away back to my land. I look poor, but she still wanted me to take her.”

“You only look poor for your country. Those rags are made from new fabric with holes cut in them,” Shanti muttered. “Someone actually poor can tell the difference.”

Cayan looked at the sun, deciding.

“Sanders doesn’t have much time,” Leilius said quietly. The Captain let slip a blast of power. When Leilius stopped cowering, he said, “I heard rumors that four soldiers were originally taken, but one died. One captured soldier in particular was giving the guards a hard time, and the guards were giving them all they had. It sounded like Commander Sanders. He doesn’t have long, though. The local people are shaken. There’s screaming.”

The Captain’s blue eyes glowed slightly. Power wrapped around him in tight bands, flirting with Shanti’s power, gathering might. “Then we go now. It means we will be running home in the dark, but if we wait until morning, my men might be dead.”

“We won’t need to run home. There won’t be anyone left to chase us,” Shanti said in a voice she hardly recognized.

A few men looked at her with wide eyes. They’d just remembered the girl who laid waste to a tide of Mugdock. She was brimming with power and anger, ready to unleash her wrath and give a town back to the people that rightfully owned it.

At the Captain’s command everyone mounted. He reached a hand down for Shanti.

“No,” she said, meeting his sky blue eyes, hopefully not for the last time. “I need to be first and on foot. When they see us coming they are going to come at us with every Warring mind they have. Or whatever they have that’s similar. I need to be on foot for that. Plus, I am going to inspire some townspeople to take up arms.”

The Captain looked at her a long time before he said, “Stay alive.”

She winked, excitement bubbling. With a manic grin that would make Sanders proud, she turned and started running.

The Inkna had stolen her home and killed those she loved. It was time for revenge.

Chapter XXXVIII

LEILIUS SAW S’AM STARTING TO walk and fell in beside her, caught up in her presence like a small ship in a giant wave. He didn’t want to file back in with everyone else; they snickered at him constantly, wondering if they would have to play nursemaid to the boy in soldier’s clothes.

It must have looked odd, a young man and a woman, walking in front of a team of horses, a small army at their backs. But if she worried, she didn’t show it. Head held high, long braid the color of wheat swinging behind her, S’am drew her sword in one clean, practiced movement. A thrill coursed through Leilius, ending in a tingle at the base of his balls. The adrenaline was kicking in. Soon he would have to fight. Kill people probably. It was necessary, though—he couldn’t have the Inkna ruin his home and turn his friends into slaves—but he hated killing. Even in revenge for what they were doing to Sanders.

The busy intersection lay ahead, teaming with farmers and their livestock, desperate mothers and fathers trying to trade for enough food to feed their families. The road they were on intersected another, each corner replete with stands of fruit, grains, or merchandise, all gathered in the hard packed dirt. Faces looked up in alarm and surprise, eyes taking in the approaching war men with their rich clothes and furnishings.

Leilius had never been so embarrassed in all his life, even in the rags he wore. He hadn’t realized he had so much. He’d never known what it was like to go a day without food, or to wear the same slips of fabric for months on end. These people had nothing, and here he walked, the richest man alive in their opinions, with nothing to show for it.

It had taken a trip into the city to realize exactly what S’am had always grumbled about. He had been instantly humbled.

S’am swung her long, curved blade. The people standing by the sides of the roads caught that gleam, entranced by the wicked beauty of it. Their gaze rose slowly to hers, fear and hope warring on their countenance.

“My people were killed by the Inkna,” Shanti boomed as she slowed, standing in the center of the small square. Cayan halted the progression behind her, drawing notice, strong and straight on his purebred stead. Leilius felt absurd standing close to these two, but he straightened his back nonetheless, S’am infusing his body with the buoyancy of certain victory.

“They were murdered in cold blood while protecting children. While protecting the elderly. Because we would not surrender our way of life to their schemes. And now they have captured and tortured my friends.”

Her voice trailed away, gathering the silence to her, captivating those standing and staring. No one dared move.

“You, townspeople, are safe,” she went on, as a strange feeling crept into Leilius’s body. “You will not be hurt. You can go back to your homes now without worry. Or…you can fight back. You can reclaim your freedom by your own hands, with your own blades. Fight with us, or run to safety. Either way, we are friends.”

Leilius raised his head and looked around in wonder. He felt…exhilarated. Like he could rule the world. Like he could take up his blade, like she said, and reclaim what was his! It wasn’t even his, aside from Sanders, but he felt like he should fight for it anyway! And he would!

“Fight!”

It took a second to realize that the ecstatic voice was his own. Gazes turned to him now, matching his euphoria. Wanting a piece for themselves. Shedding uncertainty, he put his sword in the air, pumping it high as he said again, “Fight!”

Men started to smile. Women stood, clutching their children, the hard light of hope kindling in their eyes.

“Fight!” The crowd started to chant with him. “Fight!”

Swords appeared from behind stands, knifes from under bags of grain.

“Fight!”

“We go!” Shanti yelled, stepping forward, Cayan immediately behind. Her eyes were glowing a soft violet; the Captain’s shone a pale blue.

“Fight!”

She was walking through them now, staring straight ahead, a fierce battle Captain at her back.

“To war!” the Captain boomed in his deep, commanding voice.

“FIGHT!”

Chapter XXXIX

SHANTI PROJECTED A FEELING OF security as she walked, only enough to entice the most ardent in their vengeance. It was delicate and well laid. Eyes were bright as they looked at her, but then gazes shifted upward. Eyes went wide.

Shanti didn’t have to turn around to know what they were looking at. Cayan, with his hair pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck, sat atop his horse like a bronze statue of power. He embodied his position and the power that went with it. He was just and right, a sword of death in his hand, heading into battle.

He was upstaging her and it was slightly irritating.

Leilius yelled again, pumping his sword, looking around the crowd, their ringleader. She’d accidentally caught him up in her net, but it was the exact thing these people needed. Someone on their side, looking nearly like themselves, ready to reclaim what was their right.

Shanti searched ahead of them, but without knowing these people well, and across the great distance, she couldn’t tell minds apart, whether Inkna or not, and she couldn’t feel Sanders. But then, Sanders was probably way underground. She would have to be nearly right on top of him to feel him through that much earth.

That was no problem, though; she could get that information when she got her hands on one of the disgusting, money-grubbing bastards who held this land prisoner.

A hundred yards from the black, gleaming gate she could make out faces. Two men stood to either side, in addition to the uniformed guards, waiting with hands at their sides, crisp black shirts and black pants hanging still in the windless afternoon. Another black clad man stood atop the wall to either side, also wearing black. No arrows. No swords. Mental warfare. Bring it on.

“Cayan, shield yourself,” she yelled. “When they hit us I am going to take them down screaming. I want them to panic, knowing someone stronger is knocking on their door. Scare those that fight with them.”

“Understood,” came the graveled reply, thick with confidence. “Give ‘em hell.”

Chapter XL

THE PAIN SNAPPED OFF LIKE a light going out, dousing him in pitch black. Through the haze Sanders realized something was happening. Shapes moved, shouts. Maybe they were finally going to kill him.

Thank God. He was done. He only hoped they’d use a knife. He couldn’t handle any more pain to his eyes, skull, hair follicles, face, or chest. He knew that each black shirt had a different way to inflict pain, and he knew how hard they could push before they had to switch. Usually by the third one he was blacking out. He couldn’t even answer questions if he tried. He couldn’t think or understand after the first two slaps of pain. It was his city’s saving grace in the end.

“What is happening?” Betty asked, spraying spittle in irritation.

Ah Betty, that ol’ bitch. He was patient and seemingly pleasant. Sanders’ severe hatred for him was the only thing keeping him sane. The desire to give some back was the only thing waking Sanders up into the fog of agony, keeping his mind from drifting into the soft embrace of death.

One of the Black Shirts answered in gibberish, which meant they had switched to their own language. Well, they weren’t going to finally kill him. Joy. He would live to hurt another day.

All the Black Shirts ran out of the dungeon, followed by anyone else standing around. Weapons were pulled out and yells and shouts filled the halls. Something was indeed happening. Dare he hope the Captain was coming?

“What are you smiling about?” Betty asked in his crisp tones. He was standing close to the bars, looking into the gloomy cell, trying to make out Sanders’ face.

“You better hope she isn’t here. She has a mean temper.”

Chapter XLI

A BLAST HIT SHANTI, THE combined power of six men equaling three-fourths of her own power. These men had to be their best, designed to bring an enemy to their knees so the gates could be lowered. Cayan’s power pumped into her, making her stronger, making the scrape against her shields nothing more than an irritating distraction.

“Bring them down, mesasha—the men are wilting!” Cayan roared.

The gate shook violently, metal creaking, then began to lower slowly. Shanti picked up her pace, grabbing six minds as she broke into a run, clutching them with her and Cayan’s combined might, and then crushing, slow but complete, the city drenched in their screams before they dropped.

A wave of fear engulfed her, the chain of the gate now rattling franticly while the guards struggled to get it down.

“Forward!” Cayan yelled behind her, hooves picking up the pace.

Shanti burst through the lowering gate and speared the man operating the crank. He slid off her sword in a boneless heap.

Horses streamed past her, the Captain with his giant sword cleaving the enemy in his way. His horse knocked down and trampled anyone directly in front. Lucius was off his horse and by her side, sword out, watching her back as she turned to the city, mind spread out, scouring for a mental attack while hunting for Sanders.

“S’am!” Leilius stepped beside her, out of breath. He was sweating and his eyes were wide. He had a bloodied knife clutched in a white knuckled grip. “What do I do?”

“Hide that knife. Blend in. Act—continue to be scared. Find Sanders. I will follow your progress and meet you there.”

“Yes S’am.”

Lucius’ sword whipped out in front of him to make short work of a screaming Inkna in a red cloak running for the gate.

“Those wearing black have mental abilities,” Shanti warned. “Those in red or yellow are safe to approach on sight. Get someone to man this gate, then we find Sanders.”

“Yes, S’am. Following your lead.”

Shanti searched, huddling next to a stone wall, using her Gift more precisely. Cayan’s men couldn’t shield. They would be useless if even one Black Shirt lurked. And the Inkna were great at lurking, hiding their presence so as to use their Gift in secrecy. It was cowardly, but much more effective.

“Ready.” Lucius stood poised, balanced, coiled for action.

She and Lucius headed further into the city, trying to stay central until they either knew where Sanders was, or Shanti could identify more Black Shirts. Amazingly, the city didn’t hold as many troops as she expected. When the villagers and traders scrambled away or took up arms, it was a little less than two to Cayan’s one. The Inkna were vastly outmatched, however. The Spurna, Cayan’s people, were larger, stronger, and fiercer. They feinted and stabbed, or cleaved, or picked a body up and broke its back. It was vicious and nasty, utterly brutal. No one would be spared.

Shanti worked her blade, staying in the shadows of traders’ stalls or animal housing as much as possible, jumping out to surprise an Inkna and slice him through. Until suddenly there was a concussion of silence. The air got as thick as molasses, drifting between clashing swords and sweating men.

Cayan’s men screamed, scrubbing at their eyes, or chests, or other parts of their body. Cayan, sword bloody, standing amid a circling of dead enemy bodies, turned around in helplessness, knowing what was happening, but not knowing how to stop it. His gaze found and locked on Shanti, his mind dragging her focus toward him in desperation.

She swatted away his scrabbling, their deeper link still prevalent, and fell to her knees, eyes closed, trusting in Lucius’ blade. Her mind registered the pain and suffering of Cayan’s men at the north end of the open compound. The Black Shirts’ reach wasn’t far, but it was potent, the Gifts more like torturing devices than weapons. It was lucky, it meant they took longer to kill.

Shanti honed in until she could feel cold malevolence, a professional detachment with edges of pleasure radiating out of weak minds. Fire welled up in her from this horrible use of their Gifts. Of the joy they took in torture and killing. They minds were twisted with it. Corrupted.

Wasted.

Cayan riding her, she took a pause of two more heartbeats; she monitored the way their minds connected, ten in all, a link boosting their power similar to Cayan and hers. But not boosting it overly much. Probably only a couple like-Gifts. It hurt their effectiveness.

As if delicately picking apart a spider web, she dissected this link and followed the trail into their heads. Hello, vermin.

She lingered, gathering her strength. With one massive outpouring, she speared, flashing through the weak minds in one stroke. Screams ripped from throats before bodies dropped to the ground in crumpled heaps.

When she opened her eyes, she found Lucius in front of her, his body grimy and sweaty, blood splashed across his rippled arms. A pile of bodies lay around them, blood oozing on the dirt floor, reaching for her knees. To her astonishment, Sterling was behind her, protecting her back, heading off a rush of men.

The Inkna had realized she had the Gift. She had just made herself the number one target.

A moment later Shanti was up on her feet, sword whirling, working through the men trying to get a piece of her. The eyes of fighters in red shirts balked, not expecting a Gifted to also know how to fight.

She almost yelled surprise!

Ten paces to the left an Inkna raised his sword with the intent of putting it in Tobias’ back. Shanti snatched a knife from her belt and threw, sticking him in the neck before the blade swung down. Tobias whirled around, seeing the dead man slide before looking up with wide eyes, but Shanti was already focused on the next.

“Beware the black shirts!” she yelled as loudly as possible between slashes of her swords.

Chapter XLII

CHAPTER 42

“THEY HAVE A Sarsher,” a Black Shirt yelled at Betty. “He is powerful.”

“We have many! Bring him down!” Betty screamed back.

Sanders had never actually seen the man ruffled. He must be nervous.

“He took down a Cospe.” Black Shirt stared at Betty through the haze, his voice wavering, trying to hide fear.

“Then they must have more than one, you idiot! Send out more of our Sarshers. Bring him down! Why do you laugh?!” Betty screamed at Sanders.

“It is not a he, and you are all gonna die.”

Chapter XLIII

SHANTI FELT INVIGORATED. HER BODY thoroughly warmed up, she laid into the enemy, punishing them for taking Sanders and his men. She was covered in blood and working her way toward a large building at the south end of the compound. Leilius had disappeared into the building, closing in on Sanders’ whereabouts. Attackers came at her in a steady stream, those closer to the outcropping of buildings more skilled and experienced than those in the outer parts of the city. They were protecting their leader. Who must be with Sanders.

She longed to meet him.

Sterling was still with her, protecting her as Lucius was doing, probably staying in case more Black Shirts arrived. Just when she was about to head into the building through a large archway, a large throb of stinging power slapped at her shields. Lucius and Sterling sank to their knees, eyes closed up in pain, swords clattering to the ground as their bodies bowed.

A swarm of red assaulted her, swords flicking by her head so fast she could barely get out of the way. The pulsing power pounded at her shields, distracting her, trying to break through.

Through her power-mated connection with Cayan she dumped a fervent plea, needing help. She couldn’t even spare enough attention to look around for his location, such was the press of enemy.

She blocked a strike, kicking out, crunching a knee and slashing at an arm. Another sword barely missed her head. Yet another made a shallow slice down her arm. She whirled, gearing up for a widespread mental assault, lacking the time to search for just the Black Shirts. It would severely reduce her energy level, making her less able to confront whoever had Sanders. But it would save her life.

Power gurgled up and blossomed out, at the edges of her command, ready to lash out.

And then Cayan was there, slashing through a wall of enemy to reach her, a pump of power boosting her, swirling their strength to the brink. His blade spun so fast it was hard to see, his strength and skill easily dominating four to his one. He slashed through a red shirt, then turned, knocking another with an elbow while he sliced through a third’s face. Turning back, he stabbed a man in the eye with a magically appearing dagger before turning to Shanti’s back and taking out someone else.

Together they cleared their attackers in minutes, cleaving and slashing and stabbing through eyes or hearts or guts, all the while feeling the steady pressure of a cluster of minds focused on theirs, beating down, pounding and pulling and pushing, trying to work past their defenses.

In between strikes and slices, swords glinting as they swished by her head or narrowly missing her body, Shanti pinpointed a cluster of twenty or so men, hiding off to their right, focusing all their energy on Shanti’s location. They still did not know about Cayan.

“To the right, Cayan!” Shanti shouted, thrusting her sword through the gut of a red faced man, then stepping back as the body fell to the ground. “Cover me while I ta—“

Pain blossomed in her leg, cutting off her speech and momentarily causing her to stumble. She ducked under her sword as a downward strike threatened to cleave her head in two, metal clashing. Ignoring the throbbing pain from the gash, she forced herself back up, realizing that time was running out. There were too many for just her and Cayan, and no one else could get close without the radiating pain from the cluster of Black Shirts dropping them to their knees.

A thick surge of gooey fear shot through the link from Cayan. He turned to the right, rage now taking over logic. His eyes glowed like a beacon in the failing light. He put his hand on the back of Shanti’s neck, sweeping her mind and power toward him like dust toward a broom. He mentally wrapped around her, cushioning her in a protective embrace, threading into her, sinking deep, becoming one, power swirling in wide, broad bands, billowing out, arching up, and waiting for his command.

Then, unthinking, just reacting, he gave it.

A pure pulse of energy rocketed out from their two bodies, powers matched and equal, one specializing in finesse, the other now realizing he had something else. A raw, uncompromising punch of knock-down strength. He didn’t crunch or twist or stab. He DESTROYED.

The cluster of minds couldn’t even scream out the pain. They were trapped in it. It thundered into their bodies, shaking and twisting them into gnarled things that could no longer be recognized as human. Other Inkna, standing with swords or knives, trying to bring them down while they were caught in the mental bombardment sank, screaming. Those on the outskirts yelled until they were hoarse, bashing their heads into walls to escape it. Wave after wave of teeth chattering power surged out, pounding the Black Shirts and anyone unlucky enough to be in the way.

Shanti could imagine what people saw: Cayan standing in the wake, a strong man clutching to him a fierce looking woman, pillars amid the destruction they wrought. The ground was littered with bodies in red uniforms, blood oozing from eyes or ears, faces screwed up in agony as their life blinked out, eyes staring blindly at the sky. Behind a screen twenty spans away lay a pile of bodies wearing black uniforms, their minds dead.

It was then that Leilius stopped. His mind registered sorrow and hurt and panicked impatience. He had found Sanders—or at least learned the location. Shanti still couldn’t get a reading on Sanders’ mind, which worried her.

“To me!” Cayan boomed.

Shanti stepped away but turned to him, a question in her eyes, her hand on Lucius’s shoulder, helping her Chance up.

“Go. I need to give direction, then I am right behind you,” Cayan said with a nod.

And she was gone.

Chapter XLIV

“WHAT WAS THAT?” BETTY’S VOICE had a slight tremor to it.

The metal door to the cell was open. They had propped Sanders up on a chair, tied in so he didn’t fall off. Three Black Shirts stood around Betty. Littered on the ground were Steaphen and Jasan. They looked dead but their chests were rising and falling. They were breathing but it was shallow. Barely hanging on. Like him.

“There are two,” someone answered. “They can Join.”

“We can Join!” Betty shouted. “Take them down!”

“They took down all eighteen of the Sarsher. At one time. They are too powerful!”

“Eighteen… No one has that kind of power! There must be more. Where are the archers?”

“You sound worried,” Sanders mumbled. He couldn’t feel his body.

“How many?” Betty was in his face, pushing at his chest with a knife. It pricked his skin. He knew this because his chest was bare and small dots of blood welled up where the knife touched.

“Well, there’s the girl. And it seems she has trained the boy. So—” His body wracked in a cough. When he regained his breath he finished with: “So you’re fucked.”

“Stop laughing!” Betty screamed.

Chapter XLV

SHANTI DESCENDED THE STAIRS TWO at a time. She could feel Sanders now. Pain, misery, he was flirting with death, barely hanging on.

Anger so hot she couldn’t control it welled up from deep within her. All the pain from the last year was resurfacing, and she was about to put a face on the man responsible for killing her love. Not the same man, surely, but it didn’t matter. They were all the same as far as she was concerned, and he would pay.

“Two running up. Kill them!” she hollered.

Sterling was in front, Lucius behind. She had inherited another Chance. Sterling was thoroughly on her side because he trusted she was thoroughly on his. His loyalty now encompassed her, and it was a deep well of loyalty indeed. Cayan had picked some good officers. Not that that was a surprise.

“Lucius, three running after. Let me know if you can’t handle them. At the end of the stairs we go right.”

“Yes, S’am,” Lucius said.

Sterling didn’t understand the title so he just grunted.

They turned the corner; Shanti didn’t have to do anything with her Chances on the scene. Cayan was making his way down with five others. Sanders was dwindling further still. Two others were dying at his feet. Four enemy surrounded him that were the walking dead, they just didn’t know it yet. Sometimes she loved breaking the bad news.

“Sterling, two more headed your way. They will appear around the corner in three…two…one—“

The first got an arrow, the second a knife punched through the gut and ripped upwards.

“Turn left.”

The tunnels were well kept and scrubbed, but dark. It was below ground, so there were no windows. No natural light. Hopefully Sanders wasn’t half mad already.

Rage bubbled. She still had to make it out of here, so she couldn’t expend all her power. But oh Elders, she wanted to. She wanted to take the enemy’s sanity apart by threads and light each one on fire.

“Right,” she barked. “Now peel away.”

Sterling did exactly that as she walked into the large room. There was a row of cells, the low light getting trapped in the crannies of the stone walls. The smell of sweat and urine accosted her. She stopped in front of the first cell and felt a piercing in her shoulder, something glancing off bone. If she wasn’t so enraged it probably would’ve hurt.

Sanders was on a chair, completely naked, blood oozing down his chest from four different points. It looked fresh. He was filthy and covered in his own waste. His eyes were half open and unfocused, his mouth was turned up in a laughing grimace, and a wheeze that could have been soft laughter bubbled out of his mouth.

A man in a white shirt and gray slacks stood behind him holding a knife. To the left, a line of three men in black shirts battered up against her shields.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Shanti’s voice was a sharpened blade, rage so white-hot it turned her stomach to fire. Her eyes devoured the cold eyes of the man in the white shirt. “A Master Executioner. I wondered if I would find one of you here.”

His eyes went wide. “You lived.”

“Sanders, how are you doing?” Shanti asked seriously.

“Oh, swimmingly.” His voice was a thick, hoarse moan. “Thanks for coming. The party was just getting going.”

“Lovely, you still have your wit. That’s nice. Did you scream for them?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you like them to scream for you? Or is quicker better?”

“Black Shirts can die quick, but I would love to hear Betty’s singing voice before I die.”

Sterling stepped to her right, doing something to her shoulder. She couldn’t feel it. The rest of her arm was going numb.

The guy who Sanders called Betty stepped forward to stick the knife in his neck. Shanti grabbed his brain in a claw-like grip and held him, paralyzing him. He made a surprised gurgle. She tsk’ed. “Now, now. Don’t you want to see who is the better man? You or him? You couldn’t make him scream. Do you think you can hold out as well?”

She turned to the Black Shirts, all with white, fear-drenched faces. They were still working at her shield. “There is no point in that.” Her voice was soft. Melodic. “Your power is nothing.”

She stabbed, ending them quickly, per Sanders’ request. They each gave a shriek before falling to the earth. Lucius stepped in and grabbed onto Sanders, laying him on his back and checking him over.

Shanti stepped in as well, careful not to step on the men lying at her feet, unconscious. She slid a chair from the wall, its feet screeching against the stone floor. Her focus glued to her new little mouse.

“So,” she said, trying to force her anger back so she could focus. She opened her shields for a taste of his unique power. What she felt rocked her.

He wasn’t strong by any means. Not even a quarter of her power. To be effective, he had to be extremely close or touching. But it was the nature of the Gift that was startling. It was why he held the position he did. He could feed a person their worst nightmare through emotion. It was an imprint of emotion from a memory. Regardless of whether the memory came from him, her, or someone else, it felt so real. But this horrible maggot had a real memory with which to torture her. He was replaying the intense joy at someone under his command slowly sticking a knife into Romie’s gut, and drawing it upwards as two people held him down. She felt the life crushing pain of that knife blade slowly working up his sternum, and incredible loss, knowing he’d never see the love of his life again.

He had been thinking of her as he died.

Grief so fresh it bled washed over her, threatened to drown her reason. “You were there.”

It was so quiet she could barely hear her own voice. “You must be Sturgane. I wondered if I’d ever meet you. How unlucky for you that our paths should cross. And what a truly remarkable Gift you have. I am almost speechless with the pain. But you see, I have lived through a great deal of agony in my life, much caused by you, it is true, but I am excellent at tucking it away. Your disgusting little Gift will not cause insanity in me. At least, not before I end your life in the most painful way humanly possible.”

“He died whispering your name.”

“Pouring salt in the wound, as Xavier would say.” Shanti took a ragged breath, her mind trying to shut down. But not yet. She still had work to do. She had Sanders to avenge. She had to tend to the living before she could join the dead. “In order for your power to be effective, you need real memories. Otherwise, it is a generalized tool that weakens the spirit instead of crushing it. Interesting. You aren’t a little mouse at all, are you? You are a filthy rat. I wonder if I will hold up. I certainly don’t want to; I will be honest about it. That is very, very unlucky for you.”

She felt Cayan’s hand on the back of her bare neck. His voice was soft and full of shared sadness, his presence still deeply entwined in her head, as he said, “We haven’t much time, mesasha.”

“Do you hear that, filthy rat? You will get a quick job. It seems your circle of gods partially feel sorry for you. Or maybe they wish to punish you themselves. So, where shall we start?”

Chapter XLVI

SANDERS FELT HIS BODY GENTLY dabbed. Well, it might’ve been stabbed for all he could feel, but he liked to think Lucius was being careful. He saw the Captain above him, his hand on the girl’s neck, his body bent over her protectively. He was yelling at someone about a knife in her shoulder or some such thing.

Sterling was leaning over him, his eyes a worried mask. “What ails you, Commander? I see no serious wounds.”

Only Shanti would know how to fix him. If it were possible. So why ruin the moment? “Ssshhhh, I’ve been praying for this. Let me hear her revenge on him. I want to hear him scream. Don’t let the Captain restrain her.”

At that the Captain looked down at him, worry and grief in his eyes. When those glowing blue orbs met his, he saw a nod through the haze, then the Captain was looking straight ahead again.

“You see, filthy rat,” Shanti said from somewhere close, “I am unimpressed with your brand of power, though I think I will use it on the Being Supreme before I kill him.”

“You won’t see that day,” Betty spat.

“No? Hmmm. Cayan, you might disengage. This is about to get…nasty.”

“I’m a part of this, mesasha. I will continue to be.”

“You’ll think less of me, but since we don’t have time to argue, so be it.”

The room stilled into a pregnant silence. Sanders felt the stress of those around him as if it was a palpable thing, but no one moved. No one walked forward to grab Betty or even tended to the wounded, including Shanti.

A sharp intake of breath had Sanders trying to look in Betty’s direction. A harsh groan, then shallow breaths, panting like a dog in the sun. The foreign woman was starting her revenge.

“No screams, yet, huh Sturgane? You see, I learned your name. I wanted to know who killed my future. The whole way here I had a feeling I would see you—strange, isn’t it? If I believed in Fate, I would think this meeting was destined. Instead, I see it for what it is—you were always the most ambitious of the Inkna when it came to scouring for new wealth. Of course I would find you chasing the wealthy nations. But enough about that now; you must scream for me or Sanders will never be happy. How about this?”

The Captain shifted his stance, his palm spread along the back of her neck. A high-pitched keening crowded the space, chasing away all silence. Nails scrabbled on stone, clawing, screeching where they scraped.

“He just tore two of his nails off on the floor,” someone said in a terrified whisper. He looked like a swirling mockup of Tobias hovering over Sanders’ head. Good fighter. Great in a pinch. Wise choice to bring along.

“You have to scream, filthy rat, otherwise I won’t have done Sanders justice,” Shanti said with fierce tears in her voice. “I owe him my life. My destiny. You will pay him with yours. Let’s increase the pressure.”

“How did you escape?” Sturgane shrieked. “They said you were dead!”

“No, no. I prayed for death, oh yes I did. You and your filthy brethren stole my life from me. But alas, I am not dead. Some days that is the biggest travesty of all. No, I am not dead,” she said softly. “But you are about to be.”

“He will claim you and rape you over and over until you beg for death! You will bear his children in chains like the dog you are!” Sturgane screamed.

The Captain shifted again, his body leaning farther over Shanti. Suddenly the air was solid, everyone in the dungeon struggling to breath, backing to the walls, looking for the exit.

“Cayan, no. He is mine,” Shanti said urgently. “I have to finish this. I have to finish what he started. For Romie. For Sanders.”

“There are…” Sturgane’s voice cut off in a whine.

“Two of us, yes,” Shanti answered, her attention never far from Betty’s face. “It seems I found another one before the Being Supreme could. It will be a wonderful joke when he finds out, don’t you think?”

“Impossible.”

“Improbable, not impossible, as you see.”

“Two swine that will be chained and tortured! You are nothing!”

“Well, Sanders, your friend is very rude,” Shanti said simply. “No more stalling.”

“Their eyes are glowing,” someone uttered in a hushed whisper.

The fast breathing was back. Then the keening, animalistic sound. Primal. Agonized.

“No, no,” Shanti said in a hush. Her voice quivered. “You are just like the little mouse, trying to end your own life. I can’t let you do that.”

Clothes rustled in the darkness. Sanders struggled to hear, needing this revenge even if administered by another. Betty started to howl, out of control. Deep, wells of pain, both emotional and physical, saturated his voice, split his vocal chords.

“I hate your Gift.” It sounded like Shanti was fully crying now, her own voice laced with life-consuming pain long endured. “But I can see how effective it is. You must have no soul to use it.”

“Naaahhhh! Hhhaaaaaaa! Aaaahhhhhh!” It was a collection of wails. Eternal suffering. Anguish beyond reckoning. Sanders almost felt guilty Betty had to endure it.

Almost, but not quite.

Everyone was shifting now, uncomfortable, scared even. The Captain huddled closer, nearly smothering the sobbing foreign girl with his body. Clothes ripped, hands slapped skin, Betty rolled and stamped his body. Then screaming. Wild, shrill shrieks, echoing off the walls and drowning out all thought.

Men were turning away. One vomited. Still Betty screamed. Louder and louder, his voice nothing but a guttural scraping. His vocal chords sounded like they had been burned away. His back was arching as he lay, his stomach extended, his legs twisting in on themselves.

Finally the Captain said softly, “Enough, mesasha. Let him die.”

“Why, when I cannot?” Shanti sobbed.

But the sound cut off as if ripped away. The woman wavered.

“What did you do to him?” Tobias said in a fearful whisper.

“Punished him for killing my love and helping destroy everything in the world I hold dear. Sanders, please know that your suffering, while longer in duration, was nothing compared to his. I used his Gift on him along with the pain. It is…an effective way to torture. A soul-killing way to torture. For me. My debt to you has been fulfilled. We are even.”

“That’s all well and good, but I still feel like shit,” Sanders rasped. It was true. Why lie?

He was loaded onto a stretcher as a cooling mist enveloped his mind. The voice of the foreigner, soft and feminine, whispered in the din, “Sleep, Sanders, I will help heal you. Not everything I learned from these nasty rats was awful.”

Sanders barely held onto consciousness as his stretcher carriers followed the Captain out of the dungeon. The Captain carried a limp Shanti, who, shortly after putting him in a wonderful, numbing kind of fog, sank against the disgusting stone wall and hung her head, grief etched in every line on her face. Whatever Betty had showed her had worked its way deep into her being and eaten away at her core.

When the Captain informed her it was time to go, she didn’t even look up. Apparently she wasn’t even planning to bother continuing on. Despite all that Sanders had been through, somehow that knowledge was the worst. Her quitting seemed the end of all things. Even though he couldn’t say why, some part of him registered that for her to give up would mean great peril to them all.

The Captain bent and scooped Shanti up easily, waving everyone away, including Marc, who was trying to look after her shoulder where Betty had pierced her with a throwing knife. Good thing the weasel was a terrible shot.

It seemed the Captain had developed some kind of kindred spirit with her, and from what Tobias had told Sanders when the tight-lipped Sterling wasn’t hovering close by, whatever the foreign girl could do, the Captain could do, too, and they could do it better when they were together.

Wasn’t that some shit. Sanders felt bad for the Captain. She would be a helluva woman to have to share a kindred spirit with. Though, he had to admit, a good one to have in your corner.

Chapter XLVII

THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE Marc sat beside the woman who was responsible for his success thus far. She had believed in him when everyone else had given up. She had given him patience when others showed him frustration. She had literally kicked him in the butt when others had walked away. There was just something about her to look up to. She always had a reason for what she did, and she knew how to work with each guy, no matter how different, to bring out the best in him. Leilius was living proof. And now Leilius was a celebrity. He couldn’t walk two steps without someone giving him a nod, or a pat on the back, or a job well done. On the way there, those same guys had shunned, or ignored, or sneered at the younger soldier.

“C’mon My’pol, you need to eat.” Marc urged the bowl of gruel into Shanti’s hands. It had always been a running joke, the things Leilius came up with when his brain was short circuiting, thinking about something else. They had always loved that she didn’t care what she was called. It set her apart. It made everything seem lighter, more fun and less tedious. She usually smiled when they used the titles, in eyes if not in mouth, but now it didn’t help.

“I’m okay, Marc. Thank you. And job well done. I hear you are excelling.”

“Don’t worry about me. You need to eat. I made this special for you. Just one bowl. Please.” The gruel was full of nutrients, remedial herbs, electrolytes, and immunity building properties. The best part was that it tasted similar to broth. One bowl went a long way. So far the three sick men, including Commander Sanders, were doing excellently on it.

“I’m not hungry, Marc, but I thank you. Why don’t you leave it beside me and I’ll eat in a while.”

Shanti was sitting at the base of a tree, her body resting against the rough bark, nearly limp. Her eyes were lackluster and her speech came out nearly monotone. She was agonized. Anyone could see it. Whatever she had found inside the mind of that guy in the white shirt was eating away at her, and she wasn’t doing anything to revive herself. She was giving up.

Marc looked around for help. They were removed from the city somewhat, the group of men hanging around the wounded taking a break and getting some rest. The three mind-wounded, which is what they were calling Sanders and the other two, dozed in the soft grass. The physically wounded were spread out, wherever they were comfortable, healing. Marc had seen to everyone. They had lost nearly two dozen men, and five more probably wouldn’t last the night. But based on the fact that they demolished the enemy, their numbers were excellent. At least, that’s what all the veterans were saying.

Mark looked at Sanders, lying on his back with a grimace aimed at the sky, knowing the vicious battle commander could sometimes give the woman pause. But while he was healing quickly, which had something to do with Shanti, he was in no shape to talk sense into her, let alone get her to eat. Lucius was the next best option, but he was in the city, trying to reestablish their government and a sense of order. He had a mind for business and the Captain trusted him more than anyone else, so that made sense. But it didn’t help Marc at the moment.

The only other person who would make a difference was the Captain himself, and Marc would rather chew his arm off before approaching that man. When the Captain looked at a guy it made him want to hide, or pee himself. It wasn’t that the looks were overly aggressive, either. Sometimes he was even half smiling—at least when Shanti or Lucius was around and not pissing him off—but he always had that alpha thing going on that made a guy realize he was nowhere near as tough and confident as he had originally thought. That really, he should just fall in line like everyone else. And Marc wasn’t even one of the tough and confident ones, so he just got scared straight away.

But Shanti was wasting away. She was spending all her energy healing the mind-wounded and none on herself.

“How is she?” Leilius asked as he walked up. He looked like a peacock dressed in rumpled clothes.

Marc shook his head. “She won’t eat.”

“I am sitting right here, and I am fine. Leilius, this was one easy battle. If you get over-confident, you will get dead. Popularity goes farther when you are modest. Women will come calling regardless, but the good ones will leave soon after. Get wise, keep your discipline, and stay alive.”

“Yes, s’am.”

“Oh, we are back to that title, are we? Well good, that one made the most sense.” Shanti leaned her head against the tree trunk and closed her eyes. A tear slid out of the corner of her left eye.

Leilius jumped as if he’d been poked in the backside with a fire stirrer. He looked at Marc with wide eyes.

“I am sad. Therefore, I cry,” Shanti said unabashedly. “I realize big strong men are trained not to show emotion in this land. It is a shame. It makes you brittle. But I am not from this land. And I am a woman, which your people have decided can shed a few tears in public. So…there you go.”

“S’cam, it weirds me out that you can read my thoughts,” Leilius mumbled.

“I cannot read your thoughts, Leilius, I can read your emotions. You are now embarrassed, but you were shocked and…freaked out, I think you say, a second ago. If you projected less, I wouldn’t be accosted by that information.”

“Can you teach me to do that? Stop projecting, I mean?”

Shanti sighed. “I have never heard of teaching anything to someone without the Gift. I don’t know that it can be done. But until I met the Inkna, I didn’t know of a few other things that can be done. It is worth a try, I suppose. We don’t have much time, however. I will be moving on as soon as my shoulder heals.”

Marc said, “What do you mean?” at the same time as Leilius said, “Wha—err?”

“I need to be on my way.” It was unclear if she was answering them, or just continuing with her monologue. “This battle will draw attention. The Inkna will wonder how someone beat their Sarshers. They will wonder if it was in-house. From what I heard over the last year, Sturgane was more ambitious than the rest. People might think the Graygual removed him, which will keep the Inkna quiet for a time. They will figure it out eventually, though. Then they will raise the alarm and the Graygual will be drawn here. They will search harder for me. That will lead them to you. Then to the discovery of Cayan. Then to war.

“I need to get help. I also need to be on my own. It is better. For me. I have lost most of my people already, and the others will stay lost unless I can get help. I do not want to make friends just to lose them. I will never again have the one I loved. He didn’t go with them. And my Chance died. So I’m a nomad until I get help. Or I am dead. I feel dead already. I’m not sure which I dread more—alive with this pain, or dead and answering for my sins. It’s all the same, maybe. I will eternally get no rest. What a terrible job, this Chosen.”

“Does the Captain know?” Marc asked, not sure what to say about the rambling. She was, without a doubt, spilling secrets. Marc knew that. But he didn’t know how they were important. Or why.

She shrugged. “Not from my mouth, but I’m sure he suspects I must go. Or maybe that I will go. Who’s to say what goes on in that head of bricks?”

Marc got up slowly. He didn’t know much, but he knew that if she died or left, they were sunk. That Inkna army would have taken them down without her battling with her mind. She needed to train the Captain to do it. If there were more people that used that type of fighting, which it sounded like there were, she had to stay on their side. She had to. Or they would end up like the people here—poor, distraught, or used for unspeakable things. Marc wouldn’t see his sister handed over, or his father starving. He wouldn’t!

“Leilius, watch her. I’ll be back,” Marc said as he turned.

“But—“

With her eyes still closed and her head leaning back against the tree, the sun sprinkling her face through the leaves, a smile soaked up Shanti’s face. “I only bite during sex, Leilius, and you are too young for that.”

Marc paused when he finally found the Captain. The man was sweat-stained and exhausted, but he wasn’t giving up. He was helping the townsfolk with the manual labor, right alongside his men, cleaning up the destruction that the battle caused. The strength of the man was awe-inspiring. He could lift twice what the man next to him could manage, and could work for longer. That fact didn’t help Marc’s desire to be somewhere else besides where he was, stiffly walking up to the large man with a plea on behalf of a foreign woman that the Captain probably didn’t care about in the least—other than to laugh at her clumsy execution of their language and confusion of their customs. Marc had never understood his leader’s humor where it concerned S’am, but then, he had never understood the Captain, full stop. It was best to just steer clear.

But here he was, tremors from head to foot, wringing his hands like a maid caught stealing, shuffling up and clearing his throat. “Sir?” he said weakly.

After a moment, watching the Captain wrestle a giant beam to the side, Marc tried again. “Captain, sir?”

The large man turned and looked down at him. He wasn’t that much taller, but it certainly seemed that way now, or any time Marc had been stupid enough to get a dose of the Captain’s full attention.

He felt like a worm watching a giant boot descend.

“Cadet, yes. How are the wounded?”

“Um, okay, I guess. Sir. Five are dying. Shanti—uh, S’am, the foreign woman—is easing their troubles somehow. She doesn’t say how, but it seems to help. They look peaceful.”

“And you can do nothing for them?”

“No, sir. I tried. They have wounds that cannot be sewn or otherwise healed. Too deep or internal, with too much blood loss. If we had a full hospital it would only make a difference to one of them, and that would probably still be a losing battle.”

“I see. And what of Sanders and the two others?”

“Sh—the foreign woman, um—“

“Calling her by her name is acceptable, Cadet.” The Captain’s voice softened, if a steel sieve could be called soft.

“Yes, sir. Well, she is doing something with them, too. It is sapping her energy, though, sir. She is fading. Visibly fading.”

The Captain’s eyes glowed faintly for a quick moment. It was eerie and a little scary. The man didn’t need any more ways to freak Marc out, but he kept finding them. “Yes, I see. I will monitor that, Cadet. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

The Captain went to turn away but Marc didn’t leave. It was not why he had come. Not the only reason, anyway. Sometimes he truly hated his life. “Uh, sir?”

He was met with that stare again. He wasn’t being rushed; the Captain always had time for everyone, but a guy didn’t have to be prodded to want to walk away. Not with those hard eyes trapping him. “Yes, Cadet?”

“Um, well, two things. One, she won’t eat. She just keeps saying she’s not hungry. She’s only had a small amount since the end of the battle yesterday. Lucius is busy, and I know you are too, but Commander Sanders can’t help because—well, he’s…you know—and no one else will probably be any good. Her body is trying to heal, she is trying to heal others as well…she needs to eat or she’ll get sick. Or worse.”

The Captain was walking before Marc had finished. Since he hadn’t gotten to the second problem, and he hadn’t been told he was excused, he jogged to catch up.

“And the second thing?”

Oh good, following had been the right decision.

He cut off a sigh as the impatient blue gaze swept his way. “And, uh, maybe you don’t care, or are glad, but she said she’s leaving after her shoulder heals. It’s not a bad wound—it won’t take long to heal. Not with her accelerated rate, anyway. She says she is better off alone. She also made a comment that she would have no people unless she got help—“

The Captain stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Tell me exactly what she said.”

Marc’s legs started to tremble. Oh God, he should have written it down. He relayed as much as he could remember and did broad strokes for the rest. He tried not to stammer, but his brain was having a hard time refraining from telling his legs to run. When he was done the Captain was silent for a beat.

“Who else heard?” he finally said.

“Leilius. That’s it.”

“Do you know what it means? What she meant?”

“Uh-mm, I assume it meant that some of her people made it to safety and are awaiting her return with help. She must have stashed the best and the brightest if they hope to have a chance, right? And that she had thought this man that she loved was going to safety with them, but he didn’t. And even though she just killed the man who killed him, then well, if that’s true, it’s bringing the grief right back up to the surface, I would guess. And someone who was paired with her, to protect her, like Lieutenant Lucius does, died. So probably for her, right? Probably to help her escape? She’s obviously as powerful as everyone seems to think she is, so she’s the jewel that everyone wants to claim to win the war, right? And now there is you…um…”

Something had changed in the Captain’s face. His eyes turned hard and intense. Marc lowered his eyes and tried to shrink out of the way, hoping the Captain left him standing there and moved on.

“Insightful.” No such luck. “Do you have reason to believe Leilius put any of that together?”

“Uh, n-no, sir. He was too worried about the tears.”

“Whose? Shanti’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marc heard a deep breath and a slow exhale. Then, “I’m sure I don’t have to impress upon you that that is information you are not to share?”

“N-no, sir. You are the one I thought should have that, uh, knowledge. Sir.”

“Correct. Well done.” His feet didn’t move, and since that was all Marc could see of him, he didn’t really know what was going on, and he didn’t want to look up to find out. So he waited quietly.

“So she does have people.” The Captain sounded like he was half talking to himself. “They must have saved some, knowing they couldn’t win. What a decision to have to make. She had to send her people to their death, hide those that gave them the best chance for their future, and save herself. She had to play God with those she had known all her life—deciding who lived and who died. Even had to track down the captured and kill them in an act of mercy. Could I have done that?”

Rhetorical? Probably. Marc continued to stare at the ground and pretend like he couldn’t hear the conversation spoken to the top of his head.

“This man she speaks of was not a soldier,” the Captain went on. “Lucius has heard that from her nightmares. He was good with children. He stayed behind, which means the children were taken to safety. He was probably trying to buy them time so they could escape. Noble. So they saved children, caretakers, and their best soldiers. Interesting. I wonder where they were hidden…”

“They saved those with fighting skills and the mental part, too, sir.” Marc flinched. Why did he have to speak? And now he’d caused silence. That couldn’t be good.

“And they followed her ruling. They valued her leadership. They had faith that she should go alone to get this thing done. They thought a young woman was the best choice to walk across the land in search of an ancestor a hundred or more years removed with nothing but weapons and her father’s ring. And she almost made it.”

“She thought our forest was still intact. If not for that, she would be long gone,” Marc said in resignation. If the Captain was determined to make him a sounding board, he might as well move the thoughts along.

“We are not alone in this, either, Cadet.”

Marc didn’t know what he was talking about, so he said nothing.

“But she has to go—I see that now.”

“But sir, you can’t let her leave!” Marc said in desperation. “We cannot withstand those Starchars, or whatever they are. You have power, I hear, but you can’t heal with your mind. Or cause pain. Or whatever else she does that helps the army. You can’t—“

“That is enough, Cadet.” The Captain’s deep, graveled voice set Marc’s bones to vibrating. Marc could feel a warning tingle in his ball sack that said he was probably about to be bodily thrown somewhere. He was prepared for flight and was not ashamed to admit it.

“She has to leave,” the Captain went on, walking now, “but you are right, she has valuable skills we need to harness. For right now, though, she needs to stay alive, and her spirit needs to heal. You are in charge of monitoring that, and reporting to me whenever she suffers a blow. The rest of what she said you will not speak of to her or anyone else, save me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suck your emotions deep within you. She does not seek them unless it is dire, so if you keep your thoughts close to your chest, she should glean nothing of this conversation.”

Mark had no idea what that meant, either, but it was always wise to agree with the Captain. “Yes, sir.”

As they walked up, Shanti grimaced, eyes still closed. “Marc, you are a tattletale.”

“See, that’s weird,” Leilius mumbled, scooting around the tree.

“It’s not weird. Marc’s brain is all soft and squishy and caring. The other one’s brain looks like the ugly rugs he is so fond of. I am not reading his thoughts, just that he is unhappy about something. As usual.”

“You two boys can leave now,” the Captain said, his gaze trained on Shanti.

Neither Marc or Leilius wasted any time.

Chapter XLVIII

SHANTI WAITED FOR THE PROBING mental contact she knew would come. When it did, she gave it a tug, then gave him the mental equivalent of a kick. “You need to ask before you try to look in on someone’s thoughts.”

“You seem to have no qualms about it,” Cayan replied, sitting down beside her.

She still hadn’t opened her eyes, but he smelled dirty. And sweaty. “I don’t look. I maintain a connection with my head like people do with their eyes. I monitor to make sure everyone is alive, is okay, and is not in need of help. I cannot help, and really do not appreciate, that your people seem to constantly advertise their every damn emotional feeling.”

“Do you even know what damn means?”

“No, but I know how it is used, and how people respond to its use, which is really all slang is anyway.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad.”

“You need to eat.”

“You need to butt-out. And no, besides its use, I don’t understand that one, either. I know what a butt is, of course, and what ‘out’ is, but I don’t see how a naked butt, or a protruding butt, or a butt hanging out of something, makes sense in language. But yet, it makes the boys close their mouths or go away. Often times both.”

“Why won’t you eat? Or look at me?” Cayan was getting impatient.

“Jerrol won’t talk to me, you know. He stares often enough, and nearly vomits lust when he passes, but he won’t say two words. Was that your doing?”

“No. Not directly.”

“Undo it.”

“Why?”

A hot tear ran down Shanti’s cheek. “Because…I need him.”

“Him, or a man?”

“Him.” Another tear followed the first. She felt a deft finger wipe them away.

“Why him?” the Captain whispered.

“Because he has the same eyes. Earth brown. Deep, rich, gravitating earth brown. I want to make love to him, Cayan. One last time. I want those eyes looking into me while I hold him in my body.”

“Jerrol isn’t…your lost love. He doesn’t look at you the same way. The eyes are the same color, that’s all.”

“Romie.”

“Sorry?”

“Romie was his name. He was the sweetest person you could ever meet. He didn’t care about my status. Or my duties. Or my future before we heard of the armies coming. He would have stayed away if I’d asked. He would have loved me from a distance—let me choose one with a similar Gift. We had planned to mate. Before I left my homeland, he was the only one I had ever been with. By choice. It wasn’t really our custom—before mating we all, especially the fighters, experimented. We needed to be sure of what we wanted before we pledged ourselves. But I never wanted anyone but him. He gave me the same courtesy. Not many others, especially men, would do that.”

Cayan sat quietly, not moving. Listening. Letting her purge.

“I’ve defied his trust several times along the road,” she continued sadly. “Most times out of loneliness. Sometimes for sport or fun. Sometimes because I hated him for what he did. For telling me he would be safe when really he had put himself up as a Sacrifice, knowing I couldn’t follow. And sometimes…I did it for information. Everything else can be forgiven, even hating him, but I whored myself out for information. I no longer deserve him. I am no longer the woman he loved.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“How can I be? I am destined to live. You keep saving me. Tending to me, feeding me, carrying me unconscious to aid. You should scorn me. Outcast me. Send me away for what you witnessed in that dungeon. Yet here you are, trying to get me to eat. Do you hate me, Cayan?”

“No, mesasha.”

“Will you tell me what that term means, now?” She’d asked him a few times since she’d heard it first, never hearing it from anyone else, but he had declined to answer. Said if she couldn’t figure it out by stealing his thoughts, then she was half dense. Though his tone was always light and joking, he hadn’t been smiling.

His eyes delving into hers, he slowly shook his head.

She sighed. “Well, I don’t want your help, anymore. I will not be returning with you. I will continue on toward the sea. I will probably have to whore myself out to get a boat, but I will. That is what I am, now.”

“You are being over-dramatic. You are not what you fear—with your Gift you wouldn’t need to use…anything else. Even still, you will make no more of your journey alone.”

“No? You are, what, going to hire a guide? Or you have realized my value, like that swine Xandre, the Being Supreme, and now you will keep me close so I can be your weapon? Or breed for you instead of him?”

“I know you need to make that trip. You will not do it alone.”

Shanti opened her wet eyes and looked at him. He was dirt stained and sweaty. His arms were bared, the great muscle, bronzed, shiny where the sun hit it. His eyes were deep and so, so blue. “What has given you the change of heart?”

“I have allies, Shanti. Many. Some will not head down the hard road, as I must, but many will. They will follow my lead. They will fight by our side. I need you. I need the people you hope to claim and bring back. I admit that, freely. But you need me. If we stay together we have a chance. If you leave, my people will surely die. The Inkna will probably come for us, first. Their masters are sure to follow if we aren’t destroyed. You need men and my power. I need the same of you. It can only work if we join forces.”

“I sure hope you aren’t going to talk about fate and divinity and all that crap. I’ve had enough of that with Sterling.”

“Sterling?”

“Yes, he’s pledged his sword, whatever that means. And his God, and the fates, and other things I didn’t understand.”

“It means he has vowed to protect you when you cannot protect yourself.”

“Oh. A second Chance. Well, my Chances tend to die, so thankfully he is more your man than he’ll ever be mine. But it would’ve been nice if he’d cut to the wick of it, instead of carrying on and on about the-Elders-can-only-be-sure.”

“Back to the subject at hand. In order to use you, I need you living. You need to eat and let Marc baby you.” Cayan was smiling. He had a lovely smile that always seemed to touch his eyes, making them twinkle like the surface of a rippling lake in the noon sun.

Shanti couldn’t find the humor, though. “I hurt, Cayan. A part of me died with Romie.”

“You need to heal. He died for a cause. You were forced to live for one. Don’t fail him or insult his memory with these thoughts. I don’t know much about love, but I think anyone would give you the same advice. If he truly loved you, he would have wanted you to regain your happiness. I’m sure he loved when you smiled.”

Shanti choked on a sob. Her chest felt like it was filled with rocks. “How did you know?”

“Because you have a beautiful smile.” Cayan looked deeply into her soul as he sat immobile, his heavy arms resting on his knees. “Rest. Eat. When you’re ready, we’ll spar. You can beat on me to ease your pain.”

“Let me have Jerrol. Please, Cayan. I’ll be discrete.”

“No. It’s not in me to allow it, and it would only torture you, anyway. Please do not ask again.”

He got up and moved away. He checked on a few of the men who were awake, laughing with one who had to get an arrow extracted from his leg. He knelt beside Sanders and put his hand on a bare arm. He moved to the other two and did the same. He probably determined that they were healing. Their brains were mending. The process would be quicker if Shanti were healthy. She hated to admit it, but Cayan had made a lot of sense. She needed to keep going. She had a job to do. If she did not see this thing to the end, her people would have died in vain. She could not let that happen.

Chapter XLIX

“ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE UP to it?”

Cayan was looking at her with a twinkle in his eyes. He wanted to laugh at her but kept himself from indulging.

They had been stationary for a week, putting together the crippled city of Tonnicka. The Inkna had all been killed and burned in a great pyre, the townspeople celebrating their demise and worshipping Cayan as their savior, but there were still months of destruction that had to be undone. Lucius had reestablished the local government, and they were already reshaping their community. Half of Cayan’s men returned to their homes, taking word of their victory, the bodies of those that did not make it, and the sick that could sit on a horse for the trip back. The rest remained to finish rebuilding the city with their sweat and hard work, or to recover.

With the trees at Shanti’s back, and nightly visits from Cayan to give her energy through the healing process, plus what she had learned from the little mouse they had captured in Cayan’s city, she was quickly mending. She gave that same benefit to Sanders and the other two that suffered mentally, and they were awake more often, their bodies filling out after being half starved, and their nightmares becoming less frequent.

She decided that since Cayan had sent Jerrol back to the city, and no one else had caught her interest, she would take Cayan up on his offer and beat some sense into him. Except for that nightly energy transfer, in which he insisted on holding her hand with fingers entwined, they rarely spoke or were in each other’s company. She was usually hovering on the outskirts of the fires, eyes closed, feeling the night, and he was with his men, talking and laughing and sharing a roasted something or other that the hunters had returned with or the townspeople had brought. He had his place, his world, and she didn’t belong in it. She couldn’t belong in it—she still freaked most of his men out.

The day of the challenge, the sun was streaming down, losing some of its heat as the season drew to a close and winter loomed. The men were all gathered around, creating a large circle, wanting to watch the woman fight without any other distractions. Legend had it she was pretty good. Marc and Leilius swore up and down that she was better than Lucius or Sterling, but it was said Marc and Leilius had a crush on the exotic woman and couldn’t be trusted.

Those that bet for her had seen a snippet of her in battle, though they hadn’t gotten long to gawk. Those that bet against had a bias, largely based off fear. They had heard what she had done with her mind, not believed the Captain was capable of it, and didn’t trust what they didn’t understand. They knew she was necessary, but didn’t want to get close to something so unpredictable as a woman who killed men with her mind, and worst of all, cried. Right in the middle of them sometimes!

Those were the men who learned that fear and arousal could sometimes go hand-in-hand.

Shanti was swinging her arm, warming up her weakened shoulder. It had been a shallow stab wound that was currently a scar, and would soon be smooth skin. The Gift wasn’t just for violence, especially when Cayan worked his version of healing. “Marc says no, I’m not ready, but you know him.”

“Doesn’t have a clue how to doctor,” Cayan said with a laugh, winking at an outraged Cadet.

“Weapons?” Shanti asked, motioning toward wooden practice swords.

“Nah. Mental?”

She stopped swinging her arm. “You want to go up against my Gift?”

He smiled so big it took up his whole face. His dimples were deeper than she had ever seen them. Too bad she was about to bloody that handsome face.

“I have a good block,” he said, pacing across the clearing like a jungle cat.

“I have a great attack.”

“Well, then…”

“Tobias, does that change the odds?” Shanti called.

“Yes, s’am. You are the underdog right now, but using the ol’ noggin will definitely change things.”

“Did you bet for me or against?”

“I appreciate you saving my life ’n all, but he’s bigger, stronger, and faster. I’m against. Although, now I’m not sure. Even match with the noggin, maybe.”

“Noggin is head, then?” Shanti asked a still smiling Cayan.

He nodded and feinted at her. She didn’t bother to react. Instead, she opened and released her power, flexed, spread it out, then condensed it down. She took hold of his mind and found his block.

“Ready, then?” she asked.

He must have known what she found because he smiled bigger. “I’ve learned a thing or two.”

“I don’t care, I’m getting bored. Let’s do this.”

She barely had time to react, he came at her so fast. Giant spans of arms and legs speeding toward her body with incredible strength behind them. She didn’t want to take a solid hit from him and she couldn’t block without risking damage. For him it meant deflecting and returning the attack when he compensated.

His arm arched toward her face. She stepped into him instead of ducking away, caught his thick arm with her raised elbow to stop it and then hammered her fists into the valleys of his muscle. His breath went out in a whoosh but he was moving again, grabbing for her body to fling her over his shoulder in a throw. She swiveled and kicked up, connecting with the side of his face. He took the blow and turned, leg out, sweeping her leg out from under her. She turned it into a roll, dodged a kick, and came up on the other side of him.

That was when he started the mental warfare. He advanced on her, a solid Push from his mind jarring her bones and sparking her power. Power turned to heat within her body. She almost stopped where she was, but if she did she would have been flat on her back from his fist in the next second. Instead, she backed up and half ran to the edge of the clearing, her back to Tobias.

“Running away?” Cayan asked with hungry eyes. Power made his irises glow. The answering power within her nearly roared in response.

“Are you sure you want to play with this much power?” she asked, trying to hide her shaky voice. “Can you control it?”

“Can you?”

“Yes?”

He laughed. “Bring it on little girl. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yeah, but I am a little afraid of me,” she muttered, gingerly walking back toward him.

She faced him like she would’ve faced any of her opponents so long ago when she was on the sparring pad. She took in a deep breath and drew in her power, wearing it about her person like a cloak. His eyes glowed in response, feeling it calling him, reaching out to her in return. She wanted to join it and play. It felt exciting. Invigorating. Extremely dangerous. Just like him.

“You better have your shield on as tight as you can make it, or else this might hurt a little.” She grinned wickedly.

She attacked, her power unleashing like a splinter, hurled into the center of his forehead as she advanced with hands moving constantly. Kick, punch, wipe away his answering punch, poke to the neck, elbow to the face, then back out, rolling under a kick and turning back with a slap of power. He couldn’t keep up physically, not with her mental bombardment. He was taking punch after kick, staggering, grunting, and straightening for more.

She couldn’t get through his muscle, couldn’t do any real damage. He was fast enough to move that little bit to where she was less effective and block her mental prowess. After about ten minutes he stopped with a hand up. She backed off.

He was breathing heavy and his eyes were contemplative. “You win round one.”

“That’s it?” she asked, working her shoulder. “We can use weapons if you want. No more mental stuff.”

“No, I’m not done. I need to regroup. You’ve done this before. I haven’t.”

“You’re bigger and stronger. Tobias says that gives you an edge.”

“Tobias doesn’t know how lethal a woman’s mind can be when she’s pissed off.”

“Yes I do,” Tobias called from amid the crowd. “But Captain, you are now the underdog. You aren’t making us men folk look all that great right now.”

Cayan nodded. “Again.”

Shanti went at him again, whirling, attacking his mind and body. When she got within his reach she bombarded him with punches, hitting the same places as before, trying to work the bruises through the layers of muscle. As she worked, evading his grabs and answering attacks, a feeling started working up from her inner thighs. It wasn’t unpleasant—in fact…it was only pleasant.

Finishing her punches and ducking out, it felt like a giant, wet, slightly coarse tongue licked between her legs. When it got to the top of her slit it went in lazy circles, and tingles spiraled up her body. Shanti froze, unable to tear her mind away from the sensation. An instant later she was airborne, landing ten feet away flat on her back. Where she stayed for a second, shivering.

“Remind me to apologize to Sanders. Then say you’re welcome,” she said to the air. Cayan started laughing.

“What happened?” Tobias called out.

“The Captain seems to know his way around the female anatomy, and is coloring outside the lines,” Shanti explained, getting up slowly.

“I win round two,” Cayan said with a delighted smile.

“You were paying attention that day…” Shanti said, circling him.

“Not really. But I’m a man. I have an active imagination. It seems visualization is the key.”

“Atta boy, Captain. Way to pull ahead by thinking with your dick,” Tobias called, taking another bet.

“Language,” Cayan said firmly.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Way to give her a taste of her own medicine!” Sanders yelled from off field somewhere.

Shanti continued to circle, a firm hand on his mind. She kneaded his head, pushing at his block, poking it, trying to move it to the side, feathering it. Then, with one swift spike of power, she struck at it, focusing all on one tiny point as she moved in, hands and feet moving. The power speared him, his shield unable to handle such a concentrated attack as her kick landed on his solar plexus.

He wasn’t used to two tiers of fighting, not yet, so he wasn’t organized enough to choose which to block. He took the hit in both places, staggering back, bent, unable to counter. Shanti merely watched, not pursuing, as he dropped down to one knee.

“Ouch,” he said, running a hand over his head.

She reached out immediately, brushing away the hurt with a soft caress, lessoning the residual pain. He looked up with that blue gaze and lingered in her eyes. In her mind.

“Want to just stick to physical sparring for a while?” she asked by way of apology.

“Can you hit harder than that? Can you make it more potent?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

He climbed to his feet. “I want to see it happen. I want to know what it feels like.”

“I know you can hit really hard. I don’t ask you to prove it.”

“That’s because you already know how to hit.”

Shanti put her fists on her hips. “You know how to do what I just did; all you have to do is apply more power. And then it hurts more.”

“An ape knows that much.” It sounded like Sanders.

Cayan ignored him. “Show me.”

“No.”

“Would it kill me?”

She stared at him. He stared back. The field was dead quiet. “If you were unprepared, like you just were, and didn’t fight back, then yes, it would kill you.”

“And the lady just took the lead,” Tobias muttered off to the side.

Cayan let a hard breath tumble out of his mouth. “Then, for now, let’s just spar. I will need to practice before you do any real harm.”

“So the girl wins mentally, but we still have the physical battle. At your leisure, my lord,” Tobias mediated.

Cayan was no longer in a laughing mood. She’d shaken him. He had just learned how ill trained he really was. The next time he showed up to spar, she had a feeling she would be back-pedaling before she could fight him off.

The purely physical sparring lasted for the next hour. They were well matched, but Tobias had been right; Cayan was bigger and stronger, although not faster. At least not enough for it to count. His reach was what killed her. She had to duck in and out of his long arms, and a few times she got tangled inside. On those instances he grabbed her, gave whatever part of her body he had hold of a quick, though playful fondle, always laughing, then threw her across the field.

The first time it happened, the guys watching had sucked in a breath. Cayan had given her butt a hard pinch and a sound slap. They didn’t realize the extent of what she had done to him and to Sanders—she knew that she had started it, and also deserved it. Still, a swift though light kick to his balls had been justified. The guys had sucked in another breath at that one.

The last time, when Shanti was starting to get tired and sloppy, she had tripped over Cayan’s big boot and went head first into his chest. Before she could get her hands in gear to punch him in the gut, he had her face tilted and found her lips with his own. Startled, she froze, suffering his tongue to drift along her bottom lip, tasting her, daring her to open her mouth and taste him in return. Instead, she punched him in the balls as hard as she could, sending him back down to one knee.

In the quiet that followed he had smiled hugely and announced that it had been worth it. All the men cheered. Then all the men felt what it was like to have their brains lightly squeezed. It cut short the celebration, but not Cayan’s triumphant smile.

To Cayan, women were a game, and while it was funny, and to some extent also fun, she wasn’t in the mood to play for long. Not when he had denied her Jerrol. It was all a one-sided joke, in which he was in control, and she did not plan to forget it.

At the end Tobias ruled that the Captain had won the sparring and everyone collected their winnings. It was the first time Shanti had gotten nods and pats on the back. She was still the scary foreign woman, but she was less mysterious. Not that it really mattered to her, but she’d play along if it helped them sleep at night.

“Can I speak with you?” Cayan asked when the groups of men broke up.

She shrugged, finding a fire at the edge of the group and sitting down. The guy who had been there, a squeaky-voiced kid who was good with a bow and had just made it past Cadet, made himself scarce in a hurry.

“I know you have mostly healed,” Cayan started, sitting next to her. “I know that you don’t plan to come back with us. But I wondered…can you forestall your trip until after winter?”

She shook her head while he continued. “Winter gets very cold here. It has been known to snow. You don’t have provisions for that. You are newly healed after the last injury, and you were just newly healed before that. Another couple months won’t matter—no one can travel far in the winter. We are not in danger until then. In that time, you can represent your people as we draw others to our side.”

“I am in danger all the time, Cayan. I am forever in danger. If one of your people was to sell me out, or someone caught wind of me, the Graygual would not wait until the snows melt. They would come immediately to claim me.”

“But now my people know your value. And they know that I am like you. They cannot sell you out without also exploiting me.”

“Your army might adhere to that, but your citizens will not. They won’t understand me, or your Gift.”

“A couple months. The word cannot get out before then. We don’t trade in the winter, no one visits—it is like the world halts for the cold. In that time you can train me. You can work with your Honor Guard and the other young members of the army. You would have a home, a warm place to celebrate your holidays, a time to rest and rejuvenate.”

“You wish me to stay for you, then, is that it? To train you and your army? For your benefit?”

Cayan hesitated, his gaze boring into hers. “Yes. For me. For my benefit and your own.”

“What makes you different from the Being Supreme?” Shanti asked quietly.

Cayan’s blank mask melted in anger. “For one, my goal is not to rape and breed you. And two, I have wanted you within my walls from the beginning. My reasons constantly change, I will grant you that, but they have always been in your best interest.”

Shanti shook her head. “I’m not in the game of trusting strangers, Cayan, especially not those who are interested in their own gain. I need to continue on my way. We need to part.”

“But what of my Gift? Our mating Gifts?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.”

“You don’t have any answers.”

“Fine, I don’t have any answers. It doesn’t change my duty.”

“I had planned to go with you,” Cayan said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “I wanted a couple months to prime Sterling and Daniels to handle the city while we were gone. I wanted to use the winter to get my allies lined up. Then I planned to go with you. I think we need to stick together, or else why are there two of us? Why did my mother’s long lineage of daughters suddenly end in a son?”

“Fate again, is it? Fate doesn’t exist, Cayan. I do not play the dutiful soldier well. If I had any family left alive to swear to that fact, they would tell you many a story. I travel best alone. It was how it was meant to be. I can reconnect with you if I can make it back.”

“That’s the point everyone understands but you, Shanti. You won’t make it back. Half of you wants to die in the next few months. More than half, now, I think. I think you’re eager for it. You can’t handle the burden anymore. What else is it but Fate? You, near death, were saved by the city that held the one person with your mating Gift. That’s more than coincidence. When you were ready to die, why did you suddenly find someone who wanted to help? Who wanted to keep you alive. Who watches over you, religiously, because you seem to look for battles that will end badly, or use you until you won’t get back up. Tell me that.”

“Unlucky, maybe. You don’t need me, Cayan. Actually, it sounds like you’d find much more peace without me. As you did before me. You can learn your Gift now that you understand the nature of it. You have what you need.”

“No, I don’t.” Eyes on fire, he grabbed her, capturing her face in his hands. He kissed her hard, his lips glued to hers, his mouth opening and willing her to do the same.

She resisted, pushing at him slightly, not understanding why her body was tingling, why his hands and mouth seared her face, why the smell and feel of spices overwhelmed her until she was leaning in helplessly, rubbing her hands up his chest and twining them around his neck. Or why she finally opened her mouth to his probing tongue.

He filled it in a rush, tilting his head for more contact, stroking her tongue with his, licking her lips and backing off to nibble. When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoldering, soft but aflame, his eyes glowing slightly, his mind wrapped within hers.

He was bloody attractive. All the girls thought so. He got whatever and whomever he wanted, even within his modest society. She was alone, and lonely, and grieving. He knew she needed intimacy—it was why she wanted Jerrol—and knew that capturing a girl’s heart was a way to override her logic. If he got her to believe in his love, she would fall in line. He was a master and she was a sucker.

She closed her mind and pushed. His eyes went wide before his face dropped into a scowl. “You keep running.”

“That is my duty. But let me guess; now you are going to throw in something about how Romie would disapprove of me leaving like this. Or how I couldn’t be the woman he fell in love with, what with my lack of foresight. Or how my parents would be ashamed of me. Or how my grandfather would be disappointed. Or how Rohnan, my Chance, saved the cause, and now I am just waiting for it to finally kill me and succumb to failure? You tried lust, and now you will try guilt, right? If so, don’t bother.”

He shook his head. “I was going to say you are as afraid of succeeding as you are of loving, whether it be family, friends, or anything else. And then I was going to wish you goodnight. You have noticed, I’m sure, that you have no guards. I have left you to the edges of the encampment to give you space. You could have left at any time. Still can. I do not hold you here under lock and key, nor was I doing it in the city after you proved I could trust you. I urge you to think on what I have said. I know you were trained to be a leader, and those that relied on you trusted you a great deal. Since I know something of leadership, I can say that the woman in front of me is not thinking with her experience, but instead, with her fear.”

With that, Master All-Knowing got up and walked toward the center of the encampment, leaving Shanti to feel hollow and alone. Leaving to her to think on her options. To mull over what he had said. It would be really irritating if he was right.

Chapter L

MARC WAS IN A PANIC. She was gone. She wasn’t there anywhere. He had searched every tent, every shrub, accounted for every man…she was gone. She had left in the night sometime when everyone was sleeping. Leilius might have a lot of talent for sneaking around unnoticed, but she had trained him. If she had wanted to get out soundless, undetected, she would have had no problem.

Without thinking, half in disbelief, he sprinted up to the Captain. “She’s gone! Sir, she’s gone. She left us. Sir.”

The Captain looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I know, Cadet. She left last night. We leave for home today. Without her. She made her decision and we will respect it.”

“But sir—“

Sanders walked up briskly, his body looking like it ached, but the man ignoring it. “I just overheard. Should I go after her?”

“I’ve already tried,” Sterling said as he rolled his sleeping mat. “Her tracks go to the brush line. I lose them after that. It is like she climbed the tree and jumped from branch to branch—without breaking any branches in the process. I’ve searched a wide circle and can’t find a trace.”

“She’s had a lot of experience hiding,” the Captain said with indifference. “If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be.”

“Can’t you search with your head, or whatever it is you do?” Sanders asked quietly. “I remember her mentioning that a time or two.”

“I’ve tried. I can get so far comfortably, but when I push the power gets slippery and implodes. She’s gone. We move on.” He walked away, ending the conversation.

Sanders looked at the ground a long time. He didn’t like it, that was obvious, but when he looked back up at Marc, he was resigned. “She has made her choices and there isn’t much we can do about it except not like it.”

Marc nodded. “But the others would’ve wanted to say goodbye.”

“So would we all, but it’s not in the cards. C’mon, pack your gear. We’re moving out.”

It was a long walk back. Leilius was constantly looking in the trees, disbelieving that s’am was really gone. He said he had a feeling. She wouldn’t have left them. He knew she hadn’t left—not for good. But when the Mugdock attacked on the way back, they had to fend for themselves. She didn’t pop out of the trees to help, and she didn’t look to be saved. Not that she ever did, but the fantasy of saving the lady in distress was always in their thoughts. Why else would a man want to be a hero, except for the rewarding kiss?

As they walked into the gate, they were greeted with cheers and smiles. The Captain was the big hero, as always, and he and a few of the other older, more handsome Commanders and Lieutenants were swarmed with pretty girls batting their eyes and throwing their scarves. Leilius puffed up his chest, trying to be noticed, but they were in the back and too young for any real attention. Not that Marc cared; he hated being the center of attention.

He went to his house where his family fawned over him. His stupid sister picked a fight, like she always did, and his stupid brother had used all his stuff while he’d been gone. But even though he settled in that night without his own swarm of girls, and even though he had his family close, and even though it was like every other night, something was missing and the effect was like a hole in his chest.

He wondered where she was. And if she’d ever come back.

Chapter LI

SHANTI SAT IN THE SHADE of a Cypress Tree, looking out at the valley below. Rolling hills covered in golden grass rose and fell around the sleepy town below. She could just make out a small horse carriage full of green vegetation, plodding toward the town’s gate on shaky wheels.

She’d walked away from Cayan and his people two days ago, cutting cross-country the fastest way possible. Left in the middle of the night like a coward. Like the coward he refused to call her.

She scoffed to herself as she brought her elbow up to her knee, squinting into the morning sun.

Thinking with her fear, he’d said. Well, he’d been right. Problem was, she didn’t even know what she was afraid of, anymore. Or, more aptly, what she was afraid of most. Was it going on and proving she was actually the Chosen? That this burden she carried would only get heavier and more intense, finally crushing her under the weight? Or maybe her fear was of succeeding and learning that her people were found by the Graygual. That they were dead, or worse, slaves. Or what if she wasn’t the Chosen, like she suspected? If she was going all the way to the Shadow Land only to be killed at the hands of strangers?

All those fears she’d carried throughout her entire journey. From one town to the next, those fears had kept her company. Through the pain, and the loneliness—through the doubt, and the famine—she’d relied on what she knew. Fear, and loss.

Yes, she was ruled by fear. He was right. But no more now than she’d ever been. It didn’t change her duty.

A ghost of a remembered kiss pressed her lips. Her palms tingled, remembering the feel of Cayan’s hard body. Remembering the flutter of her stomach as his gaze delved into her. The spices from his Gift tickling hers. Her power’s mate, wanting to mix and swirl, surging…

Shanti batted at the grass and pulled herself to her feet.

Fine. Yes. He was right, the meddling ass— she was afraid of more loss. Of watching her Honor Guard, boys she was helping shape into men, sliced alive by the Graygual. Of watching the city that brought her back from the dead crushed by a flood of the Graygual army. Of staying and letting that handsome bastard try and convince her she could love again, and then having him ripped away. The pain of Romie was diminishing with the final stages of loss—she couldn’t go through something like that again. It was best to freeze the part of her that could feel, and focus solely on her duty.

Shanti started down the hillside to the town below. She was doing him a favor—all of them a favor. Tomorrow she’d release a large blast of power, making sure she raised eyebrows and created rumor, in order to draw Xandre’s focus to her location. With just a release of power from one person, traveling alone, the rumors of a second power, if there were any, would be quelled. Cayan and his city would be in the same danger they were before her, and she and him would be even.

But that was for tomorrow.

Tonight she wanted a hot meal, a bath, and a bed.

She jiggled her satchel. The sound of coins rang out, bringing a smile to her face.

“Thank you, Cayan, for sleeping much too soundly.”

She might’ve been a coward operating on multiple layers of fear, but she could still sneak and steal with the best of them. And now he knew.

Shanti kept her head down as she neared the Inn in the center of the town. Dusk was just starting to settle. She would’ve preferred staying closer to the outskirts, in case she had to leave in a hurry, but without options, she’d settled for keeping her head down with dirty, somewhat matted hair. With pretty bar maids and hopefully dancing girls around the common area of the Inn, she doubted anyone would grow interest in a slightly stinky stranger—she’d just have to wait to bathe before bed.

The smell of baking bread greeted her as she pushed through the rustic door, seeing the common room open up before her. It was somewhat large for the size of the town, with wiped down tables dotting the dining area. To the left sat a small stage, perfectly equipped for a juggler or performer of some kind. A small and empty dance floor was in front of that. The bar hugged the back wall, occupied by a large man making lazy circles on the countertop with a grayish rag.

She weaved in and out of the tables until she got to the back, tucking herself into a darker corner, giving her visibility of the room, but hopefully masking her somewhat from others. She left on her cloak despite the heat of the room, and kept the hood over her light hair. Her coloring would stand out in this town—she didn’t need trouble tonight. Or questions.

“Hello miss.” A busty maid with wide hips walked up, a cheery expression on her face.

“I’ll need a hot meal and a bed and bath for the night. Can you arrange this?” Shanti dusted the table with three silver pennies.

“Oh, O’ course Miss, yes O’ course. Wouldn’t you be needin’ the bath first, though, Miss? I can bring the meal to your room…”

Shanti almost agreed—it was a good idea to remain unseen. The problem was, she needed to know what she was potentially walking into on her continued journey. She needed to hear news of the Graygual advancement and any other important gossip, no matter how farfetched. Common rooms were excellent sources of information since men would gossip about even the most absurd things. If she left, she’d continue to be walking blind.

“No, a meal first is fine. Thank you,” Shanti answered.

“Sure thing, Miss.” The woman bobbed in a sort of curtsey, and then bounded away.

Shanti watched the woman head back toward the kitchen, stopping by the bar. The bartender, a rugged, aged man with grizzled eyebrows and graying hair looked her way. A shot of adrenaline pierced Shanti’s stomach at his prolonged stare. Assessing stare.

She shifted her gaze, trying to show lack of concern, and looked out over the tables. Two were occupied, one with three heavy-set men all wearing travel stained garb, and the other with two similarly travel stained men, the one closest with a sword peeking out of his tunic. The door swung open, emitting a grim man with a balanced walk and his hand on a bag at his side.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the bartender glance toward the man walking in, but his gaze didn’t linger. Instead, it swung to her again before turning to his left—the same area the bar maid had exited the room. The kitchen, probably.

A moment later, as the new man was settling down to a table one away from hers, the bartender lumbered over with a plate of food and a cup, his large stomach covered with a dirty apron. He set down her food on the edge of the table and stood back some, surveying her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, gaze flicking up to his stomach before back down to her plate, indicating she was comfortable and he could move on.

He didn’t budge. Concern drifted away from his body, showering her. “We don’t get much women through these parts,” he began.

“I’m just passing through. I’ll keep to myself.”

He shifted, resting his weight over his right leg. The gray rag dangled down his thigh from where it was looped through his apron string at his waist. “You got some finery on you. That cloak weren’t made from no scraps. The thing is, it’s gotten a bit rough through here. It’s no place for someone without protection—‘specially a woman. I’m not telling you your business, but it might be wise to stay in your room ’n find someone to travel with.”

“I don’t remember this area being so rough…” Shanti let the statement trail away, really hoping that was true, and also hoping for a little more information.

The bartender glanced at the man occupying the nearest table. He leaned in to her a little, lowering his tone. “Got trouble passing through this way pretty often of late. Army men, though they seem a little scruffy for any sort of organized outfit, causing trouble. Word is, they’re looking for a woman. Fair haired, violet eyed woman…”

Cold washed through Shanti as the man paused. He lowered his voice as he continued with, “Word is, she was rumored to be with some rich folk a while ago. She was a part of a big battle not that far East of here—a few guys got out. Ridin’ through here like the Devil was herding them. Spreadin’ stories. Tall tales, I reckon. A woman and man with some sort of power. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that. I’m an honest man—I ain’t got no time for tall tales. But people talk. Army men are askin’ around. Women wandering around by themselves get picked up. Disappear. Now, I ain’t trying to tell you your business, but whatever color your eyes, you’re a woman, and these guys ain’t no good. Best to steer clear.”

Shanti stared at her food, her stomach churning. “And these stories—they involve a man?”

The bartender looked around again, shuffling closer until he was right up at the edge of the table. His tone was low and words nearly a whisper. “The man that woman was traveling with, yes, ma’am. Not sure if she still is—haven’t heard. But this man—word is, he attracted the attention of that army I hear all kinds of stories about. Wiped out one of them cities those Inkna took over. Like I said—a couple people got out. Rode through here—nearly killed the horse with exhaustion. Way I hear it, Inkna were interested in his city—and you know what happens, then…they move in. No one stands in their way. Well. It’s said someone did. He held his ground, then he shows up at the Inkna city and wipes them out? Him and a violet eyed woman?” The man tilted his head in a telling sort of way. “That kinda thing calls attention, make no mistake. I reckon the Inkna’ll have more interest now. And they have backing. The Inkna don’t like to lose. People are saying that man might be able to stand in the way of that ol’ Being Supreme…”

The man’s voice hitched and he glanced around hurriedly, as if saying the name would call attention to himself. Not able to help spreading gossip, though, and probably happy to have a listening ear who hadn’t already heard the information, he continued on in the same deathly quiet voice. “They say if anyone, you know…could stand in the way, it’d probably be that man. Him and that violet-eyed girl. Word is, they tore through that Inkna town. Tore right through it. Took down all that mind-power. Now, I don’t know—this is all tall tales. But I do know that no one has done that before. No one I’ve heard of, anyway. Got them all nervous.”

The bartender backed off a bit and grabbed his rag. “Now, like I said, I don’t know. These are just things I heard. I only know what comes through these doors. Tall tales, usually, like I said. But a lone woman is the worst kinda thing, regardless. She’ll get nabbed, sure as I’m standing here. You best stick to your room, and then find someone to travel with.”

Shanti tilted her head in thanks, her throat closed up with suppressed emotion. Of course, it had been silly to think they’d killed everyone in that battle. Stupid to think no witnesses could’ve escaped. Inkna were cowards. Most of the people the Graygual commanded were—that was the thing about fighting because you were forced to; you didn’t stick around if you didn’t have to. And glowing eyes were the telltale sign of the Gift, no matter the potency. Cayan would’ve been noticed before he even made it into the stronghold. Plus, no one person could’ve held her own against that many Sarshers. Not even her.

Shanti’s heart sank as the bartender moved away quietly. A release of power here would paint a big target on her location, and it still wouldn’t help Cayan. If the Graygual didn’t move in for his power, the Inkna would move in for his riches. It was only a matter of time.

But to help him, she had to get the Shadow People to her side.

Guilt settled into her stomach as she pulled her plate to her. She should’ve better trained him when she had the time. She’d been afraid of his might. Of what he could become. Also, she’d been wary of how her power acted with his, and how she felt when it did. She’d backed away, ever the coward, and now it left him vulnerable.

The roast mutton tasted like sand in her mouth. She forced the food down, needing to keep her strength up. Regardless of her failings to Cayan, tomorrow she would have to continue her journey, hoping Cayan started building his forces; hoping that would buy him time. Buy her time. The prophecies said that the true Chosen needed to lead the Shadow People out of the Land of Mists. That only the true Chosen could grant the world’s salvation. She needed to fulfill her duty.

She needed to continue her journey as planned.

Refusing to sigh, or to feel the pang of discomfort from her decision, she pushed the haze away and honed back in on her surroundings. It wasn’t a time for remorse—she was without protection again. Without Cayan at her side and his men at her back. Alone meant surviving.

A group of three men entered the common room together, having a glance around. Travel stained like everyone else, these men had hard bodies and shifty eyes. One with a beard glanced at her, his brow furrowing. He did a sweep of the rest of the room, before following his mates in her general direction. Another of the men, a barrel chested man with dirt on his cheek and killing in his eyes, sighted her before glancing to the table next to her. The third man glanced at her as well and then to the empty tables in her area.

She must’ve been in their usual seat, and though she felt wariness from them as another person might scream-sing their favorite song, they didn’t count her as a threat. In fact, they took the table next to hers along the wall, probably happy to be next to the dirty woman hunkering in the shadows instead of any of the other rough looking individuals carrying an array of weapons.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you. They saw him again,” the man with a beard was saying in a low tone as he took the seat closest to Shanti. He didn’t bother sparing her a second glance. None of his party did, in fact. Which was a good sign. They were worried about their own troubles, and didn’t want anyone else’s.

“Who? That fella calling himself the Chosen?” the barrel chested man asked.

All other noise in the room ceased to exist as Shanti honed in.

“No,” the bearded man answered. “He’s headed to the Shadow Lands, I hear. The Chosen, I mean.”

“What is that damn thing, anyhow?” the third said, a wiry man with quick hands, by the look of him. “All I hear anymore is about how they finally found the true Chosen. These are the same people who got some idiot calling himself the Being Supreme or some damn thing—“

“Shut up!” the man with the beard hissed, glancing at the next closest table. The solitary man didn’t even raise his eyes from his plate. “You’ll get strung up for saying a thing like that.”

“All’s I’m saying is, they got some war lord, right? What do they need with this Chosen person?” the wiry man said in a loud whisper.

“He’s supposed to be able to control the Shadow Land.” The man with the beard didn’t hide his shiver. “Why any man would want to mess with those people, I don’t know.”

“I hear they eat their dead,” the robust man whispered in a disgusted tone.

“No, they eat those they find wandering on their island. The Chosen is supposed to tame that. The Being Supreme wants that army for his mercenaries, it’s said.”

“Don’t know why,” the robust man leaned on the table. “They’re a bunch of savages. They’d just go wild and kill the army they were supposed to fight for.”

“Instead of desert it, like you?” the wiry man smirked, earning a loaded warning delivered in an icy stare. The wiry man put up his arms in surrender. “Not that I blame you, I’m just sayin’ is all—“

“Well don’t say nothin’, you hear me? If they find me, I’m as good as dead. Torture, too. They’ll slice me up in front of a cheering audience. I’ve seen it. And you, too, for being with me. Best to steer clear from that whole lot.” The robust man hunched a little more, dipping his face.

“Which is why we’re going south. But that’s what I’ve been saying about the Shadow People—the Chosen is supposed to tame that,” the bearded man growled.

“How do they know he’s the real deal? I’ve heard of some of them before.” The robust man motioned for the bar maid, currently delivering ale to another table.

“Passed a bunch of tests or something. He’s an Inkna—has a ton of that mind-power stuff. More than anyone ever—that’s what they’re sayin’.” The bearded man let out a huff and flicked something off the table. “Load of bollocks if you ask me. Anyway, he’s on his way to get those Shadow People, but he’s waiting in Mirasoma for some scrolls or something.”

“Mirasoma…sounds familiar.” The wiry man squinted his eyes, apparently trying to picture that place on his mental map. Shanti did likewise, but without the visual contortion.

“By the ocean. Anyway, doesn’t matter,” the bearded man continued. “That ghost is back.”

All three men hushed as the bar maid bustled over, a smile in place, ready to take their orders.

Shanti’s mind was whirling. Another Chosen! One with a bunch of power. And he’d passed the milestones…

It was a he. The scrolls the Shamas had had always spoke of the Chosen as a male. It was thought the ancient Seers couldn’t predict sex and just went with a male default, but…if the man proclaiming himself the Chosen passed the tests, it meant he was truly the Chosen. A he.

Something in her chest constricted, and then sank, confusion soaking up her thoughts. She didn’t really know how she felt. She’d lived with that burden for so long… All her people had sacrificed themselves so that she might live. For all of that to be a lie… For her whole life to have been a lie…

Rushing filled her ears and her head got light. A strange disappointment settled deep into the pit of her stomach.

“Miss?” she heard, having her looking up distractedly.

The bar maid’s eyes went wide as she met Shanti’s gaze. Shock and fear radiated from her, a reaction to the violet eyes, no doubt.

Bloody—

Shanti stayed deadly still, gripping each mind within that room. Wondering which way the winds would blow.

“Do you want more water, Miss?” the woman asked in a whispy voice, taking out a charcoal and paper from the pockets of her apron. She angled her body and brought her hands in close, hiding her activity under the shelf of her large bosom. “Or shall I call the bath for you?”

The charcoal worked for a moment before the woman dropped the paper to the table. On it was written, “Not safe. U brin truble. Go room.”

“A bath will be fine. Please get me when it’s ready,” Shanti said in an even voice.

“’Course, Miss.” The bar maid bobbed and hurried away, anxiety shedding from her mind in sheets.

“Yeah, he took out another Commander last night. A hundred spans from here. They say he’s fair, like that violet eyed girl,” the bearded man was saying.

Shanti furrowed her eyebrows with that description, the disappointment from a moment ago turning into shock. There would only be one person matching her description who would travel across the land after her.

“There ain’t no such thing as a violet eyed girl.” The wiry man shifted with a wave of his hand.

“Yes there is!” the robust deserter said adamantly. “Yes there is. They tried to keep that hushed up, but I know a guy that saw her. Chased her, too. She’s this huge woman, though. Massive. The strength of two men. It’s no wonder she always got away, you know what I’m saying? And she’s got that mind mumbo-jumbo, too, so…”

“Yeah, right. No woman’s that big,” the wiry guy said in a dry voice.

“Well, they say that ghost is related to her. Sneaks in, kills, sneaks back out—looks like her. She must be real if the ghost looks like her,” the robust deserter said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah, he—“

The bearded man was cut off as the door swung open with a thud, someone having kicked the door to gain entrance. With a heart trying to rip out of her chest, wondering if what the men said was true, wondering if Rohnan, her Chance, was really still alive, the worst thing happened. Four men wearing the unmistakable black with the red circle on their chest walked in the door.

Shanti’s bones went cold right before heat flared. Fear and rage pumped in her blood.

Graygual.

The robust deserter next to her dropped his head, trying to hide his face as best he could. The other people in the common area hunched down on themselves, the classic sign of trying not to be noticed. And even though she wanted to kill them right now, wanted to get up and physically put her knife through their hearts, Shanti hunched like everyone else, trying to melt into the shadows as best she could.

Through her lashes, Shanti could see the men swagger in, looking everyone over with self-importance smeared on their dirty faces. Their uniforms were wrinkled and filthy, their smell preceding them as they sauntered up through the tables.

“What’s this?” one rasped, his body pointed toward Shanti. “Well, well, what have we here…”

Shanti clutched his mind as her hand dropped to her side, easing a knife out of her leg brace from under the table.

“Lookie here, Race,” the Graygual rasped, sauntering closer. “I do believe we’ll get some kudos with this find.”

Shanti coiled. Her body surged with power.

“It’s Gagna the Deserter.”

Shanti froze as the table next to her jumped to life. A sword swung free from a sheath, Gagna rushing forward with metal at the ready. He caught the Graygual by surprise, sticking him through the stomach before Race could free his own sword and join the fray. The men by the deserter’s side had their weapons out, too, running at the Graygual with rusty swords.

Everyone else cleared to the sides or left the room altogether, not wanting to be in the deadly battle. It was a good idea.

Shanti bolted upright, sprinting along the bar and into that kitchen. There, as she hoped, she found the bar maid and the bartender, hiding out of sight.

“We don’t want no trouble,” the bartender said as she stood over them, panting.

“If the Graygual win this war, all you’ll have is trouble. If you live that long. The ghost—where is the ghost they speak of?” Shanti asked in desperation.

“Wh-what?” the man asked with wide eyes.

“The ghost,” Shanti urged as the sound of something heavy crashing through wood in the outer room. Someone dead having fallen on a table, most likely.

“Last I heard, he was north-west. Them’s just tales, though,” the man pleaded as though asking for his life.

“How long ago did you hear that?” Shanti asked, leaning closer.

“A week, I think,” the bartender shuddered. “They’re looking for you. The violet-eyed girl. You shoulda stayed with that man. They say you and him can stand up to that Being Supreme, on a-count of you took out the Inkna… You can’t do much on your own—”

Ignoring the continued dialogue, Shanti snatched up whatever food she could carry and headed for the back door. Before she left the kitchen, she turned back to the owner and the bar maid, the only two people left in the kitchen. “Fight the Being Supreme in any way you can. Any way you can, you hear me? Or this type of thing will get a whole lot worse.”

She was out the door at their nods, skirting into the shadows and out of sight. She really should’ve gone for that bath first—now she’d have to bath in the first stream she found. It’d be cold.

Running from one shadow to the next on light feet, she moved with the experience and grace of someone having spent a year being hunted. Leilius was good, but Shanti was the master. As she ran, her new plan rolled through her head.

First thing, she needed to see if that ghost was Rohnan. If he lived, he belonged by her side. Family took priority.

After that, she needed to deal with this new Chosen. There was no way Shanti could allow the disgusting Inkna, and through them, the destructive Graygual, to gain more force. Her new task was to take this Chosen down, and to do that, she needed power. She needed might. She needed someone as strong as she to unite against the Being Supreme.

The bartender had been right—she needed Cayan.

The day for duty was over. Now it was time for vengeance.

…The story continues in Hunted: Book 2

Coming 2015

http://www.kfbreene.com/warrior-chronicles.html

Afterword

K.F. BREENE IS THE BESTSELLING author of cotemporary romance, urban and fantasy novels. When she’s not writing, you might find her at a café, sipping wine and chatting with her girlfriends. She lives in San Francisco with her two children, one of which duped her into thinking he was a grown man. That was before her daughter came along, of course.

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A QUEST OF HEROES - BOOK #1 IN THE SORCERER’S RING

Morgan Rice

“UNEASY LIES THE HEAD THAT wears the crown.”

—William Shakespeare

Henry IV, Part II

Chapter I

THE BOY STOOD ON THE highest knoll of the low country in the Western Kingdom of the Ring, looking north, watching the first of the rising suns. As far as he could see stretched rolling green hills, dipping and rising like camel humps in a series of valleys and peaks. The burnt-orange rays of the first sun lingered in the morning mist, making them sparkle, lending the light a magic that matched the boy’s mood. He rarely woke this early or ventured this far from home—and never ascended this high—knowing it would incur his father’s wrath. But on this day, he didn’t care. On this day, he disregarded the million rules and chores that had oppressed him for his fourteen years. For this day was different. It was the day his destiny had arrived.

The boy, Thorgrin of the Western Kingdom of the Southern Province of the clan McLeod—known to all he liked simply as Thor—the youngest of four boys, the least favorite of his father, had stayed awake all night in anticipation of this day. He had tossed and turned, bleary-eyed, waiting, willing the first sun to rise. For a day like this arrived only once every several years, and if he missed it, he would be stuck in this village, doomed to tend his father’s flock the rest of his days. That was a thought he could not bear.

Conscription Day. It was the one day the King’s Army canvassed the provinces and hand-picked volunteers for the King’s Legion. As long as he had lived, Thor had dreamt of nothing else. For him, life meant one thing: joining the Silver, the King’s elite force of knights, bedecked in the finest armor and the choicest arms anywhere in the two kingdoms. And one could not enter the Silver without first joining the Legion, the company of squires ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age. And if one was not the son of a noble, or of a famed warrior, there was no other way to join the Legion.

Conscription Day was the only exception, that rare event every few years when the Legion ran low and the King’s men scoured the land in search of new recruits. Everyone knew that few commoners were chosen—and that even fewer would actually make the Legion.

Thor studied the horizon intently, looking for any sign of motion. The Silver, he knew, would have to take this, the only road into his village, and he wanted to be the first to spot them. His flock of sheep protested all around him, rising up in a chorus of annoying grunts and urging him to bring them back down the mountain, where the grazing was choicer. He tried to block out the noise, and the stench. He had to concentrate.

What had made all of this bearable, all these years of tending flocks, of being his father’s lackey, his older brothers’ lackey, the one cared for least and burdened most, was the idea that one day he would leave this place. One day, when the Silver came, he would surprise all those who had underestimated him and be selected. In one swift motion, he would ascend their carriage and say goodbye to all of this.

Thor’s father, of course, had never considered him seriously as a candidate for the Legion—in fact, he had never considered him as a candidate for anything. Instead, his father devoted his love and attention to Thor’s three older brothers. The oldest was nineteen and the others but a year behind each other, leaving Thor a good three years younger than any of them. Perhaps because they were closer in age, or perhaps because they looked alike and looked nothing like Thor, the three of them stuck together, barely acknowledging Thor’s existence.

Worse, they were taller and broader and stronger than he, and Thor, who knew he was not short, nonetheless felt small beside them, felt his muscular legs frail compared to their barrels of oak. His father made no move to rectify any of this—and in fact seemed to relish it—leaving Thor to attend the sheep and sharpen weapons while his brothers were left to train. It was never spoken, but always understood, that Thor would spend his life in the wings, be forced to watch his brothers achieve great things. His destiny, if his father and brothers had their way, would be to stay here, swallowed by this village, and give his family the support they demanded.

Worse still was that Thor sensed his brothers, paradoxically, were threatened by him, maybe even hated him. Thor could see it in their every glance, their every gesture. He didn’t understand how, but he aroused something, like fear, or jealousy, in them. Perhaps it was because he was different from them, didn’t look like them or speak with their mannerisms; he didn’t even dress like them, his father reserving the best—the purple and scarlet robes, the gilded weapons—for his brothers, while Thor was left wearing the coarsest of rags.

Nonetheless, Thor made the best of what he had, finding a way to make his clothes fit, tying the frock with a sash around his waist, and, now that summer was here, cutting off the sleeves to allow his toned arms to be caressed by the breezes. His shirt was matched by coarse linen pants—his only pair—and boots made of the poorest leather, laced up his shins. They were hardly the leather of his brothers’ shoes, but he made them work. His was the typical uniform of a herder.

But he hardly had the typical demeanor. Thor stood tall and lean, with a proud jaw, noble chin, high cheekbones, and gray eyes, looking like a displaced warrior. His straight, brown hair fell back in waves on his head, just past his ears, and behind the locks, his eyes glistened like minnows in the light.

Thor’s brothers would be allowed to sleep in this morning, given a hearty meal, and sent off for the Selection with the finest weapons and his father’s blessing—while he would not even be allowed to attend. He had tried to raise the issue with his father once. It had not gone well. His father had summarily ended the conversation, and he had not tried again. It just wasn’t fair.

Thor was determined to reject the fate his father had planned for him. At the first sign of the royal caravan, he would race back to the house, confront his father, and, like it or not, make himself known to the King’s men. He would stand for selection with the others. His father could not stop him. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of it.

The first sun rose higher, and when the second sun, mint green, began to rise, adding a layer of light to the purple sky, Thor spotted them.

He stood upright, hairs on end, electrified. There, on the horizon, came the faintest outline of a horse-drawn carriage, its wheels kicking dust into the sky. His heart beat faster as another came into view; then another. Even from here the golden carriages gleamed in the suns, like silver-backed fish leaping from the water.

By the time he counted twelve of them, he could wait no longer. Heart pounding in his chest, forgetting his flock for the first time in his life, Thor turned and stumbled down the hill, determined to stop at nothing until he made himself known.

Thor barely paused to catch his breath as he sped down the hills, through the trees, scratched by branches and not caring. He reached a clearing and saw his village spread out below: a sleepy country town packed with one-story, white clay homes with thatched roofs. There were but several dozen families amongst them. Smoke rose from chimneys as most were up early preparing their morning meal. It was an idyllic place, just far enough—a full day’s ride—from King’s Court to deter passersby. Just another farming village on the edge of the Ring, another cog in the wheel of the Western Kingdom.

Thor burst down the final stretch, into the village square, kicking up dirt as he went. Chickens and dogs ran out of his way, and an old woman, squatting outside her home before a cauldron of bubbling water, hissed at him.

“Slow down, boy!” she screeched as he raced past, stirring dust into her fire.

But Thor would not slow—not for her, not for anybody. He turned down one side street, then another, twisting and turning the way he knew by heart, until he reached home.

It was a small, nondescript dwelling like all the others, with its white clay walls and angular, thatched roof. Like most, its single room was divided, his father sleeping on one side and his three brothers on the other; unlike most, it had a small chicken coop in the back, and it was here that Thor was exiled to sleep. At first he’d bunked with his brothers; but over time they had grown bigger and meaner and more exclusive, and made a show of not leaving him room. Thor had been hurt, but now he relished his own space, preferring to be away from their presence. It just confirmed for him that he was the exile in his family that he already knew he was.

Thor ran to his front door and burst through it without stopping.

“Father!” he yelled, gasping for breath. “The Silver! They’re coming!”

His father and three brothers sat hunched over the breakfast table, already dressed in their finest. At his words they jumped up and darted past him, bumping his shoulders as they ran out of the house and into the road.

Thor followed them out, and they all stood watching the horizon.

“I see no one,” Drake, the oldest, answered in his deep voice. With the broadest shoulders, hair cropped short like his brothers’, brown eyes, and thin, disapproving lips, he scowled down at Thor, as usual.

“Nor do I,” echoed Dross, just a year below Drake, always taking his side.

“They’re coming!” Thor shot back. “I swear!”

His father turned to him and grabbed his shoulders sternly.

“And how would you know?” he demanded.

“I saw them.”

“How? From where?”

Thor hesitated; his father had him. He of course knew the only place Thor could have spotted them was from the top of that knoll. Now Thor was unsure how to respond.

“I…climbed the knoll—”

“With the flock? You know they are not to go that far.”

“But today was different. I had to see.”

His father glowered down.

“Go inside at once and fetch your brothers’ swords and polish their scabbards, so they look their best before the King’s men arrive.”

His father, done with him, turned back to his brothers, who all stood in the road looking out.

“Do you think they’ll choose us?” asked Durs, the youngest of the three, a full three years ahead of Thor.

“They’d be foolish not to,” his father said. “They are short on men this year. It has been a slim cropping—or else they wouldn’t bother coming. Just stand straight, the three of you, keep your chins up and chests out. Do not look them directly in the eye, but do not look away, either. Be strong and confident. Show no weakness. If you want to be in the King’s Legion, you must act as if you’re already in it.”

“Yes, Father,” his three boys answered at once, getting into position.

He turned and glared back at Thor.

“What are you still doing there?” he asked. “Get inside!”

Thor stood there, torn. He didn’t want to disobey his father, but he had to speak with him. His heart pounded as he debated. He decided it would be best to obey, to bring the swords, and then confront his father. Disobeying outright wouldn’t help.

Thor raced into the house, out through the back and to the weapons shed. He found his brothers’ three swords, objects of beauty all of them, crowned with the finest silver hilts, precious gifts for which his father had toiled years. He grabbed all three, surprised as always at their weight, and ran back through the house with them.

He sprinted to his brothers, handed each a sword, then turned to his father.

“What, no polish?” Drake said.

His father turned to him disapprovingly, but before he could say anything, Thor spoke up.

“Father, please. I need to speak with you!”

“I told you to polish—”

“Please, Father!”

His father glared back, debating. He must have seen the seriousness on Thor’s face, because finally, he said, “Well?”

“I want to be considered. With the others. For the Legion.”

His brothers’ laughter rose up behind him, making his face burn red.

But his father did not laugh; on the contrary, his scowl deepened.

“Do you?” he asked.

Thor nodded back vigorously.

“I’m fourteen. I’m eligible.”

“The cutoff is fourteen,” Drake said disparagingly, over his shoulder. “If they took you, you’d be the youngest. Do you think they’d choose you over someone like me, five years your elder?”

“You are insolent,” Durs said. “You always have been.”

Thor turned to them. “I’m not asking you,” he said.

He turned back to his father, who still frowned.

“Father, please,” he said. “Allow me a chance. That’s all I ask. I know I’m young, but I will prove myself, over time.”

His father shook his head.

“You’re not a soldier, boy. You’re not like your brothers. You’re a herder. Your life is here. With me. You will do your duties and do them well. One should not dream too high. Embrace your life, and learn to love it.”

Thor felt his heart breaking as he saw his life collapsing before his eyes.

No, he thought. This can’t be.

“But Father—”

“Silence!” he shrieked, so shrill it cut the air. “Enough with you. Here they come. Get out of the way, and best mind your manners while they’re here.”

His father stepped up and with one hand pushed Thor to the side, as if he were an object he’d rather not see. His beefy palm stung Thor’s chest.

A great rumbling arose, and townsfolk poured out from their homes, lining the streets. A growing cloud of dust heralded the caravan, and moments later they arrived, a dozen horse-drawn carriages, with a noise like great thunder.

They came into town like a sudden army, halting close to Thor’s home. Their horses , pranced in place, snorting. It took a long time for the cloud of dust to settle, and Thor anxiously tried to steal a peek at their armor, their weaponry. He had never been this close to the Silver before, and his heart thumped.

The soldier on the lead stallion dismounted. Here he was, a real, actual member of the Silver, covered in shiny ring mail, a long sword on his belt. He looked to be in his thirties, a real man, stubble on his face, scars on his cheek, and a nose crooked from battle. He was the most substantial man Thor had ever seen, twice as wide as the others, with a countenance that said he was in charge.

The soldier jumped down onto the dirt road, his spurs jingling as he approached the lineup of boys.

Up and down the village dozens of boys stood at attention, hoping. Joining the Silver meant a life of honor, of battle, of renown, of glory—along with land, title, and riches. It meant the best bride, the choicest land, a life of glory. It meant honor for your family, and entering the Legion was the first step.

Thor studied the large, golden carriages, and knew they could only hold so many recruits. It was a large kingdom, and they had many towns to visit. He gulped, realizing his chances were even more remote than he thought. He would have to beat out all these other boys—many of them substantial fighters—along with his own three brothers. He had a sinking feeling.

Thor could hardly breathe as the soldier paced in silence, surveying the rows of hopefuls. He began on the far side of the street, then slowly circled. Thor knew all the other boys, of course. He also knew some of them secretly did not want to be picked, even though their families wanted to send them off. They were afraid; they would make poor soldiers.

Thor burned with indignity. He felt he deserved to be picked as much as any of them. Just because his brothers were older and bigger and stronger didn’t mean he shouldn’t have a right to stand and be chosen. He burned with hatred for his father, and nearly burst out of his skin as the soldier approached.

The soldier stopped, for the first time, before his brothers. He looked them up and down, and seemed impressed. He reached out, grabbed one of their scabbards, and yanked it, as if to test how firm it was.

He broke into a smile.

“You haven’t yet used your sword in battle, have you?” he asked Drake.

Thor saw Drake nervous for the first time in his life. Drake swallowed.

“No, my liege. But I’ve used it many times in practice, and I hope to—”

“In practice!”

The soldier roared with laughter and turned to the other soldiers, who joined in, laughing in Drake’s face.

Drake turned bright red. It was the first time Thor had ever seen Drake embarrassed—usually, it was Drake embarrassing others.

“Well then I shall certainly tell our enemies to fear you—you who wields your sword in practice!”

The crowd of soldiers laughed again.

The soldier then turned to Thor’s other brothers.

“Three boys from the same stock,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “That can be useful. You’re all a good size. Untested, though. You’ll need much training if you are to make the cut.”

He paused.

“I suppose we can find room.”

He nodded toward the rear wagon.

“Get in, and be quick of it. Before I change my mind.”

Thor’s three brothers sprinted for the carriage, beaming. Thor noticed his father beaming, too.

But he was crestfallen as he watched them go.

The soldier turned and moved on to the next home. Thor could stand it no longer.

“Sire!” Thor yelled out.

His father turned and glared at him, but Thor no longer cared.

The soldier stopped, his back to him, and slowly turned.

Thor took two steps forward, his heart beating, and stuck out his chest as far as he could.

“You haven’t considered me, sire,” he said.

The soldier, startled, looked Thor up and down as if he were a joke.

“Haven’t I?” he asked, and burst into laughter.

His men burst into laughter, too. But Thor didn’t care. This was his moment. It was now or never.

“I want to join the Legion!” Thor said.

The soldier stepped toward Thor.

“Do you now?”

He looked amused.

“And have you even reached your fourteenth year?”

“I did, sire. Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago!”

The soldier shrieked with laughter, as did the men behind them.

“In that case, our enemies shall surely quiver at the sight of you.”

Thor felt himself burning with indignity. He had to do something. He couldn’t let it end like this. The soldier turned to walk away—but Thor could not allow it.

Thor stepped forward and yelled: “Sire! You are making a mistake!”

A horrified gasp spread through the crowd, as the soldier stopped and once again slowly turned.

Now he was scowling.

“Stupid boy,” his father said, grabbing Thor by his shoulder, “go back inside!”

“I shall not!” Thor yelled, shaking off his father’s grip.

The soldier stepped toward Thor, and his father backed away.

“Do you know the punishment for insulting the Silver?” the soldier snapped.

Thor’s heart pounded, but he knew he could not back down.

“Please forgive him, sire,” his father said. “He’s a young child and—”

“I’m not speaking to you,” the soldier said. With a withering look, he forced Thor’s father to turn away.

The soldier turned back to Thor.

“Answer me!” he said.

Thor swallowed, unable to speak. This was not how he saw it going in his head.

“To insult the Silver is to insult the King himself,” Thor said meekly, reciting what he’d learned from memory.

“Yes,” the soldier said. “Which means I can give you forty lashes if I choose.”

“I mean no insult, sire,” Thor said. “I just want to be picked. Please. I’ve dreamt of this my entire life. Please. Let me join you.”

The soldier looked at him, and slowly, his expression softened. After a long while, he shook his head.

“You’re young, boy. You have a proud heart. But you’re not ready. Come back to us when you are weaned.”

With that, he turned and stormed off, barely glancing at the other boys. He quickly mounted his horse.

Thor, crestfallen, watched as the caravan broke into action; as quickly as they’d arrived, they were gone.

The last thing Thor saw was his brothers, sitting in the back of the last carriage, looking out at him, disapproving, mocking. They were being carted away before his eyes, away from here, into a better life.

Inside, Thor felt like dying.

As the excitement around him faded, villagers slinked back into their homes.

“Do you realize how stupid you were, foolish boy?” Thor’s father snapped, grabbing his shoulders. “Do you realize you could have ruined your brothers’ chances?”

Thor brushed his father’s hands off of him roughly, and his father reached back and backhanded him across the face.

Thor felt the sting of it and glared back at his father. A part of him, for the first time, wanted to hit his father back. But he held himself.

“Go get my sheep and bring them back. Now! And when you return, don’t expect a meal from me. You will miss your meal tonight, and think about what you’ve done.”

“Maybe I shall not come back at all!” Thor yelled as he turned and stormed off, away from his home, toward the hills.

“Thor!” his father yelled. A few of the villagers who remained on the road stopped and watched.

Thor broke into a trot, then a run, wanting to get as far away from this place as possible. He barely noticed he was crying, tears flooding his face, as every dream he’d ever had was crushed.

Chapter II

THOR WANDERED FOR HOURS IN the hills, seething, until finally he chose a hill and sat, arms crossed over his legs, and watched the horizon. He watched the carriages disappear, watched the cloud of dust that lingered for hours after.

There would be no more visits. Now he was destined to remain here in this village for years, awaiting another chance—if they ever returned. If his father ever allowed it. Now it would be just him and his father, alone in the house, and his father would surely let out the full breadth of his wrath on him. He would continue to be his father’s lackey, years would pass, and he would end up just like him, stuck here living a small, menial life—while his brothers gained glory and renown. His veins burned with the indignity of it all. This was not the life he was meant to live. He knew it.

Thor wracked his brain for anything he could do, any way he could change it. But there was nothing. These were the cards life had dealt him.

After hours of sitting, he rose dejectedly and began traversing his way back up the familiar hills, higher and higher. Inevitably, he drifted back toward the flock, to the high knoll. As he climbed, the first sun fell in the sky and the second reached its peak, casting a greenish tint. Thor took his time as he ambled, mindlessly removing his sling from his waist, its leather grip well worn from years of use. He reached into the sack tied to his hip and fingered his collection of stones, each smoother than the next, hand-picked from the choicest creeks. Sometimes he fired on birds; other times, rodents. It was a habit he’d ingrained over years. At first, he’d missed everything; then, once, he hit a moving target. Since then, his aim was true. Now, hurling stones had become part of him—and it helped to release some of his anger. His brothers might be able to swing a sword through a log—but they could never hit a flying bird with a stone.

Thor mindlessly placed a stone in the sling, leaned back, and hurled it with all he had, pretending he was hurling it at his father. He hit a branch on a far-off tree, taking it down cleanly. Once he’d discovered he could actually kill moving animals, he’d stopped aiming at them, afraid of his own power and not wanting to hurt anything; now his targets were branches. Unless, of course, a fox came after his flock. Over time, they had learned to stay clear, and Thor’s sheep, as a result, were the safest in the village.

Thor thought of his brothers, of where they were right now, and he steamed. After a day’s ride they would arrive in King’s Court. He could just picture it. He saw them arriving to great fanfare, people dressed in their finest, greeting them. Warriors greeting them. Members of the Silver. They would be taken in, given a place to live in the Legion’s barracks, a place to train in the King’s fields using the finest weapons. Each would be named squire to a famous knight. One day, they would become knights themselves, get their own horse, their own coat of arms, and have their own squire. They would partake in all the festivals and dine at the King’s table. It was a charmed life. And it had slipped from his grasp.

Thor felt physically sick, and tried to force it all from his mind. But he could not. There was a part of him, some deep part, that screamed at him. It told him not to give up, that he had a greater destiny than this. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t here. He felt he was different. Maybe even special. That no one understood him. And that they all underestimated him.

Thor reached the highest knoll and spotted his flock. Well trained, they were all still gathered, gnawing away contentedly at whatever grass they could find. He counted them, looking for the red marks he had stained on their backs. He froze as he finished. One sheep was missing.

He counted again, and again. He couldn’t believe it: one was gone.

Thor had never lost a sheep before, and his father would never let him live this down. Worse, he hated the idea of one of his sheep lost, alone, vulnerable in the wilderness. He hated to see anything innocent suffer.

Thor scurried to the top of the knoll and scanned the horizon until he spotted it, far off, several hills away: the lone sheep, the red mark on its back. It was the wild one of the bunch. His heart dropped as he realized the sheep had not only fled, but had chosen, of all places, to head west, to Darkwood.

Thor gulped. Darkwood was forbidden—not just for sheep, but for humans. It was beyond the village limit, and from the time he could walk, Thor knew not to venture there. He never had. Going there, legend told, was a sure death, its woods unmarked and filled with vicious animals.

Thor looked up at the darkening sky, debating. He couldn’t let his sheep go. He figured if he could move fast, he could get it back in time.

After one final look back, he turned and broke into a sprint, heading west, for Darkwood, thick clouds gathering above. He had a sinking feeling, yet his legs seemed to carry him on his own. He felt there was no turning back, even if he wanted to.

It was like running into a nightmare.

Thor sped down the series of hills without pausing, into the thick canopy of Darkwood. The trails ended where the wood began, and he ran into unmarked territory, summer leaves crunching beneath his feet.

The instant he entered the wood he was engulfed in darkness, the light blocked by the towering pines above. It was colder in here, too, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt a chill. It wasn’t just from the dark, or the cold—it was from something else. Something he could not name. It was a sense of…being watched.

Thor looked up at the ancient branches, gnarled, thicker than he, swaying and creaking in the breeze. He had barely gone fifty paces into the wood when he began to hear odd animal noises. He turned and could hardly see the opening from which he’d entered; he felt already as if there were no way out. He hesitated.

Darkwood had always sat on the periphery of the town and on the periphery of Thor’s consciousness, something deep and mysterious. Any herder who ever lost a sheep to the wood had never dared venture after it. Even his father. The tales about this place were too dark, too persistent.

But there was something different about today that made Thor no longer care, that made him throw caution to the wind. A part of him wanted to push the boundaries, to get as far away from home as possible, and to allow life to take him where it may.

He ventured farther, then paused, unsure which way to go. He noticed markings, bent branches where his sheep must have gone, and turned in that direction. After some time, he turned again.

Before another hour had passed, he was hopelessly lost. He tried to remember the direction from which he came—but was no longer sure. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, but he figured the only way out was forward, so he continued on.

In the distance, Thor spotted a shaft of sunlight, and made for it. Finding himself before a small clearing, he stopped at its edge, rooted—he could not believe what he saw before him.

Standing there, his back to Thor, dressed in a long, blue satin robe, was a man. No, not a man—Thor could sense it from here. He was something else. A Druid, maybe. He stood tall and straight, head covered by a hood, perfectly still, as if he did not have a care in the world.

Thor didn’t know what to do. He had heard of Druids, but had never encountered one. From the markings on his robe, the elaborate gold trim, this was no mere Druid: those were royal markings. Of King’s Court. Thor could not understand it. What was a royal Druid doing here?

After what felt like an eternity, the Druid slowly turned and faced him, and as he did, Thor recognized the face. It took his breath away. It was one of the most famous faces in the kingdom: the King’s personal Druid. Argon, counselor to kings of the Western Kingdom for centuries. What he was doing here, far from the royal court, in the center of Darkwood, was a mystery. Thor wondered if he were imagining it.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” Argon said, staring directly at Thor.

His voice was deep, ancient, as if spoken by the trees themselves. His large, translucent eyes seemed to bore right through Thor, summing him up. Thor felt an intense energy radiating from the Druid—as if he were standing opposite the sun.

Thor immediately took a knee and bowed his head.

“My liege,” he said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

Disrespect toward a King’s counselor would result in imprisonment or death. That fact had been ingrained in Thor since the time he was born.

“Stand up, child,” Argon said. “If I wanted you to kneel, I would have told you.”

Slowly, Thor stood and looked at him. Argon took several steps closer. He stopped and stared at Thor, until Thor began to feel uncomfortable.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Argon said.

Thor was taken aback. He had never met his mother, and had never met anyone, aside from his father, who knew her. He had been told she died in childbirth, something for which Thor always felt a sense of guilt. He had always suspected that that was why his family hated him.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” Thor said. “I don’t have a mother.”

“Don’t you?” Argon asked with a smile. “Were you born by man alone?”

“I meant to say, sire, that my mother died in birth. I think you mistake me.”

“You are Thorgrin, of the clan McLeod. The youngest of four brothers. The one not picked.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide. He hardly knew what to make of this. That someone of Argon’s stature should know who he was—it was more than he could comprehend. He’d never even imagined that he was known to anyone outside his village.

“How…do you know this?”

Argon smiled back, but did not respond.

Thor was suddenly filled with curiosity.

“How…” Thor added, fumbling for words, “…how do you know my mother? Have you met her? Who was she?”

Argon turned and walked away.

“Questions for another time,” he said.

Thor watched him go, puzzled. It was such a dizzying and mysterious encounter, and it was all happening so fast. He decided he could not let Argon leave; he hurried after him.

“What are you doing here?” Thor asked, hurrying to catch up. Argon, using his staff, an ancient ivory thing, walked deceptively fast. “You were not waiting for me, were you?”

“Who else?” Argon asked.

Thor hurried to catch up, following him into the wood, leaving the clearing behind.

“But why me? How did you know I would be here? What is it that you want?”

“So many questions,” Argon said. “You fill the air. You should listen instead.”

Thor followed as they continued through the thick wood, doing his best to remain silent.

“You come in search of your lost sheep,” Argon stated. “A noble effort. But you waste your time. She will not survive.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide.

“How do you know this?”

“I know worlds you will never know, boy. At least, not yet.”

Thor wondered as he hiked to catch up.

“You won’t listen, though. That is your nature. Stubborn. Like your mother. You will continue after your sheep, determined to rescue her.”

Thor reddened as Argon read his thoughts.

“You are a feisty boy,” he added. “Strong-willed. Too proud. Positive traits. But one day it may be your downfall.”

Argon began to hike up a mossy ridge, and Thor followed.

“You want to join the King’s Legion,” Argon said.

“Yes!” Thor answered, excitedly. “Is there any chance for me? Can you make that happen?”

Argon laughed, a deep, hollow sound that sent a chill up Thor’s spine.

“I can make everything and nothing happen. Your destiny was already written. But it is up to you to choose it.”

Thor did not understand.

They reached the top of the ridge, where Argon stopped and faced him. Thor stood only feet away, and Argon’s energy burned through him.

“Your destiny is an important one,” he said. “Do not abandon it.”

Thor’s eyed widened. His destiny? Important? He felt himself swell with pride.

“I do not understand. You speak in riddles. Please, tell me more.”

Argon vanished.

Thor’s mouth fell open. He looked every which way, listening, wondering. Had he imagined it all? Was it some delusion?

Thor turned and examined the wood; from this vantage point, high up on the ridge, he could see farther than before. As he looked, he spotted motion in the distance. He heard a noise and felt sure it was his sheep.

He stumbled down the mossy ridge and hurried in the direction of the sound, back through the wood. As he went, he could not shake his encounter with Argon. He could hardly conceive it had happened. What was the King’s Druid doing here, of all places? He had been waiting for him. But why? And what had he meant about his destiny?

The more Thor tried to unravel it, the less he understood. Argon had warned him not to continue while tempting him to do so. Now, as he went, Thor felt an increasing sense of foreboding, as if something momentous were about to happen.

He turned a bend and stopped cold in his tracks at the view before him. All his worst nightmares were confirmed in a single moment. His hair stood on end, and he realized he had made a grave mistake in coming this deep into Darkwood.

Opposite him, hardly thirty paces away, was a Sybold. Hulking, muscular, standing on all fours, nearly the size of a horse, it was the most feared animal of Darkwood, maybe even of the kingdom. Thor had never seen one, but had heard the legends. It resembled a lion, but was bigger, broader, its hide a deep scarlet and its eyes a glowing yellow. Legend had it that its crimson color came from the blood of innocent children.

Thor had heard of few sightings of this beast his entire life, and even these were thought to be dubious. Maybe that was because no one had ever actually survived an encounter. Some considered the Sybold to be the God of the Woods, and an omen. What that omen was, Thor had no idea.

He took a careful step back.

The Sybold, its huge jaws half-open, its fangs dripping saliva, stared back with its yellow eyes. In its mouth was Thor’s missing sheep: screaming, hanging upside down, half its body pierced by fangs. It was mostly dead. The Sybold appeared to revel in the kill, taking its time; it seemed to delight in torturing it.

Thor could not stand the cries. The sheep wiggled, helpless, and he felt responsible.

Thor’s first impulse was to turn and run, but he already knew that would be futile. This beast could outrun anything. Running would only embolden it. And he could not leave his sheep to die like that.

He stood frozen in fear, and knew he had to take action of some sort.

His reflexes took over. He slowly reached down to his pouch, extracted a stone, and placed it in his sling. With a trembling hand, he wound up, took a step forward, and hurled.

The stone sailed through the air and hit its mark. A perfect shot. It hit the sheep in its eyeball, driving through to its brain.

The sheep went limp. Dead. Thor had spared the animal its suffering.

The Sybold glared, enraged that Thor had killed its plaything. It slowly opened its immense jaws and dropped the sheep, which landed with a thump on the forest floor. Then it set its eyes on Thor.

It snarled, a deep, evil sound that rose from its belly.

As it skulked toward him, Thor, heart pounding, placed another stone in his sling, reached back, and prepared to fire once again.

The Sybold broke into a sprint, moving faster than anything Thor had ever seen in his life. Thor took a step forward and hurled the stone, praying it hit, knowing he wouldn’t have time to sling another before it arrived.

The stone hit the beast in its right eye, knocking it out. It was a tremendous throw, one that would’ve brought a lesser animal to its knees.

But this was no lesser animal. The beast was unstoppable. It shrieked at the damage, but never even slowed. Even without one eye, even with the stone lodged in its brain, it continued to charge mindlessly at Thor. There was nothing Thor could do.

A moment later, the beast was on him. It wound up with its huge claw and swiped his shoulder.

Thor shrieked. It felt like three knives cutting across his flesh, hot blood gushing instantly from it.

The beast pinned him to the ground, on all fours. The weight was immense, like an elephant standing on his chest. Thor felt his ribcage being crushed.

The beast threw back its head, opened wide its jaws to reveal its fangs, and began to lower them for Thor’s throat.

As it did, Thor reached up and grabbed its neck; it was like gripping solid muscle. Thor could barely hang on. His arms started to shake as the fangs descended lower. He felt its hot breath all over his face, felt the saliva drip down onto his neck. A rumble came from deep within the animal’s chest, burning Thor’s ears. He knew he would die.

Thor closed his eyes.

Please, God. Give me strength. Allow me to fight this creature. Please. I beg you. I will do anything you ask. I will owe you a great debt.

And then something happened. Thor felt a tremendous heat rise up within his body, coursing through his veins, like an energy field racing through him. He opened his eyes and saw something that surprised him: from his palms emanated a yellow light, and as he pushed back into the beast’s throat, amazingly, he was able to match its strength and hold it at bay.

Thor continued to push until he was actually pushing the beast back. His strength grew and he felt a cannonball of energy—an instant later, the beast went flying backwards, Thor sending it a good ten feet. It landed on its back.

Thor sat up, not understanding what had happened.

The beast regained its feet. Then, in a rage, it charged again—but this time Thor felt different. The energy coursed through him; he felt more powerful than he had ever been.

As the beast leapt into the air, Thor crouched down, grabbed it by its stomach, and hurled it, letting its momentum carry it.

The beast flew through the wood, smashed into a tree, and collapsed to the floor.

Thor stared, amazed. Had he just thrown a Sybold?

The beast blinked twice, then looked at Thor. It stood up and charged again.

This time, as the beast pounced, Thor grabbed it by its throat. They both went to the ground, the beast on top of Thor. But Thor rolled over on top of it. Thor held onto it, choking it with both hands, as the beast kept trying to raise its head and snap its fangs at him. It just missed. Thor, feeling a new strength, dug his hands in and did not let go. He let the energy course through him. And soon, amazingly, he felt himself stronger than the beast.

He was choking the Sybold to death. Finally, the beast went limp.

Thor did not let go for another full minute.

He stood slowly, out of breath, staring down, wide-eyed, as he held his wounded arm. What had just happened? Had he, Thor, just killed a Sybold?

He felt it was a sign, on this day of all days. He felt as if something momentous had happened. He had just killed the most famed and feared beast of his kingdom. Single-handedly. Without a weapon. It did not seem real. No one would believe him.

He felt the world spin as he wondered what power had overcome him, what it meant, who he really was. The only people known to have power like that were Druids. But his father and mother were not Druids, so he couldn’t be one.

Or could he be?

Sensing someone behind him, Thor spun to see Argon standing there, staring down at the animal.

“How did you get here?” Thor asked, amazed.

Argon ignored him.

“Did you witness what happened?” Thor asked, still unbelieving. “I don’t know how I did it.”

“But you do know,” Argon answered. “Deep inside, you know. You are different than the others.”

“It was like…a surge of power,” Thor said. “Like a strength I didn’t know I had.”

“The energy field,” Argon said. “One day you will come to know it quite well. You may even learn to control it.”

Thor clutched his shoulder; the pain was excruciating. He looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. He felt lightheaded, worried what would happen if he didn’t get help.

Argon took three steps forward, reached out, grabbed Thor’s free hand, and placed it firmly on the wound. He held it there, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Thor felt a warm sensation course through his arm. Within seconds, the sticky blood on his hand dried up, and he felt his pain begin to fade.

He looked down and could not comprehend it: he was healed. All that remained were three scars where the claws had cut—but they were sealed and looked to be several days old. There was no more blood.

Thor looked at Argon in astonishment.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

Argon smiled.

“I didn’t. You did. I just directed your power.”

“But I don’t have the power to heal,” Thor answered, baffled.

“Don’t you?” Argon replied.

“I don’t understand. None of this is making any sense,” Thor said, increasingly impatient. “Please, tell me.”

Argon looked away.

“Some things you must learn over time.”

Thor thought of something.

“Does this mean I can join the King’s Legion?” he asked, excitedly. “Surely, if I can kill a Sybold, then I can hold my own with other boys.”

“Surely you can,” he answered.

“But they chose my brothers—they didn’t choose me.”

“Your brothers couldn’t have killed this beast.”

Thor stared back, thinking.

“But they have already rejected me. How can I join them?”

“Since when does a warrior need an invitation?” Argon asked.

His words sunk in deep. Thor felt his body warming over.

“Are you saying I should just show up? Uninvited?”

Argon smiled.

“You create your destiny. Others do not.”

Thor blinked—and a moment later, Argon was gone. Again.

Thor spun around, looking in every direction, but there was no trace of him.

“Over here!” came a voice.

Thor turned and saw a huge boulder before him. He sensed the voice came from up top, and he immediately climbed the big rock.

He reached the top, and was puzzled to see no sign of Argon.

From this vantage point, though, he was able to see above the treetops of Darkwood. He saw where Darkwood ended, saw the second sun setting in a dark green, and beyond that, the road leading to King’s Court.

“The road is yours to take,” came the voice. “If you dare.”

Thor spun but saw nothing. It was just a voice, echoing. But he knew Argon was there, somewhere, egging him on. And he felt, deep down, that he was right.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Thor scrambled down the rock and set off through the wood for the distant road.

Sprinting for his destiny.

Chapter III

KING MACGIL—STOUT, BARREL-CHESTED, with a beard too thick with gray, long hair to match, and a broad forehead lined with too many battles—stood on the upper ramparts of his castle, his Queen beside him, and overlooked the day’s burgeoning festivities. His royal grounds sprawled beneath him in all their glory, stretching as far as the eye could see, a thriving city walled in by ancient stone fortifications. King’s Court. Interconnected by a maze of winding streets sat stone buildings of every shape and size—for the warriors, the caretakers, the horses, the Silver, the Legion, the guards, the barracks, the weapons house, the armory—and among these, hundreds of dwellings for the multitude of his people who chose to live within the city walls. Between these streets spanned acres of grass, royal gardens, stone-lined plazas, overflowing fountains. King’s Court had been improved upon for centuries, by his father, and his father before him—and it sat now at the peak of its glory. Without doubt, it was now the safest stronghold within the Western Kingdom of the Ring.

MacGil was blessed with the finest and most loyal warriors any king had ever known, and in his lifetime, no one had dared attack. The seventh MacGil to hold the throne, he had held it well for his thirty-two years of rule, had been a good and wise king. The land had prospered greatly in his reign. He had doubled his army’s size, expanded his cities, brought his people bounty, and not a single complaint could be found among his people. He was known as the generous king, and there had never been such a period of bounty and peace since he took the throne.

Which, paradoxically, was precisely what kept MacGil up at night. For MacGil knew his history: in all the ages, there had never been such a long a stretch without a war. He no longer wondered if there would be an attack—but when. And from whom.

The greatest threat, of course, was from beyond the Ring, from the empire of savages that ruled the outlying Wilds, which had subjugated all the peoples outside the Ring, beyond the Canyon. For MacGil, and the seven generations before him, the Wilds had never posed a direct threat. Because of his kingdom’s unique geography, shaped in a perfect circle—a ring—separated from the rest of the world by a deep canyon a mile wide, and protected by an energy shield that had been active since a MacGil first ruled, they had little to fear of the Wilds. The savages had tried many times to attack, to penetrate the shield, to cross the canyon; not once had they been successful. As long as he and his people stayed within the Ring, there was no outside threat.

That did not mean, though, that there was no threat from inside. And that was what had kept MacGil up at night lately. That, indeed, was the purpose of the day’s festivities: the marriage of his eldest daughter. A marriage arranged specifically to appease his enemies, to maintain the fragile peace between the Eastern and Western Kingdoms of the Ring.

While the Ring spanned a good five hundred miles in each direction, it was divided down the middle by a mountain range. The Highlands. On the other side of the Highlands sat the Eastern Kingdom, ruling the other half of the Ring. And this kingdom, ruled for centuries by their rivals, the McClouds, had always tried to shatter its fragile truce with the MacGils. The McClouds were malcontents, unhappy with their lot, convinced their side of the kingdom sat on ground less fertile. They contested the Highlands, too, insisting the entire mountain range was theirs, when at least half of it belonged to the MacGils. There were perpetual border skirmishes, and constant threats of invasion.

As MacGil pondered it all, he was annoyed. The McClouds should be happy; they were safe inside the Ring, protected by the Canyon, they sat on choice land, and had nothing to fear. Why couldn’t they be content with their own half of the Ring? It was only because MacGil had grown his army so strong that, for the first time in history, the McClouds had dared not attack. But MacGil, the wise king he was, sensed something on the horizon; he knew this peace could not last. Thus, he had arranged this marriage of his eldest daughter to the eldest prince of the McClouds. And now the day had arrived.

As he looked down, he saw stretched below him thousands of minions dressed in brightly colored tunics, filtering in from every corner of the kingdom, from both sides of the Highlands. Nearly the entire Ring, all pouring into his fortifications. His people had prepared for months, commanded to make everything look prosperous, strong. This was not just a day for marriage; it was a day to send a message to the McClouds.

MacGil surveyed his hundreds of soldiers lined up strategically along the ramparts, in the streets, along the walls, more soldiers than he could ever need—and felt satisfied. It was the show of strength he wanted. But he also felt on edge; the environment was charged, ripe for a skirmish. He hoped no hotheads, inflamed with drink, rose up on either side.

He scanned the jousting fields, the playing fields, and thought of the day to come, filled with games and jousts and all sorts of festivities. They would be intense. The McClouds would surely show up with their own small army, and every joust, every wrestle, every competition, would take on meaning. If even one went awry, it could evolve into a battle.

“My King?”

He felt a soft hand on his and turned to see his Queen, Krea, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Happily married to him his entire reign, she had borne him five children, three of them boys, and had not complained once. Moreover, she had become his most trusted counselor. As the years passed, he had come to learn she was wiser than all of his men. Indeed, wiser than he.

“It is a political day,” she said. “But also our daughter’s wedding. Try to enjoy. It won’t happen twice.”

“I worried less when I had nothing,” he answered. “Now that we have it all, everything worries me. We are safe. But I don’t feel safe.”

She looked back at him with compassionate eyes, large and hazel; they looked as if they held the wisdom of the world. Her eyelids drooped, as they always had, looking just a bit sleepy, and were framed by her beautiful, straight brown hair tinged with gray, which fell on both sides of her face. She had a few more lines, but she hadn’t changed a bit.

“That’s because you’re not safe,” she said. “No king is safe. There are more spies in our court than you’ll ever care to know. And that is the way of things.”

She leaned in and kissed him, and smiled.

“Try to enjoy it,” she said. “It is a wedding after all.”

With that, she turned and walked off the ramparts.

He watched her go, then turned and looked out over his court. She was right; she was always right. He did want to enjoy it. He loved his eldest daughter, and it was a wedding after all. It was the most beautiful day of the most beautiful time of year, spring at its height, with summer dawning, the two suns perfect in the sky, and the slightest of breezes astir. Everything was in full bloom, trees everywhere awash in a broad palette of pinks and purples and oranges and whites. There was nothing he’d like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get married, and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.

But he could not. He had a long course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the day of a daughter’s wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with his council; with his children; and with a long a line of supplicants who had a right to see the King on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in time for the sunset ceremony.

MacGil, dressed in his finest royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest purple and gold silk, a white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his calves, and wearing his crown—an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its center—strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree trunk, which his attendants opened before stepping aside. The Throne Room.

His advisors stood at attention as MacGil entered, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Be seated,” he said, more abrupt than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.

He strode across the Throne Room, which never ceased to impress him. Its ceilings soared fifty feet high, one entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like today, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisors in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table shaped in a semicircle, behind which his advisors stood.

He strutted through the opening, right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended the stone steps, passed the carved golden lions, and sank into the red velvet cushion lining his throne, wrought entirely of gold. His father had sat on this throne, as had his father, and all the MacGils before him. When he sat, MacGil felt the weight of his ancestors—of all the generations—upon him.

He surveyed the advisors in attendance. There was Brom, his greatest general and his advisor on military affairs; Kolk, the general of the boys’ Legion; Aberthol, the oldest of the bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three generations; Firth, his advisor on internal affairs of the court, a skinny man with short, gray hair and hollowed-out eyes that never stayed still. Firth was not a man that MacGil had ever trusted, and he never even understood his title. But his father, and his before him, kept an advisor for court affairs, and so he kept it out of respect for them. There was Owen, his treasurer; Bradaigh, his advisor on external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his advisor on the masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles.

Of course, the King had absolute authority. But his kingdom was a liberal one, and his fathers had always taken pride in allowing the nobles a voice in all matters, channeled through their representative. It was historically an uneasy power balance between the kingship and the nobles. Now there was harmony, but during other times there had been uprisings and power struggles between the nobles and royalty. It was a fine balance.

As MacGil surveyed the room he noticed one person missing: the very man he wanted to speak with most—Argon. As usual, when and where he showed up was unpredictable. It infuriated MacGil to no end, but he had no choice but to accept it. The way of Druids was inscrutable to him. Without him present, MacGil felt even more haste. He wanted to get through this, get to the thousand other things that awaited him before the wedding.

The group of advisors sat facing him around the semicircular table, spread out every ten feet, each sitting in a chair of ancient oak with elaborately carved wooden arms.

“My liege, if I may begin,” Owen called out.

“You may. And keep it short. My time is tight today.”

“Your daughter will receive a great many gifts today, which we all hope will fill her coffers. The thousands of people paying tribute, presenting gifts to you personally, and filling our brothels and taverns, will help fill our coffers, too. And yet the preparation for today’s festivities will also deplete a good portion of the royal treasury. I recommend an increase of tax on the people, and on the nobles. A one-time tax, to alleviate the pressures of this great event.”

MacGil saw the concern on his treasurer’s face, and his stomach sank at the thought of the treasury’s depletion. Yet he would not raise taxes again.

“Better to have a poor treasury and loyal subjects,” MacGil answered. “Our riches come in the happiness of our subjects. We shall not impose more.”

“But my liege, if we do not—”

“I have decided. What else?”

Owen sank back, crestfallen.

“My king,” Brom said in his deep voice. “At your command, we have stationed the bulk of our forces in court for today’s event. The show of power will be impressive. But we are stretched thin. If there should be an attack elsewhere in the kingdom, we will be vulnerable.”

MacGil nodded, thinking it through.

“Our enemies will not attack us while we are feeding them.”

The men laughed.

“And what news from the Highlands?”

“There has been no reported activity for weeks. It seems their troops have drawn down in preparation for the wedding. Maybe they are ready to make peace.”

MacGil was not so sure.

“That either means the arranged wedding has worked, or they wait to attack us at another time. And which do you think it is, old man?” MacGil asked, turning to Aberthol.

Aberthol cleared his throat, his voice raspy as it came out: “My liege, your father and his father before him never trusted the McClouds. Just because they lie sleeping, does not mean they will not wake.”

MacGil nodded, appreciating the sentiment.

“And what of the Legion?” he asked, turning to Kolk.

“Today we welcomed the new recruits,” Kolk answered, with a quick nod.

“My son among them?” MacGil asked.

“He stands proudly with them all, and a fine boy he is.”

MacGil nodded, then turned to Bradaigh.

“And what word from beyond the Canyon?”

“My liege, our patrols have seen more attempts to bridge the Canyon in recent weeks. There may be signs that the Wilds are mobilizing for an attack.”

A hushed whisper spread amongst the men. MacGil felt his stomach tighten at the thought. The energy shield was invincible; still, it did not bode well.

“And what if there should be a full-scale attack?” he asked.

“As long as the shield is active, we have nothing to fear. The Wilds have not succeeded in breaching the Canyon for centuries. There is no reason to think otherwise.”

MacGil was not so certain. An attack from outside was long overdue, and he could not help but wonder when it might be.

“My liege,” Firth said in his nasally voice, “I feel obliged to add that today our court is filled with many dignitaries from the McCloud kingdom. It would be considered an insult for you not to entertain them, rivals or not. I would advise that you use your afternoon hours to greet each one. They have brought a large entourage, many gifts—and, word is, many spies.”

“Who is to say the spies are not already here?” MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did—and wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.

Firth opened his mouth to answer, but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. “If that is all, I will leave now, to join my daughter’s wedding.”

“My liege,” Kelvin said, clearing his throat, “of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of your eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to let them down. Especially with the Destiny Sword still immobile.”

“Would you have me name an heir while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.

“My liege, I mean no offense,” Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.

MacGil held up a hand. “I know the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”

“Might you inform us as to who?” Firth asked.

MacGil stared him down, annoyed. Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.

“You will learn of the news when the time is right.”

MacGil stood, and the others rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.

MacGil stood there thinking for he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.

MacGil stepped down from his throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.

He enjoyed the peace and solitude of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of stone, with a small, round stained-glass window on one wall. Light poured in through its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare room.

The Destiny Sword.

There it sat, in the center of the chamber, lying horizontal on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Destiny Sword. The sword of legend, the source of the might and power of his entire kingdom, from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it would be the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free the kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed King, MacGil had tried to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was sure he would be The One.

But he was wrong. As were all the other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever since.

As he stared at it now, he examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered. The sword’s origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth in the midst of a quake.

Examining it, he once again felt the sting of failure. He might be a good king, but he was not The One. His people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter what he did, he would never be The One.

If he had been, he suspected there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it. But he knew it would not. That was the curse—and the power—of a legend. Stronger, even, than an army.

As he stared at it for the thousandth time, MacGil couldn’t help but wonder once again who it would be. Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be destined to hoist it.

“The weight of the blade is heavy,” came a voice.

MacGil spun, surprised to have company in the small room.

There, standing in the doorway, was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated with him for not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.

“You’re late,” MacGil said.

“Your sense of time does not apply to me,” Argon answered.

MacGil turned back to the sword.

“Did you ever think I would be able to hoist it?” he asked reflectively. “That day I became King?”

“No,” Argon answered flatly.

MacGil turned and stared at him.

“You knew I would not be able to. You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

MacGil pondered this.

“It scares me when you answer directly. That is unlike you.”

Argon stayed silent, and finally MacGil realized he wouldn’t say any more.

“I name my successor today,” MacGil said. “It feels futile, to name an heir on this day. It strips a king’s joy from his child’s wedding.”

“Maybe such joy is meant to be tempered.”

“But I have so many years left to reign,” MacGil pleaded.

“Perhaps not as many as you think,” Argon answered.

MacGil narrowed his eyes, wondering. Was it a message?

But Argon added nothing more.

“Six children. Whom should I pick?” MacGil asked.

“Why ask me? You have already chosen.”

MacGil looked at him. “You see much. Yes, I have. But I still want to know what you think.”

“I think you made a wise choice,” Argon said. “But remember: a king cannot rule from beyond the grave. Regardless of whom you think you choose, fate has a way of choosing for itself.”

“Will I live, Argon?” MacGil asked earnestly, asking the question he had wanted to know since he had awakened the night before from a horrific nightmare.

“I dreamt last night of a crow,” he added. “It came and stole my crown. Then another carried me away. As it did, I saw my kingdom spread beneath me. It turned black as I went. Barren. A wasteland.”

He looked up at Argon, his eyes watery.

“Was it a dream? Or something more?”

“Dreams are always something more, aren’t they?” Argon asked.

MacGil was struck by a sinking feeling.

“Where is the danger? Just tell me this much.”

Argon stepped close and stared into his eyes with such intensity, MacGil felt as if he were staring into another realm itself.

Argon leaned forward, whispered:

“Always closer than you think.”

Chapter IV

THOR HID IN THE STRAW in the back of a wagon as it jostled him along the country road. He’d made his way to the road the night before and had waited patiently until a wagon came along large enough for him to board without being noticed. It was dark by then, and the wagon trotted along just slowly enough for him to gain a good running pace and leap in from behind. He’d landed in the hay and buried himself inside. Luckily, the driver had not spotted him. Thor didn’t know for certain if the wagon was going to King’s Court, but it was heading in that direction, and a wagon this size, and with these markings, could be going few other places.

As Thor rode throughout the night, he stayed awake for hours, thinking of his encounter with the Sybold. With Argon. Of his destiny. His former home. His mother. He felt that the universe had answered him, had told him he had another destiny. He lay there, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, visible through the tattered canvas. He watched the universe, so bright, its red stars so far away. He was exhilarated. For once in his life, he was on a journey. He did not know where, but he was going. One way or the other, he would make his way to King’s Court.

When Thor opened his eyes it was morning, light flooding in, and he realized he’d drifted off. He sat up quickly, looking all around, chiding himself for sleeping. He should have been more vigilant—he was lucky he had not been discovered.

The cart still moved, but did not jostle as much. That could only mean one thing: a better road. They must be close to a city. Thor looked down and saw how smooth the road was, free of rocks, of ditches, and lined with fine white shells. His heart beat faster; they were approaching King’s Court.

Thor looked out the back of the cart and was overwhelmed. The immaculate streets were flooded with activity. Dozens of carts, of all shapes and sizes and carrying all manner of things, filled the roads. One was laden with furs; another with rugs; still another with chickens. Amongst them walked hundreds of merchants, some leading cattle, others carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Four men carried a bundle of silks, balancing them on poles. It was an army of people, all heading in one direction.

Thor felt alive. He’d never seen so many people at once, so many goods, so much happening. He’d been in a small village his entire life, and now he was in a hub, engulfed in humanity.

He heard a loud noise, the groaning of chains, the slamming of a huge piece of wood, so strong the ground shook. Moments later came a different sound, of horses’ hooves clacking on wood. He looked down and realized they were crossing a bridge; beneath them passed a moat. A drawbridge.

Thor stuck his head out and saw immense stone pillars, the spiked iron gate above. They were passing through King’s Gate.

It was the largest gate he had ever seen. He looked up at the spikes, marveling that if they came down, they would slice him in half. He spotted four of the King’s Silver guarding the entry, and his heart beat faster.

They passed through a long stone tunnel, then moments later the sky opened again. They were inside King’s Court.

Thor could hardly believe it. There was even more activity here, if possible—what seemed to be thousands of people, milling in every direction. There were vast stretches of grass, perfectly cut, and flowers blooming everywhere. The road widened, and alongside it were booths, vendors, and stone buildings. And amidst all of these, the King’s men. Soldiers, bedecked in armor. Thor had made it.

In his excitement, he unwittingly stood; as he did, the cart stopped short, sending him tumbling backward, landing on his back in the straw. Before he could rise, there was the sound of wood lowered, and he looked up to see an angry old man, bald, dressed in rags and scowling. The cart driver reached in, grabbed Thor by the ankles with his bony hands, and dragged him out.

Thor went flying, landing hard on his back on the dirt road, raising up a cloud of dust. Laughter rose up around him.

“Next time you ride my cart, boy, it will be the shackles for you! You’re lucky I don’t summon the Silver now!”

The old man turned and spat, then hurried back on his cart and whipped his horses on.

Embarrassed, Thor slowly gained his wits and got to his feet. He looked around. One or two passersby chuckled, and Thor sneered back until they looked away. He brushed the dirt off and rubbed his arms; his pride was hurt, but not his body.

His spirits returned as he looked around, dazzled, and realized he should be happy that at least he’d made it this far. Now that he was out of the cart he could look around freely, and an extraordinary sight it was: the court sprawled as far as the eye could see. At its center sat a magnificent stone palace, surrounded by towering, fortified stone walls crowned by parapets, atop which, everywhere, patrolled the King’s army. All around him were fields of green, perfectly maintained, stone plazas, fountains, groves of trees. It was a city. And it was flooded with people.

Everywhere streamed all manner of people—merchants, soldiers, dignitaries—everyone in such a rush. It took Thor several minutes to understand that something special was happening. As he ambled along, he saw preparations being made—chairs placed, an altar erected. It looked like they were preparing for a wedding.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw, in the distance, a jousting lane, with its long dirt path and dividing rope. On another field, he saw soldiers hurling spears at far-off targets; on another, archers aiming at straw. It seemed as if everywhere were games, contests. There was also music: lutes and flutes and cymbals, packs of musicians wandering; and wine, huge casks being rolled out; and food, tables being prepared, banquets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if he’d arrived in the midst of a vast celebration.

As dazzling as all this was, Thor felt an urgency to find the Legion. He was already late, and he needed to make himself known.

He hurried to the first person he saw, an older man who seemed, by his blood-stained frock, to be a butcher, hurrying down the road. Everyone here was in such a hurry.

“Excuse me, sir,” Thor said, grabbing his arm.

The man looked down at Thor’s hand disparagingly.

“What is it, boy?”

“I’m looking for the King’s Legion. Do you know where they train?”

“Do I look like a map?” the man hissed, and stormed off.

Thor was taken aback by his rudeness.

He hurried to the next person he saw, a woman kneading flour on a long table. There were several women at this table, all working hard, and Thor figured one of them had to know.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Might you know where the King’s Legion train?”

They looked at each other and giggled, some of them but a few years older than he.

The eldest turned and looked at him.

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” she said. “Here we are preparing for the festivities.”

“But I was told they trained in King’s Court,” Thor said, confused.

The women broke into another chuckle. The eldest put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

“You act as if this is your first time in King’s Court. Have you no idea how big it is?”

Thor reddened as the other women laughed, then finally stormed off. He did not like being made fun of.

He saw before him a dozen roads, twisting and turning every which way through King’s Court. Spaced out in the stone walls were at least a dozen entrances. The size and scope of this place was overwhelming. He had a sinking feeling he could search for days and still not find it.

An idea struck him: surely a soldier would know where the others trained. He was nervous to approach an actual King’s soldier, but realized he had to.

He turned and hurried to the wall, to the soldier standing guard at the closest entrance, hoping he would not throw him out. The soldier stood erect, looking straight ahead.

“I’m looking for the King’s Legion,” Thor said, summoning his bravest voice.

The soldier continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

“I said I’m looking for the King’s Legion!” Thor insisted, louder, determined to be recognized.

After several seconds, the soldier glanced down, sneering.

“Can you tell me where it is?” Thor pressed.

“And what business have you with them?”

“Very important business,” Thor urged, hoping the soldier would not press him.

The soldier turned back to looking straight ahead, ignoring him again. Thor felt his heart sinking, afraid he would never receive an answer.

But after what felt like an eternity, the soldier replied: “Take the eastern gate, then head north as far as you can. Take the third gate to the left, then fork right, and fork right again. Pass through the second stone arch, and their ground is beyond the gate. But I tell you, you waste your time. They do not entertain visitors.”

It was all Thor needed to hear. Without missing another beat, he turned and ran across the field, following the directions, repeating them in his head, trying to memorize them. He noticed the sun higher in the sky, and only prayed that when he arrived, it would not already be too late.

Thor sprinted down the immaculate, shell-lined paths, twisting and turning his way through King’s Court. He tried his best to follow the directions, hoping he was not being led astray. At the far end of the courtyard, he saw all the gates, and chose the third one on the left. He ran through it and then followed the forks, turning down path after path. He ran against traffic, thousands of people pouring into the city, the crowd growing thicker by the minute. He brushed shoulders with lute players, jugglers, jesters, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in finery.

Thor could not stand the idea of the selection beginning without him, and tried his best to concentrate as he turned down path after path, looking for any sign of the training ground. He passed through an arch, turned down another road, and then, far off, spotted what could only be his destination: a mini coliseum, built of stone in a perfect circle. Soldiers guarded the huge gate in its center. Thor heard a muted cheering from behind its walls and his heart quickened. This was the place.

He sprinted, lungs bursting. As he reached the gate, two guards stepped forward and lowered their lances, barring the way. A third guard stepped forward and held up a palm.

“Stop there,” he commanded.

Thor stopped short, gasping for breath, barely able to contain his excitement.

“You…don’t…understand,” he heaved, words tumbling out between breaths, “I have to be inside. I’m late.”

“Late for what?”

“The selection.”

The guard, a short, heavy man with pockmarked skin, turned and looked at the others, who looked back cynically. He turned and surveyed Thor with a disparaging look.

“The recruits were taken in hours ago, in the royal transport. If you were not invited, you cannot enter.”

“But you don’t understand. I must—”

The guard reached out and grabbed Thor by the shirt.

“You don’t understand, you insolent little boy. How dare you come here and try to force your way in? Now go—before I shackle you.”

He shoved Thor, who stumbled back several feet.

Thor felt a sting in his chest where the guard’s hand had touched him—but more than that, he felt the sting of rejection. He was indignant. He had not come all this way to be turned away by a guard without even being seen. He was determined to make it inside.

The guard turned back to his men, and Thor slowly walked away, heading clockwise around the circular building. He had a plan. He walked until he was out of sight, then broke into a jog, creeping his way along the walls. He checked to make sure the guards weren’t watching, then picked up speed until he was sprinting. When he was halfway around the building he spotted another opening into the arena—high up were arched openings in the stone, blocked by iron bars. One of these openings was missing its bars. He heard another roar, lifted himself up onto the ledge, and looked.

His heart quickened. Spread out inside the huge, circular training ground were dozens of recruits—including his brothers. Lined up, they all faced a dozen of the Silver. The King’s men walked amidst them, summing them up.

Another group of recruits stood off to the side, under the watchful eyes of a soldier, throwing spears at a distant target. One of them missed.

Thor’s veins burned with indignation. He could have hit those marks; he was just as good as any of them. Just because he was younger, a bit smaller, it wasn’t fair that he was being left out.

Suddenly, Thor felt a hand on his back as he was yanked backwards and sent flying through the air. He landed hard on the ground below, winded.

He looked up and saw the guard from the gate, sneering down at him.

“What did I tell you, boy?”

Before he could react, the guard leaned back and kicked Thor hard. Thor felt a sharp thump in his ribs, as the guard wound up to kick him again.

This time, Thor caught the guard’s foot in midair; he yanked it, knocking him off balance and making him fall.

Thor quickly gained his feet. At the same time, the guard gained his. Thor stared at him, shocked by what he had just done. Across from him, the guard glowered.

“Not only will I shackle you,” the guard hissed, “but I will make you pay. No one touches a King’s guard! Forget about joining the Legion—now you will wallow away in the dungeon! You’ll be lucky if you’re ever seen again!”

The guard pulled out a chain with a shackle at its end. He approached Thor, vengeance on his face.

Thor’s mind raced. He could not allow himself to be shackled—yet he did not want to hurt a member of the King’s Guard. He had to think of something—and fast.

He remembered his sling. His reflexes took over as he grabbed it, placed a stone, took aim, and let it fly.

The stone soared through the air and knocked the shackles from the stunned guard’s grip; it also hit the guard’s fingers. The guard pulled back and shook his hand, yelling in pain, as the shackles clattered to the ground.

The guard, giving Thor a look of death, drew his sword. It came out with a distinctive, metallic ring.

“That was your last mistake,” he threatened darkly, and charged.

Thor had no choice; this man would just not leave him be. He placed another stone in his sling and hurled it. He aimed deliberately—he did not want to kill the guard, but he had to stop him. So instead of aiming for his heart, nose, eye, or head, Thor aimed for the one place he knew would stop him, but not kill him.

Between the guard’s legs.

He let the stone fly—not at full strength, but enough to put the man down.

It was a perfect strike.

The guard keeled over, dropping his sword, grabbing his groin as he collapsed to the ground and curled up in a ball.

“You’ll hang for this!” he groaned amidst grunts of pain. “Guards! Guards!”

Thor looked up and in the distance saw several of the King’s guards racing for him.

It was now or never.

Without wasting another moment, he sprinted for the window ledge. He would have to jump through, into the arena, and make himself known. And he would fight anyone who got in his way.

Chapter V

MACGIL SAT IN THE UPPER hall of his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs. He sat on his intimate throne, this one carved of wood, and looked out at four of his children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrick, at twenty-five years a fine warrior and true gentleman. He, of all his children, resembled MacGil the most—which was ironic, since he was a bastard, MacGil’s only issue by another woman, a woman he had long since forgotten. MacGil had raised Kendrick with his true children, despite his Queen’s initial protests, on the condition he would never ascend the throne. This pained MacGil now, since Kendrick was the finest man he’d ever known, a son he was proud to sire. There would have been no finer heir to the kingdom.

Beside him, in stark contrast, stood his second-born son—yet his firstborn legitimate son—Gareth, twenty-three, thin, with hollow cheeks and large brown eyes which never stopped darting. His character could not be more different than his elder brother’s. Gareth’s nature was everything Kendrick’s was not: where his brother was forthright, Gareth hid his true thoughts; where his brother was proud and noble, Gareth was dishonest and deceitful. It pained MacGil to dislike his own son, and he had tried many times to correct his nature; but after some point in the boy’s teenage years, he decided his nature was predestined: scheming, power-hungry, and ambitious in every wrong sense of the word. Gareth also, MacGil knew, had no love for women, and had many male lovers. Other kings would have ousted such a son, but MacGil was more open-minded, and for him, this was not a reason not to love him. He did not judge him for this. What he did judge him for was his evil, scheming nature, which was something he could not overlook.

Lined up beside Gareth stood MacGil’s second-born daughter, Gwendolyn. Having just reached her sixteenth year, she was as beautiful a girl as he had ever laid eyes upon—and her nature outshone even her looks. She was kind, generous, honest—the finest young woman he had ever known. In this regard, she was similar to Kendrick. She looked at MacGil with a daughter’s love for a father, and he’d always felt her loyalty in every glance. He was even more proud of her than of his sons.

Standing beside Gwendolyn was MacGil’s youngest boy, Reece, a proud and spirited young lad who, at fourteen, was just becoming a man. MacGil had watched with great pleasure his initiation into the Legion, and could already see the man he was going to be. One day, MacGil had no doubt, Reece would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that day was not now. He was too young yet, and still had much to learn.

MacGil had mixed feelings as he surveyed these four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him. He felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance, for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off to another kingdom, she had no business partaking in this discussion of heirs. But his other son, Godfrey, at eighteen the middle one, was absent. MacGil reddened from the snub.

Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey had shown such disrespect for the kingship; it was always clear that he cared not for it and would never rule. And, MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey instead chose to waste away his days in alehouses with miscreant friends, causing the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker, sleeping most of his days and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand, MacGil was relieved he wasn’t here; on the other, it was an insult he could not suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat silently, waiting, until they did.

The heavy oak door finally slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them. They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the door behind him.

His brothers and sister turned and stared. Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half-dressed. He smiled back. Insolent. As always.

“Hello, Father,” Godfrey said. “Did I miss all the fun?”

“You will stand with your siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much less ale—for three days entire.”

Defiant, Godfrey glared back at his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve Godfrey well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.

Rebellious to the end, Godfrey waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the others.

MacGil surveyed these five children standing before him: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day, the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it possible?

It was an exercise in futility; after all, he was in his prime and could rule for thirty more years. Whatever heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but it had no place now.

He cleared his throat.

“We are gathered here today at the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest’s wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But our kingdom’s laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I must choose.”

MacGil caught his breath, thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each. The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant’s eyes were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice naturally to fall on him. The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving her father nonetheless. The same with his youngest.

“Kendrick, I have always considered you a true son. But the laws of our kingdom prevent me from passing the kingship to anyone of less than true legitimacy.”

Kendrick bowed. “Father, I had not expected you would do so. I’m content with my lot. Please do not let this confound you.”

MacGil was pained at his response, as he felt how genuine he was and wanted to name him heir all the more.

“That leaves four of you. Reece, you’re a fine young man, the finest I’ve ever seen. But you are too young to be part of this discussion.”

“I expected as much, Father,” Reece responded, with a slight bow.

“Godfrey, you are one of my three legitimate sons—yet you choose to waste your days in the alehouse, with the filth. You were handed every privilege in life, and have spurned every one. If I have any great disappointment in this life, it is you.”

Godfrey grimaced back, shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, then, I suppose I’m done here, and shall head back to the alehouse, shan’t I, Father?”

With a quick, mocking bow, Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.

“Get back here!” MacGil snapped. “NOW!”

Godfrey continued to strut, ignoring him. He crossed the room and pulled open the door. Two guards stood there.

MacGil seethed with rage as the guards looked to him questioningly.

But Godfrey did not wait; he shoved his way past them, into the open hall.

“Detain him!” MacGil yelled. “And keep him from the Queen’s sight. I don’t want his mother burdened by the sight of him on her daughter’s wedding day.”

“Yes, my liege,” they said, closing the door as they hurried off after him.

MacGil sat there, breathing, red-faced, trying to calm down. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he had done to warrant such a child.

He looked back at his remaining children. The four of them looked back at him, waiting in the thick silence. MacGil took a deep breath, trying to focus.

“That leaves but two of you,” he continued. “And from these two, I have chosen a successor.”

MacGil turned to his daughter.

“Gwendolyn, that will be you.”

There was a gasp in the room; his children all seemed shocked, most of all Gwendolyn.

“Did you speak accurately, Father?” Gareth asked. “Did you say Gwendolyn?”

“Father, I am honored,” Gwendolyn said. “But I cannot accept. I am a woman.”

“True, a woman has never sat on the throne of the MacGils. But I have decided it is time to change tradition. Gwendolyn, you are of the finest mind and spirit of any young woman I’ve met. You are young, but God be willing, I shall not die anytime soon, and when the time comes, you will be wise enough to rule. The kingdom will be yours.”

“But Father!” Gareth screamed, his face ashen. “I am the eldest born legitimate son! Always, in all the history of the MacGils, kingship has gone to the eldest son!”

“I am King,” MacGil answered darkly, “and I dictate tradition.”

“But it’s not fair!” Gareth pleaded, his voice whining. “I am supposed to be King. Not my sister. Not a woman!”

“Silence your tongue, boy!” MacGil shouted, shaking with rage. “Dare you question my judgment?”

“Am I being passed over then for a woman? Is that what you think of me?”

“I have made my decision,” MacGil said. “You will respect it, and follow it obediently, as every other subject of my kingdom. Now, you may all leave me.”

His children bowed their heads quickly and hurried from the room.

But Gareth stopped at the door, unable to bring himself to leave.

He turned back, and, alone, faced his father.

MacGil could see the disappointment in his face. Clearly, he had expected to be named heir today. Even more: he had wanted it. Desperately. Which did not surprise MacGil in the least—and which was the very reason he did not give it to him.

“Why do you hate me, Father?” he asked.

“I don’t hate you. I just don’t find you fit to rule my kingdom.”

“And why is that?” Gareth pressed.

“Because that is precisely the thing you seek.”

Gareth’s face turned a dark shade of crimson. Clearly, MacGil had given him an insight into his truest nature. MacGil watched his eyes, saw them burn with a hatred for him that he had never imagined possible.

Without another word, Gareth stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

In the reverberating echo, MacGil shuddered. He recalled his son’s stare and sensed a hatred so deep, deeper than even than those of his enemies. In that moment, he thought of Argon, of his pronouncement, of danger being close.

Could it be as close as this?

Chapter VI

THOR SPRINTED ACROSS THE VAST field of the arena, running with all he had. Behind him he could hear the footsteps of the King’s guards, close on his tail. They chased him across the hot and dusty landscape, cursing as they went. Before him were spread out the members—and new recruits—of the Legion, dozens of boys, just like him, but older and stronger. They were training and being tested in various formations, some throwing spears, others hurling javelins, a few practicing their grips on lances. They aimed for distant targets, and rarely missed. These were his competition, and they seemed formidable.

Among them were dozens of real knights, members of the Silver, standing in a broad semicircle watching the action. Judging. Deciding who would stay and who would be sent home.

Thor knew he had to prove himself, had to impress these men. Within moments the guards would be upon him, and if he had any chance of making an impression, now was the time. But how? His mind raced as he dashed across the courtyard, determined not to be turned away.

As Thor raced across the field, others began to take notice. Some of the recruits stopped what they were doing and turned, as did some of the knights. Within moments, Thor felt all the attention focused on him. They looked bewildered, and he realized they must be wondering who he was, sprinting across their field, three of the King’s guard chasing him. This was not how he had wanted to make an impression. His whole life, when he had dreamed of joining the Legion, this was not how he had envisioned it happening.

As Thor ran, debating what to do, his course of action was made plain for him. One large boy, a recruit, decided to take it upon himself to impress the others by stopping Thor. Tall, muscle-bound, and nearly twice Thor’s size, he raised his wooden sword to block Thor’s way. Thor could see he was determined to strike him down, to make a fool of him in front of everyone, and thereby gain himself advantage over the other recruits.

This made Thor furious. Thor had no bone to pick with this boy, and it was not his fight. But he was making it his fight, just to gain advantage with the others.

As he got closer, Thor could hardly believe this boy’s size: he towered over him, scowled down with locks of thick black hair covering his forehead, and the largest, squarest jaw Thor had ever seen. He did not see how he could make a dent against this boy.

The boy charged him with his wooden sword, and Thor knew that if he didn’t act quickly, he would be knocked out.

Thor’s reflexes kicked in. He instinctively took out his sling, reached back, and hurled a rock at the boy’s hand. It found its target and knocked the sword from his hand, just as the boy was bringing it down. It went flying and the boy, screaming, clutched his hand.

Thor wasted no time. He charged, taking advantage of the moment, leapt into the air, and kicked the boy, planting his two front feet squarely on the boy’s chest. But the boy was so thick, it was like kicking an oak tree. The boy merely stumbled back a few inches, while Thor stopped cold in his tracks and fell at the boy’s feet.

This does not bode well, Thor thought, as he hit the ground with a thud, his ears ringing.

Thor tried to gain his feet, but the boy was a step ahead of him. He reached down, grabbed Thor by his back, and threw him, sending him flying, face first, into the dirt.

A crowd of boys quickly gathered in a circle around them and cheered. Thor reddened, humiliated.

Thor turned to get up, but the boy was too fast. He was already on top of him, pinning him down. Before Thor knew it, it had turned into a wrestling match, and the boy’s weight was immense.

Thor could hear the muted shouts of the other recruits as they formed a circle, screaming, anxious for blood. The face of the boy scowled down; the boy reached out his thumbs and brought them down for Thor’s eyes. Thor could not believe it—it seemed this boy really wanted to hurt him. Did he really want to gain advantage that badly?

At the last second, Thor rolled his head out of the way, and the boy’s hands went flying by, plunging into the dirt. Thor took the chance to roll out from under him.

Thor gained his feet and faced the boy, who rose as well. The boy charged and swung for Thor’s face, and Thor ducked at the last second; the air rushed by his face, and he realized if the boy’s fist had hit him, it would have broken Thor’s jaw. Thor reached up and punched the boy in the gut, but it hardly did a thing; it was like striking a tree.

Before Thor could react, the boy elbowed him in the face.

Thor stumbled back, reeling from the blow. It was like getting hit by a hammer, and his ears rang.

While Thor stumbled, still trying to catch his breath, the boy charged and kicked him hard in the chest. Thor went flying backwards and crashed to the ground, landing on his back. The other boys cheered.

Thor, dizzy, began to sit up, but the boy charged once more, swung, and punched him again, hard in the face, knocking him flat on his back again—and down for good.

Thor lay there, hearing the muted cheers of the others, feeling the salty taste of blood running from his nose, the welt on his face. He groaned in pain. He looked up and could see the large boy turn away and walk back toward his friends, already celebrating his victory.

Thor wanted to give up. This boy was huge, fighting him was futile, and he could take no more punishment. But something inside him pushed him. He could not lose. Not in front of all these people.

Don’t give up. Get up. Get up!

Thor somehow summoned the strength. Groaning, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then, slowly, to his feet. He faced the boy, bleeding, his eyes swollen, hard to see, breathing hard, and raised his fists.

The huge boy turned around and stared down at Thor. He shook his head in disbelief.

“You should have stayed down, boy,” he threatened, as he began to walk back to Thor.

“ENOUGH!” yelled a voice. “Elden, stand back!”

A knight suddenly stepped up, getting between them, holding out his palm and stopping Elden from getting closer to Thor. The crowd quieted, as they all looked to the knight; clearly this was a man who demanded respect.

Thor looked up, in awe at the knight’s presence. He was in his twenties, tall, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and brown, well-kept hair. Thor liked him immediately. His first-rate armor, chainmail made of polished silver, was covered with royal markings: the falcon emblem of the MacGil family. Thor’s throat went dry: he was standing before a member of the royal family. He could hardly believe it.

“Explain yourself, boy,” he said to Thor. “Why have you charged into our arena uninvited?”

Before Thor could respond, suddenly, the three members of the King’s guard broke through the circle. The lead guard stood there, breathing hard, pointing a finger at Thor.

“He defied our command!” the guard yelled. “I am going to shackle him and take him to the King’s dungeon!”

“I did nothing wrong!” Thor protested.

“Did you now?” the guard yelled. “Barging into the King’s property uninvited?”

“All I wanted was a chance!” Thor yelled, turning, pleading to the knight before him, the member of the royal family. “All I wanted was a chance to join the Legion!”

“This training ground is only for the invited, boy,” came a gruff voice.

Into the circle stepped a warrior, fifties, broad and stocky, with a bald head, short beard, and a scar running across his nose. He looked like he had been a professional soldier all his life—and from the markings on his armor, the gold pin on his chest, he looked to be their commander. Thor’s heart quickened at the site of him: a general.

“I was not invited, sire,” Thor said. “That is true. But it has been my life’s dream to be here. All I want is a chance to show you what I can do. I am as good as any of these recruits. Just give me one chance to prove it. Please. Joining the Legion is all I’ve ever dreamt of.”

“This battleground is not for dreamers, boy,” came his gruff response. “It is for fighters. There are no exceptions to our rules: recruits are chosen.”

The general nodded, and the King’s guard approached Thor, shackles out.

But suddenly the knight, the royal family member, stepped forward and put out his palm, blocking the guard.

“Maybe, on occasion, an exception may be made,” he said.

The guard looked up at him in consternation, clearly wanting to speak out, but having to hold his tongue in deference to a royal family member.

“I admire your spirit, boy,” the knight continued. “Before we cast you away, I would like to see what you can do.”

“But Kendrick, we have our rules—” the general said, clearly displeased.

“The royal family makes the rules,” Kendrick answered sternly, “and the Legion answers to the royal family.”

“We answer to your father, the King—not to you,” the general retorted, equally defiant.

There was a standoff, the air thick with tension. Thor could hardly believe what he had ignited.

“I know my father, and I know what he would want. He would want to give this boy a try. And that is what we will do.”

The general, after several tense moments, finally backed down.

Kendrick turned to Thor, eyes locking on his, brown and intense, the face of a prince, but also of a warrior.

“I will give you one chance,” he said to Thor. “Let’s see if you can hit that mark.”

He gestured at a stack of hay far across the field, with a small, red stain in its center. Several spears were lodged in the hay, but none inside the red.

“If you can do what none of these others boys could do—if you can hit that mark from here—then you may join us.”

The knight stepped aside, and Thor could feel all eyes on him.

He spotted a rack of spears and looked them over carefully. They were of a finer quality than he’d ever seen, made of solid oak, wrapped in the finest leather. His heart pounded as he stepped forward, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, feeling more nervous than ever before in his life. Clearly, he was being given a nearly impossible task. But he had to try.

Thor reached over and picked a spear, not too long, not too short. He weighed it in his hand—it was heavy, substantial. Not like the ones he used back home. But it also felt right. He felt that maybe, just maybe, he could find his mark. After all, spear-throwing was his finest skill, next to hurling stones, and many long days of roaming the wilderness had given him ample targets. He had always been able to hit targets even his brothers could not.

Thor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. If he missed, he would be pounced upon by the guards and dragged off to jail—and his chances of joining the Legion would be ruined forever. This one moment held everything he had ever dreamt of.

He prayed to God with all he had.

Without hesitating, Thor opened his eyes, took two steps forward, reached back, and hurled the spear.

He held his breath as he watched it sail.

Please, God. Please.

The spear cut through the thick, dead silence, and Thor could feel the hundreds of eyes on it.

Then, after an eternity, there came the sound, the undeniable sound of a spear point piercing hay. Thor didn’t even have to look. He knew, he just knew, it was a perfect strike. It was the way the spear felt when it left his hand, the angle of his wrist, that told him it would hit.

Thor dared to look—and saw, with huge relief, that he was right. The spear had found its place in the center of the red mark—the only spear in it. He’d done what the other recruits could not.

Stunned silence enveloped him, as he felt the other recruits—and knights—all gaping at him.

Finally, Kendrick stepped forward and clapped Thor hard on the back with his palm, with the sound of satisfaction. He grinned widely.

“I was right,” he said. “You will stay!”

“What, my lord!” screamed the King’s guard. “It is not fair! This boy arrived uninvited!”

“He hit that mark. That’s invitation enough for me.”

“He is far younger and smaller than the others. This is no peewee squad,” said the general.

“I would rather a smaller soldier who can hit his mark than an oaf who cannot,” the knight replied.

“A lucky throw!” yelled the large boy whom Thor had just fought. “If we had more chances, we would hit, too!”

The knight turned and stared down the boy who yelled.

“Would you?” he asked. “Shall I see you do it now? Shall we wager your stay here on it?”

The boy, flustered, lowered his head in shame, clearly not willing to take up the offer.

“But this boy is a stranger,” protested the general. “We don’t even know where he hails from.”

“He comes from the lowlands,” came a voice.

The others turned to see who spoke, but Thor did not need to—he recognized the voice. It was the voice that had plagued him his entire childhood. The voice of his eldest brother: Drake.

Drake stepped forward with his other two brothers, and glared down at Thor with a look of disapproval.

“His name is Thorgrin, of the clan McCleod of the Southern Province of the Eastern Kingdom. He is the youngest of four. We all hail from the same household. He tends our father’s sheep!”

The entire group of boys and knights burst into a chorus of laughter.

Thor felt his face redden; he wanted to die at that moment. He had never been more ashamed. That was just like his brother, to take away his moment of glory, to do whatever he could to keep him down.

“Tends sheep, does he?” echoed the general.

“Then our foes will surely have to watch out for him!” yelled another boy.

There was another chorus of laughter, and Thor’s humiliation deepened.

“Enough!” yelled Kendrick, sternly.

Gradually, the laughter subsided.

“I’d rather have a sheepherder any day who can hit a mark than the lot of you—who seem good at laughing, but not much more,” Kendrick added.

With that, a silence descended on the boys, who weren’t laughing anymore.

Thor was infinitely grateful to Kendrick. He vowed to pay him back any way he could. Regardless of what happened to Thor, this man had, at least, restored his honor.

“Don’t you know, boy, that it is not a warrior’s way to tattle on his friends—much less his own family, his own blood?” the knight asked Drake.

Drake looked down, flustered, one of the rare times that Thor had seen him out of sorts.

But another of his other brothers, Dross, stepped forward and protested: “But Thor wasn’t even chosen. We were. He is merely following us here.”

“I’m not following you,” Thor insisted, finally speaking up. “I’m here for the Legion. Not for you.”

“It doesn’t matter why he’s here,” the general said, annoyed, stepping forward. “He’s wasting all of our time. Yes, it was a good hit of the spear, but he still cannot join us. He has no knight to sponsor him, and no squire willing to partner with him.”

“I will partner with him,” called out a voice.

Thor spun, along with the others. He was surprised to see, standing a few feet away, a boy his age, who actually looked like him, except with blond hair and bright green eyes, wearing the most beautiful royal armor: chainmail covered with scarlet and black markings—another member of the King’s family.

“Impossible,” the general said. “The royal family does not partner with commoners.”

“I can do as I choose,” the boy shot back. “And I say that Thorgrin will be my partner.”

“Even if we sanctioned it,” the general said, “it does not matter. He has no knight to sponsor him.”

“I shall sponsor him,” came a voice.

Everyone turned in the other direction, and there came a muffled gasp amongst the others.

Thor turned to see a knight mounted on a horse, bedecked in the beautiful, gleaming armor and wearing all manner of weaponry on his belt. He positively shined—it was like looking at the sun. Thor could tell by his demeanor, his bearing, and by the markings on his helmet, that he was different from the others. He was a champion.

Thor recognized this knight. He had seen paintings of him, and had heard of his legend. Erec. He couldn’t believe it. He was the greatest knight in the Ring.

“But my lord, you already have a squire,” the general protested.

“Then I shall have two,” Erec answered, in a deep, confident voice.

A stunned silence pervaded the group.

“Then there is nothing left to say,” Kendrick said. “Thorgrin has a sponsor and a partner. The matter is resolved. He is now a member of the Legion.”

“But you have forgotten about me!” the King’s guard screamed, stepping forward. “None of this excuses the fact that the boy has struck a member of the King’s guard, and that he must be punished. Justice must be done!”

“Justice will be done.” Kendrick’s voice could have cut steel. “But it will be at my discretion. Not yours.”

“But my liege, he must be put in the stocks! An example must be made of him!”

“If you keep up your talk, then you shall be the one going to the stocks,” Kendrick said to the guard, glaring him down.

Finally, the guard backed down; reluctantly, he turned and walked away, red-faced, glaring at Thor.

“Then it is official,” Kendrick called out in a loud voice. “Welcome, Thorgrin, to the King’s Legion!”

The crowd of knights and boys let out a cheer and then turned away, back to their training.

Thor felt numb with shock. He could hardly believe it. He was now a member of the King’s Legion. It was like a dream.

Thor turned to Kendrick, more grateful to him than he could ever say. He had never had anyone in his life before who cared about him, who went out of his way to look out for him, to protect him. It was a funny feeling. He already felt closer to this man than to his own father.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Thor said. “I am deeply indebted to you.”

Kendrick smiled down. “Kendrick is my name. You shall get to know it well. I am the King’s eldest son. I admire your courage. You shall be a fine addition to this lot.”

Kendrick turned and hurried off, and as he did, Elden, the huge boy Thor had fought, shuffled by.

“Watch your back,” the boy said. “We sleep in the same barracks, you know. And don’t think for a moment you’re safe.”

The boy turned and stormed off before Thor could respond; he had already made an enemy.

He was beginning to wonder what was in store for him here, when the King’s youngest son hurried over to him.

“Don’t mind him,” he said to Thor. “He’s always picking fights. I’m Reece.”

“Thank you,” Thor said, reaching out his hand, “for choosing me as your partner. I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

“I’m happy to choose anyone who stands up to that brute,” Reece said happily. “That was a nice fight.”

“Are you kidding?” Thor asked, wiping dried blood from his face and feeling his welt swell up. “He killed me.”

“But you didn’t give up,” Reece said. “Impressive. Any of the others of us would have just stayed down. And that was one hell of a spear throw. How did you learn to throw like that? We shall be partners for life!” He looked at Thor meaningfully as he shook his hand. “And friends, too. I can sense it.”

As Thor shook his hand, he couldn’t help but feel that he was making a lifelong friend.

Suddenly, he was poked from the side.

He spun and saw an older boy standing there, with pockmarked skin and a long and narrow face.

“I am Feithgold. Erec’s squire. You are now his second squire. Which means you answer to me. And we have a tournament in minutes. Are you going to just stand there when you’ve been made squire to the most famous knight in the kingdom? Follow me! Quickly!”

Reece had already turned away. Thor turned and hurried after the squire as he ran across the field. He had no idea where they were going—but he didn’t care. He was singing inside.

He had made it.

Chapter VII

GARETH HURRIED ACROSS KING’S COURT, dressed in his royal fineries, pushing his way amongst the masses who poured in from all directions for his sister’s wedding, and he fumed. He was still reeling from his encounter with his father. How was it possible that he was skipped over? That his father would not choose him as king? It made no sense. He was the firstborn legitimate son. That was the way it had always worked. He had always, from the time he was born, assumed he would reign—he had no reason to think otherwise.

It was unconscionable. Passing him over for a younger sibling—and a girl, no less. When word spread, he would be the laughingstock of the kingdom. As he walked, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him and he did not know how to catch his breath.

He stumbled his way with the masses toward the wedding ceremony of his elder sister. He looked about, saw the multitude of colored robes, the endless streams of people, all the different folk from all the different provinces. He hated being this close to commoners. This was the one time when the poor could mingle with the rich, the one time those savages from the Eastern Kingdom, from the far side of the Highlands, had been allowed in, too. Gareth still could hardly conceive his sister was being married off to one of them. It was merely a political move by his father, a pathetic attempt to make peace between the kingdoms.

Even stranger, somehow, his sister actually seemed to like this creature. Gareth could hardly conceive why. Knowing her, it was not the man she liked, but the title, the chance to be Queen of her own province. She would get what she deserved; they were all savages, those on the other side of the Highlands. In Gareth’s mind, they lacked his civility, his refinery, his sophistication. It was not his problem. If his sister was happy, let her be married off. It was just one less sibling to have around that might stand in his way to the throne. In fact, the farther away she was, the better.

Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After today, he would never be king. Now, he would be relegated to being just another anonymous prince in his father’s kingdom. Now, he had no path to power; now, he was doomed to a life of mediocrity.

His father had underestimated him—he always had. His father considered himself politically shrewd—but Gareth was much shrewder and always had been. For instance: for marrying Luanda to a McCloud, his father thought himself a master politician. But Gareth was more far-sighted than his father, was able to consider more of the ramifications, and was already looking one step farther. He knew where this would lead. Ultimately, this marriage would not appease the McClouds but embolden them. They were brutes, so they would see this peace offering not as a sign of strength, but of weakness. They would not care for a bond between the families, and as soon as his sister was taken away, Gareth felt certain they would plan an attack. It was all a ruse. He had tried to tell his father, but he would not listen.

Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After all, now he was just another prince, just another cog in the kingdom. Gareth positively burned at the thought of it, and hated his father at that moment with a hatred he never knew was possible. As he crammed in, shoulder to shoulder with the masses, he imagined ways he could take revenge, ways he could get the kingship after all. He could not just sit idly by, that was for certain. He could not let the kingship go to his younger sister.

“There you are,” came a voice.

It was Firth, walking up beside him, wearing a jolly smile and revealing his perfect teeth. Eighteen, tall, thin, with a high voice and smooth skin and ruddy cheeks, Firth was his lover of the moment. Gareth was usually happy to see him, but was in no mood for him now.

“I think you have been avoiding me all day,” Firth added, linking one arm around his as they walked.

Gareth immediately shook off his arm, checking to make sure no one had seen.

“Are you stupid?” Gareth chastised. “Don’t you ever link arms with me in public again. Ever.”

Firth look down, red-faced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s right, you didn’t. Do it again, and I shall never see you again,” Gareth scolded.

Firth turned redder, and looked truly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Gareth checked again, felt confident no one had seen, and felt a little bit better.

“What gossip from the masses?” Gareth asked, wanting to change the subject, to shake his dark thoughts.

Firth immediately perked up and regained his smile.

“Everyone waits in expectation. They all wait for the announcement that you have been named successor.”

Gareth’s face dropped. Firth examined him.

“Haven’t you?” Firth asked, skeptical.

Gareth reddened as he walked, not meeting Firth’s eyes.

“No.”

Firth gasped.

“He passed me over. Can you imagine? For my sister. My younger sister.”

Now Firth’s face fell. He looked astonished.

“That is impossible,” he said. “You are firstborn. She is a woman. It’s not possible,” he repeated.

Gareth looked at him, stone cold. “I do not lie.”

The two of them walked for some time in silence, and as it grew even more crowded, Gareth looked around, starting to realize where he was and really take it all in. King’s Court was absolutely jammed—there must have been thousands of people swarming in from every possible entrance. They all shuffled their way toward the elaborate wedding stage, around which were set at least a thousand of the nicest chairs, with thick cushions covered in red velvet, and golden frames. An army of servants strode up and down the aisles, seating people, carrying drinks.

On either side of the endlessly long wedding aisle, strewn with flowers, sat the two families—the MacGils and McClouds—the line sharply demarcated. There were hundreds on either side, each dressed in their finest, the MacGils in the deep purple of their clan, and the McClouds in their burnt-orange. To Gareth’s eye, the two clans could not look more different: though they were each richly adorned, he felt as if the McClouds were merely dressing up, pretending. They were brutes beneath their clothes—he could see it in their facial expressions, in the way they moved, jostled each other, the way they laughed too loudly. There was something beneath their surface that royal clothing could not hide. He resented having them within their gates. He resented this entire wedding. It was yet another foolish decision by his father.

If Gareth were king, he would have executed a different plan. He would have called this wedding, too. But then he would have waited until late in the night, when the McClouds were steeped in drink, barred the doors to the hall, and burned them all in a great fire, killing them all in one clean swoop.

“Brutes,” Firth said, as he examined the other side of the wedding aisle. “I can hardly imagine why your father let them in.”

“It should make for interesting games afterwards,” Gareth said. “He invites our enemy into our gates, then arranges wedding-day competitions. Is that not a recipe for skirmish?”

“Do you think?” Firth asked. “A battle? Here? With all these soldiers? On her wedding day?”

Gareth shrugged. He put nothing past the McClouds.

“The honor of a wedding day means nothing to them.”

“But we have thousands of soldiers here.”

“As do they.”

Gareth turned and saw a long line of soldiers—MacGils and McClouds—lined up on either side of the battlements. They would not have brought so many soldiers, he knew, unless they were expecting a skirmish. Despite the occasion, despite the fine dress, despite the lavishness of the setting, the endless banquets of food, the summer solstice in full bloom, the flowers—despite everything, there still hung a heavy tension in the air. Everyone was on edge—Gareth could see it by the way they bunched up their shoulders, held out their elbows. They didn’t trusted each other.

Maybe he would get lucky, Gareth thought, and one of them would stab his father in his heart. Then maybe he could become king after all.

“I suppose we can’t sit together,” Firth said, disappointment in his voice, as they approached the seating area.

Gareth shot him a look of contempt. “How stupid are you?” he spat, venom in his voice.

He was seriously beginning to wonder whether he had made a good idea to choose this stable boy as his lover. If he didn’t get him over his sappy ways quick, he might just out them both.

Firth looked down in shame.

“I will see you afterwards, in the stables. Now be gone with you,” he said, and gave him a small shove. Firth disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly, Gareth felt an icy grip on his arm. For a moment his heart stopped, as he wondered if he was discovered; but then he felt the long nails, the thin fingers, plunge into his skin, and he knew it right away to be the grasp of his wife. Helena.

“Don’t embarrass me on this day,” she hissed, hatred in her voice.

He turned and studied her. She looked beautiful, all done up, wearing a long white satin gown, her hair piled high with pins, wearing her finest diamond necklace, and her face smoothed over with makeup. Gareth could see objectively that she was beautiful, as beautiful as she was on the day he married her. But still he felt no attraction to her. It had been another idea of his father’s—to try to marry him out of his nature. But all it had done was give him a perpetually sour companion—and stir up even more court speculation about his true inclinations.

“It is your sister’s wedding day,” she rebuked. “You can act as if we are a couple—for once.”

She locked one arm through his and they walked to a reserved area roped off with velvet. Two royal guards let them through and they mingled with the rest of the royals at the base of the aisle.

A trumpet was blown, and slowly, the crowd quieted. There came the gentle music of a harpsichord, more flowers were strewn along the aisle, and the royal procession began to walk down, couples arm-in-arm. Gareth was tugged by Helena, and he began marching down the aisle with her.

Gareth felt more conspicuous, more awkward than ever, hardly knowing how to make his love seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn’t help but feel as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end, stand near his sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking about his meeting with his father, and he wondered if all these onlookers already knew the news.

“I received ill news today,” he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the end, and the eyes were off him.

“Do you think I don’t know that already?” she snapped.

He turned and looked at her, surprised.

She looked back with contempt. “I have my spies,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?

“If I am not king, then you shall never be queen,” he said.

“I never expected to be queen,” she answered.

That surprised him even more.

“I never expected him to name you,” she added. “Why would he? You are not a leader. You are a lover. But not my lover.”

Gareth felt himself reddening.

“Nor are you mine,” he said to her.

It was her turn to redden. She was not the only one who had a secret lover. Gareth had spies of his own who told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with it so far—as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.

“It’s not like you give me a choice,” she answered. “Do you expect me to remain celibate the rest of my life?”

“You knew who I was,” he answered. “Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not love. Don’t act surprised.”

“Our marriage was arranged,” she said. “I did not choose a thing.”

“But you did not protest,” he answered.

Gareth lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion—as long as she did not annoy him too much.

Gareth watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him—he even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor to the last. But in Gareth’s eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn’t imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who, after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. Gareth felt an equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings, was most like him. In some ways he could relate to her, though they never had much warmth for each other.

Gareth shifted on his feet, impatient, waiting for it all to end.

He suffered through the ceremony, Argon presiding over the blessings, reciting the spells, performing the rituals. It was all a charade, and it made him sick. It was just the union of two families for political reasons. Why couldn’t they just call it what it was?

Soon enough, thank heavens, it was over. The crowd rose up in a huge cheer as the two kissed. A great horn was blown, and the perfect order of the wedding dissolved into controlled chaos. The royal family all made their way back down the aisle and over to the reception area.

Even Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the sight; his father had spared no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables, banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.

Behind them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were targets being prepared for stone-hurling, spear-throwing, archery—and, at the center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around it.

Crowds were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first to enter, of course, was Kendrick, mounted on his horse and bedecked in armor, followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back from the others on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like a magnet for attention; even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth noted her lust for him, like all the other women.

“He’s nearly of selection age, yet he’s not married. Any woman in the kingdom would marry him. Why does he choose none of us?”

“And what do you care?” Gareth asked, feeling jealous despite himself. He too, wanted to be up there in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father’s name. But he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.

Helena ignored him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You are not a man,” she said, derisively. “You do not understand these things.”

Gareth blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands with the others to watch the day’s festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.

As he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.

One day he would have his way. One day he would be King.

One day.

Chapter VIII

THOR DID HIS BEST TO keep up with Erec’s squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and that he had been named second squire to Erec.

“I told you, boy—keep up!” Feithgold snapped.

Thor resented being called “boy,” especially as the squire was hardly a few years older. Feithgold darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to lose Thor.

“Is it always this crowded here?” Thor called out, trying to catch up.

“Of course not!” Feithgold yelled back. “Today is not only the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, but also the day the King chose for his daughter’s wedding—and the only day in history we’ve opened our gates to the McClouds. There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn’t expected this! I fear we will be late!” he said, all in a rush, as he sped through the crowd.

“Where are we going?” Thor asked.

“We’re going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!”

“Prepare for what?” Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“The royal joust!”

They finally reached the edge of the crowd and stopped before a King’s guard, who recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.

They slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor could hardly believe it; there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge warhorses—the largest Thor had ever seen—mounted by knights in all manner of armor. Mixed among the Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had descended on these jousting lanes.

There were already some competitions in progress, knights from places Thor did not recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It was a deadly art.

“It hardly seems like a sport!” Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the perimeter of the lanes.

“That’s because it is not,” Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. “It is a serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle. Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between.”

Thor looked up as two knights charged each other and collided at full speed. There was an awful crash of metal on metal, then one of them flew off his horse and landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.

The crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor saw a piece of a wooden shaft stuck in his ribs, piercing his armor. He cried out in pain and blood poured from his mouth. Several squires ran over to attend him, dragging him off the field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the crowd.

Thor was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.

“What those boys just did—that is your job now,” Feithgold said. “You are squire now. More precisely, second squire.”

He stopped and came in close—so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.

“And don’t you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to assist me. Do you understand?”

Thor nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going differently in his head, and still didn’t know exactly what was in store for him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he had made an enemy.

“It is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec’s squire,” Thor said.

Feithgold let out a short, derisive laugh.

“You couldn’t interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do as I tell you.”

With that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting, squires nervously tending to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor had to catch his breath. He could hardly believe something so big and beautiful was real, let alone could be contained behind a fence. It looked ready for war.

“Warkfin,” Feithgold said. “Erec’s horse. Or one of them—the one he prefers for jousting. Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate,” Feithgold ordered.

Thor looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out. He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He pulled harder until it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.

The second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back, and kicked the wood, just grazing the tip of Thor’s finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.

Feithgold laughed.

“That’s why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one. Especially you.”

Thor was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how he would be able to put up with him.

He quickly open the wooden gates, this time stepping out of the way of the horse’s flailing legs.

“Shall I bring him out?” Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab the reins as Warkfin stomped and swayed.

“Of course not,” Feithgold said. “That is my role. Your role is to feed him—when I tell you to. And to shovel his waste.”

Feithgold grabbed Warkfin’s reins and began to lead him down the stables. Thor swallowed, watching. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle, training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a servant-in-waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.

They finally left the dark stables for the bright light of day, back in the jousting lanes. Thor squinted from the change, and was momentarily overcome by thousands of people cheering the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other. He’d never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth quaked from the horses’ massive gait.

All around were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished their knights’ armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps, and double-checked weapons as knights mounted their steeds and waited for their names to be called.

“Elmalkin!” an announcer called out.

A knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor, galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. The knight charged down the narrow lane, and his lance brushed off the shield of a competitor. They clanged, the other knight’s lance struck, and Elmalkin went flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.

Elmalkin immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around and reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.

“My mace!” the knight yelled out.

The squire next to Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack and sprinting out toward the center of the lane. He ran toward Elmalkin, but the other knight had circled back and was charging again. Just before the squire reached him to placing the mace into his master’s hand, the other knight thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach Elmalkin in time. The other knight brought his lance down—and as he did, his lance sideswiped the squire’s head. The squire, reeling from the blow, spun around quickly and went down to the dirt, face first.

He did not move. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here, staining the dirt.

Thor swallowed.

“It’s not a pretty sight, is it?”

Thor turned to see Feithgold standing beside him, staring back.

“Steel yourself, boy. This is battle. And we’re right in the middle of it.”

The crowd suddenly grew quiet as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could sense anticipation in the air as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation of this one. On one side, out came Kendrick, walking out on his horse, lance in hand.

On the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the McClouds.

“MacGils versus McClouds,” Feithgold whispered to Thor. “We’ve been at war for a thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it.”

Each knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged each other.

Thor was amazed at how much speed they picked up before they moments later collided with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped as both fighters fell from their horses.

They each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had. Watching Kendrick swing and slash mesmerized Thor: it was a thing of beauty. But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each exhausting the other, neither giving ground.

Finally their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other’s swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick reached for his mace, the McCloud’s squire ran up behind him and struck him in the back with his own weapon, the blow sending him to the ground, to the horrified gasp of the crowd.

The McCloud knight retrieved his sword, stepped forward, and pointed it at Kendrick’s throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.

“I concede!” he yelled.

There was a victorious shout among the McClouds—but a shout of anger from the MacGils.

“He cheated!” yelled out the MacGils.

“He cheated! He cheated!” echoed a chorus of angry cries.

The mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides—the MacGils and McClouds—began to approach each other on foot.

“This isn’t good,” Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.

Moments later, the crowd erupted; blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each other to the ground. The crowd swelled and the brawl threatened to blow up into an all-out war.

A horn sounded and guards from both sides marched in, managing to split up the crowd. Another, louder, horn sounded, and silence fell as King MacGil stood from his throne.

“There will be no skirmishes today!” he boomed in his kingly voice. “Not on this day of celebration! And not in my court!”

Slowly, the crowd calmed.

“If it is a contest you wish for between our two great clans, it will be decided by one fighter, one champion, from each side.”

MacGil looked to King McCloud, who sat on the far side, seated with his entourage.

“Agreed?” MacGil yelled out.

McCloud stood solemnly.

“Agreed!” he echoed.

The crowd cheered on both sides.

“Choose your best man!” MacGil yelled.

“I already have,” McCloud said.

There emerged from the McCloud side a formidable knight, the biggest man Thor had ever seen, mounted on his horse. He looked like a boulder, all bulk, with a long beard and a scowl that looked permanent.

Thor sensed movement beside him, and right next to him, Erec stepped up, mounted Warkfin, and walked forward. Thor swallowed. He could hardly believe this was happening all around him. He swelled with pride for Erec.

Then he was overcome with anxiety, as he realized he was on duty. After all, he was squire and his knight was about to fight.

“What do we do?” Thor asked Feithgold in a rush.

“Just stand back and do as I tell you,” he answered.

Erec strode forward into the jousting lane, and the two knights stayed there, facing each other, their horses stomping in a tense standoff. Thor’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited and watched.

A horn sounded, and the two charged each other.

Thor could not believe the beauty and grace of Warkfin—it was like watching a fish jump from the sea. The other knight was huge, but Erec was a graceful and sleek fighter. He cut through the air, his head low, his silver armor rippling, more polished than any armor he had laid his eyes upon.

As the two men met, Erec held his lance with perfect aim and leaned to the side. He managed to knock the knight in the center of his shield while simultaneously dodging his blow.

The huge mountain of a man tumbled backwards, onto the ground. It was like a boulder landing.

The MacGil crowd cheered as Erec rode past, turned, and circled back. He raised his face plate and held the tip of his lance to the man’s throat.

“Yield!” Erec yelled down.

The knight spit.

“Never!”

The knight then reached into a hidden satchel on his waist, pulled out a handful of dirt, and before Erec could react, threw it into Erec’s face.

Erec, stunned, reached for his eyes, dropping his lance and falling from his horse.

The MacGil crowd booed and hissed and cried in outrage as Erec fell, clutching his eyes. The knight, wasting no time, hurried over and kneed him in the ribs.

Erec rolled over, and the knight grabbed a huge rock, picked it up high, and prepared to bring it down on Erec’s skull.

“NO!” Thor screamed, stepping forward, unable to control himself.

Thor watched in horror as the knight brought down the rock. At the last second, Erec somehow rolled out of the way. The stone lodged deep into the ground, right where his skull had been.

Thor was amazed at Erec’s dexterity. He was already back on his feet, facing this dirty fighter.

“Short swords!” the Kings cried out.

Feithgold suddenly wheeled and stared at Thor, wide-eyed.

“Hand it to me!” he yelled.

Thor’s heart pounded in panic. He spun around, searching Erec’s weapons rack, looking desperately for the sword. There was a dizzying array of weapons before him. He reached out, grabbed it, and thrust it into Feithgold’s palm.

“Stupid boy! That is a medium sword!” Feithgold yelled.

Thor’s throat went dry; he felt the whole kingdom staring at him. His vision was blurry with anxiety as he spiraled into panic, not knowing which sword to choose. He could barely focus.

Feithgold stepped forward, shoved Thor out of the way, and grabbed the short sword himself. He then raced out into the jousting lane.

Thor watched him go, feeling useless, horrible. He also tried to imagine if it were himself running out there, in front of all those people, and his knees grew weak.

The other knight’s squire reached him first, and Erec had to jump out of the way as the knight swung for him, barely missing. Finally, Feithgold reached Erec and placed the short sword into his hand. As he did, the knight charged Erec. But Erec was too clever. He waited until the last moment, then jumped out of the way.

The knight kept charging, though, and ran right into Feithgold, standing, to his bad luck, in the place where Erec had just been. The knight, filled with rage at missing Erec, kept charging and grabbed Feithgold with both hands by his hair, and head-butted him hard in the face.

There was a cracking of bone as blood squirted from Feithgold’s nose and he collapsed to the ground, limp.

Thor stood there, mouth open in shock. He could not believe it. Neither could the crowd, which booed and hissed.

Erec swung around with his sword, just missing the knight, and the two faced each other again.

Thor suddenly realized: he was Erec’s only squire now. He gulped. What was he supposed to be doing? He was not prepared for this. And the whole kingdom was watching.

The two knights attacked each other viciously, going blow for blow. Clearly the McCloud knight was much stronger than Erec—yet Erec was the better fighter, faster and more agile. They swung and slashed and parried, neither able to gain advantage.

Finally, King MacGil stood.

“Long spears!” he called out.

Thor’s heart pounded. He knew this meant him: he was on duty.

He spun and looked at the rack, taking down the weapon that seemed most appropriate. As he grabbed its leather shaft, he prayed he chose correctly.

He burst onto the lane and could feel thousands of eyes on him. He ran and ran for all he was worth, wanting to reach Erec as quickly as possible, and finally placing the spear into his hand. He was proud to see he reached him first.

Erec took the spear and spun, prepared to face the other knight. Being the honorable warrior that he was, Erec waited until the other knight was armed before attacking. Thor hurried off to the side, out of the men’s way, not wanting to repeat Feithgold’s mistake. As he did, he dragged Feithgold’s limp body out of harm’s way.

As Thor watched, he sensed something was wrong. Erec’s opponent took his spear, raised it straight up, then began bringing it down in a strange motion. As he did, suddenly, Thor felt his world go into focus in a way it never had. He intuited that something was wrong. His eyes locked on the McCloud knight’s spearhead, and as he looked closely, he noticed it was loose. The knight was about to use the tip of his spear as a throwing knife.

As the knight brought down his spear, the head detached and sailed through the air, end over end, heading right for Erec’s heart. In seconds, Erec would be dead—there was no way he could react in time. From the looks of its jagged blade, it appeared to be armor-piercing.

In that moment, Thor felt his whole body warming. He felt a tingling sensation—it was the same sensation he’d experienced back in Darkwood, when battling the Sybold. His whole world slowed. He was able to see the tip spinning in slow motion, was able to feel an energy, a heat, rising within him—one he didn’t know he had.

He stepped forward and felt bigger than the spearhead. In his mind, he willed it to stop. He demanded it to stop. He did not want to see Erec hurt. Especially not this way.

“NO!” Thor shrieked.

He took another step and held out his palm, aimed at the spearhead.

It stopped and hung there, in midair, right before reaching Erec’s heart.

It then dropped harmlessly to the ground.

The two knights both turned and looked at Thor—as did the two kings, as did the thousands of spectators. He felt the whole world staring down at him, and realized they had all just witnessed what he did. They all knew he was not normal, that he had some sort of power, that he had influenced the games, had saved Erec—and changed the fate of the kingdom.

Thor stood rooted in place, wondering what just happened.

He was now certain he wasn’t the same as all these people. He was different.

But who was he?

Chapter IX

THOR FOUND HIMSELF SWEPT UP, ushered through the crowd by Reece, the King’s youngest son and his newfound sparring partner. Ever since the jousting match, it had been a blur. Whatever he had done back there, whatever power he had used to stop that spearhead from killing Erec, it had caught the attention of the entire kingdom. The match had been stopped after that, called off by both Kings, and a truce called. Each knight retired to his side, the masses broke up in an agitated stir, and Thor had been taken by the arm and ushered off by Reece.

He’d been swept away in a royal entourage, cutting the back way through the masses, Reece tugging at his arm the whole way. Thor was still shaking from the day’s events. He hardly understood what he had just done back there, how it had influenced things. He had just wanted to be anonymous, just another one of the King’s Legion. He had not wanted to be the center of attention.

Worse, he didn’t know where he was being led, if he was going to be punished somehow for interfering. Of course, he had saved Erec’s life—but he had also interfered with a knight’s battle, which was forbidden for a squire. He wasn’t sure if he would be rewarded or rebuked.

“How did you do that?” Reece asked, as he yanked him along. Thor followed blindly, trying to process it all himself. As he went, the masses gawked, staring at him as if he were some kind of freak.

“I don’t know,” Thor answered truthfully. “I just wanted to help him and…it happened.”

Reece shook his head.

“You saved Erec’s life. Do you realize that? He is our most famed knight. And you saved him.”

Thor felt good as he turned Reece’s words over in his head, felt a wave of relief. He had liked Reece from the moment he’d met him; he had a calming effect, always knowing what to say. As he pondered it, he realized maybe he was not in for punishment after all. Maybe, in some ways, they would view him as a sort of hero.

“I didn’t try to do anything,” Thor said. “I just wanted him to live. It was just…natural. It was no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Reece echoed. “I couldn’t have done it. None of us could have.”

They turned the corner and Thor saw before them the King’s castle, sprawled out, reaching high into the sky. It looked monumental. The King’s army stood at attention, lining the cobblestone road leading over the drawbridge, keeping the masses at bay. They stepped aside to allow Reece and Thor past.

The two of them followed the road, soldiers on either side, up to the huge arched doors, covered in iron bolts. Four soldiers pulled it open and stepped aside, at attention. Thor could not believe the treatment he was receiving; he felt as if he were a member of the royal family.

As they entered the castle, the doors closing behind them, Thor was amazed at the sight before him: the inside was immense, with soaring stone walls a foot thick and vast, open rooms. Before him milled hundreds of members of the royal court, rambling about in an excited stir. He could sense the buzz and excitement in the air, and all eyes turned and looked at him as he entered. He was overwhelmed by the attention.

They all huddled close, seemed to gawk as Thor went with Reece down the castle corridors. He had never seen so many people dressed in such finery. He saw dozens of girls of all ages, dressed in elaborate outfits, locking arms and whispering in each other’s ears and giggling at him as he went. He felt self-conscious. He couldn’t tell if they liked him, or if they were making fun of him. He was not used to being the center of attention—much less in a royal court—and hardly knew how to handle himself.

“Why are they laughing at me?” he asked Reece.

Reece turned and chuckled. “They’re not laughing at you,” he said. “They have taken a liking to you. You’re famous.”

“Famous?” he asked, stunned. “What do you mean? I just got here.”

Reece laughed and clasped a hand on his shoulder. He was clearly amused by Thor.

“Word spreads faster in the royal court than you might imagine. And a newcomer like yourself—well, this does not happen every day.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, realizing he was being led somewhere.

“My father wants to meet you,” he said, as they turned down a new corridor.

Thor swallowed.

“Your father? You mean…the King?” Suddenly, he was nervous. “Why would he want to meet me? Are you sure?”

Reece laughed.

“I am quite sure. Stop being so nervous. It’s just my dad.”

“Just your dad?” Thor said with disbelief. “He’s the King!”

“He’s not that bad. I have a feeling it will be a happy audience. You saved Erec’s life, after all.”

Thor swallowed hard, his palms sweaty, as another large door opened and they entered a vast hall. He looked up in awe at the arched ceiling, covered in an elaborate design and soaring high. The walls were lined with arched stained-glass windows, and if possible, even more people were crammed into this room. There must have been a thousand of them, and the room positively swarmed. Banquet tables stretched across the room as far as the eye could see, people sitting on endlessly long benches, dining. Between these was a narrow aisle with a long, red carpet, leading to a platform on which sat the royal throne. The crowd parted ways as Reece and Thor walked down the carpet toward the King.

“And where do you think you’re taking him?” came a hostile, nasally voice.

Thor looked up to see a man standing over him, not much older than he was, dressed in a royal garb, clearly a prince, blocking their way and scowling down.

“It’s Father’s orders,” Reece snapped back. “Better get out of our way, unless you want to defy them.”

The prince stood his ground, frowning, looking as if he’d bitten into something rotten as he examined Thor. Thor did not like him at all. There was something he did not trust about him, with his lean, unkind features and eyes which never stopped darting.

“This is not a hall for commoners,” the prince replied. “You should leave the riffraff outside, where it came from.”

Thor felt his chest tighten. Clearly this man hated him, and he had no idea why.

“Shall I tell Father you said that?” Reece defended, standing his ground.

Grudgingly, the prince turned and stormed away.

“Who was that?” Thor asked Reece, as they continued walking.

“Never mind him,” Reece replied. “He’s just my older brother—or one of them. Gareth. The oldest. Well, not really the oldest—he’s just the oldest legitimate one. Kendrick, who you met on the battleground—he is really the oldest.”

“Why does Gareth hate me? I don’t even know him.”

“Don’t worry—he doesn’t reserve his hate only for you. He hates everybody. And anyone who gets close to the family, he sees as a threat. Never mind him. He is but one of many.”

As they continued walking, Thor felt increasingly grateful to Reece, who, he was realizing, was becoming a true friend.

“Why did you stand up for me?” Thor asked, curious.

Reece shrugged.

“I was ordered to bring you to Father. Besides, you’re my sparring partner. And it’s been a long time since someone came through my age here who I thought could be worthy.”

“But what makes me worthy?” Thor asked.

“It’s the fighter’s spirit. It cannot be faked.”

As they continued to walk down the aisle toward the King, Thor felt as if he’d always known him—it was strange, but in some ways he felt as if Reece were his own brother. He had never had a brother—not a real brother—and it felt good.

“My other brothers are not like him, don’t worry,” Reece said as people flocked around them, trying to catch a glimpse of Thor. “My brother Kendrick, the one you met—he’s the best of all. He’s my half-brother, but I consider him a true brother—even more than Gareth. Kendrick is like a second father to me. He will be to you, too, I am sure of it. There is nothing he would not do for me—or for anyone. He is the most loved of our royal family among the people. It is a great loss he is not allowed to become King.”

“You said ‘brothers.’ You have another brother, too?” Thor asked.

Reece took a deep breath.

“I have one other, yes. We are not that close. Godfrey. Unfortunately, he wastes his days in the alehouse, with the commoners. He’s not a fighter, like us. He’s not interested in it—he’s not interested in anything, really. Except ale—and the ladies.”

Suddenly, they stopped short as a girl blocked their way. Thor stood there, transfixed. Perhaps a couple of years older than him, she stared back with blue, almond eyes, perfect skin, and long, strawberry hair. She was dressed in a white satin dress bordered with lace, and her eyes positively glowed, dancing with joy and mischief. She locked her eyes on his and held him completely captivated. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth—and as if he weren’t transfixed already, her smile held him there, lit up his heart in a single gesture. He never felt so alive.

Thor stood before her, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. It was the first time in his life he’d ever felt this way.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the girl asked Reece. Her voice went right into Thor—it was even sweeter than her appearance.

Reece sighed.

“And then there’s my sister,” he said with a smile. “Gwen, this is Thor. Thor, Gwen.”

Gwen curtsied.

“How do you do?” she asked with a smile.

Thor stood there, frozen. Finally, Gwen giggled.

“Not so many words at once, please,” she said with a laugh.

Thor felt himself redden; he cleared his throat.

“I am…I… am…sorry,” he said. “I’m Thor.”

Gwen giggled.

“I know that already,” she said. She turned to her brother. “My, Reece, your friend certainly has a way with words.”

“Father wants to meet him,” he said impatiently. “We are going to be late.”

Thor wanted to speak to her, to tell her how beautiful she was, how happy he was to meet her, how grateful he was she had stopped. But his tongue was completely tied. He had never been this nervous in his life. So, instead, all that came out was:

“Thank you.”

Gwen giggled, laughing harder.

“Thank you for what?” she asked. Her eyes lit up. She was enjoying this.

Thor felt himself redden again.

“Um…I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Gwen laughed harder, and Thor felt humiliated. Reece elbowed him, prodding him on, and the two continued to walk. After a few steps, Thor checked back over his shoulder. Gwen still stood there, staring back at him.

Thor felt his heart pounding. He wanted to talk to her, to find out everything about her. He was so embarrassed for his loss of words. But he had never been exposed to girls, really, in his small village—and certainly never to one so beautiful. He had never been taught exactly what to say, how to act.

“She talks a lot,” Reece said, as they continued, approaching the King. “Never mind her.”

“What is her name?” Thor asked.

Reece gave him a funny look. “She just told you!” he said with a laugh.

“I’m sorry…I…uh…I forgot,” Thor said, embarrassed.

“Gwendolyn. But everyone calls her Gwen.”

Gwendolyn. Thor turned her name over and over in his mind. Gwendolyn. Gwen. He did not want to let it go. He wanted it to linger in his consciousness. He wondered if he would have a chance to see her again. He guessed probably not, being a commoner. The thought hurt him.

The crowd grew quiet as Thor looked up and realized they were now close to the King. King MacGil sat on his throne, dressed in his royal purple mantle, wearing his crown and looking imposing.

Reece kneeled before him, and the crowd quieted. Thor followed suit. A silence blanketed the room.

The King cleared his throat, a deep, hearty noise. As he spoke, his voice boomed throughout the room.

“Thorgrin of the Lowlands of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom,” he began. “Do you realize that today you interfered with the King’s royal joust?”

Thor felt his throat go dry. He hardly knew how to respond; it was not a good way to begin. He wondered if he was going to be punished.

“I am sorry, my liege,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean to.”

MacGil leaned forward and raised one eyebrow.

“You didn’t mean to? Are you saying you didn’t mean to save Erec’s life?”

Thor was flustered. He realized he was just making it worse.

“No, my liege. I did mean to—”

“So then you admit you did mean to interfere?”

Thor felt his heart pounding. What could he say?

“I am sorry, my liege. I guess I just…wanted to help.”

“Wanted to help?” MacGil boomed, then leaned back and roared with laughter.

“You wanted to help! Erec! Our greatest and most famed knight!”

The room erupted with laughter, and Thor felt his face flush, one too many times for one day. Could he do nothing right here?

“Stand and come closer, boy,” MacGil ordered.

Thor looked up in surprise to see the King smiling down, studying him, as he stood and approached.

“I spot nobility in your face. You are not a common boy. No, not common at all….”

MacGil cleared his throat.

“Erec is our most loved knight. What you have done today is a great thing. A great thing for us all. As a reward, from this day, I take you in as part of my family, with all the same respects and honors due any of my sons.”

The King leaned back and boomed: “Let it be known!”

There came a huge cheer and stomping of feet throughout the room.

Thor looked around, flustered, unable to process all that was happening to him. Part of the King’s family. It was beyond his wildest dreams. All he had wanted was to be accepted, to be given a spot in the Legion. Now, this. He was so overwhelmed with gratitude, with joy, he hardly knew what to do.

Before he could respond, suddenly the room broke into song and dance and feasting, people celebrating all around him. It was mayhem. He looked up at the King, saw the love in his eyes, the adoration and acceptance. He had never felt the love of a father figure in his life. And now here he was, loved not just by a man, but by the King, no less. In one day, his world had changed. He only prayed that all of this was real.

Gwendolyn pushed her way through the crowd, wanting to catch sight of the boy before he was ushered out of the royal court. Thor. Her heart beat faster at the thought of him, and she could not stop turning his name over in her mind. She had been unable to stop thinking about him from the moment she had encountered him. He was younger than her, but not by more than a year or two—and besides, he had an air about him that made him seem older, more mature than the others, more profound. From the moment she had seen him, she felt she had known him. She smiled to herself as she remembered meeting him, how flustered he was. She could see in his eyes that he felt the same way about her.

Of course, she did not even know the boy. But she had witnessed what he had done on the jousting lane, had seen what a liking her younger brother had taken to him. She had watched him ever since, sensing there was something special about him, something different from the others. Meeting him had only confirmed it. He was different from all these royal types, from all the people born and bred here. There was something refreshingly genuine about him. He was an outsider. A commoner. But oddly, with a royal bearing. It was as if he were too proud for what he was.

Gwen made her way to the upper balcony’s edge and looked down. Below was spread out the royal court, and she caught a last glimpse of Thor as he was ushered out, Reece by his side. They were surely heading to the barracks, to train with the other boys. She felt a pang of regret, already wondering, scheming, how she could arrange to see him again.

Gwen had to know more about him. She had to find out. For that, she would have to speak to the one woman who knew everything about anyone and everything going on in the kingdom: her mother.

Gwen turned and cut her way back through the crowd, twisting through the back corridors of the castle she knew by heart. Her head spun. It had been a dizzying day. First, the morning’s meeting with her father, his shocking news that he wanted her to rule his kingdom. She was completely caught off guard, had never expected it in a million years. She still could hardly process it now. How could she ever possibly rule a kingdom? She pushed the thought from her mind, hoping that day would never come. After all, her father was healthy and strong, and more than anything, all she wanted was for him to live. To be here with her. To be happy.

But she could not push the meeting from her mind. Somewhere in there, lurking, was the seed planted that one day, whenever that day should come, she would be next. She would succeed him. Not any of her brothers. But her. It terrified her; it also gave her a sense of importance, of confidence, unlike any she’d ever had. He had found her fit to rule—her—to be the wisest of them all. She wondered why.

It also, in some ways, worried her. She assumed it would stir up a huge amount of resentment and envy—her, a girl, being chosen to rule. Already she could feel Gareth’s envy. And that scared her. She knew her older brother to be terribly manipulative and completely unforgiving. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and she hated the idea of being in his sights. She had tried to talk to him after the meeting, but he would not even look at her.

Gwen ran down the spiral staircase, her shoes echoing on the stone. She turned down another corridor, passed through the rear chapel, through another door, past several guards, and entered the private chambers of the castle. She had to speak with her mother, whom she knew would be resting here. Her mother had little tolerance for these long social affairs anymore—she liked to slip out to her private chambers and rest as often as possible.

Gwen passed another guard, went down another hall, then finally stopped before the door to her mother’s dressing room. She was about to open it, but stopped. Behind the door, she heard muted voices, their pitch rising, and sensed something wrong. It was her mother, arguing. She listened closely, and heard her father’s voice. They were fighting. But why?

Gwen knew she should not be listening—but she could not help herself. She reached out and gently pushed open the heavy oak door, grabbing it by its iron knocker. She opened it just a crack and listened.

“He won’t stay in my house,” her mother snapped.

“You rush to judgment when you don’t even know the entire story.”

“I know the story,” she snapped back. “Enough of it.”

Gwen heard venom in her mother’s voice, and was taken aback. She rarely heard her parents fight—just a few times in her life—and had never heard her mother so worked up. She could not understand why.

“He will stay in the barracks with the other boys. I do not want him under my roof. Do you understand?” she pressed.

“It is a big castle,” her father spat back. “His presence will not be noticed by you.”

“I don’t care if it is noticed or not. I don’t want him here. He’s your problem. It was you who chose to bring him in.”

“You are not so innocent, either,” her father retorted.

She heard footsteps, watched her father strut across the room and out the door on the other side, slamming it behind him so hard that the room shook. Her mother stood alone in the center of the room, and began to cry.

Gwen felt terrible. She didn’t know what to do. On one hand, she thought it best to slip away, but on the other, she couldn’t stand the sight of her mother crying, couldn’t stand to leave her there like that. She also, for the life of her, could not understand what they were arguing about. She assumed they were arguing about Thor. But why? Why would her mother even care? Dozens of people lived in the castle.

Gwen couldn’t bring herself to just walk away, not with her mother in that state. She had to comfort her. She reached up and gently pushed the door open.

It creaked, and her mother wheeled, caught off guard. She scowled at her daughter.

“Do you not knock?” she snapped. Gwen could see how upset she was, and felt terrible.

“What’s wrong, Mother?” Gwen asked, walking toward her gently. “I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you arguing with Father.”

“You are right; you shouldn’t pry,” her mother retorted.

Gwen was surprised. Her mother was often a handful, but was rarely like this. The force of her anger made Gwen stop in her tracks a few feet away, unsure.

“Is it about the new boy? Thor?” she asked.

Her mother turned and looked away, wiping a tear.

“I don’t understand,” Gwen pressed. “Why would you care where he stayed?”

“My matters are of no concern to you,” she said coldly, clearly wanting to end the matter. “What do you want? Why have you come here?”

Gwen was nervous now. She wanted her mother to tell her everything about Thor, but she couldn’t have picked a worse moment. She cleared her throat, hesitant.

“I…actually wanted to ask you about him. What do you know of him?”

Her mother turned and narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious.

“Why?” she asked, with deadly seriousness. Gwen could feel her summing her up, looking right through her, and seeing with her uncanny perception that Gwen liked him. She tried to hide her feelings, but knew it was no use.

“I’m just curious,” she said, unconvincingly.

Suddenly, the Queen took three steps toward her, grabbed her arms roughly, and stared into her face.

“Listen to me,” she hissed. “I’m only going to say this once. Stay away from that boy. Do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near him, under any circumstance.”

Gwen was horrified.

“But why? He’s a hero.”

“He is not one of us,” her mother answered. “Despite what your father might think. I want you to keep away from him. Do you hear me? Vow to me. Vow to me right now.”

“I will not vow,” Gwen said, yanking her arm away from her mother’s too-strong grip.

“He is a commoner, and you are a Princess,” her mother yelled. “You are a Princess. Do you understand? If you go anywhere near him, I will have him exiled from here. Do you understand?”

Gwen hardly knew how to respond. She had never seen her mother like this.

“Do not tell me what to do, Mother,” she said, finally.

Gwen did her best to put on a brave voice, but deep inside she was trembling. She had come here wanting to know everything; now, she felt terrified. She did not understand what was happening.

“Do as you wish,” her mother said. “But his fate lies in your hands. Don’t forget it.”

With that, her mother turned, strutted from the room, and slammed the door behind her, leaving Gwen all alone in the reverberating silence, her good mood shattered. What could possibly elicit such a strong reaction from her mother and her father?

Who was this boy?

Chapter X

MACGIL SAT IN THE BANQUET hall watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and King McCloud at the other, hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had been going on for hours until, finally, the tension between the clans had settled down from the day’s jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed were wine and meat—and women—to make them forget their differences. Now they all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.

MacGil felt vindicated; his master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify both sides of the Ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful neighbors. His daughter Luanda was arm-in-arm with her new husband, the McCloud prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her away—but he did, at least, give her a queenship.

MacGil thought back to all the planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging this union. It was not an easy peace and, in time, the McClouds would settle in on their side of the Highlands, this wedding would be long forgotten, and one day they would stir with unrest. He was not naïve. But now, at least, there was a blood tie between the clans—and especially once a child was born, that could not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire Ring could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened front to the rest of the world.

“A toast,” MacGil shouted, and stood.

The table grew quiet as hundreds of men stood too, raising their goblets.

“To the wedding of my eldest child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the Ring!”

“HEAR HEAR!” came a chorus of shouts. Everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of laughter and feasting.

MacGil sat back and surveyed the room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends. This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires’ table with the new boy, Thor. Thor already felt like a son to him, and he was pleased to see his youngest was fast friends with him.

He scanned the faces for his younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her sitting off to the side, surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was smitten. He had not foreseen this and was not quite sure what to make of it. He sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.

“All things are not what they seem,” came a voice.

MacGil turned to see Argon sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.

“What do you make of all this?” MacGil asked. “Will there be peace in the kingdoms?”

“Peace is never static,” Argon said. “It ebbs and flows like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer of peace. You see one side of its face. You’re trying to force peace on an ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage.”

“What are you saying?” MacGil asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around Argon.

Argon turned and stared at him with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil’s heart.

“There will be war. The McClouds will attack. Prepare yourself. All the houseguests you see before you will soon be doing their best to murder your family.”

MacGil gulped.

“Did I make the wrong decision to marry her off to them?”

Argon was silent for a while, until finally he said: “Not necessarily.”

Argon looked away, and MacGil could see that he was finished with the topic. There were a million questions he wanted answered, but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was ready. So instead, he watched Argon’s eyes and followed their gaze to Gwendolyn, then to Thor.

“Do you see them together?” MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.

“Perhaps,” Argon answered. “There is still much yet to be decided.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Argon shrugged and looked away, and MacGil realized he wouldn’t get any more from him.

“You saw what happened on the field today?” MacGil prodded. “With the boy?”

“I saw it before it happened,” Argon replied.

“And what do you make of it? What is the source of the boy’s powers? Is he like you?”

Argon turned and stared into MacGil’s eyes, again with an intensity that almost made him look away.

“He is far more powerful than me.”

MacGil stared back, shocked. He had never heard Argon speak like this.

“More powerful? Than you? How is that possible? You are the King’s sorcerer—there is no one more powerful than you in all the land.”

Argon shrugged.

“Power does not come in only one form,” he said. “The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from.”

Argon turned and stared at MacGil.

“But you do,” he added.

MacGil stared back, wondering.

“Do I?” MacGil asked. “Tell me. I need to know.”

Argon shook his head.

“Search your feelings. They are true.”

“What will become of him?” MacGil asked.

“He will become a great leader. And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater kingdoms than yours. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his destiny.”

For a brief moment, MacGil burned with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with Reece, at a table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch. He didn’t imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.

But Argon had never been wrong and never made pronouncements without a reason.

“Why are you telling me this?” MacGil asked.

Argon turned and stared at him.

“Because it is your time to prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of everything. It is your responsibility.”

“Mine? And what of his father?”

“What of him?” Argon asked.

Chapter XI

THOR PEELED OPEN HIS EYES, disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw, his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face, wiping the drool from his mouth, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the night before, the King’s feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never drink again.

Thor looked around, trying to get his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way and saw Reece, a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the barracks. The Legion’s barracks. All around him were boys his age, about fifty of them.

Thor vaguely remembered Reece showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and crashing on the mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He would give anything for a chance to bathe—although he had no idea where. And he would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled—he wanted food, too.

It was all so new to him. He barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines were of the King’s Legion. But he was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and had caught Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt a pang of regret as he thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?

Before Thor could finish the thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and an instant later, they crashed open, light flooding in.

“To your feet, squires!” came a shout.

In marched a dozen members of the King’s Silver, chainmail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal staffs. The noise was deafening, and all around Thor, the other boys jumped to their feet.

Leading the group was a particularly fierce-looking soldier Thor recognized from the arena the day before, the stocky, bald one with the scar on his nose, whom Reece had told him was named Kolk.

He seemed to be scowling right at Thor as he raised a finger and pointed it at him.

“You there, boy!” he screamed. “I said on your feet!”

Thor was confused. He was already standing.

“But I’m already on my feet, sire,” Thor answered.

Kolk stepped forward and backhanded Thor across the face. Thor stung with the indignation of it, as all eyes were on him.

“Don’t you talk back to your superior again!” Kolk reprimanded.

Before Thor could respond the men moved on, roaming through the room, yanking one boy after another to his feet, kicking some in the ribs who were too slow to get up.

“Don’t worry,” came a reassuring voice.

He turned and saw Reece standing there.

“It is not personal to you. It is just their way. Their way of breaking us down.”

“But they didn’t do it to you,” Thor said.

“Of course, they won’t touch me, because of my father. But they won’t exactly be polite, either. They want us in shape, that’s all. They think this will toughen us up. Don’t pay much attention to them.”

The boys were all marched out of their barracks and Thor and Reece fell in with them. As they stepped outside, the bright sunlight struck Thor and he squinted and held up his hands. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea, and he turned, bent over, and threw up.

He could hear the snicker of boys all around him. A guard pushed him, and Thor stumbled forward, back in line with the others, wiping his mouth. Thor had never felt more awful.

Beside him, Reece smiled.

“Rough night, was it?” he asked Thor, grinning widely, elbowing him in the ribs. “I told you to stop after the second goblet.”

Thor felt queasy as the light pierced his eyes; it had never felt so strong as today. It was a hot day already, and he could feel drops of sweat forming beneath his leathermail.

Thor tried to remember back to Reece’s warning of the night before—but for the life of him, he could not remember.

“I don’t remember any such advice,” Thor retorted.

Reece grinned wider. “Precisely. That is because you did not listen.” Reece chuckled. “And those ham-handed attempts to speak to my sister,” he added. “It was positively pathetic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy so fearful of a girl in my life.”

Thor reddened as he tried to remember. But he could not. It was all hazy to him.

“I mean you no offense,” Thor said. “With your sister.”

“You cannot offend me. If she should choose you, I would be thrilled.”

The two of them marched faster, as the group turned up a hill. The sun seemed to be getting stronger with each step.

“But I must warn you: every hand in the kingdom is after her. The chances of her choosing you… Well, let’s just say they are remote.”

As they marched faster across the rolling green hills of King’s Court, Thor felt reassured. He felt accepted by Reece. It was amazing, but he continued to feel Reece was more of a brother to him than he’d ever had. As they walked, Thor noticed his three real brothers marching close by. One of them turned and scowled back to him, then nudged his other brother, who looked back with a mocking grin. They shook their heads and turned away. They had not so much as one kind word for Thor. But he hardly expected anything else.

“Get in line, Legion! Now!”

Thor looked up and saw several more of the Silver crowd around them, pushing the fifty of them into a tight line, double file. One man came up behind and struck the boy in front of Thor with a large bamboo rod, cracking him hard on the back; the boy cried out, and fell more tightly in line. Soon they were in two neat rows, marching steadily through the King’s ground.

“When you march into battle, you march as one!” called out Kolk, walking up and down the sides. “This is not your mother’s yard. You are marching to war!”

Thor marched and marched beside Reece, sweating in the sun, wondering where they were being led. His stomach still turned from the ale, and he wondered when he would have breakfast, when he would get something to drink. Once again, he cursed himself for drinking the night before.

As they went up and down the hills, through an arched stone gate, they finally reached the surrounding fields. They passed through another arched stone gate and entered a coliseum of sorts. The training ground for the Legion.

Before them were all sorts of targets for throwing spears, firing arrows, and hurling rocks, as well as piles of straw to slash with swords. Thor’s heart quickened at the sight of it. He wanted to get in there, to use the weapons, to train.

But as Thor made his way toward the training area, suddenly he was elbowed in the ribs from behind, and a small group of six boys, most of them younger like Thor, were herded off the main line. He found himself being split from Reece, being led to the other side of the field.

“Think you’re going to train?” Kolk asked mockingly as they forked from the others, away from the targets. “It’s horses for you today.”

Thor looked up and saw where they were headed: on the far side of the field, several horses pranced about. Kolk looked down at him with an evil smile.

“While the others hurl spears and wield swords, today you will tend horses and clean their waste. We all have to start somewhere. Welcome to the Legion.”

Thor’s heart fell. This was not how he had seen it going at all.

“You think you’re special, boy?” Kolk asked, walking beside him, getting close to his face. Thor sensed he was trying to break him. “Just because the King and his son have taken a liking to you, doesn’t mean crap to me. You’re in my command now. You understand me? I don’t care about whatever fancy tricks you pulled on the jousting ground. You’re just another little boy. Do you understand me?”

Thor swallowed. He was in for a long, hard training.

Making matters worse, as soon as Kolk drifted away to torture someone else, the boy in front of Thor, a short stocky kid with a flat nose, turned and sneered at him.

“You don’t belong here,” he said. “You cheated your way in. You weren’t selected. You’re not one of us. Not really. None of us like you.”

The boy beside him also turned and sneered at Thor.

“We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you drop out,” he said. “Getting in is easy next to staying in.”

Thor recoiled at their hatred. He couldn’t believe he already had enemies, and didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it. All he’d ever wanted was to join the Legion.

“Why don’t you mind yourself,” came a voice.

Thor looked over and saw a tall, skinny redheaded boy, with freckles across his face and small green eyes, sticking up for him. “You two are stuck here shoveling with the rest of us,” he added. “You’re not so special, either. Go pick on someone else.”

“You mind your business, lackey,” one of the boys shot back, “or we’ll be after you, too.”

“Try it,” the redhead snapped.

“You’ll talk when I tell you to,” Kolk yelled at one of the boys, smacking him hard upside the head. The two boys in front of Thor, thankfully, turned back around.

Thor hardly knew what to say; he fell in beside the redhead, grateful to him.

“Thank you,” Thor said.

The redhead turned and smiled at him.

“Name is O’Connor. I’d shake your hand, but they’d smack me if I did. So take this as an invisible handshake.”

He smiled wider, and Thor instantly liked him.

“Don’t mind them,” he added. “They’re just scared. Like the rest of us. None of us quite knew what we were signing up for.”

Soon their group reached the end of the field, and Thor counted six horses prancing about.

“Take up the reins!” Kolk commanded. “Hold them steady, and walk them around the arena until they break. Do it now!”

Thor stepped forward to take the reins of one of the horses, and as he did, the horse stepped back and pranced, nearly kicking him. Thor, startled, stumbled back, and the others in the group laughed at him. Kolk smacked him hard in the back of the head, and he felt like turning and hitting back.

“You are a member of the Legion now. You never retreat. From anybody. No man, no beast. Now take those reins!”

Thor steeled himself, stepped forward, and grabbed the reins from the prancing horse. He managed to hang on while the horse yanked and pulled, and began to lead him around the wide dirt field, getting in line with the others. His horse tugged at him, resisting, but Thor tugged back, not giving up so easily.

“It gets better, I hear.”

Thor turned to see O’Connor coming up beside him, smiling. “They want to break us, you know?”

Suddenly, Thor’s horse stopped. No matter how much he pulled on the reins, it would not budge. Then Thor smelled something awful; there was more waste coming from the horse than he ever imagined possible. It did not seem to end.

Thor felt a small shovel pressed into his palm, and looked over to see Kolk beside him, smiling down.

“Clean it up!” he snapped.

Chapter XII

GARETH STOOD IN THE CROWDED marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun, sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid this part of King’s Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor’s fruit, keeping his head low. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.

Gareth stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to it so as not to be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.

It was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had led them to this slovenly character, with whom he now furtively spoke at the end of the alleyway. Gareth had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth’s competence. Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.

They had waited for this man for half an hour, Gareth getting jostled in the busy market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.

“Where is the vial?” Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.

Gareth turned just a bit, careful to keep his face hidden, and peeked from the corner of his cloak. Standing opposite Firth was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat. He stared down at Firth, unblinking.

“Where’s the money?” he responded.

Gareth hoped Firth would handle this well; he usually managed to screw things up somehow.

“I shall give you the money when you give me the vial.” Firth held his ground.

Good, Gareth thought, impressed.

There was a thick moment of silence, then:

“Give me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is.”

“Where it is?” Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. “You said I would have it.”

“I said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend—but I assume it is not trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?”

Firth paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.

Finally, Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the royal gold pouring from Firth’s pouch into the man’s palm.

Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had.

“You’ll take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you desire.”

Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.

“The money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”

Gareth could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear—and now was taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.

“But I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.

The man grinned back, evil.

“But now I ask for more.”

Firth’s eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and looked right at him.

Gareth turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.

Gareth’s heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined all the things that might go wrong.

Please, don’t let him come this way, Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.

He felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.

The cretin’s large black, soulless eyes stared into his.

“You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”

The man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.

“The Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”

A second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself, with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.

“I see,” the man said. “This vial—it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”

Gareth’s face flushed with anxiety. This man—he was too quick. It was too late. His whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.

“Your father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your father.”

Gareth had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.

Gareth didn’t want any passersby to witness this, so he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching, until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and clamped the man’s mouth shut before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.

Firth came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.

Gareth held the man like that for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.

Gareth spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak and threw it over the lifeless heap.

“I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl, crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Gareth reached up and backhanded him.

“Shut your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.

Firth turned and hurried off.

Gareth prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and stuffed it back into his waistband.

The man would not be needing these.

Chapter XIII

GARETH WALKED QUICKLY THROUGH THE forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over his head despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a trail. Who knew who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading back to Gareth.

“I’m sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.

Gareth ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.

“What you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my way.”

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”

Firth was right; it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig who changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over him. He only prayed no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to follow.

At least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man had told the truth and was not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie. Or it could be he led them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them of more money.

Gareth chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this all himself. Like he always did.

“You better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and that she has the poison.”

They continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.

Gareth entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the trees. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.

Gareth’s heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

“You see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.

“That means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”

Gareth didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked his head as he entered, closing it behind him.

It was dark inside, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a single-room cottage, devoid of windows, enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.

From the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.

Hobbling toward him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, with a hunchback. She raised a candle, which lit up a face covered in warts and lines. She looked ancient, older than the gnarled trees that blanketed her cottage.

“You wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”

“I’ve come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”

There was a long silence, followed by a horrific cackle. It echoed in the small room.

“Whether or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”

Gareth’s heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.

“Why should you care?” he finally asked.

“It amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.

“That’s no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”

Gareth reached into his waistband, took out a bag of gold, in addition to the bag of gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.

He prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could leave this place.

The witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picking up one of the bags and inspecting it. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no more.

“This might be just enough to buy my silence,” she said.

She turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hiss, and beside a candle Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over, and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered? Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn’t tell.

Gareth was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how hard it could be to assassinate someone.

After what felt like an interminable silence, the witch returned. She handed him the vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm, and backed away from him.

“Such a small vial?” he asked. “Can this do the trick?”

She smiled.

“You’d be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man.”

Gareth turned and headed for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.

She spun him around, leaned in close—an awful smell emanating from her—then suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him, pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.

Gareth was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him. Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tongue, which she pressed onto his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight, pulling him harder.

Finally, he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as she leaned back and chuckled.

“The first time you kill a man is the hardest,” she said. “You will find it much easier the next time around.”

Gareth burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there, waiting for him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Firth asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve been stabbed. Did she hurt you?”

Gareth paused, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to respond.

“Let’s get away from this place,” he said. “Now!”

As they began to head out of the clearing into the black wood, the sun was suddenly obscured by clouds racing across the sky, making the beautiful day cold and dark. Gareth had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried how deep the powers of this witch were, as the cold wind rose in the summer day and crept up the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but think she had somehow possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.

“What happened in there?” Firth pressed.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gareth said. “I don’t want to think about this day—ever again.”

The two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, and soon entered the main forest trail to head back toward King’s Court. Just as Gareth was beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a group of men walking toward them. He couldn’t believe it.

His brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking toward them, laughing, surrounded by the villainous Harry and two other of his trouble-making friends. Of all the times and places for his brother to run into him. In the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.

Gareth turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he had not been discovered.

“Gareth?” called out the voice.

Gareth had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily toward him.

“What are you doing here?” Godfrey asked.

Gareth opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.

“We were going for a hike,” Firth volunteered, rescuing him.

“A hike, were you?” one of Godfrey’s friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends all judged him for his predisposition—but he hardly cared about that now. He just needed to change the topic. He didn’t want them to wonder what he was doing out here.

“What are you doing out here?” Gareth asked, turning the tables.

“A new tavern opened, by Southwood,” Godfrey answered. “We had just been trying it out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?” he asked, holding out a cask.

Gareth shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.

“Father would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day,” Gareth said. “I suggest you set down that and return to court.”

It worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth, but about his father and himself.

“And since when did you care about Father’s needs?” he retorted.

Gareth had had enough. He hadn’t time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn’t think too deeply about why he had run into him here.

Gareth turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.

Chapter XIV

THOR SAT AT THE WOODEN table, working away at the bow and arrow laid out in pieces. Beside him sat Reece, along with several other members of the Legion. They were all hunched over their weapons, hard at work on carving the bows and tightening the strings.

“A warrior knows how to string his own bow,” Kolk yelled out, as he walked up and down the rows of boys, leaning over, examining each one’s work. “The tension must be just right. Too little, and your arrow will not reach its mark. Too much, and your aim will not be true. Weapons break in battle. Weapons break on journeys. You must know how to repair them as you go. The greatest warrior is also a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cobbler, a mender of all things broken. And you don’t really know your own weapon until you’ve repaired it yourself.”

Kolk stopped behind Thor and leaned over his shoulder. He yanked the wooden bow out of Thor’s grasp, the string hurting his palm as he did.

“The string is not taut enough,” he chided. “It is crooked. Use a weapon like this in battle, and you will surely die. And your partner will die beside you.”

Kolk slammed the bow back down on the table and moved on; several other boys snickered. Thor reddened as he grabbed the string again, pulled it as taut as he possibly could, and wrapped it around the notch in the bow. He’d been at work on this for hours, the cap to an exhausting day of labor and menial tasks.

Most of the others were training, sparring, sword-fighting. He looked out and in the distance saw his brothers, the three of them, laughing as they clacked wooden swords; as usual, Thor felt they were gaining the upper hand while he was being left behind in their shadow. It was unfair. He felt increasingly that he was unwanted here, as if he were not a true member of the Legion.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” O’Connor said beside him.

Thor’s palms were chafed from trying; he pulled back the string one last time, this time with all his might, and finally, to his surprise, it clicked. The string fit neatly in the notch, Thor pulling with all his might, sweating. He felt a great sense of satisfaction with his bow now as strong as it should be.

The shadows were growing longer as Thor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and wondered how much longer this would go on. He contemplated what it meant to be a warrior. In his head, he had seen it differently. He had only imagined training, all the time. But he supposed this was also a form of training.

“This was not what I signed up for, either,” O’Connor said, as if reading his mind.

Thor turned, and was reassured to find his friend’s constant smile.

“I come from the Northern Province,” he continued. “I, too, dreamed of joining the Legion my entire life. I guess I imagined constant sparring and battle. Not all of these menial tasks. But it will get better. It is just because we are new. It is a form of initiation. There seems to be a hierarchy here. We are also the youngest. I don’t see the nineteen-year-olds doing this. This can’t last forever. Besides, it’s a useful skill to learn.”

A horn sounded. Thor looked over and saw the rest of the Legion gathering beside a huge stone wall in the middle of the field. Ropes were draped across it, spaced every ten feet. The wall must have been thirty feet tall, and piled at its base were stacks of hay.

“What are you waiting for?” Kolk screamed. “MOVE!”

The Silver appeared all around them, screaming, and before Thor knew it he and the others jumped from their benches and ran across the field to the wall.

Soon they were all gathered there, standing before the ropes. There was an excited buzz in the air as all the Legion members stood together. Thor was ecstatic to finally be included with the others, and he found himself gravitating to Reece, who stood with another friend of his. O’Connor joined them.

“You will find in battle that most towns are fortified,” Kolk boomed out, looking over the faces of the boys. “Breaching fortifications is the work of a soldier. In a typical siege, ropes and grappling hooks are used, much like the ones we have thrown over this wall, and climbing a wall is one of the most dangerous things you will encounter in battle. In few cases will you be more exposed, more vulnerable. The enemy will pour molten lead on you. They will shoot down arrows. Drop rocks. You don’t climb a wall until the moment is perfect. And when you do, you must climb for your life—or else risk death.”

Kolk took a deep breath, then yelled out: “BEGIN!”

All around him the boys broke into action, each charging for a rope. Thor sprinted for a free one and was about to take it when an older boy reached it first, bumping him out of the way. Thor scrambled and grabbed the closest one he could find, a thick, knotted twine. Thor’s heart pounded as he began to scramble his way up the wall.

The day had turned misty, and Thor’s feet slipped on the stone. Still, he made good time and couldn’t help but notice he was faster than many of the others, nearly taking the lead as he scrambled his way up. He was, for the first time today, starting to feel good, starting to feel a sense of pride.

Suddenly, something hard slammed into his shoulder. He looked up and saw members of the Silver at the top of the wall, throwing down small rocks, sticks, all manner of debris. The boy on the rope beside Thor reached up with one hand to block his face and lost his grip and fell backwards, down to the ground. He dropped a good twenty feet, and landed in the pile of hay below.

Thor was losing his grip, too, but somehow managed to hang on. A club hailed down and struck Thor hard on the back, but he continued to climb. He was making good time and was starting to think he might even be the first one to the top, when suddenly, he felt a hard kick in the ribs. He couldn’t understand where it came from, until he looked over and saw one of the boys beside him, swinging sideways. Before Thor could react, the boy kicked him again.

Thor lost his grip this time and found himself hurling backwards, through the air, flailing. He landed on his back in the hay, shocked but unhurt.

Thor scrambled to his hands and knees, catching his breath, and looked about. All around him, boys were dropping like flies from the ropes, landing in the hay, kicked or shoved by each other—or if not, then kicked off by members of the Silver up top. Those who weren’t had their ropes cut, so they went came crashing down, too. Not a single member reached the top.

“On your feet!” yelled Kolk. Thor jumped up, as did the others.

“SWORDS!”

The boys ran as one to a huge rack of wooden swords. Thor joined them and grabbed one, shocked at how heavy it was. It weighed twice as much as any weapon he had lifted. He could barely hold it.

“Heavy swords, begin!” came a shout.

Thor looked up and saw that huge oaf, Elden, the one who had first attacked him when he met the Legion. Thor remembered him too well, as his face still hurt from the bruises Elden had given him. He was bearing down on him, sword held high, a look of fury on his face.

Thor raised his sword at the last moment and managed to block Elden’s blow, but the sword was so heavy, he was barely able to hold it back. Elden, bigger and stronger, reached around and kicked Thor hard in the ribs.

Thor dropped to his knees in pain. Elden swung around again to crack him in the face, but Thor managed to reached up and block the blow with a moment to spare. But Elden was too quick and strong; he swung around and slashed Thor in the leg, knocking him down on his side.

A small crowd of boys gathered around them, cheering and hollering, as their fight became the center of attention. It seemed as if they were all rooting for Elden.

Elden came down with his sword again, slashing hard, and Thor rolled out of the way, the blow barely missing his back. Thor had a moment’s advantage and took it—he swung around and hit the oaf hard behind the knee. It was a soft spot, and enough to knock him back, then down, stumbling onto his rear.

Thor used the chance to scramble to his feet. Elden rose, red-faced, more furious than ever, and now the two faced off.

Thor knew he couldn’t just stand there; he charged and swung. But this practice sword was made of a strange wood and just too heavy; his move was telegraphed. Elden blocked it easily, then jabbed Thor hard in the ribs.

It hit a soft spot, and Thor keeled over and dropped his sword, the wind knocked out of him.

The other boys screamed in delight. Thor kneeled there, unarmed, and felt the tip of Elden’s sword jammed into the base of his throat.

“Yield!” Elden demanded.

Thor glared up at him, the salty taste of blood on his lip.

“Never,” he said, defiant.

Elden grimaced, raised his sword, and prepared to bring it down. There was nothing Thor could do. He was in for a mighty blow.

As the sword came down, Thor closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt the world slowing down, felt himself transported to another realm. He was suddenly able to feel the swing of the sword in the air, its motion, and he willed the universe to stop it.

He felt his body warming, tingling, and as he focused, he felt something happening. He felt himself able to control it.

Suddenly the sword froze in midair. Thor had somehow managed to stop it using his power.

As Elden held the sword, confused, Thor then used his mind power to grasp and squeeze Elden’s wrist. He squeezed harder and harder in his mind, and in moments, Elden cried out and dropped the sword.

All the boys quieted, as they stood, frozen, looking down at Thor, wide-eyed in surprise and fear.

“He’s a demon!” one yelled out.

“A sorcerer!” another yelled.

Thor was overwhelmed. He had no grasp of what he had just done. But he knew it was not normal. He was both proud and embarrassed, emboldened and afraid.

Kolk stepped forward, into the circle, standing between Thor and Elden.

“This is no place for spells, boy, whoever you are,” he chastised Thor. “It is a place for battle. You defied our rules of fighting. You will think about what you have done. I will send you to a place of true danger, and we shall see how well your spells defend you there. Report to guard patrol at the Canyon.”

There was a gasp among the Legion, and they all quieted. Thor did not understand exactly what that meant, but he knew that whatever it was, it could not be good.

“You can’t send him to the Canyon!” Reece protested. “He is too new. He could get hurt.”

“I shall do whatever I choose to, boy.” Kolk grimaced at Reece. “Your father is not here to protect you now. Or him. And I run this Legion. And you better mind your tongue—just because you are royalty, don’t think you can speak out of line again.”

“Fine,” Reece responded. “Then I shall join him!”

“As will I!” O’Connor chimed in, stepping forward.

Kolk looked them over, and slowly shook his head.

“Fools. That is your choice. Join him if you wish.”

Kolk turned and looked at Elden. “Don’t think you get off so easy, either,” he said to him. “You started this fight. You must pay the price, too. You will join them on patrol tonight.”

“But sire, you can’t send me to the Canyon!” Elden protested, eyes wide in fear. It was the first time Thor had seen him afraid of anything.

Kolk took a step forward, close to Elden, and raised his hands to his hips. “Can’t I?” he said. “Not only can I send you there— I can also send you away for good, out of this Legion, and to the farthest reaches of our kingdom if you continue to talk back to me.”

Elden looked away, too flustered to respond.

“Anyone else want to join them?” Kolk called out.

The other boys, bigger and older and stronger, all looked away in fear. Thor gulped as he looked around at the nervous faces, and wondered just how bad the Canyon could be.

Chapter XV

THOR WALKED ALONG THE WELL-trodden dirt road, flanked by Reece, O’Connor, and Elden. The four of them had barely said a word to each other since they left, still in shock. Thor looked over at Reece and O’Connor with a feeling of gratitude he had never known before. He could hardly believe that they had put themselves on the line for him like that. He felt he had found true friends, more like brothers. He had no idea what lay in store for them at the Canyon, but whatever they should face, he was happy to have them at his side.

Elden he tried not to look at. He could see him kicking rocks, smoldering with rage, could see how annoyed and upset he was to be here, on patrol with them. But Thor felt no pity for him. As Kolk had said, he had started the whole thing. It served him right.

The four of them, a ragtag group, proceeded down the road, following directions. They had been walking for hours, it was late in the afternoon, and Thor’s legs were growing weary. He was also hungry. He had been given only a small bowl of barley stew for lunch and hoped some food might be waiting for them wherever they were going.

But he had bigger worries than that. He looked down at his new armor, and knew it would not have been given to him if there were not an important reason. Before being sent off, the four of them had been given new squire’s armor: leather, dressed in chainmail. They were also given short swords of a coarse metal—hardly the fine steel used to forge a knight’s sword, but certainly better than nothing. It felt good to have a substantial weapon at his waist—in addition, of course, to his sling, which he still carried. Though he knew that if they were to encounter real trouble tonight, the weapons and armor they were given might not suffice. He longed for the superior armor and weapons of his cohorts in the Legion: medium and long swords of the finest metal, short spears, maces, daggers, halberds. But these belonged to the boys of fame and honor, from famous families, who could afford such things. This was not Thor, a simple shepherd’s son.

As they marched down the interminable road into the second sunset, far from the welcoming gates of King’s Court, toward the distant divide of the Canyon, Thor could not help but feel as if this were all his fault. For some reason, some of the other members of the Legion had seemed to not take a liking to him, as if they resented his presence. It didn’t make any sense. And it gave him a sinking feeling. His whole life he had wanted nothing more than to join them. Now, he felt he had crashed into it by cheating; would he ever be truly accepted by his peers?

Now, on top of everything, he was singled out to be marched away for Canyon duty. It was unfair. He hadn’t started the fight, and when he had used his powers, whatever they were, it had not been on purpose. He still didn’t understand them, didn’t know where they came from, how he summoned them, or how to turn them off. He shouldn’t be punished for that.

Thor had no idea what Canyon duty meant, but from the expressions of the others, clearly, it was not desirable. He wondered if he were being marched off to be killed, if this was their way of forcing him out of the Legion. He was determined not to give up.

“How much farther can the Canyon be?” O’Connor asked, breaking the silence.

“Not far enough,” answered Elden. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for Thor.”

“You started the fight, remember?” Reece interrupted.

“But I fought cleanly, and he did not,” Elden protested. “Besides, he deserved it.”

“Why?” Thor asked, wanting to know the answer that had been burning inside for a while. “Why did I deserve it?”

“Because you don’t belong here, with us. You stole your position in the Legion. The rest of us were picked. You fought your way in.”

“But isn’t that what the Legion is about? Fighting?” Reece answered. “I would argue that Thor deserves his spot more than any of us. We were merely picked. He struggled and fought to gain what was not given him.”

Elden shrugged, unimpressed.

“The rules are the rules. He was not picked. He shouldn’t be with us. That’s why I fought him.”

“Well, you are not going to make me go away,” Thor responded, shakiness in his voice, determined to be accepted.

“We’ll see about that,” Elden muttered darkly.

“And just what you mean by that?” O’Connor asked.

Elden did not volunteer any more, but continued walking silently. Thor’s stomach tightened. He couldn’t help but feel as if he had made too many enemies, though he did not understand why. He did not like the feeling.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Reece said to Thor, loudly enough for the others to hear. “You did nothing wrong. They sent you to Canyon duty because they see potential in you. They want to toughen you up or else they wouldn’t bother. You’re also in their sights because my father singled you out. That’s all.”

“But what is Canyon duty?” he asked.

Reece cleared his throat, looking anxious.

“I’ve never been on it myself. But I’ve heard stories. From some of the older kids, and from my brothers. It is patrol duty. But on the other side of the Canyon.”

“The other side?” O’Connor asked, terror in his voice.

“What do you mean ‘the other side’?” Thor asked, not understanding.

Reece studied him.

“Have you never been to the Canyon?”

Thor could feel the others looking at him, and he shook his head, self-conscious.

“You’re kidding,” Elden snapped.

“Really?” O’Connor pressed. “Not once in your life?”

Thor shook his head, reddening. “My father never took us anywhere. I’ve heard of it.”

“You’ve probably never been outside your village, boy,” Elden said. “Have you?”

Thor shrugged, silent. Was it that obvious?

“He hasn’t,” Elden added, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“Shut up,” Reece said. “Leave him alone. That doesn’t make you any better than him.”

Elden sneered at Reece and raised his hand briefly to his scabbard, but then relaxed it. Apparently, even though he was bigger than Reece, he didn’t want to provoke the king’s son.

“The Canyon is the only thing keeping our kingdom of the Ring safe,” Reece explained. “Nothing else stands between us and the hordes of the world. If the savages of the Wilds were to breach it, we would all be finished. The entire Ring looks to us, the King’s men, to protect them. We have patrols guarding it all the time—mostly on this side, and occasionally, on the other. There is only one bridge across, only one way in or out, and the most elite of the Silver stand watch round-the-clock.”

Thor had heard of the Canyon his entire life, had heard horrifying stories of the evils that lurked on the other side, the massive evil empire that surrounded the Ring, and how close they all lived to terror. It was one of the reasons he had wanted to join the King’s Legion: to help protect his family and his kingdom. He hated the idea that other men were out there constantly protecting him while he lived comfortably in the arms of the kingdom. He wanted to do his service and help fight off the evil hordes. He could imagine nothing braver than those men who guarded the Canyon passageway.

“The Canyon is a mile wide, and surrounds the entire Ring,” Reece explained. “It is not easy to breach. But of course our men are not the only thing keeping the hordes at bay. There are millions of those creatures out there, and if they wanted to overrun this Canyon, by sheer force of will, they could in a moment. Our manpower only helps supplement the energy shield of the Canyon. The real power that keeps them at bay is the power of the Sword.”

Thor turned. “The Sword?”

Reece looked at him.

“The Destiny Sword. You know the legend?”

“This country rube probably never even heard of it,” Elden chimed in.

“Of course I know it,” Thor snapped back, defensive. Not only did he know it, but he had also spent many days pondering the legend throughout his life. He had always wanted to see it. The fabled Destiny Sword, the magical sword whose energy protected the Ring, filled the Canyon with a potent force that protected the Ring from invaders.

“The Sword lives in King’s Court?” Thor asked.

Reece nodded.

“It has lived amongst the royal family for generations. Without it, the kingdom would be nothing. The Ring would be overrun.”

“If we are protected, then why bother patrol the Canyon at all?” Thor asked.

“The Sword only blocks the major threats,” Reece explained. “A small and isolated evil creature can slip in here and there. That is why our men are needed. A single being could cross the Canyon, or even a small group of them—they might be so bold as to try to cross the bridge, or they may act with stealth and climb down the Canyon walls on one end and up on the other. It is our job to keep them out. Even one creature can cause a lot of damage. Years ago, one slipped in and murdered half the children of a village before he was caught. The Sword does the bulk of the work, but we are an indispensable part.”

Thor took it all in, wondering. The Canyon seemed so grand, their duty so important, he could hardly believe that he would be part of this great purpose.

“But even with all that, I haven’t explained it very well,” Reece said. “There’s more to the Canyon than just that.” He fell silent.

Thor looked at him and saw something like fear or wonder in his eyes.

“How can I explain it?” Reece said, struggling for the proper words. He cleared his throat. “The Canyon is far bigger than all of us. The Canyon is…”

“The Canyon is a place for men,” came a resounding voice.

They all turned at the sound of the voice, the stamp of a horse.

Thor’s eyes widened. Trotting up beside them, bedecked in full chainmail, with long gleaming weapons hanging over the side of his incredible horse, was Erec. He smiled down at them, keeping his eyes fixed on Thor.

Thor looked up in shock.

“It is a place that will make you a man,” Erec added, “if you are not one already.”

Thor had not seen Erec since his jousting match, and felt so relieved at his presence, to have a real knight here with them as they headed for the Canyon—no less, Erec himself. Thor felt invincible having him, and prayed he was coming with them.

“What are you doing here?” Thor asked. “Are you accompanying us?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

Erec leaned back and laughed.

“Not to worry, young one,” he said. “I’m going with you.”

“Really?” Reece asked.

“It is tradition for a member of the Silver to accompany members of the Legion on their first patrol. I volunteered.”

Erec turned and looked down at Thor.

“After all, you helped me yesterday.”

Thor felt his heart warm, buoyed by Erec’s presence. He also felt lifted up in the eyes of his friends. Here he was, being accompanied by the greatest knight of the kingdom, as they headed toward the Canyon. Much of his fear was falling away.

“Of course, I shall not go out on patrol with you,” Erec added. “But I will lead you across the bridge, and to your camp. It will be your duty to venture out on patrol, alone, from there.”

“It is a great honor, sire,” Reece said.

“Thank you,” O’Connor and Elden echoed.

Erec looked down at Thor and smiled.

“After all, if you’re going to be my first squire, I can’t let you die just yet.”

“First?” Thor asked, his heart skipping a beat.

“Feithgold broke his leg in the jousting match. He will be out for at least eight weeks. You are my first squire now. And our training might as well begin, shan’t it?”

“Of course, sire,” Thor responded.

Thor’s mind was swimming. For the first time in a while, he felt as if luck was finally turning his way. Now he was first squire to the greatest knight of all. He felt as if he had leapfrogged over all his friends.

The five of them continued on, heading west into the setting sun, Erec walking slowly on his horse beside them.

“I assume you have been to the Canyon, sire?” Thor asked.

“Many times,” Erec responded. “My first patrol. I was your age, in fact.”

“And how did you find it?” Reece asked.

All four boys turned and stared at Erec, rapt with attention. Erec rode on for some time in silence, looking straight ahead, his jaw set.

“Your first time is an experience you never forget. It is hard to explain. It is a strange and foreign and mystical and beautiful place. On the other side lie unimaginable dangers. The bridge to cross it is long and steep. There are many of us patrolling—but always, you feel alone. It is nature at its best. It crushes man to be in its shadow. Our men have patrolled it for hundreds of years. It is a rite of passage. You do not fully understand danger without it; you cannot become a knight without it.”

He fell back into silence. The four boys looked at each other, queasy.

“Should we expect a skirmish on the other side then?” Thor asked.

Erec shrugged.

“Anything is possible, once you reach the Wilds. Unlikely. But possible.”

Erec looked down at Thor.

“Do you want to be a great squire, and one day, a great knight?” he asked, looking right at Thor.

Thor’s heart beat faster.

“Yes, sire, more than anything.”

“Then there are things you must learn,” Erec said. “Strength is not enough; agility is not enough; being a great fighter is not enough. There is something else, something more important than all of them.”

Erec fell back into silence, and Thor could wait no longer.

“What?” Thor asked. “What is most important?”

“You must be of sound spirit,” Erec replied. “Never afraid. You must enter the darkest wood, the most dangerous battle, with complete equanimity. You must carry this equanimity with you, always, whenever and wherever you go. Never fearful, always on guard. Never restful, always diligent. You don’t have the luxury of expecting others to protect you anymore. You’re no longer a citizen. You’re now one of the King’s men. The greatest qualities for a warrior are courage and equanimity. Be not afraid of danger. Expect it. But do not seek it.

“This Ring we live in,” Erec added, “our kingdom. It seems as if we, with all our men, protect it against the hordes of the world. But we do not. We are protected only by the Canyon, and only by the sorcery within it. We live in a sorcerer’s ring. Don’t forget it. We live and die by magic. There is no security here, boy, on either side of the Canyon. Take away sorcery, take away magic, and we have nothing.”

They walked on in silence for quite some time, as Thor turned Erec’s words over in his mind again and again. He felt as if Erec were giving him a hidden message, as if he were telling him that, whatever power he had, whatever magic he might be summoning, it was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it was something to be proud of, and the source of all energy in the kingdom. Thor felt better. He had felt he was being sent to the Canyon as a punishment for his using his magic, and had felt guilty about it; but now he felt his powers, whatever they were, might become a source of pride.

As the other boys drifted ahead and Erec and Thor fell back, Erec looked down at him.

“You’ve already managed to make some powerful enemies at Court,” he said, an amused smile on his face. “As many enemies as you have friends, it seems.”

Thor reddened, shamed.

“I don’t know how, sire. I didn’t intend to.”

“Enemies are not gained by intentions. They are often gained by envy. You have managed to create a great deal of it. That is not necessarily a bad thing. You are the center of much speculation.”

Thor scratched his head, trying to understand.

“But I don’t know why.”

Erec still looked amused.

“The Queen herself is chief among your adversaries. You have somehow managed to get on her wrong side.”

“My mother?” Reece asked, turning. “Why?”

“That is the very question I’ve been wondering myself,” Erec said.

Thor felt terrible. The Queen? An enemy? What had he done to her? He couldn’t conceive it. How could he even be important enough for her to take notice of him? He hardly knew what was happening around him.

Suddenly, something dawned on him.

“Is she the reason that I was sent out here? To the Canyon?” he asked.

Erec turned and looked straight ahead, his face growing serious.

“She might be,” he said, contemplative. “She just might be.”

Thor wondered at the extent and depth of the enemies he had made. He had stumbled into a court he knew nothing about. He had just wanted to belong. He had just followed his passion and his dream, and had done whatever he could to achieve it. He did not think that by doing so, he might raise envy or jealousy. He turned it over and over in his mind, like a riddle, but could not get to the bottom of it.

As Thor was mulling these thoughts, they reached the top of a knoll, and as the sight spread out before them, all thoughts of anything else fell away. Thor’s breath was taken away—and not just by the strong, gusty wind.

Stretching out before them, as far as the eye could see, lay the Canyon. It was the first time Thor had ever seen it, and the sight shocked him so thoroughly he stood rooted in place, unable to move. It was the grandest and most majestic thing he had ever seen. The huge chasm in the earth seemed to stretch for eternity, spanned only by a single, narrow bridge lined with soldiers. The bridge seemed to stretch to the end of the earth itself.

The Canyon was alight with greens and blues from the second setting sun, and the sparkling rays bounced off its walls. As he felt his legs again, Thor began to walk with the others, closer and closer to the bridge, until he was able to look down, deep into the Canyon’s cliffs; they seemed to plummet into the bowels of the earth. Thor could not even see the bottom, and didn’t know if that was because it had no bottom, or if it was because it was covered in mist. The rock that lined the cliffs looked to be a million years old, formed with patterns that storms must have left centuries before. It was the most primordial place he had ever seen. He had no idea his planet was so vast, so vibrant, so alive.

It was as if he had come to the beginning of creation.

Thor heard the others gasp all around him, too.

The thought of the four of them patrolling this Canyon seemed laughable. They were dwarfed even by the sight of it.

As they walked toward the bridge, soldiers stiffened on either side, at attention, making way for the new patrol. Thor felt his pulse quicken.

“I don’t see how the four of us can possibly patrol this,” O’Connor said.

Elden snickered. “There are many patrols besides us. We are merely one cog in the machine.”

As they walked across the bridge, the only sound to be heard was that of the whipping wind, and of their boots, and Erec’s horse, walking along. The hoofs left a hollow and reassuring sound, the only real thing Thor could hang onto in this surreal place.

None of the soldiers, who all stiffened at attention in Erec’s presence, said a word as they stood guard. They must have passed hundreds of them.

Thor could not help but notice on either side of them, impaled on spikes every few feet along the railing, were the heads of barbarian invaders. Some were still fresh, still dripping with blood.

Thor looked away. It made it all too real. He did not know if he was ready for this. He tried not to imagine the many skirmishes which must have produced those heads, the lives that had been lost, and what awaited him on the other side. He wondered if they would make it back. Was that the purpose of this whole expedition? To kill him off?

He looked over the edge, at the endlessly disappearing cliffs, and heard the screech of a distant bird; it was a sound he had never heard before. He wondered what kind of bird it was, and what other exotic animals lurked on the other side.

But it was not really the animals which bothered him, or even the heads on spikes. More than anything, it was the feeling of this place. He could not tell if it was the mist, or the howling wind, or the vastness of the open sky, or the light of the setting sun—but something about this place was so surreal, it transported him. Enveloped him. He felt a heavy magical energy hanging over them. He wondered whether it was the protection of the Sword, or some other ancient force. He felt as if he were not just crossing a mass of land, but crossing into another realm of existence.

Just a few short days ago he had been herding sheep in his small village. It seemed unbelievable that now, for the first time in his life, he would spend the night, unprotected, on the other side of the Canyon.

Chapter XVI

AS THE SUN BEGAN TO fade from the sky—dark scarlet mixed with blue that seemed to envelop the universe—Thor walked with Reece, O’Connor, and Elden down the trail that led into the forest of the Wilds. Thor had never been so on edge in his life. Now it was just the four of them, Erec having remained behind at camp, and despite their bickering, Thor sensed they now needed each other more than ever. They had to bond on their own, without Erec. Before they’d parted, Erec had told them not to worry, that he would stay at base and hear their calls, and would be there if they needed him.

That gave Thor little assurance now.

As the woods narrowed in on them, Thor looked around at this exotic place, the forest floor lined with thorns and strange fruits. The branches of the many trees were gnarled and ancient, nearly touching each other, so close Thor often needed to duck. They had thorns instead of leaves and they protruded everywhere. Yellow vines hung down in places, and Thor had made the mistake of reaching up to push a vine from his face only to realize it was a snake. He had yelled and jumped out of the way just in time.

He had expected the others to laugh at him, but they, too, were humbled with fear. All around them were the foreign noises of exotic animals. Some were low and guttural, some high-pitched and shrieking. Some echoed from far off; others seemed impossibly close. Twilight came on too fast as they all headed deeper into the forest. Thor felt certain that at any moment they could be ambushed. As the sky grew darker, it was getting harder to even see the faces of his compatriots. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened, while his other hand clutched his slingshot. The others gripped their weapons, too.

Thor willed himself to be strong, confident, and courageous as a good knight should. As Erec had instructed him. It was better for him to face death now than to always live in fear of it. He tried to lift his chin and walk boldly forward, even increasing his pace and going a few feet in front of the others. His heart was pounding, but he felt as if he were facing his fears.

“What are we patrolling for exactly?” Thor asked.

As soon as he said it, he realized it might be a dumb question, and he expected Elden to make fun of him.

But to his surprise, there was only silence in return. Thor looked over and saw the whites of Elden’s eyes, and realized he was even more afraid. This, at least, gave Thor some confidence. Thor was younger and smaller than him, and he was not giving in to his fear.

“The enemy, I guess,” Reece finally said.

“And who is that?” Thor asked. “What does he look like?”

“There are all sorts of enemies out here,” Reece said. “We are in the Wilds now. There are nations of savages, and all manner and races of evil creatures.”

“But what is the point of our patrol?” O’Connor asked. “What difference can we possibly make by doing this? Even if we kill one or two, is that going to stop the million behind it?”

“We are not here to make a dent,” Reece answered. “We are here to make our presence known, on behalf of our King. To let them know not to come too close to the Canyon.”

“I think it would make more sense to wait till they try to cross it and deal with them then,” O’Connor said.

“No,” Reece said. “It is better to deter them from even approaching. That is the reason for these patrols. At least, that is what my older brother says.”

Thor’s heart pounded as they continued deeper into the forest.

“How far are we supposed to go?” Elden asked, speaking up for the first time, his voice quivering.

“Don’t you remember what Kolk said? We have to retrieve the red banner and bring it back,” Reece said. “That is our proof that we’ve gone far enough for our patrol.”

“I have not seen a banner anywhere,” O’Connor said. “In fact, I can barely see a thing. How are we supposed to get back?”

No one answered. Thor was thinking the same thing. How could they possibly find a banner in the black of night? He started to wonder if this was all a trick, an exercise, another one of the psychological games the Legion played on the boys. He thought again of Erec’s words, of his many enemies at court. He had a sinking feeling about this patrol. Were they being set up?

Suddenly there came a horrific screeching noise, followed by movement inside the branches—and something large ran across their path. Thor pulled his sword, and the others did, too. The sound of swords leaving scabbards, of metal on metal, filled the air as they all stood in place, holding their swords out in front of them, looking nervously in every direction.

“What was that?” Elden cried out, his voice cracking with fear.

The animal once again crossed their path, racing from one side of the forest to the other, and this time they got a good look at it.

Thor’s shoulders relaxed as he recognized it.

“Just a deer,” he said, greatly relieved. “The strangest-looking deer I’ve seen—but a deer nonetheless.”

Reece laughed, a reassuring noise, a laugh too mature for his age. As Thor heard it, he realized it was the laugh of a future King. He felt better having his friend at his side. And then he laughed, too. All that fear, all for nothing.

“I never knew your voice cracked when you caved in to fear,” Reece mocked Elden, laughing again.

“If I could see you, I would pummel you,” Elden said.

“I can see you fine,” Reece said. “Come try it.”

Elden glared back at him, but didn’t dare make a move. Instead, he put his sword back in his scabbard, as did the others. Thor admired Reece for giving Elden a hard time; Elden mocked everybody else—he deserved to get some back himself. He admired Reece’s fearlessness in doing so because after all, Elden was still twice their size.

Thor finally felt some of the tension leaving his body. They’d had their first encounter, the ice was broken, and they were still alive. He leaned back and laughed, too, happy to be alive.

“Keep laughing, stranger boy,” Elden said. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

I’m not laughing at you, as Reece is, Thor thought. I’m just relieved to be alive.

But he didn’t bother saying it; he knew that nothing he could say would change Elden’s hatred for him.

“Look!” O’Connor yelled. “There!”

Thor squinted but could barely see what he was pointing at in the thickening night. Then he saw it: the banner of the Legion, hanging from one of the branches.

They all began to run for it.

Elden ran past the others, brushing them aside roughly.

“That flag is mine!” he yelled.

“I saw it first!” O’Connor yelled.

“But I will get it first, and I will be the one to bring it back!” Elden yelled.

Thor fumed; he could barely believe Elden’s actions. He recalled what Kolk had said—that whoever got the banner would be rewarded—and realized why Elden sprinted. But that did not excuse him. They were supposed to be a team, a group—not every man for himself. Elden’s true colors were coming out—none of the others ran for it, tried to outdo the others. It made Thor hate Elden even more.

Elden sprinted past after elbowing O’Connor, and before the others could react, he gained several feet on them and snatched the banner.

As he did, a huge net appeared out of nowhere, rising from the ground, springing up into the air, entrapping Elden and hoisting him up high. He swung back and forth before their eyes, just feet away, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Help me! Help me!” he screamed, terrified.

They all slowed as they walked up close to him; Reece began to laugh.

“Well, who is the coward now?” Reece yelled out, amused.

“Why you little crap!” he yelled. “I will kill you when I get down from this!”

“Oh really?” Reece retorted. “And when will that be?”

“Set me down!” Elden yelled, turning and spinning in the net. “I command you!”

“Oh, you command us, do you?” Reece said, bursting into laughter again.

Reece turned and looked at Thor.

“What do you think?” Reece asked.

“I think that he owes all of us an apology,” O’Connor said. “Especially Thor.”

“I agree,” Reece said. “I’ll tell you what,” he said to Elden. “Apologize—and make it sincere—and I will consider cutting you down.”

“Apologize?” Elden echoed, horrified. “Not in one million suns.”

Reece turned to Thor.

“Maybe we should just leave this lump here for the night. It would be great food for the animals. What do you think?”

Thor smiled wide.

“I think that’s a fine idea,” O’Connor said.

“Wait!” Elden shrieked.

O’Connor reached up and snatched the banner from Elden’s dangling finger.

“Guess you didn’t beat us to the banner after all,” O’Connor said.

The three of them turned and began to walk away.

“No, wait!” Elden cried. “You can’t leave me here! You wouldn’t!”

The three of them continued to walk away.

“I’m sorry!” Elden began to sob. “Please! I’m sorry!”

Thor stopped, but Reece and O’Connor continued to walk. Finally, Reece turned.

“What are you doing?” Reece asked Thor.

“We can’t leave him here,” Thor said. As much as Thor disliked Elden, he didn’t think it right to leave him there.

“Why not?” Reece asked. “He brought it on himself.”

“If the tables were turned,” O’Connor said, “you know he would gladly leave you there. Why should you care?”

“I understand,” Thor said. “But that doesn’t mean we should act like him.”

Reece put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply as he leaned in and whispered to Thor.

“I wasn’t going to leave him there all night. Maybe just half the night. But you do have a point. He’s not cut out for this. He’d probably piss himself and have a heart attack. You’re too kind. That’s a problem,” Reece said as he put a hand on Thor’s shoulder. “But that’s why I chose you for a friend.”

“And I,” O’Connor said, putting his hand on Thor’s other shoulder.

Thor turned, marched toward the net, reached out, and cut it down.

Elden landed with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, threw the net off, and frantically searched the ground.

“My sword!” he yelled. “Where is it?”

Thor looked down at the ground, but it was too dark to see.

“It must have flown into the trees when you were hoisted up,” Thor answered.

“Wherever it is, it’s gone now,” Reece said. “You’ll never find it.”

“But you don’t understand,” Elden pleaded. “The Legion. There is just one rule. Never leave your weapon behind. I can’t return without it. I would be ousted!”

Thor turned and searched the ground again, searched the trees, looking everywhere. But he could see absolutely no sign of Elden’s sword. Reece and O’Connor just stood there, not bothering to look.

“I’m sorry,” Thor said, “I don’t see it.”

Elden scrambled everywhere, then finally gave up.

“It’s your fault,” he said, pointing at Thor. “You got us into this mess!”

“No I didn’t,” Thor replied. “You did! You ran for the flag. You pushed us all out of the way. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I hate you!” Elden screamed.

He charged Thor, grabbing him by the shirt and knocking him down to the ground. The weight of him caught Thor off guard. Thor managed to spin around, but Elden spun again and pinned Thor down. Elden was just too big and strong, and it was too hard to hold him back.

Suddenly, though, Elden let go and rolled off. Thor heard the sound of a sword being extracted from his scabbard, and looked up and saw Reece standing over Elden, holding the tip of his sword at his throat.

O’Connor reached over and gave Thor a hand, and pulled him quickly to his feet. Thor stood with his two friends, looking down on Elden, who remained on the ground, Reece’s sword at his throat.

“You touch my friend again,” Reece, deadly serious, said slowly to Elden, “and I assure you, I will kill you.”

Chapter XVII

THOR, REECE, O’CONNOR, ELDEN, AND Erec all sat on the ground, forming a circle around a blazing fire. The five of them sat glum and silent, Thor surprised it could be this cold on a summer night. There was something about this canyon, the chilly, mystical winds that swirled around, down his back, and mingled with the fog that never seemed to go away, which left him damp to the bone. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands against the fire’s heat, unable to get them warm.

Thor chewed on the piece of dried meat the others were passing around; it was tough and salty, but somehow nourished him. Erec reached over and handed him something and Thor felt a soft wineskin pressed into his hand, the liquid sloshing in it. It was surprisingly heavy as he raised it to his lips and squirted it into the back of his mouth, for too long a time. He felt warm for the first time that night.

Everyone was quiet, staring into the flames. Thor was still on edge. Being on this side of the Canyon, in enemy territory, he still felt as if he should be on guard at every moment, and marveled at how calm Erec seemed to be, as if he were casually sitting in his own backyard. Thor was relieved, at least, to be out of the Wilds, reunited with Erec, and sitting around the reassurance of a fire. Erec watched the forest line, attentive to every little noise, yet confident and relaxed. Thor knew that if any danger came, Erec would protect them all.

Thor felt content around the flames; he looked around and saw the others seemed content, too—except, of course, for Elden, glum ever since returning from the forest. He had lost his confident swagger from earlier in the day, and he sat there, sour and swordless. The commanders would never forgive such a mistake—Elden would be kicked out of the Legion upon their return. He wondered what Elden would do. He had a feeling he would not go down easily, that he had some trick, some backup plan, up his sleeve. Thor assumed that whatever it was, it would not be good.

Thor turned and followed Erec’s gaze to the distant horizon, in the southern direction. A faint glow, an endless line as far as the eye could see, lit up the night. Thor wondered.

“What is it?” he finally asked Erec. “That glow? The one you keep staring at?”

Erec was silent for a long time, the only sound that of the whipping of the wind. Finally, without turning, he said: “The Gorals.”

Thor exchanged a glance with the others, who looked back, fearful. Thor’s stomach tightened at the thought of it. The Gorals. So close. There was nothing in between them and him except for a simple forest and a vast plain. There was no longer the great Canyon separating them, keeping them safe. All his life he had heard tales of these violent savages from the Wilds who had no ambition except to attack the Ring. And now there was nothing between them. He couldn’t believe how many of them there were. It was a vast and waiting army.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Thor asked Erec.

Erec shook his head.

“The Gorals move as one. Their army camps out there every night. They have for years. They would only attack the Canyon if they mobilized the entire army and attacked as one. And they wouldn’t dare try. The power of the Sword acts as a shield. They know they cannot breach it.”

“So then why do they camp out there?” Thor asked.

“It is their way of intimidating. And preparing. There have been many times throughout the course of history, in the time of our fathers, when they attacked, tried to breach the Canyon. But it hasn’t happened in my time.”

Thor looked up at the black sky, the yellow and blue and orange stars twinkling high overhead, and wondered. This side of the Canyon was a place of nightmares, and had been ever since he could walk. The thought of it made him fearful, but he forced that from his mind. He was a member of the Legion now, and had to act like it.

“Do not worry,” Erec said, as if reading his thoughts. “They will not attack while we have the Destiny Sword.”

“Have you ever held it?” Thor asked Erec, suddenly curious. “The Sword?”

“Of course not,” Erec retorted sharply. “No one is allowed to grasp it, except for descendants of the King.”

Thor looked at him, confused.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

Reece cleared his throat.

“May I?” he interceded.

Erec nodded back.

“There is a legend around the Sword. It has never actually been hoisted by anyone. Legend has it that one man, the chosen one, will be able to wield it by himself. Only the King is allowed to try, or one of the King’s descendants, if named King. So there it sits, untouched.”

“And what of our current King? Your father?” Thor asked. “Can’t he try?”

Reece looked down.

“He did once. When he was crowned. So he tells us. He could not lift it. So it sits there like an object of rebuke for him. He hates it. It weighs on him like a living thing.

“When the chosen one arrives,” Reece added, “he will free the Ring from its enemies all around and lead us to a greater destiny than we’ve ever known. All wars will end.”

“Fairytales and nonsense,” Elden interceded. “That Sword will be lifted by no one. It is too heavy. It is not possible. And there is no ‘chosen one.’ It’s all hogwash. That legend was invented just to keep the common man down, to keep us all waiting for the supposed ‘chosen one.’ To embolden the line of MacGils. It is a very convenient legend for them.”

“Shut your tongue, boy,” Erec snapped. “You will always speak respectfully of your King.”

Elden looked down, humbled.

Thor thought about everything, trying to take it all in. It was so much to process at once. All his life he had dreamt of seeing the Destiny Sword. He had heard stories of its perfect shape. It was rumored to be crafted from a material no one understood, was supposed to be a magical weapon. It made Thor wonder what would happen if they didn’t have the sword to protect them. Would the King’s army then be vanquished by the Empire? Thor looked out at the glowing fires on the horizon. They seemed to stretch to eternity.

“Have you ever been out there?” Thor asked Erec. “Far out there? Beyond the forest? Into the Wilds?”

The others all turned and look at Erec, as Thor anxiously awaited his reply. In the thick silence, Erec stared at the flames for a long time—so long that Thor began to doubt he would ever answer. Thor hoped he had not been too nosy; he felt so grateful and indebted to Erec, and certainly didn’t want to get on his bad side. Thor also wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Just when Thor was wishing he could retract his question, Erec responded:

“Yes,” he said, solemn.

That single word hung in the air for too long, and in it, Thor heard the gravity that told him all he needed to know.

“What is it like out there?” O’Connor asked.

Thor was relieved that he was not the only one asking the questions.

“It is controlled by one ruthless empire,” Erec said. “But the land is vast and varied. There is the land of the savages. The land of the slaves. And the land of the monsters. Monsters unlike any you can imagine. And there are deserts and mountains and hills as far as you can see. There are the marshes and the swamps and the great ocean. There is the land of the Druids. And the land of the Dragons.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide.

“Dragons?” he asked, surprised. “I thought they didn’t exist.”

Erec looked at him, deadly serious.

“I assure you, they do. And it is a place you never want to go. A place even the Gorals fear.”

Thor swallowed at the thought. He could hardly imagine venturing out that deep into the world. He wondered how Erec had ever made it back alive. He made a mental note to ask him another time.

There were so many questions Thor wanted to ask him—about the nature of the evil empire and who ruled it; why they wanted to attack; when Erec had ventured out; when he had returned. But as Thor stared into the flames it grew colder and darker, and as all his questions swirled in his head, he felt his eyes grow heavy. This was not the right time to ask.

Instead, he let sleep carry him away. He lay his head down on the ground. Before his eyes closed for good, he looked over at the foreign soil, and wondered when—or if—he would ever return home again.

Thor opened his eyes, confused, wondering where he was and how he had gotten there. He looked down and saw a thick fog up to his waist, so thick he could not see his feet. He turned and saw dawn breaking over the canyon before him. Far away, on the other side, was his homeland. He was still on this side, the wrong side, of the divide. His heart quickened.

Thor looked at the bridge, but strangely, it was now empty of soldiers. The whole place, in fact, seemed desolate. He could not understand what was happening. As he watched the bridge, its wooden planks fell one after another, like dominoes. Within moments the bridge collapsed, dropped down into the precipice. The bottom was so far down, he never even heard the planks hit.

Thor swallowed and turned, looking for the others—but they were nowhere in sight. He had no idea what to do. Now he was stuck. Here, alone, on the other side of the Canyon, with no way to get back. He could not understand where everyone had gone.

Hearing something, he turned and looked into the forest. He detected movement. He rose to his feet and walked toward the sound, his feet sinking into the earth as he went. As he got closer, he spied a net hanging from a low branch. Inside it was Elden, spinning around and around in circles, the branches creaking as he moved.

A falcon sat perched on his head, a distinct-looking creature with a body that gleamed of silver and a single black stripe running down its forehead, between its eyes. It bent over, plucked out Elden’s eye, and held it there. It turned to Thor, holding the eye in its beak.

Thor wanted to look away but could not. Just as he was realizing Elden was dead, suddenly, the entire wood came to life. Charging out of it, from every direction, was an army of Gorals. Huge, wearing only loincloths, with immense, well-muscled chests, three noses placed in a triangle on their face, and two long, curved sharp fangs, they hissed and snarled, sprinting right for him. It was a hair-raising sound, and there was nowhere for Thor to go. He reached down and grabbed for his sword—but looked down to discover it was gone.

Thor screamed.

He woke sitting straight up, breathing hard, looking frantically in every direction. All around him was silence—a real, alive silence, not the silence of his dream.

Beside him, in the first light of dawn, Reece, O’Connor, and Erec slept sprawled out on the ground, the dying embers of the fire near them. On the ground, hopping, was a falcon. It turned and cocked its head at Thor. It was large and silver and proud, with a single black stripe running down its forehead, and it stared at him, looking him right in the eye, and screeched. The sound made him shiver: it was the same falcon from his dream.

It was then he realized the bird was a message—that his dream had been more than a dream. That something was wrong. He could feel it, a slight vibration in his back, running up his arms.

He quickly got to his feet and looked all around, wondering what it could be. He heard nothing wrong, and nothing seemed out of place; the bridge was still there, the soldiers were all on it.

What was it? he wondered.

And then he realized what it was. Someone was missing. Elden.

At first Thor wondered if maybe he had left them, headed back across the bridge to the other side of the Canyon. Maybe he was ashamed over losing his sword and had left the region altogether.

But then Thor looked to the forest and saw fresh indentation in the moss, the footprints heading toward the trail in the morning dew. There was no doubt that those were Elden’s. Elden had not left; he had gone back into the forest. Alone. Maybe to relieve himself. Or maybe, Thor realized with a shock, to try to retrieve his sword.

It was a stupid move, to go alone like that, and it proved how desperate Elden was. Thor sensed right away that there was great danger. Elden’s life was at stake.

The falcon screeched at that moment, as if to confirm Thor’s thoughts. Then it kicked up and flew, diving right for Thor’s face. Thor ducked his head—its talons just missed and it rose in the air, flying away.

Thor leapt into action. Without thinking, without even contemplating what he was doing, he sprinted off into the woods, following the footprints.

Thor didn’t stop to feel the fear as he sprinted alone, deep into the Wilds. If he had paused to think how crazy it was, he probably would have frozen, would have felt himself flooded with panic. But instead, he just reacted, feeling a pressing need to help Elden. He ran and ran—alone—deeper into the wood in the early light of dawn.

“Elden!” he screamed.

He couldn’t explain it, but somehow he sensed Elden was about to die. Perhaps he shouldn’t care, based on the way that Elden had treated him, but he couldn’t help himself: he did. If he were in this situation, Elden would certainly not come to rescue him. It was crazy to put his life on the line for someone who cared nothing for him—and, in fact, would gladly see him die. But he could not help it. He’d never felt a sensation like this one before, where his senses were screaming to him to react—especially over something he could not possibly have known. He was changing somehow, and he did not know how. He felt as if his body were being controlled by some new, mysterious power, and it made him feel uneasy, out of control. Was he losing his mind? Was he overreacting? Was it all just from his dream? Maybe he should turn around.

But he did not. He let his feet lead him and did not give in to fear or doubts. He ran and ran until his lungs were bursting.

Thor turned a bend, and what he saw made him stop short in his tracks. He stood there, trying to catch his breath, trying to reconcile the image before him, which did not make any sense. It was enough to strike terror into any hardened warrior.

There stood Elden, holding his short sword and looking up at a creature unlike any Thor had ever seen. It was horrific. It towered over them both, at least nine feet tall, and as wide as four men. It raised its muscular, red arms, with three long fingers, like nails, at the end of each hand, and a head like that of a demon, with four horns, a long jaw, and a broad forehead. It had two large yellow eyes and fangs curled like tusks. It leaned back and screeched.

Beside him, a thick tree, hundreds of years old, split in two at the sound.

Elden stood, frozen in fear. He dropped his sword, and the ground beneath him went wet.

The creature drooled and snarled, and took a step toward Elden.

Thor, too, was filled with fear, but unlike Elden, it did not immobilize him. For some reason, the fear heightened his senses, made him feel more alive. It gave him tunnel vision, allowed him to focus supremely on the creature before him, on its position to Elden, on its width and breadth and strength and speed. On its every movement. It also allowed him to focus on his own body position, his own weapons.

Thor burst into action. He charged forward, between Elden and the beast. The beast roared, its breath so hot, Thor could feel it even from a distance. The sound raised every hair on the back of Thor’s neck and made him want to turn around. But he heard Erec’s voice in his head, telling him to be strong. To be fearless. To retain equanimity. And he forced himself to stand his ground.

Thor raised his sword high and charged, plunging it into the beast’s ribs, aiming for his heart.

The creature shrieked in agony, its blood pouring down Thor’s hand as Thor plunged the sword all the way in, to the hilt.

But to Thor’s surprise, it did not die. The beast seemed invincible.

Without missing a beat, the beast swung around and swiped Thor so hard he felt his ribs crack. Thor went flying across the clearing, smashing into a tree before collapsing to the ground. He felt a terrible headache as he lay there.

Thor looked up, dazed and confused, the world spinning. The beast reached down and extracted Thor’s sword from its stomach. The sword seemed tiny in its hands, like a toothpick, and the beast reached back and hurled it; it went flying through the trees, taking down branches, and disappeared into the wood.

It turned its full attention on Thor and began to bear down on him.

Elden stood where he was, still frozen in fear. But as the beast charged Thor, suddenly, Elden burst into action. He charged the beast from behind and jumped onto its back. It slowed the beast just enough for Thor to sit up; the beast, furious, flung back his arms and threw Elden. He went flying across the clearing, smashed into a tree, and slumped to the ground.

The beast, still bleeding, panting heavily, turned its attention back to Thor. It snarled and widened its fangs as it approached him.

Thor was out of options. His sword was gone, and there was nothing between him and the monster. The monster dove down for him, and at the last second, Thor rolled out of the way. The monster hit the tree where Thor had been with such force it uprooted it.

The beast raised its foot and brought it down for Thor’s head. Thor once more rolled out of the way; the creature left a footprint where Thor’s head had been.

Thor leapt to his feet, placed a stone in his sling, and hurled.

He hit the monster square between the eyes, a fiercer throw than he had ever made, and the creature staggered back. Thor was certain he had killed it.

But to his amazement, the beast did not stop.

Thor tried his best to summon his power, whatever power it was that he had. He charged the beast, leaping forward, crashing into it, aiming to tackle it and drive it down to the ground with a superhuman power.

But to Thor’s shock, this time his power never kicked in. He was just another boy. A frail boy, next to this massive beast.

The beast merely reached down, grabbed Thor by his waist, and hoisted him high above its head. Thor, helpless, dangled high in the air—and then he was thrown. He went flying like a missile across the clearing, and smashed again into a tree.

Thor lay there, stunned, his head splitting, his ribs cracked in two. The beast raced for him, and he knew this time he was finished. It raised its red, muscular foot, preparing to bring it down right on Thor’s head. He prepared for death.

Then, for some reason, the beast froze in midair. Thor blinked, trying to understand why.

The beast reached up and clutched its throat, and Thor noticed the head of an arrow protruding from it. A moment later, the beast keeled over, dead.

Erec came running into view, followed by Reece and O’Connor. Thor saw Erec looking down on him, asking if he was okay, and he wanted to answer, more than anything. But the words would not come out. A moment later, his eyes closed on him, and then his world went black.

Chapter XVIII

THOR OPENED HIS EYES SLOWLY, dizzy at first, trying to figure out where he was. He was lying on straw, and for a moment wondered if he was back in the barracks. He propped himself up on one elbow, on alert, looking for the others.

He was somewhere else. From the looks of it, he was in a very elaborate stone room. It looked as if he were in a castle. A royal castle.

Before he could figure it all out, a large, oak door swung open and in strutted Reece. In the distance, Thor could hear the muted noise of a crowd.

“Finally, he lives,” Reece announced with a smile, as he rushed forward, grabbed Thor’s hand, and pulled him to his feet.

Thor raised a hand to his head, trying to slow his terrible headache from rising too fast.

“Come on, let’s go, everyone’s waiting for you,” he urged, yanking Thor.

“Wait a minute, please,” Thor said, trying to collect himself. “Where am I? What happened?”

“We’re back in King’s Court—and you are about to be celebrated as the hero of the day!” Reece said merrily, as they headed for the door.

“Hero? What do you mean? And…how did I get here?” he asked, trying to remember.

“That beast knocked you out. You’ve been out for quite a while. We had to carry you back across the Canyon bridge. Quite dramatic. Not exactly how I expected you to return to the other side!” he said with a laugh.

They walked out into the corridors of the castle, and as they went, Thor could see all sorts of people—women, men, squires, guards, knights—staring at him, as if they had been waiting for him to wake. He also saw something new in their eyes, something like respect. It was the first time he had seen it. Up until now, most everyone had looked at him with something like disdain—now they looked at him as if he were one of them.

“What exactly happened?” Thor racked his brain, trying to recall.

“Don’t you remember any of it?” Reece asked.

Thor tried to think.

“I remember running into the wood. Fighting with that beast. And then…” He drew a blank.

“You saved Elden’s life,” Reece said. “You ran fearlessly into the wood, on your own. I don’t know why you wasted energy on saving that prig’s life. But you did. The King is very, very pleased with you. Not because he cares about Elden. But he cares very much about bravery. He loves to celebrate. It’s important to him, to celebrate stories like this, to inspire the others. And it reflects well on the King, and on the Legion. He wants to celebrate. You’re here because he’s going to reward you.”

“Reward me?” Thor asked, dumbfounded. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“You saved Elden’s life.”

“I only reacted. I only did what came naturally.”

“And that’s exactly why the King wants to reward you.”

Thor felt embarrassed. He didn’t think his actions deserved rewarding. After all, if it hadn’t been for Erec, Thor would be dead right now. Thor thought about it, and his heart filled with gratitude for Erec, once again. He hoped that one day he could repay him.

“But what about our patrol duty?” Thor asked. “We didn’t finish it.”

Reece put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Friend, you saved a boy’s life. A member of the Legion. That’s more important than our patrol.” Reece laughed. “So much for an uneventful first patrol!” he added.

At the end of yet another corridor, two guards opened a door for them, and Thor blinked and found himself in the royal chamber. There must have been a hundred knights standing about the room, with its soaring cathedral ceilings, stained glass, and weapons and suits of armor hung everywhere on the walls like trophies. The Hall of Arms. It was the place where all the greatest warriors met, all the men of the Silver. Thor’s heart raced as he surveyed the walls, all the famous weaponry, the armor of heroic and legendary knights. Thor had heard rumors of this place his entire life. It had been his dream to see it for himself one day. Normally no squires were allowed here—no one but the Silver.

Even more surprising, as he entered, real knights turned and looked at him—him—from all sides. And they wore looks of admiration. Thor had never seen so many knights in one room, and had never felt so accepted. It was like walking into a dream. Especially since just moments before, he had been fast asleep.

Reece must have noticed Thor’s dumbfounded face.

“The finest of the Silver have gathered here to honor you.”

Thor felt himself well with pride and disbelief. “Honor me? But I’ve done nothing.”

“Wrong,” came a voice.

Thor turned and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Erec, grinning down.

“You have displayed bravery and honor and courage, beyond what was expected of you. You nearly gave up your life to save one of your brethren. That is what we look for in the Legion, and this is what we look for in the Silver.”

“You saved my life,” Thor said to Erec. “If it weren’t for you, that beast would have killed me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

Erec grinned down.

“You already have,” he answered. “Don’t you remember the joust? I believe we are even.”

Thor marched down the walkway toward King MacGil’s throne, at the far end of the hall, Reece on one side of him and Erec on the other. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and it all felt like a dream.

Standing around the King were his dozens of counselors, along with his eldest son, Kendrick. As Thor approached, his heart swelled with pride. He could hardly believe the King was granting him an audience again—and that so many important men were here to witness it.

They reached the King’s throne. MacGil stood, and a muted hush overcame the room. MacGil’s ponderous expression broke into a wide smile, as he took three steps forward and to Thor’s surprise, gave him a hug.

A great cheer rose up in the room.

He pulled back, held Thor firmly by the shoulders, and grinned down.

“You served the Legion well,” he said.

A servant handed the King a goblet, which the King raised. In a loud voice, he called out:

“TO COURAGE!”

“TO COURAGE!” shouted back the hundreds of men in the room. An excited murmur followed, then the room once again fell quiet.

“In honor of your exploits today,” the King bellowed, “I grant you a great gift.”

The King gestured, and an attendant stepped forward, wearing a long, black gauntlet, on which sat a magnificent falcon. It turned and stared right Thor—as if he knew him.

It took Thor’s breath away. It was the exact falcon from his dream, with its silver body and the single black stripe running down its forehead.

“The falcon is the symbol of our kingdom, and of our Royal family,” MacGil boomed. “It is a bird of prey, of pride and honor. Yet it is also a bird of skill, of cunning. It is loyal, and fierce, and it soars above all other animals. It is also a sacred creature. It is said that he who owns a falcon is also owned by one. It will guide you on all your ways. It will leave you, but it will always come back. And now, it is yours.”

The falconer stepped forward, placed a heavy, chainmail gauntlet onto Thor’s hand and wrist, then placed the bird on it. Thor felt electrified, having it on his arm. He could hardly move. He was shocked by its weight; it was a struggle just to hold still as the bird fidgeted on his wrist. He felt its talons digging in, though luckily he only felt pressure, as he was protected by the gauntlet. The bird turned, stared right at him, and screeched. Thor felt it looking into his eyes, and he felt a mystical connection to the animal. He just knew it would be with him all his days.

“And what shall you name her?” the King asked, in the thick silence of the room.

Thor racked his brain, which was too frozen to even work.

He tried to think quickly. He summoned in his mind all the names of all the famed warriors of the kingdom. He turned and scanned the walls, and saw a series of plaques with all the names of battles, all the places of the kingdom. His eyes rested on one particular place. It was a place in the Ring where he had never been, but which he had always heard was a mystical, powerful place. It sounded right to him.

“I shall call her Estopheles,” Thor called out.

“Estopheles!” the crowd echoed, sounding pleased.

The falcon screeched as if in response.

Suddenly, Estopheles flapped her wings and flew up high, all the way to the apex of the cathedral ceiling, and out an open window. Thor watched her go.

“Don’t worry,” the falconer said, “she shall always return to you.”

Thor turned and looked at the King. He had never been given a gift in his life, much less one of this stature. He hardly knew what to say, how to thank him. He was overwhelmed.

“My liege,” he said, lowering his head. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You already have,” MacGil said.

The crowd cheered, and the tension in the room was broken. A spirited conversation broke out among the men, and so many knights approached Thor, he hardly knew which way to turn.

“That is Algod, of the Eastern Province,” Reece said, introducing him to one.

“And this is Kamera, of the Low Marshes…. And this, Basikold, of the Northern Forts….”

Soon, the names became a blur. Thor was overwhelmed. He could hardly believe that all these knights wanted to meet him. He had never felt so accepted or honored anytime in his life and he had a feeling that a day like this would never come again. It was the first time in his life he had a feeling of self-worth.

And he could not stop thinking of Estopheles.

As Thor turned every which way, greeting people whose names flowed by, names he could hardly grasp onto, a messenger hurried over, slipping between the knights. He carried a small scroll, which he pressed into Thor’s palm.

Thor rolled it open and read the fine, delicate handwriting:

Meet me in the back courtyard. Behind the gate.

Thor could smell a delicate fragrance emanating from the pink scroll, and was puzzled as he tried to figure out who it was from. It bore no signature.

Reece leaned over, read it over his shoulder, and laughed.

“It seems my sister has taken a fancy to you,” he said, smiling. “I would go if I were you. She hates to be kept waiting.”

Thor felt himself blush.

“The rear courtyard is through those gates. Hurry. She’s known to change her mind quickly.” Reece smiled as he looked at him. “And I’d love to have you in my family.”

Chapter XIX

THOR TRIED TO FOLLOW REECE’S directions as he wound his way through the crowded castle, but it was not easy. This castle had too many twists and turns, too many hidden back doors, and too many long corridors that seemed to lead only to more corridors.

He ran through Reece’s directions in his head as he descended yet another small set of steps, turned down another corridor, and finally stopped before a small arched door with a red handle—the one Reece had told him about—and pushed it open.

Thor hurried outside and was struck by the strong light of the summer day; it felt good to be outdoors, out of that stuffy castle, breathing fresh air, the sun on his face. He squinted, his eyes adjusting in the bright light, and took in the sight. Before him sprawled the royal gardens, stretching as far as the eye could see, hedges perfectly trimmed in different shapes, forming neat rows, trails winding amidst them. There were fountains, unusual trees, orchards ripe with early summer fruits, and fields of flowers of every size and shape and color. The sight took his breath away. It was like walking into a painting.

Thor looked everywhere for a sign of Gwendolyn, his heart pounding. This rear courtyard was empty, and Thor assumed it was probably reserved for the royal family, set off from the public with its high, stone garden walls. And yet, he looked everywhere and could not find her.

He wondered if her note was a hoax. That was probably it. She was probably just making fun of him, the country bumpkin, amusing herself at his expense. After all, how could someone of her rank really have any interest in him?

Thor looked down and read her note again, then rolled it back up in shame. He had been made fun of. What a fool he was to get his hopes up like that. It hurt him deeply.

Thor turned and prepared to head back into the castle, head lowered. Just as he reached for the door, a voice rang out.

“And where are you going?” came the joyful voice. It sounded like a bird’s song.

Thor wondered if he was imagining it. He spun, searching, and there she was, sitting in the shade beneath a castle wall. She smiled back, dressed in her royal finest, layers of white satin dress with pink trim. She looked even more beautiful than he’d remembered.

It was her. Gwendolyn. The girl Thor had been dreaming about since they had met, with her almond, blue eyes and long strawberry hair, with her smile that lit his heart. She wore a large white-and-pink hat, shading her from the sun, beneath which her eyes sparkled. For a moment he felt like turning around to make sure that there was no one else standing behind him.

“Um…” Thor began. “I…um…don’t know. I…um…was going inside.”

Once again, he was finding himself flustered around her, finding it hard to collect his thoughts and articulate them.

She laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“And why would you be doing that?” she asked, playful. “You just arrived.”

Thor was flustered. His tongue was tied.

“I…um…couldn’t find you,” he said, embarrassed.

She laughed again.

“Well, I’m right here. Aren’t you going to come and get me?”

She held out a single hand; Thor rushed over to her, reached down, and took her hand. He was electrified by the touch of her skin, so smooth and soft, her frail hand fitting perfectly inside of his. She looked up at him and let her hand linger there a moment, before slowly rising. He loved the feel of her fingertips in his palm and hoped she would never take them away.

She withdrew her hand, then placed her arm in his, locking arms. She began to walk, leading the way down the series of winding trails. They walked along a small cobblestone path, and soon they were inside a labyrinth of hedges, protected from outside view.

Thor was nervous. Perhaps he, a commoner, would get in trouble, walking like this with the King’s daughter. He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead, and did not know if it was from the heat or from her touch.

He wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ve caused quite a stir here, haven’t you?” she said with a smile. He was grateful she broke the awkward silence.

Thor shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She laughed. “And why wouldn’t you mean to? Isn’t it good to cause a stir?”

Thor was stymied. He hardly knew how to respond. It seemed as if he always said the wrong thing.

“This place is so stuffy and boring anyway,” she said. “It’s nice to have a newcomer. My father seems to have taken quite a liking to you. So has my brother.”

“Um…thanks,” Thor replied.

He was kicking himself, dying inside. He knew he should say more, and he wanted to. He just did not know what to say.

“Do you…” he began, racking his brain for the right thing to say, “…like it here?”

She leaned back and laughed.

“Do I like it here?” she asked. “But I should hope so. I live here!”

She laughed again and Thor felt himself redden. He felt that he was really messing things up. But he wasn’t raised around girls, had never had a girlfriend in his village, and just didn’t know what to say to her. What could he ask her? Where are you from? He already knew where she was from. He started to wonder why she bothered with him; was it just for her amusement?

“Why do you like me?” he asked.

She looked back at him, and made a funny sound.

“You are a presumptuous boy,” she chuckled. “Who says I like you?” she asked with a huge smile. Clearly, everything he said amused her.

Thor now felt as if he’d gotten himself into deeper trouble.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I was just wondering. I mean…um…I know you don’t like me.”

She laughed harder.

“You are amusing, I have to give you that. I take it you’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?”

Thor looked down and shook his head, humiliated.

“I assume no sisters, either?” she pressed.

Thor shook his head.

“I have three brothers,” he blurted out. Finally, at least, he had managed to say something normal.

“Do you?” she asked. “And where are they? Back in your village?”

Thor shook his head. “No, they are here, in the Legion, with me.”

“Well, that must be comforting.”

Thor shook his head.

“No. They don’t like me. They wish I wasn’t here.”

It was the first time her smile dropped.

“And why wouldn’t they like you?” she asked, horrified. “Your own brothers?”

Thor shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

They walked a while more in silence. He was suddenly afraid that he was killing their happy mood.

“But don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. It’s always been that way. In fact, actually, I’ve met good friends here. Better friends than I’ve ever had.”

“My brother? Reece?” she asked.

Thor nodded.

“Reece is a good one,” she said. “He’s my favorite in some ways. I have four brothers, you know. Three are true, and one is not. The eldest is my dad’s son from another woman. My half-brother. You know him, Kendrick?”

Thor nodded. “I owe him a great debt. It is thanks to him that I have a spot in the Legion. He’s a fine man.”

“It’s true. He’s one of the finest in the kingdom. I love him as much as a true brother. And then there’s Reece, who I love just as much. The other two…well…. You know how families are. Not everyone gets along. Sometimes I wonder how all of us come from the same people.”

Now Thor was curious. He wanted to know more about who they were, her relationship to them, why they were weren’t close. He wanted to ask her, but didn’t want to pry. And she didn’t seem to want to dwell on it, either. She seemed to be a happy person, a person who only liked to focus on happy things.

As they finished the labyrinth trail, the courtyard opened up to a new garden, where the grass was perfectly trimmed and designed into shapes. It was a massive game board of some sort, sprawling at least fifty feet in each direction, with huge wooden pieces, taller than Thor, placed throughout.

Gwen cried out in delight.

“Will you play?” she asked.

“What is it?” he asked.

She turned, her eyes opened wide in amazement.

“You’ve never played Racks?” she asked.

Thor shook his head, embarrassed, feeling more like a country rube than ever.

“It is the finest game!” she exclaimed.

She reached out with her two hands and took his, dragging him onto the field. She bounded off with delight; he couldn’t help but smile himself. More than anything, more than the field, more than this beautiful place, it was the feel of her hands on his that electrified him. The feeling of being wanted. She wanted him to go with her. She wanted to spend time with him. Why would anyone care about him? Especially someone like her? He still felt as if this were all a dream.

“Stand over there,” she said. “Behind that piece. You have to move it, and you have only ten seconds to do so.”

“What do you mean move it?” Thor asked.

“Choose a direction, quickly!” she cried out.

Thor picked up the enormous wooden block, surprised at its weight. He carried it several steps, and put it down on another square.

Without hesitating, Gwen pushed her own piece over. It landed on Thor’s piece and knocked it to the ground.

She cried out in delight.

“That was a bad move!” she said. “You got right in my way! You lost!”

Thor looked at the two pieces on the ground, puzzled. He didn’t understand this game at all.

She laughed, taking his arm as she continued to lead him down the trails.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,” she said.

His heart soared at her words. She’d teach him. She wanted to see him again. To spend time with him. Was he imagining all of this?

“So tell me, what do you think of this place?” she asked, as she led him into another series of labyrinths. This one was decorated with flowers eight feet high, bursting with color, strange insects hovering over their tips.

“It is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Thor answered truthfully.

“And why do you want to be a member of the Legion?”

“It is all I ever dreamed of,” he replied.

“But why?” she asked. “Because you want to serve my father?”

Thor thought about that. He’d never really wondered why—it was always just there.

“Yes,” answered. “I do. And the Ring.”

“But what about life?” she asked. “Don’t you want to have a family? Land? A wife?”

She stopped and looked at him; it threw him. He was frazzled. He had never considered these things before, and hardly knew how to respond. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced back at him.

“Um…I…I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“And what would your mother say about that?” she asked, playfully.

Thor’s smile lowered.

“I don’t have a mother,” he said.

Her smile dropped again.

“What happened to her?” she asked.

Thor was about to answer her, to tell her everything. It would be the first time in his life that he had ever spoken about her to anyone. And the crazy thing was, he wanted to. He wanted, desperately, to open up to her, this stranger, and let her know everything about his deepest feelings.

But as he opened his mouth to speak, suddenly a harsh voice came from out of nowhere.

“Gwendolyn!” shrieked the voice.

They both spun to see her mother, the Queen, dressed in her finest, accompanied by her handmaids, marching right for her daughter. Her face was livid.

The Queen walked right up to Gwen, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and yanked her away.

“You get back inside right now. What did I tell you? I don’t want you speaking to him ever again. Do you understand me?”

Gwen’s face reddened, then transformed with anger and pride.

“Get off me!” she yelled at her mother. But it was no use; her mother kept dragging her away, and her handmaids encircled her, too.

“I said get off me!” Gwen yelled. She glanced back at Thor with a desperate, sad look, one of pleading.

Thor understood the feeling. It was one that he felt himself. He wanted to call out to her, and felt his heart breaking as he watched her get dragged away. It was like watching a future life get taken away from him, right before his eyes.

He stood there for long after she disappeared from view, staring, rooted in place, breathless. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to forget all of this.

Most of all, he did not want to imagine that he might not ever see her again.

As Thor ambled back to the castle, still reeling from his encounter with Gwen, he was barely even aware of his surroundings. His mind was consumed by thoughts of her; he could not stop seeing her face. She was magnificent. The most beautiful and kind and sweet and gentle and loving and funny person he had ever met. He needed to see her again. He actually felt pained at the absence of her presence. He didn’t understand his feelings for her, and that scared him. He barely knew her, yet he knew already that he could not be without her.

Yet at the same time, he thought back to the Queen yanking her away, and his stomach sank to think of the powerful forces standing between them. Forces that did not want them to be together, for some reason.

As he tried to get to the bottom of it, suddenly he felt a stiff hand on his chest, stopping him hard in his tracks.

He looked up to see a boy, maybe a couple of years older than him, tall and thin, dressed in the most expensive clothes he had ever seen—in royal purple and green and scarlet silks, with an elaborate feathered hat—grimacing down. The boy looked dainty, spoiled, as if raised in the lap of luxury, with softened hands and high arched eyebrows that peered down disdainfully.

“They call me Alton,” the boy began. “I am the son of Lord Alton, first cousin to the King. We have been lords of the realm for seven centuries. Which entitles me to be a Duke. You, by contrast, are a commoner,” he said, nearly spitting the word. “The royal court is for royalty. And for men of rank. Not for your kind.”

Thor stood there, having no idea who this boy was or what he had done to upset him.

“What do you want of me?” Thor asked.

Alton snickered.

“Of course, you would not know. You probably don’t know anything, do you? How dare you barge in here and pretend to be one of us!” he spat.

“I’m not pretending anything,” Thor said.

“Well, I don’t care whatever wave you washed in on. I just want to warn you, before you get any more fantasies in your head, that Gwendolyn is mine.”

Thor stared back, shocked. His? He hardly knew what to say.

“Our marriage has been arranged since birth,” Alton continued. “We are of the same age, and of the same rank. Plans are already in motion. Don’t you dare think, even for instant, that it will be any different.”

Thor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him; he didn’t even have the strength to respond.

Alton took a step closer and stared down.

“You see,” he said in a soft voice, “I allow Gwen her flirtations. She has many. Every once in a while she’ll take pity on a commoner, or perhaps a servant. She will allow them to be her entertainment, her amusement. You might have come to the conclusion that it is something more. But that’s all it is for Gwen. You are just another acquaintance, another amusement. She collects them, like dolls. They don’t mean anything to her. She’s excited by the newest commoner, and after a day or two, she gets bored. She shall drop you quickly. You’re nothing to her, really. And by year’s end she and I will be wed. Forever.”

Alton’s eyes opened wide, showing his fierce determination.

Thor felt his heart breaking at his words. Were they true? Was he really nothing to Gwen? Now he was confused; he hardly knew what to believe. She had seemed so genuine. But maybe Thor had just been jumping to the wrong conclusion?

“You’re lying,” Thor finally said back.

Alton sneered, and then raised a single, pampered finger, and jabbed it into Thor’s chest.

“If I see you near her again, I’ll use my authority to call the royal guard. They will have you imprisoned!”

“On what grounds?!” Thor asked.

“I need no grounds. I have rank here. I will make one up, and it is me they will believe. By the time I’m done slandering you, half the kingdom will believe you are a criminal.”

Alton smiled, self-satisfied; Thor felt sick.

“You lack honor,” Thor said, uncomprehending that anyone could act with such indecency.

Alton laughed, a high-pitched sound.

“I never had it to begin with,” he said. “Honor is for fools. I have what I want. You can keep your honor. And I will have Gwendolyn.”

Chapter XX

THOR WALKED WITH REECE OUT the arched gate of King’s Court and onto the country road that led to the Legion’s barracks. The guards stood at attention for them as they passed and Thor felt a great sense of belonging, like he wasn’t such an outsider. He thought back to just a few days before, when a guard had chased him out of here. How much had changed, so quickly.

Thor heard a screeching and looked up to see, high overhead, Estopheles circling, looking down. She dove, and Thor, excited, held out his wrist, still wearing the metal gauntlet. But she rose again and flew off, higher and higher, though never completely out of sight. Thor wondered. She was a mystical animal, and he felt an intense connection to her that was hard to explain.

Thor and Reece continued in silence, keeping a quick pace toward the barracks. Thor knew his brethren would be awaiting him and wondered what sort of reception he would receive. Would there be envy, jealousy? Would they be mad he got all this attention? Would they make fun of him for being carried back across the canyon? Or would they finally accept him?

Thor hoped it was the latter. He was tired of struggling with the rest of the Legion and just wanted, more than anything, to belong. To be accepted as one of them.

The barracks came into sight in the distance, and Thor’s mind began to be preoccupied with something else.

Gwendolyn.

Thor didn’t know how much he could talk to Reece about this, given that it was his sister. But he could not get her out of his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking of his encounter with that menacing royal, Alton, and wondered how much of what he said was true. A part of him feared to discuss it with Reece, not wanting to risk upsetting him somehow and losing his new friend over his sister. But another part of him had to know what he thought.

“Who is Alton?” Thor finally asked, hesitant.

“Alton?” Reece repeated. “Why do you ask of him?”

Thor shrugged, unsure how much to say.

Luckily, Reece continued.

“He’s but a menacing, lesser royal. Third cousin to the King. Why? Has he been after you about something?” Then Reece narrowed his eyes. “Gwen? Is that it? I should’ve warned you.”

Thor turned and looked at Reece, eager to hear more.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a lout. He’s been after my sister since he could walk. He’s certain the two of them will be wed. My mother seems to think so, too.”

“Will they?” Thor asked, surprised by the urgency in his own voice.

Reece looked at him and smiled.

“My, my, you have fallen for her, haven’t you?” He chuckled. “That was fast.”

Thor reddened, hoping it wasn’t so obvious.

“Whether or not they do would depend on my sister’s feelings for him,” Reece finally answered. “Unless they forced her into marriage. But I doubt my father would do that.”

“And how does she feel for him?” Thor pressed, afraid he was being too nosy, but needing to know.

Reece shrugged. “You’d have to ask her, I guess. I never talk to her about it.”

“But would your father force her into marriage?” Thor pressed. “Could he really do such a thing?”

“My father can do anything he wants. But that’s between him and Gwen.”

Reece turned and looked at Thor.

“Why all these questions? What did you talk about?”

Thor blushed, unsure what to say.

“Nothing,” he said finally.

“Nothing!” Reece laughed. “Sounds like a lot of nothing to me!”

Reece laughed harder, and Thor was embarrassed, wondering if he was just imagining that Gwen liked him. Reece reached over and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, old mate,” Reece said, “the only thing you can know for sure about Gwen is that she knows what she wants. And she gets what she wants. That’s always been the case. She’s as strong-willed as my father. No one can force her to do anything—or like anyone—she doesn’t want. So don’t worry. If she chooses you, trust me, she’ll let you know. Okay?”

Thor nodded, feeling better, as always, after he talked to Reece.

He looked up and saw the huge gates to the Legion’s barracks before him. He was surprised to see several of the other boys standing at the gate, as if waiting for them, and even more surprised to see them grinning, and then letting out a cheer at the sight of him. They rushed forward, grabbed Thor by the shoulders, draped their arms around him, and pulled him inside. Thor was amazed as he was swept inside in an embrace of goodwill by the others.

“Tell us about the Canyon. What’s it like on the other side?” one asked.

“What was the creature like? The one that you killed?” another asked.

“I didn’t kill him,” Thor protested. “Erec did.”

“I heard you saved Elden’s life,” one said.

“I heard you attacked the creature head-on. Without any real weapons.”

“You’re one of us now!” one yelled out, and the other kids cheered, ushering him along, as if he were their long-lost brother.

Thor could hardly believe it. The more he heard their words, the more he realized maybe they did have a point. Maybe he had been brave after all. He never really thought about it. For the first time in a long while, he was starting to feel good about himself. Most of all because now, finally, he felt like he belonged with these boys. He felt tension releasing from his shoulders.

Thor was ushered out into the main training ground, and before him stood dozens more of the Legion, along with dozens of the Silver. They, too, let out a cheer at the sight of him. They all came forward and patted him on the back.

Kolk stepped forward, and the others quieted. Thor braced himself, since Kolk never had anything but contempt for Thor. But now, to Thor’s surprise, he looked down at him with a different sort of expression. While he still couldn’t quite bring himself to smile, he wasn’t scowling, either. And Thor could have sworn he detected something like admiration in his eyes.

Kolk stepped forward, held up a small pin of a black falcon, and pinned it on Thor’s chest.

The pin of the Legion. Thor had been accepted. Finally, he was one of them.

“Thorgrin of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom,” Kolk said, gravely. “We welcome you to the Legion.”

The boys let out a shout, then all rushed in, draping their arms around Thor and swaying him this way and that.

Thor couldn’t even take it all in. He tried not to. He just wanted to enjoy this moment. Now, finally, there was somewhere he belonged.

Kolk turned and faced the other boys.

“Okay, boys, calm yourselves,” he commanded. “Today is a special day. No more pitchforks and polish and horse crap for you. Now it’s time to really train. It’s weapons day.”

The boys returned an excited shout, and followed Kolk as he trotted across the training field toward a huge circular building made of oak, with shining bronze doors. Thor walked with the group as they approached, an excited buzz in the air. Reece was by his side, and O’Connor came and joined them.

“Never thought I’d see you alive again,” O’Connor said, smiling and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Next time, let me wake up first, will you?”

Thor smiled back.

“What is that building?” Thor asked Reece, as they got closer. There were immense iron rivets all over the door, and the place had an imposing presence.

“The weapons house,” Reece answered. “It’s where they store all our arms. Every once in a while they let us get a peek, even train with some of them. Depends what lesson they want to impart.”

Thor’s stomach tightened as he noticed Elden coming over to them. Thor braced himself, expecting a threat—but this time, to Thor’s amazement, Elden wore a look of appreciation.

“I have to thank you,” he said, looking down, humbled. “For saving my life.”

Thor was stumped; he had never expected this from him.

“I was wrong about you,” Elden added. “Friends?” he asked.

He held out a hand.

Thor, not one to hold a grudge, gladly reached over and met his hand.

“Friends,” Thor said.

“I don’t take that word lightly,” Elden said. “I will always have your back. And I owe you one.”

With that, he turned and hurried off back into the crowd.

Thor barely knew what to make of it. He was amazed at how quickly things had changed.

“I guess he’s not a complete creep,” O’Connor said. “Maybe he’s okay after all.”

They reached the weapons house. The immense doors swung open, and Thor entered in awe. He walked slowly, neck craned, surveying the place in a broad circle, taking it all in. There were hundreds of weapons, weapons he didn’t even recognize, hanging on the walls. The other boys hurried forward in an excited rush, running up to weapons, picking them up, handling them, examining them. Thor followed their example, feeling like a kid in a candy store.

He hurried over to a large halberd, hoisted the wooden shaft with two hands, and felt its weight. It was massive, well oiled. The blade was worn and notched, and he wondered if it had killed any men in battle.

He set it down and picked up a spiked flail, a studded metal ball attached to a short staff by a long chain. He held the studded wooden shaft, and felt the metal spike dangle on the end of the chain. Beside him, Reece handled a battle axe and O’Connor tested the weight of a long pike, jabbing into the air at an imaginary enemy.

“Listen up!” Kolk yelled, and they all turned.

“Today we will learn about fighting your enemy from a distance. Can anyone here tell me what weapons can be used? What can kill a man from thirty paces away?”

“A bow and arrow,” somebody yelled.

“Yes,” Kolk answered. “What else?”

“A spear!” someone shouted.

“What else? There are more than just these. Let’s hear them.”

“A slingshot,” Thor added.

“What else?”

Thor racked his brain, but was running out of options.

“Throwing knives,” Reece yelled.

“What else?”

The other boys hesitated. No one had any ideas left.

“There are throwing hammers,” Kolk yelled, “and throwing axes. There is the crossbow. Pikes can be thrown. So can swords.”

Kolk paced the room, looking over the faces of the boys, who stood rapt with attention.

“That is not all. A simple rock from the ground can be your best friend. I’ve seen a man, big as a bull, a war hero, killed on the spot by a throw from a rock by a craftier soldier. Soldiers often don’t realize that armor can be used as a weapon, too. The gauntlet can be taken off and thrown in an enemy’s face. This can stun him, several feet away. In that moment, you can kill him. Your shield can be thrown, too.”

Kolk took a breath.

“It is crucial that when you learn to fight, you don’t just learn to fight in the distance between you and your opponent. You must expand your fight to a much greater distance. Most people fight with three paces. A good warrior fights with thirty. Understood?”

“Yes sir!” came the chorus of shouts.

“Good. Today, we will sharpen your throwing skills. Canvass the room and grab what throwing devices you see. Each grab one and be outside in thirty seconds. Now move!”

The room erupted into a scramble, and Thor ran for the wall, searching for something to grab. He was bumped and pushed every which way by other excited boys, until he finally saw what he wanted and grabbed it. It was a small throwing axe. O’Connor grabbed a dagger, Reece a sword, and the three of them raced out with the other boys into the field.

They followed Kolk to the far side of the field, where there were lined up a dozen shields on posts.

All the boys, holding their weapons, gathered around Kolk expectantly.

“You will stand here,” he boomed out, gesturing to a line in the dirt, “and aim for those shields when throwing your weapons. You will then run to the shields, retrieve a different weapon, and practice throwing that. Never choose the same weapon. Always aim for the shield. For those of you who miss a shield, you will be required to run one lap around the field. Begin!”

The boys lined up, shoulder to shoulder, behind the dirt line, and began to throw their weapons at the shields, which must have been a good thirty yards away. Thor fell in line with them. The boy beside him reached back and threw his spear, missing by a hair.

The boy turned and began to jog around the arena. As he did, a member of the King’s men ran up beside him, and laid a heavy mantle of chainmail over his shoulders, weighing him down.

“Run with that, boy!” he ordered.

The boy, weighed down, already sweating, continued to run in the heat.

Thor did not want to miss the target. He leaned back, concentrated, pulled his throwing axe back, and let it go. He closed his eyes and hoped it hit its mark, and was relieved to hear the sound of it embedding itself in the leather shield. He barely made it, hitting a lower corner, but at least he did. All around him, several boys missed and broke off into laps. The few that hit raced for the shields to grab a new weapon.

Thor reached the shields and found a long, slim throwing dagger, which he extracted, then ran back to the throwing line.

They continued to throw for hours, until Thor’s arm was killing him and he had run one too many laps himself. He was dripping in sweat, as were others around him. It was an interesting exercise, to throw all sorts of weapons, to get used to the feel and weight of all different shafts and blades. Thor felt himself getting better, more used to it, with each throw. But still, the heat was oppressive, and he was getting tired. There were only a dozen boys still standing before the shields, with most of them broken off into laps. It was just too hard to hit so many times, with so many different weapons, and the laps and the heat made accuracy more difficult. Thor was gasping, and didn’t know how much longer he could go on. Just when he felt he was about to collapse, suddenly, Kolk stepped forward.

“Enough!” he yelled.

The boys returned from their laps and collapsed on the grass. They lay there, panting, breathing hard, removing the heavy coats of chain mail that had been draped on them. Thor, too, sat down in the grass, arm exhausted, dripping with sweat. Some of the King’s men came around with buckets of water and dropped them on the grass. Reece reached out, grabbed one, drank from it, then handed it to O’Connor, who drank and handed it to Thor. Thor drank and drank, the water dripping down his chin and chest. The water felt amazing. He breathed hard as he handed it back to Reece.

“How long can this go on?” he asked.

Reece shook his head, gasping. “I don’t know.”

“I swear they’re trying to kill us,” came a voice. Thor turned and saw Elden, who had come up and sat beside him. Thor was surprised to see him there, and it sank in that Elden truly wanted to be friends. It was odd to see such a change in his behavior.

“Boys!” Kolk yelled, walking slowly between them. “More of you are missing your marks now, late in the day. As you can see, it is harder to be accurate when you’re tired. That’s the point. During battle, you will not be fresh. You will be exhausted. Some battles can go on for days. Especially if you are attacking a castle. And it is when you’re at your most tired that you must make your most accurate throw. Often you will be forced to throw whatever weapon is at your disposal. You must be an expert in every weapon, and in every state of exhaustion. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!” they shouted back.

“Some of you can throw a knife, or a spear. But that same person is missing with a hammer or axe. Do you think you can survive by throwing one weapon?”

“NO SIR!”

“Do you think this is just a game?”

“NO SIR!”

Kolk grimaced as he paced, kicking boys in the back who he felt were not sitting up straight enough.

“You’ve rested long enough,” he said. “Back on your feet!”

Thor scrambled to his feet with the others, his legs weary, not sure how much more of this he could stand.

“There are two sides to distance fighting,” Kolk continued. “You can throw—but so can your enemy. He may not be safe at thirty paces away—but you may not be, either. You must learn how to defend yourself at thirty paces. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!”

“To defend yourself from a throwing object, you will need to not only be aware and quick on your feet, to duck, or roll, or dodge—but to also be adept at protecting yourself with a large shield.”

Kolk gestured, and a soldier brought out a huge, heavy shield. Thor was amazed—it was nearly twice his size.

“Do I have a volunteer?” Kolk asked.

The group of boys was quiet, hesitant, and without thinking, Thor, swept up in the moment, raised his hand.

Kolk nodded, and Thor hurried forward.

“Good,” Kolk said. “At least one of you is dumb enough to volunteer. I like your spirit, boy. A stupid decision. But good.”

Thor was beginning to wonder if he really had made a stupid decision as Kolk handed him the huge metal shield. He fastened it to one arm, and could not believe how heavy it was. He was barely able to lift it.

“Thor, your mission is to run from this end of the field to the other. Unscathed. See those fifty boys facing you?” Kolk said to Thor. “They are all going to throw weapons at you. Real weapons. Do you understand? If you do not use your shield to protect you, you may die before you make it to the other side.”

Thor stared back in disbelief. The crowd of boys grew very quiet.

“This is not a game,” Kolk continued. “This is very serious. Battle is serious. It is life-and-death. Are you sure you still want to volunteer?”

Thor nodded, too frozen in terror to say anything else. He could hardly change his mind at this point, not in front of everyone.

“Good.”

Kolk gestured to an attendant, who stepped forward and blew a horn.

“Run!” Kolk screamed.

Thor hoisted the heavy shield with two hands, grasping it with all that he had. As he did, he felt a resounding thud, so severe it shook his skull. It must have been a metal hammer. It didn’t pierce the shield, but it sent an awful shock throughout his system. He nearly dropped the shield, but forced himself to grasp it and move on.

Thor began to run, hobbling as fast as he could with the shield. As weapons and missiles flew past him, he forced himself to huddle within the shield as best he could. The shield was his lifeline. And as he ran, he learned how to stay within it.

An arrow flew by him, missing him by a fraction of an inch, and he pulled his chin back tighter. Another heavy object slammed against the shield, hitting him so hard he stumbled back several feet and collapsed to the ground. But Thor got back on his feet and continued to run. With a supreme effort, gasping for air, finally he crossed the field.

“Yield!” Kolk yelled.

Thor dropped the shield, dripping in sweat. He was beyond grateful he had reached the other side; he didn’t know if he could’ve held that shield for another moment.

Thor hurried back to the others, many of whom gave him looks of admiration. He wondered how he had survived.

“Nice work,” Reece whispered to him.

“Any other volunteers?” Kolk called out.

There was dead silence among the boys. After watching Thor, no one else wanted to try.

Thor felt proud of himself. He wasn’t sure if he would have volunteered knowing what it entailed, but now that it was over, he was glad that he did it.

“Fine. Then I will volunteer for you,” Kolk yelled. “You! Saden!” he called out, pointing to someone.

An older, thin boy stepped forward, looking terrified.

“Me?” Saden said, his voice cracking.

The other boys laughed at him.

“Of course you. Who else?” Kolk said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I would rather not.”

A horrified gasp arose among the Legion.

Kolk approached him, grimacing.

“You don’t do what you want,” Kolk growled. “You do what I tell you to do.”

Saden stood frozen, looking scared to death.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Reece whispered to Thor.

Thor turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“He comes from a noble family, and they placed them here. But he doesn’t want to be here. He’s not a fighter. Kolk knows that. I think they’re trying to break him. I think they want him out.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot,” Saden said, sounding terrified.

“You can,” Kolk screamed, “and you will!”

There was a frozen, tense standoff.

Saden looked down to the ground, hanging his chin in shame.

“I am sorry, sir. Give me some other task, and I will gladly do it.”

Kolk turned red in the face, storming toward him until he was inches from his face.

“I will give you another task, boy. I don’t care who your family is. From now on, you will run. You will run around this field until you collapse. And you will not come back until you volunteer to take up this shield. Do you understand me?”

Saden looked as if he were about to burst into tears, as he nodded back.

A soldier came over, draped chainmail over Saden, and then another soldier draped a second set of chainmail on him. Thor could not understand how he could bear the weight of it. He could barely run with one of them.

Kolk leaned back and kicked Saden hard in the rear, and he went stumbling forward and began his long, slow jog around the field. Thor felt bad for him. As he watched him hobble around, he couldn’t help but wonder if the boy would survive the Legion.

Suddenly a horn was sounded, and Thor turned to see a company of the King’s men ride up on horseback, a dozen of the Silver with them, holding long spears and wearing feathered helmets. They stopped before the Legion.

“In honor of the King’s daughter’s wedding day, and in honor of the summer solstice, the King has declared the rest of today a hunting day!”

All the boys around Thor erupted into a huge cheer. As one, they broke off into a sprint, following the horses as they turned and charged across the field.

“What’s happening?” Thor asked Reece, as he began to run with the others.

Reece wore a huge smile on his face.

“It’s a godsend!” he said. “We’re off for the day! We get to hunt!”

Chapter XXI

THOR JOGGED DOWN THE FOREST trail with the others, holding the spear that had been handed to him for the hunt. Beside him were Reece, O’Connor, and Elden, along with at least fifty other members of the Legion. In front of them rode a hundred Silver, on horseback and in light armor, some carrying short spears, but most with bows and arrows slung over their backs. Running on foot amongst them were dozens of squires and attendants.

Riding at the front was King MacGil, looking as huge and proud as ever, an excited grin on his face. He was flanked by his sons, Kendrick and Gareth, and, Thor was surprised to see, even Godfrey. Dozens of pages ran amongst them, a few of them leaning back and blowing horns made of long ivory tusks; others yanked at baying dogs, who anxiously ran forward to keep up with the horses. It was complete mayhem. As the huge group charged through the forest, they began to split off in every direction, and Thor hardly knew where they were going, or which group to follow.

Erec rode close by, and Thor and the others decided to follow his trail. Thor ran up beside Reece.

“Where are we going?” he asked Reece, out of breath as they ran.

“Deep into the wood,” Reece called back. “The King’s men aim to bring back days’ worth of game.”

“Why are some of the Silver on horses and others on foot?” O’Connor asked Reece.

“Those on horses are hunting the easier kill, such as deer and fowl,” Reece responded. “They use their bows. Those on foot aim for the more dangerous animals. Like the yellowtail boar.”

Thor was both excited and nervous at the mention of the animal. He had seen one growing up; it was a nasty and dangerous creature, known to tear a man in two with little provocation.

“The oldest warriors tend to stay on horseback and go after deer and birds,” Erec added, looking down. “The younger tend to stay on foot, and go after the bigger game. You have to be in better shape for it, of course.”

“Which is why we allow this hunt for you boys,” Kolk, running with the others not far away, yelled out, “it is training for you, too. You will have to be on foot the entire hunt, keep up with the horses. As we go, you will break off into smaller groups, and each fork down your own path, and each hunt down your own animal. You will find the most vicious animal you can—and you will fight it to the death. These are the same qualities that make you a soldier: stamina, fearlessness, and not backing down from your adversary, no matter how big or how vicious. Now go!” he screamed.

Thor ran faster, as did all of his brethren, racing to catch up to the horses as they tore through the forest. He hardly knew which way to go, but he figured if he stuck close to Reece and O’Connor, he would be okay.

“An arrow, quick!” Erec yelled down.

Thor burst into action, running up beside Erec’s horse, grabbing an arrow from the quiver on the saddle, and handing it up to him. Erec placed it on his bow as he rode, slowed, and took steady aim at something in the woods.

“The dogs!” Erec screamed.

One of the King’s attendants released a barking dog, which dove into the bushes. To Thor’s surprise, a large bird flew up, and as it did, Erec let loose the arrow.

It was a perfect shot, right to the neck, and the bird fell down, dead. Thor was amazed at how Erec had spotted it.

“The bird!” Erec yelled out.

Thor ran, grabbed the dead bird, warm, blood oozing from its neck, and ran back to Erec. He slung it on Erec’s saddle to hang there as he rode.

All around Thor, many knights on horseback were doing the same, flushing birds and shooting them down for their squires to retrieve. Most used arrows; some used spears. Kendrick pulled back his spear, took aim, and hurled it at a deer. It was a perfect strike, right into its throat, and it fell, too.

Thor was amazed at the abundance of game in these woods, the amount of bounty they would be bringing home. It would be enough to feed King’s Court for days.

“Have you been on a hunt before?” Thor called out to Reece, narrowly avoiding being trampled by one of the King’s men as they ran. It was hard to hear, with the barking of the dogs, the horns sounding, and the screams of men, laughing, victorious, as they took down animal after animal.

Reece had a big smile on his face as he jumped over a log and continued running.

“Many times! But only because of my father. They don’t let us join the hunt until a certain age. It’s a thrilling thing—although no one tends to get out of it unscathed. More than one man has been hurt, or killed, chasing boar.”

Reece gasped as he ran. “But I’ve always ridden on horseback,” he added. “I’ve never been allowed to be on foot before, with the Legion, never allowed to hunt boar. It is a first for me!”

The forest suddenly changed, with dozens of trails stretching out before them, each splitting in a dozen ways. Another horn sounded, and the huge group began to break up into smaller groups.

Thor stuck close to Erec, and Reece and O’Connor joined them; they all turned onto a narrow path that curved sharply downward. They ran and ran, Thor clutching his spear tight as he jumped a small creek. Their small group comprised Erec and Kendrick on horseback, Thor, Reece, O’Connor, and Elden on foot, making six of them—and as Thor turned, he noticed two more members of the Legion running up behind them, joining them. They were large and broad, with wavy sandy hair that fell past their eyes, and big smiles. They looked to be a couple of years older than Thor—and they were identical twins.

“I am Conval,” one of them called out to Thor.

“And I Conven.”

“We are brothers,” Conval said.

“Twins!” Conven added.

“Hope you don’t mind if we join you,” Conval said to Thor.

Thor had seen them around in the Legion, but had never met them before. He was happy to meet new members, especially members who were friendly to him.

“Happy to have you,” Thor called out.

“The more hands the better,” Reece echoed.

“I hear the boars in this wood are huge,” Conval remarked.

“And deadly,” Conven added.

Thor looked at the long spears the twins carried, three times longer than his, and wondered. He noticed them looking at his short spear.

“That spear won’t be long enough,” Conval said

“These boars have big tusks. You need something longer,” Conven said.

“Take mine,” Elden said, running to Thor and offering his spear.

“I can’t take yours,” Thor said. “What would you use?”

Elden shrugged. “I’ll be okay.”

Thor was touched at his generosity, and marveled at how different their friendship was now.

“Take one of mine,” ordered a voice.

Thor looked up and saw Erec ride up beside him, gesturing to the saddle, which held two long spears.

Thor reached out and grabbed a long spear from the saddle, grateful to have it. It was heavier, and more awkward to run with—but he did feel more protected, and it sounded like he would need it.

They ran and ran, until the air burned in Thor’s lungs and he did not know if he could go any farther. He was alert, looking about him for any sign of an animal. He felt protected with these other men around him, and invincible with a long spear. But he was still very much on edge. He had never hunted a boar before, and had no idea what to expect.

As his lungs burned, the forest broke open into a clearing and thankfully, Erec and Kendrick pulled their horses to a stop. Thor assumed that granted them all permission to stop, too. They all stood there, the eight of them in the forest clearing, the boys on foot gasping for air, and Erec and Kendrick dismounting from their horses. The horses panted, but otherwise it was quiet, the only sound the wind in the trees. The noise of the hundreds of other men racing through the forest was now gone, and Thor realized they must be very far from the others.

He looked around the clearing, panting.

“I haven’t seen any markings of animals,” Thor said to Reece. “Have you?”

Reece shook his head.

“The boar is a crafty animal,” Erec said, stepping forward. “He won’t always show himself. Sometimes he’ll be the one watching you. He might wait until you’re caught off guard, and then he’ll charge. Always keep your guard up.”

“Look out!” O’Connor yelled.

Thor spun and suddenly a large animal burst into the clearing with a huge commotion; Thor flinched, thinking they were being attacked by a boar. O’Connor screamed, and Reece turned and hurled a spear at it. It missed, and the animal flew up into the air. It was then that Thor realized it was just a turkey, disappearing back into the wood.

They all laughed, the tension broken. O’Connor reddened, and Reece laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, friend,” he said.

O’Connor looked away, embarrassed.

“There are no boar here,” Elden said. “We chose a bad path. The only thing down this path are fowl. We will come back empty-handed.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” said Conval. “I hear a boar fight can be life-and-death.”

Kendrick calmly surveyed the wood; Erec did the same. Thor could see on the faces of these two men that something was out there. He could tell from their experience and wisdom they were on guard.

“Well, the trail seems to end here,” Reece said. “So if we go on, the wood will be unmarked. We won’t find our way back.”

“But if we go back, our hunt is over,” O’Connor said.

“What would happen if we should return empty-handed?” Thor asked. “Without a boar?”

“We would be the laughingstock of the others,” Elden said.

“No we wouldn’t,” Reece said. “Not everyone finds a boar. In fact, it’s more rare to find one than not.”

As the group of them stood there in silence, breathing hard, watching the woods, Thor suddenly realized he had drunk too much water. He had been holding it in the entire hunt and now he had such a pain in his bladder, he could barely contain it.

“Excuse me,” he said, and began make to his way into the woods.

“Where are you going?” Erec asked, cautious.

“I just have to relieve myself. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t go far,” Erec cautioned.

Thor, self-conscious, hurried into the woods and went about twenty paces from the others, until he found a spot just out of view.

Just as he finished relieving himself, suddenly, he heard a twig snap. It was loud and distinct, and he knew—he just knew—it was from no human.

He turned slowly, the hair rising on the back of his neck, and looked. Up ahead, maybe another ten paces, was another small clearing, a boulder in its center. And there, at the base of the boulder, was movement. A small animal, he could not tell what.

Thor debated whether to go back to his people or to see what it was. Without thinking, he crept forward. Whatever the animal was, he didn’t want to lose it, and if he headed back, it might be gone when he returned.

Thor stepped closer, hairs on edge as the woods got thicker and there was less room to maneuver. He could see nothing but dense woods, the sun cutting at sharp angles. Finally, he reached the clearing. As he approached, he loosened his grip on his spear, and lowered it down to his hip. He was taken aback by what he saw before him in the clearing, in a patch of sunlight.

There, squirming in the grass beside the rock, was a small leopard cub. It sat there, squirming and whining, squinting into the sun. It looked as if it had just been born, barely a foot long, small enough to fit inside Thor’s shirt.

Thor stood there, amazed. The cub was all white, and he knew it must be the cub of the white leopard, the rarest of all animals.

Hearing a sudden rustling of leaves behind him, he turned to see the entire group rushing toward him, Reece out front, looking worried. In moments, they were upon him.

“Where did you go?” he demanded. “We thought you were dead.”

As they all came up beside him and looked down at the cub, he could hear them gasp in shock.

“A momentous omen,” Erec said to Thor. “You have found the find of a lifetime. The rarest of all animals. It has been left alone. It has no one to care for it. That means it’s yours. It is your obligation to raise it.”

“Mine?” Thor asked, perplexed.

“It is your obligation,” Kendrick added. “You found it. Or, I should say, it found you.”

Thor was baffled. He had tended sheep, but he had never raised an animal in his life, and he had no idea what to do.

But at the same time, he already felt a strong kinship with the animal. Its small, light blue eyes opened and seemed to stare only at him.

He approached it, bent down, and picked it up in his arms. The animal reached up and licked his cheek.

“How does one care for a leopard cub?” Thor asked, overwhelmed.

“I suppose the same way one cares for anything else,” Erec said. “Feed it when it’s hungry.”

“You must name it,” Kendrick said.

Thor pondered, amazed that this was his second time to name an animal in as many days. He remembered a story from his childhood, about a lion that terrorized a village.

“Krohn,” Thor said.

The others nodded back in approval.

“Like the legend,” Reece said.

“I like it,” O’Connor said.

“Krohn it is,” Erec said.

As Krohn lowered its head into Thor’s chest, Thor felt a stronger connection to it than to anything he’d ever had. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d already known Krohn for lifetimes as the animal squirmed and squealed at him.

Suddenly there came a distinct sound, one that raised the hair on the back of Thor’s neck, and made him turn quickly and stare up at the sky.

High above, was Estopheles. It suddenly dove down low, right for Thor’s head, screeching as it did, before lifting at the last second.

At first Thor wondered if it was jealous of Krohn. But then, with a split second to spare, Thor realized: his falcon was warning him.

A moment later there came a distinct noise from the other side of the wood. It was a rustling, followed by a charging—and it all happened too fast.

Because of the warning, Thor had an advantage—he saw it coming and leapt out of the way with a second to spare, as a massive boar charged right for him. It missed him by a hair.

The clearing broke into chaos. The boar charged the others, ferocious, swinging its tusks every which way. In one swipe, it managed to slice O’Connor’s arm, and blood burst out as he clutched it, screaming.

It was like trying to fight a bull, but without the proper weapons. Elden tried to jab it with his long spear, but the boar merely turned its head, clamped down on it with its enormous mouth, and in one clean motion bit it in two. Then the boar turned and charged Elden, hitting him in the ribs; luckily for Elden, he narrowly missed being torn apart by its tusks.

This boar was unstoppable. It was out for blood, and it would clearly not leave them alone until it had it.

The others rallied and broke into action. Erec and Kendrick drew their swords, as did Thor, Reece, and the others.

They all encircled the beast, but it was hard to hit, especially with its three-foot-long tusks that kept them from getting anywhere close to it. It ran in circles, chasing them around the clearing. As they each took turns attacking, Erec scored a direct hit, slashing it on its side; but this boar must have been made of steel, because it just kept going.

That was when everything changed. For a brief moment, something caught Thor’s eyes, and he turned and looked into the forest. In the distance, hidden behind the trees, he could have sworn he saw a man with a black, hooded cloak; he saw him raise a bow and arrow and aim it right for the clearing. He seemed to be aiming not at the boar, but at the men.

Thor wondered if he were seeing things. Could they be under attack? Here? In the middle of nowhere? By whom?

Thor allowed his instincts to take over. He sensed that the others were in danger, and he raced for them. He saw the man aiming his bow for Kendrick.

Thor dove for Kendrick. He tackled him hard, knocking him to the ground, and as he did so, a moment later the arrow flew by, just missing him.

Thor immediately looked back to the forest, looking for signs of the attacker. But he was gone.

But he had no time to think; the boar was still sprinting madly about the clearing, only feet away from them. Now it turned in their direction, and Thor had no time to react. He braced himself for the impact as the long, sharp tusks bore down directly for him.

A moment later there came a high-pitched squeal; Thor turned to see Erec leaping onto the beast’s back, raising his sword high with both hands, and plunging it into the back of its neck. The beast roared, blood squirting from its mouth as it buckled to its knees, then crashed down to the ground, Erec on top of it. It came to a halt just feet away from Thor.

Everyone stood frozen in place, looking at each other—and wondering what on earth just happened.

Chapter XXII

THOR, CARRYING KROHN INSIDE HIS shirt, was overwhelmed by the noise as Reece opened the door to the alehouse. A huge group of waiting Legion members and soldiers, crammed inside, met them with a shout. It was packed and hot inside, and Thor was immediately sandwiched in between his brethren, shoulder to shoulder. It had been a long day of hunting, and they had all gathered here, at this alehouse deep in the woods, to celebrate. The Silver had led the way, and Thor, Reece and the others followed.

Behind Thor, the twins, Conval and Conven, carried their prize possession, the boar, bigger than anyone else’s, on a long pole over their shoulders. They had to set it down outside the tavern doors before coming in. Thor took a last glance back; it looked so fierce, it was hard to conceive they had killed it.

Thor felt a squirm inside his jacket and looked down to see his new companion, Krohn. He could hardly believe he was actually carrying a white leopard pup. It stared up at him with its crystal blue eyes and squeaked. Thor sensed he was hungry.

Thor was jostled inside the alehouse, dozens more men streaming in behind him, and he proceeded deeper into the small, crowded place, which must have been twenty degrees warmer in here—not to mention more humid. He followed Erec and Kendrick, and in turn was followed by Reece, Elden, the twins, and O’Connor, whose arm was bandaged from the boar’s slice, but had finally stopped bleeding. O’Connor seemed more dazed than hurt. His good spirits had returned, and their whole group shuffled deep into the room.

It was packed shoulder to shoulder, so tight that there was barely room to even turn. There were long benches, and some men stood, while others sat, singing drinking songs and banging their tankards into their friends’, or banging them on the table. It was a rowdy, festive environment, and Thor had never seen anything like it.

“First time in an alehouse?” Elden asked, practically shouting to be heard.

Thor nodded back, feeling like a rube once again.

“I bet you’ve never even had a tankard of ale, have you?” asked Conven, clapping him on the shoulder with a laugh.

“Of course I have,” Thor shot back defensively.

He was blushing, though, and hoped no one could tell, because, in fact, he had never truly had ale, aside from the small sip at the wedding. His father had never allowed ale in the house. And even if he did, he was sure he couldn’t afford it.

“Very good then!” cried out Conval. “Bartender, give us a round of your strongest. Thor here is an old pro!”

One of the twins put down a gold coin. Thor was amazed at the money these boys carried; he wondered what family they hailed from. That coin could have lasted his family a month back in his village.

A moment later a dozen tankards of foaming ale were slid across the bar, and the boys pushed their way through and grabbed them; a cask got shoved into Thor’s hand. The foam dripped over the side of his hand, and his stomach twisted in anticipation. He was nervous.

“To our hunt!” Reece called out.

“TO OUR HUNT!” the others echoed.

Thor followed the others, trying to act natural as he raised the foaming liquid to his lips. He took a sip, and hated the taste, but saw the others gulping theirs down, not removing them from their lips until they finished. Thor felt obliged to do the same, or else look like a coward. He forced himself to drink it, gulping it down as fast he could, until finally, halfway through, he set it down, coughing.

The others looked at him, and roared with laughter. Elden clapped him on the back.

“It is your first time, isn’t it?” he asked.

Thor reddened as he wiped foam from his lips. Luckily, before he could reply, there came a shout in the room, and they all turned to see several musicians shove their way in. They started playing on lutes and flutes, clanging cymbals, and the rowdy atmosphere heightened.

“My brother!” came a voice.

Thor turned to see a boy a few years older than him, with a small belly yet broad shoulders, unshaven, looking somewhat slovenly, step forward and embrace Reece in an awkward hug. He was joined by three companions, who seemed equally slovenly.

“I never thought I’d find you here!” he added.

“Well, once in a while I need to follow in my brother’s footsteps, don’t I?” Reece shouted back with a smile. “Thor, do you know my brother, Godfrey?”

Godfrey turned and shook Thor’s hand, and Thor could not help but notice how smooth and plump it was. It was not a warrior’s hand.

“Of course I know the newcomer,” Godfrey said, leaning in too close and slurring his words. “The whole kingdom is alive with talk of him. A fine warrior I hear,” he said to Thor. “Too bad. What a waste of a talent for the alehouse!”

Godfrey leaned back and roared with laughter, and his three companions joined him. One of them, a head taller than the others, with a huge belly, bright red cheeks, and flush with drink, leaned forward and clamped a hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“Bravery is a fine trait. But it sends you to the battlefield, and keeps you cold. Being a drunk is a better trait: it keeps you safe and warm—and assures a warm lady by your side!”

He roared with laughter, as did the others, and the bartender set down fresh tankards of ale for all of them. Thor hoped he wouldn’t be asked to drink; he could already feel the ale rushing to his head.

“It was his first hunt today!” Reece yelled out to his brother.

“Was it then?” Godfrey replied. “Well then that calls for a drink, doesn’t it?”

“Or two!” his tall friend echoed.

Thor looked down as another cup was shoved into his palm.

“To firsts!” Godfrey called out.

“TO FIRSTS!” the others echoed.

“May your life be filled with firsts,” the tall one echoed, “except for the first time being sober!”

They all roared with laughter as they drank.

Thor sipped his, then tried to get away with lowering it—but Godfrey caught him.

“That’s not the way you drink it, boy!” Godfrey yelled. He stepped forward, grabbed the tankard, put it to Thor’s lips, and the men all laughed as Thor gulped it down. He set it down, empty, and they cheered.

Thor felt lightheaded. He was beginning to feel out of control, and it was harder to focus. He didn’t like the feeling.

Thor felt another squirm in his shirt, as Krohn reared his head.

“Well, what have we here!” Godfrey shouted in delight.

“It’s a leopard cub,” Thor said.

“We found it on the hunt,” Reece added.

“He’s hungry,” Thor said. “I’m not sure what to feed him.”

“Why, of course, ale!” the tall man yelled.

“Really?” Thor asked. “Is that healthy for him?”

“Of course!” Godfrey yelled. “It is just hops, boy!”

Godfrey reached out, dipped his finger into the foam, and held it out; Krohn leaned forward and licked it up. He licked again and again.

“See, he likes it!”

Godfrey suddenly retracted his finger with a scream. He held it up and showed blood.

“Sharp teeth on that one!” he yelled out—and the others all broke into laughter.

Thor reached down, stroked Krohn’s head, and tilted the remnant of his drink into the leopard’s mouth. Krohn lapped it up, and Thor resolved to find him real food. He hoped Kolk would let him stay in the barracks and that none of the Legion would object.

The musicians changed their song, and several more friends of Godfrey’s appeared. They came over, joined them in a fresh round of drinks, and led Godfrey away, back into the crowd.

“I will see you later, young man,” Godfrey said to Reece, before leaving. Then he turned to Thor: “Hopefully you’ll spend more time in the alehouse!”

“Hopefully you’ll spend more time on the battlefield,” Kendrick called back.

“I very much doubt that!” Godfrey said and roared with laughter with the rest of his compatriots, as he disappeared into the crowd.

“Do they always celebrate like this?” Thor asked Reece.

“Godfrey? He’s been in the alehouse since he could walk. A disappointment to my father. But he’s happy with himself.”

“No, I mean the King’s men. The Legion. Is there always a trip to the alehouse?”

Reece shook his head.

“Today is a special day. The first hunt, and the summer solstice. This doesn’t happen that often. Enjoy it while it does.”

Thor was feeling increasingly disoriented as he looked around the room. This was not where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back in the barracks, training. And his thoughts drifted, once again, to Gwendolyn.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Kendrick asked, as he came up to Thor.

Thor looked at him, puzzled.

“The man in the woods, who shot the arrow?” Kendrick added.

The others crowded around close, trying to hear as the mood grew serious.

Thor tried again to remember, but he could not. Everything was fuzzy.

“I wish I did,” he said. “It all happened so fast.”

“Maybe it was just one of the King’s other men, shooting in our direction by accident,” O’Connor said.

Thor shook his head.

“He wasn’t dressed like the others. He wore all black, and a cloak and hood. And he only shot one arrow, aimed right for Kendrick, then disappeared. I’m sorry. I wish I saw more.”

Kendrick shook his head, trying to think.

“Who would want you dead?” Reece asked Kendrick.

“Was it an assassin?” O’Connor asked.

Kendrick shrugged. “I have no enemies that I know of.”

“But Father has many,” Reece said. “Maybe someone wants to kill you to get to him.”

“Or maybe someone wants you out of the way for the throne,” Elden postulated.

“But that’s absurd! I’m illegitimate! I cannot inherit the throne!”

While they all shook their heads, sipping their ale and trying to figure it out, there came another shout in the room, and all the men’s attention turned toward the staircase leading upstairs. Thor looked up and saw a string of women walk out of an upper hallway, stand by a banister, and look down at the room. They were all scantily dressed and wore too much makeup.

Thor blushed.

“Well, hello, men!” called the lady in front, with a large bosom and wearing a red lace outfit.

The men cheered.

“Who’s got money to spend tonight?” she asked.

The men cheered again.

Thor’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Is this also a brothel?” he asked.

The others turned and looked at him in stunned silence, then all broke into laughter.

“My God, you are naïve, aren’t you!” Conval said.

“Tell me you’ve never been to a brothel?” Conven said.

“I bet he’s never been with a woman!” Elden said.

Thor felt them all looking at him, and he felt his face turn red as a beet. He wanted to disappear. They were right: he had never been with a woman. But he would never tell them that. He wondered if it was obvious from his face.

Before he could respond, one of the twins reached up, clasped a firm hand on his back, and threw a gold coin up to the woman on the stairs.

“I believe you have your first customer!” he yelled.

The room cheered, and Thor, despite his pushing and pulling and resisting, felt himself shoved forward by dozens of men, through the crowd and up the staircase. As he went, his mind filled with thoughts of Gwen. Of how much he loved her. Of how he didn’t want to be with anyone else.

He wanted to turn and run. But there was literally no escape. Dozens of the biggest men he had ever seen shoved him forward, and did not allow retreat. Before he knew it, he was up the steps, on the landing, staring at a woman taller than he, who wore too much perfume and smiled down at him. Making matters worse, Thor was drunk. The room was positively spinning out of control, and he felt that in another moment he would collapse.

The woman reached down, pulled Thor’s shirt, led him firmly into a room, and slammed the door behind them. Thor was determined not to be with her. He held in his mind thoughts of Gwen, forcing them to the front. This was not how he wanted his first experience to be.

But his mind was not listening. He was so drunk, he could barely see now. And the last thing he remembered, before he blacked out, was being led across the room, toward a lady’s bed, and hoping he made it before he hit the floor.

Chapter XXIII

MACGIL PEELED OPEN HIS EYES, awakened by the relentless pounding on his door, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head was splitting. Harsh sunlight shone in through the open castle window, and he realized his face was planted in his sheepskin blanket. Disoriented, he tried to remember. He was home, in his castle. He tried to summon the night before. He remembered the hunt. Then an alehouse in the woods. Drinking way too much. Somehow, he must have made it back here.

He looked over and saw his wife, the Queen, sleeping beside him under the covers and slowly rousing.

The pounding came again, the awful noise of an iron knocker slamming.

“Who could that be?” she asked, annoyed.

MacGil was wondering the same thing. He specifically remembered leaving instructions with his servants not to wake him—especially after the hunt. There’d be hell to pay for this.

It was probably his steward, with another petty financial matter.

“Stop that bloody banging!” MacGil finally bellowed, rolling out of bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees, hand in his head. He ran his hands through his unwashed hair and beard, then over his face, trying to wake himself up. The hunt—and the ale—had taken a lot out of him. He wasn’t as limber as he used to be. The years had taken their toll; he was exhausted. At this moment, he felt like never drinking again.

With a supreme effort he pushed himself up off his knees and to his feet. Dressed only in his robe, he quickly crossed the room and finally reached the door, a foot thick, grabbing the iron handle and yanking it back.

Standing there was his greatest general, Brom, flanked by two lieutenants. The lieutenants lowered their heads in deference, but his general stared right at him, a grim look on his face. MacGil hated it when he wore that look. It always meant somber news. It was at moments like these that he hated being King. He had had such a good day yesterday, a great hunt, and it had reminded him of when he was young and carefree. Especially wasting the night away like that in the alehouse. Now, to be rudely awakened like this, it took away any illusion of peace he had had.

“My liege, I am sorry to wake you,” Brom said.

“You should be sorry,” MacGil growled. “This better be important.”

“It is,” he said.

King MacGil spotted the seriousness of his face, and turned and checked back over his shoulder for his Queen. She had gone back to sleep.

MacGil gestured for them to enter, then led them across his vast bedroom and through another arched door, to a side chamber, shutting the door behind them so as not to disturb her. He sometimes used this smaller room, no greater than twenty paces in each direction, with a few comfortable chairs and a big stained-glass window, when he didn’t feel like going down to the Great Hall.

“My liege, our spies have told us of a McCloud contingent of men riding east, for the Fabian Sea. And our scouts in the south report a caravan of Empire ships heading north. Surely they must be heading there to meet the McClouds.”

MacGil tried to process this information, his brain moving too slowly in his drunken state.

“And?” he prodded, impatient, tired. He was so exhausted by the endless machinations and speculations and subterfuges of his court.

“If the McClouds are truly meeting with the Empire, there can only be one purpose,” Brom continued. “To conspire to breach the Canyon and overthrow the Ring.”

MacGil looked up at his old commander, a man whom he had fought alongside for thirty years, and could see the deadly seriousness in his eyes. He could also see fear. That disturbed him; this was not a man he had ever seen fear anything.

MacGil slowly rose to his full height, which was still considerable, and turned and walked across the room until he reached the window. He looked out, surveying his court below, empty in the early morning, and pondered. He knew, all along, that one day a day like this would come. He just had not expected it to come so soon.

“That was quick,” he said. “It’s been but days since I married off my daughter to their prince. And now you think they already conspire to overthrow us?”

“I do, my liege,” Brom responded sincerely. “I see no other reason. All indications are it is a peaceful meeting. Not a military one.”

MacGil slowly shook his head.

“But it does not make sense. They could not let the Empire in. Why would they? Even if for some reason they managed to help lower the Shield on our side and open a breach, then what would happen? The Empire would overwhelm them as well. They would not be safe, either. Surely, they know this.”

“Maybe they are going to strike a deal,” Brom retorted. “Maybe they will let the Empire in, in return for their attacking us only, so that the McClouds can control the Ring.”

MacGil shook his head.

“The McClouds are too smart for that. They are crafty. They know that the Empire cannot be trusted.”

His general shrugged.

“Maybe they want control of the Ring so badly, they are willing to take that chance. Especially now that they have your daughter as their Queen.”

MacGil thought about this. His head was pounding. He did not want to deal with this now. Not so early in the morning.

“So then what do you propose?” he asked, short with him, tired of all the speculation.

“We could preempt this, sire, and attack the McClouds. The time is now.”

MacGil gaped at him.

“Right after I gave my daughter to them in a wedding? I don’t think so.”

“If we don’t,” Brom countered, “we allow them to dig our grave. Surely they will attack us. If not now, then later. And if they join with the empire, we would be finished.”

“They cannot cross the Highlands so easily. We control all the choke points. It would be a slaughter. Even with the Empire in tow.”

“The Empire have millions of men to spare,” Brom responded. “They can afford to be slaughtered.”

“Even with the Shield down,” MacGil said, “it would not be so easy to just march millions of soldiers across the Canyon—or across the Highlands, or to approach by ship. We would spot such mobilization far in advance. We would have warning.”

MacGil thought.

“No, we will not attack. But for now, we can take a prudent step: double our patrols at the Highlands. Strengthen our fortifications. And double our spies. That will be all.”

“Yes, my liege,” Brom said, turning and hurrying from the room with his lieutenants.

MacGil turned back to the window, his head pounding. He sensed war on the horizon, coming at him with the inevitability of a winter storm. He sensed, further, that there was nothing he could do about it. He looked all around him, at his castle, at the stone, at the pristine royal court spread out beneath him, and could not help but wonder how long all this would last.

What he would give for another drink.

Chapter XXIV

THOR FELT A FOOT NUDGING him in his ribs and slowly peeled opened his eyes. He lay face down on a mound of straw, and for a moment had no idea where he was. His head felt like it weighed a million pounds, his throat was drier than it had ever been, and his eyes and head were killing him. He felt as if he’d fallen off a horse.

He was nudged again, and as he sat up, the room spun violently. He leaned over and threw up, gagging again and again.

A chorus of laughter erupted all around him, and he looked up to see Reece, O’Connor, Elden, and the twins hovering close by, looking down.

“Finally, sleeping beauty wakes!” Reece called out, smiling.

“We didn’t think you’d ever rise,” O’Connor said.

“Are you okay?” Elden asked.

Thor sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to process it all. As he did, Krohn, lying a few feet away, whimpered and ran over to him, jumping into his arms and burying his head in his shirt. Thor was relieved to see him, and happy to have him at his side. He tried to remember.

“Where am I?” Thor asked. “What happened last night?”

The three of them laughed.

“I’m afraid you had one drink too many, my friend. Someone can’t hold his ale. Don’t you remember? The alehouse?”

Thor closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, and tried to bring it all back. It came in flashes. He remembered the hunt…entering the alehouse…the drinks. He remembered being led upstairs…the brothel. After that, it was all black.

His heart quickened as he thought of Gwendolyn. Had he done anything stupid with that girl? Had he ruined his chances with Gwen?

“What happened?” he pressed Reece, serious, as he clasped his wrist. “Please, tell me. Tell me I didn’t do anything with that woman.”

The others laughed, but Reece stared back at his friend earnestly, realizing how upset he was.

“Don’t worry, friend,” he answered. “You did nothing at all. Except for throw up and collapse on her floor!”

The others laughed again.

“So much for your first time,” Elden said.

But Thor felt deeply relieved. He had not alienated Gwen.

“Last time I buy you a woman!” said Conval.

“Perfectly good waste of money,” said Conven. “She wouldn’t even return it!”

The boys laughed again. Thor was humiliated, but relieved he had not ruined anything.

He took Reece’s arm and pulled him aside.

“Your sister,” he whispered, urgently. “She doesn’t know about any of this, does she?”

Reece broke into a slow smile as he put an arm around Thor’s shoulder.

“Your secret is safe with me, even though you didn’t do anything. She doesn’t know. And I can see how deeply you care for her, and I appreciate that,” he said, his face morphing into a serious expression. “I can see now that you really do care for her. If you had gone whoring, that would not be the kind of brother-in-law I would want. In fact, I have been asked to deliver you this message.”

Reece shoved a small scroll into Thor’s palm, and Thor looked down, confused. He saw the royal stamp on it, the pink paper, and he knew. His heart quickened.

“From my sister,” Reece added.

“Whoa!” came a chorus of voices.

“Someone’s got a love letter!” O’Connor said.

“Read it to us!” Elden yelled.

The others chimed in with laughter.

But Thor, wanting privacy, hurried off to the side of the barracks, away from the others. His head was splitting, and the room still spun—but he didn’t care anymore. He unrolled the delicate parchment and read the note with trembling hands.

“Meet me at Forest Ridge at midday. Don’t be late. And don’t call attention to yourself.”

Thor stuffed the note into his pocket.

“What does it say, lover boy?” Conven called out.

Thor hurried over to Reece, knowing he could trust him.

“The Legion has no exercises today, right?” Thor asked.

Reece shook his head. “Of course not. It’s a holiday.”

“Where is Forest Ridge?” Thor asked.

Reece smiled. “Ah, Gwen’s favorite place,” he said. “Take the eastern road out of the court and stay right. Climb the hill, and it begins after the second knoll.”

Thor looked at Reece.

“Please, I don’t want anyone to know.”

Reece smiled.

“I’m sure she does not either. If my mother found out, she would kill you both. She would lock my sister in her room, and exile you to the southern end of the kingdom.”

Thor gulped at the thought of it.

“Really?” he asked

Reece nodded back.

“She doesn’t like you. I don’t know why, but her mind is set. Go quickly, and don’t tell a soul. And don’t worry,” he said, clasping his hand. “I won’t either.”

Thor walked quickly in the early morning, Krohn scampering beside him, trying his best not to be seen. He followed Reece’s directions as best he could, repeating them in his head as he hurried past the outskirts of the royal court, up a small hill, and along the edge of a thick forest. To his left, the ground fell off below him, leaving him walking on a narrow trail on the edge of a steep ridge, a cliff to his left, and the forest to his right. Forest Ridge. She had told him to meet her there. Was she serious? Or was she just playing with him?

Was that prissy royal, Alton, right? Was Thor just entertainment for her? Would she tire of him soon? He hoped, more than anything, that that was not the case. He wanted to believe her feelings for him were genuine; yet he still had a hard time conceiving how that could be the case. She barely knew him. And she was royalty. What interest could she possibly have in him? Not to mention that she was a year or two older, and he had never had an older girl take an interest in him; in fact, he had never had any girl take an interest in him. Not that there were many girls to choose from in his small village.

Thor had never thought about girls that much. He hadn’t been raised with any sisters, and there were few girls his age in his village. At his age, none of the other boys seemed too concerned. Most of the boys seemed to wed around their eighteenth year, in arranged marriages—really, more like business arrangements. Men of high rank who weren’t married off by their twenty-fifth year reached their Selection Day: they were obligated to either choose a bride or go out and find one. But that did not apply to Thor. He was of poor means, and people of his rank usually were just married off in ways that benefited the families. It was like trading cattle.

But when Thor had seen Gwendolyn, all that had changed. For the first time, he had been struck by something, a feeling so deep and strong and urgent it allowed him to think of nothing else. Each time he’d seen her, that feeling deepened. He hardly understood it, but it pained him to be away from her.

Thor doubled his pace along the ridge, looking for her everywhere, wondering exactly where she would meet him—or if she would meet him at all. The first sun grew higher and the first bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He still felt ill and queasy from the effects of the night before. As the sun grew even higher, and his search for her was proving futile, he began to wonder if she was really going to meet him at all. He also began to wonder just how much danger he was putting them in. If her mother, the Queen, really was so against this, would she truly have him deported from the kingdom? From the Legion? From everything he’d come to know and love? Then what would he do?

As he thought about it, he decided it was still all worth it, for the chance to be with her. He was willing to risk it all for that chance. He only hoped he wasn’t being made a fool of, or rushing to any premature conclusions about how strong her feelings were for him.

“Were you just going to walk right by me?” came a voice, followed by a giggle.

Thor jumped, caught off guard, then stopped and turned. Standing in the shade of a huge pine tree, smiling back, was Gwendolyn. His heart lifted at that smile. He could see the love in her eyes, and all his worries and fears instantly melted away. He chided himself for how he could have been so stupid to ever second-guess her intentions.

Krohn squeaked at the sight of her.

“And what do have we here?!” she cried out in delight.

She knelt down and Krohn came running to her, leaping into her arms with a whimper; she picked him up and held him, caressing him.

“He’s so cute!” she said, hugging him tightly. He licked her face. She giggled and kissed him back.

“And what’s your name, little fellow?” she asked.

“Krohn,” Thor said. Finally, this time, he was not as tongue-tied as before.

“Krohn,” she echoed, looking into the cub’s eyes. “And is it every day that you travel with a leopard friend?” she asked Thor with a laugh.

“I found him,” Thor said, feeling self-conscious beside her, as he always did. “In the wood—on the hunt. Your brother said I should keep him, because I found him. That it was destined.”

She looked at him, and her expression became serious.

“Well, he is right. Animals are very sacred things. You don’t find them. They find you.”

“I hope you don’t mind if he joins us,” Thor said.

She giggled.

“I would be sad if he didn’t,” she answered.

She looked both ways, as if to make sure no one was watching, then reached out, grabbed Thor’s hand, and pulled him into the wood.

“Let’s go,” she whispered. “Before someone spots us.”

Thor was exhilarated at the feel of her touch, as she guided him onto the forest trail. They headed quickly into the woods, the path twisting and turning amidst the huge pines. She let go of his hand, but he did not forget the feel of it.

He was beginning to feel more confident that she actually liked him, and it was obvious she did not want to be spotted, either, probably by her mother. Clearly she took this seriously, because she had something to risk by seeing him, too.

Then again, Thor thought, maybe she just didn’t want to be spotted by Alton—or by any other boys she might be with. Maybe Alton had been right. Maybe she was ashamed to be seen with Thor.

Thor felt all these mixed emotions swirl within him.

“Cat has your tongue, does it?” she asked, finally breaking the silence.

Thor felt torn; he didn’t want to risk messing things up by telling her what was on his mind—but at the same time he felt like he needed to put all his worries to rest. He needed to know where she really stood. He could contain it no longer.

“When I left you last time, I ran into Alton. He confronted me.”

Gwendolyn’s expression darkened, her high spirits suddenly ruined—and Thor immediately felt guilty he had brought it up. He cherished her good nature, her joy, and wished he could take it back. He wanted to stop, but it was too late. There was no turning back now.

“And what did he say?” she said, her voice dropping.

“He told me to stay away from you. He told me you didn’t really care about me. He told me I was just amusement for you. That you would tire of me in a day or two. He also said you and he were set to be wed, and that your marriage was already arranged.”

Gwendolyn let out an angry, mocking laugh.

“Did he then?” she snorted. “That boy is the most arrogant, unbearable little pip,” she added, angry. “He’s been a thorn in my side since the time I could walk. Just because our parents are cousins, he thinks he’s part of the royal family. I’ve never met anyone so entitled who deserved it less. Making things worse, he’s got it into his head somehow that the two of us are destined to wed. As if I would just go along with whatever my parents forced me to do. Never. And certainly not with him. I can’t stand the sight of him.”

Thor felt so relieved at her words, he felt a million pounds lighter; he felt like singing from the treetops. It was exactly what he had needed to hear. Now he felt sorry he had darkened their mood all over nothing. But he wasn’t completely satisfied yet; he noticed she still hadn’t said anything about whether she truly liked him, Thor.

“As far as you are concerned,” she said, stealing a glance him, then looking away. “I barely know you. I hardly need to be pressed to commit my feelings now. But I would say that I don’t think I would be spending time with you if I hated you that much. Of course it is my right to change my mind as I wish, and I can be fickle—but not when it comes to love.”

That was all Thor needed. He was impressed by her seriousness, and even more impressed by her choice of word: “love.” He felt restored.

“And incidentally, I might also ask the same of you,” she said, turning the tables. “In fact, I think I have a lot more to lose than you do. After all, I am royalty, and you are commoner. I am older and you are younger. Don’t you think I should be the one who is more guarded? Whispers come to me in the court of your agenda, your social climbing, of your just using me, being hungry for rank. Your wanting favor with the King. Should I believe all this?”

Thor was horrified.

“No, my lady! Never. These things never even entered my mind. I’m with you only because I cannot think of being anywhere else. Only because I want to be. Only because when I’m not with you, I think of nothing else.”

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth, and he could see her expression starting to lighten.

“You are new here,” she said. “You are new to King’s Court, to royal life. You need time to see how things really work. Here, nobody means what they say. Everyone has an agenda. Everyone is angling for power—or rank or wealth or riches or titles. No one can ever be taken for face value. Everyone has their own spies, and factions, and agendas. When Alton told you that my marriage has already been arranged, for instance, what he was really doing was trying to find out how close you and I are. He is threatened. And he might be reporting to someone. For him, marriage doesn’t mean love. It means a union. Purely for financial gain, for rank. For property. In our royal court, nothing is what it seems.”

Suddenly, Krohn sprinted past them, down the forest trail and into a clearing.

Gwen looked at Thor and giggled; she reached out, grabbed his hand, and ran with him.

“Come on!” she yelled, excited.

The two of them ran down the trail and burst into the huge clearing, laughing. Thor was taken aback by the sight: it was a beautiful forest meadow filled with wildflowers of every possible color up to their knees. Birds and butterflies of every color and size danced and flew in the air, and the meadow was alive with the sound of chirping. The sun shone down brilliantly, and it felt like a secret place, hidden here in the midst of this tall dark wood.

“Have you ever played Hangman’s Blind?” she asked with a laugh.

Thor shook his head, and before he could respond, she took a handkerchief from her neck, reached up, and wrapped it over Thor’s eyes, tying it behind him. He couldn’t see, and she giggled loudly in his ear.

“You’re it!” she said.

Then he heard her run away in the grass.

He smiled.

“But what do I do?” he called out.

“Find me!” she called back.

Her voice was already far away.

Thor, blindfolded, began to run after her, tripping as he went. He listened carefully to the rustle of her dress, trying to follow her direction. It was hard, and he ran with his hands out before him, thinking always that he might run into a tree, even though he knew it was an open meadow. Within moments, he was disoriented, and felt as if he were running in circles.

But he continued to listen, hearing the sound of her giggle far away, and kept adjusting, running for it. Sometimes it seemed to get closer, then farther. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

He heard Krohn running beside him, yelping, and he listened instead to Krohn, following his footsteps. As he did, Gwyn’s giggle got louder, and Thor realized that Krohn was leading him to her. He was amazed at how smart Krohn was, to join in their game.

Soon, he could hear her just feet away from him; he chased her, zigzagging every which way through the field. He reached out, and she screamed in delight as he caught the corner of her dress. As he grabbed her, he tripped, and the two of them went crashing down into the soft field. He spun at the last second, so that he would fall first and she on top of him, cushioning her fall.

As Thor landed on the ground, Gwen on top of him, she screamed out in surprise. She was still giggling as she reached up and pulled back the kerchief.

Thor’s heart was pounding as he saw her face just inches from his. He felt the weight of her body on his, in her thin summer dress, felt every contour of her body. The full weight of her pressed down on him, and she made no move to resist. She was staring into his eyes, their breathing shallow, and she did not look away. He did not either. Thor’s heart pounded so fast, he was having a hard time focusing.

Suddenly, she leaned in and planted her lips on his. They were softer than he could possibly imagine, and as they met, for the first time in his life, he felt truly alive.

He closed his eyes, and she closed hers, and they did not move, their lips meeting for he did not know how long. He wanted to freeze this time.

Finally, slowly, she pulled away. She still smiled, as she slowly opened her eyes, and she still lay there, her body on his.

They lay like that for a long time, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, softly, smiling.

He smiled back. He did not know how to answer.

“I’m just a regular boy,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled.

“No you are not. I can sense it. I suspect you are far, far more than that.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, and his lips met hers, this time, for a much longer time. He reached up and ran his hand through her hair, and she ran hers through his. He could not stop his mind from racing.

He already wondered how this would end. Could they possibly be together, with all the forces between them? Was it possible for them to really be a couple?

Thor hoped, more than anything in his life, that they could. He wanted to be with her now, even more than he wanted to be in the Legion.

As he was thinking these thoughts, there came a sudden rustling in the grass, and the two of them, startled, turned. Krohn leapt through the grass, just feet away, and there came another rustling noise. Krohn yelped, then growled—then there came a hissing noise. Finally, it was quiet.

Gwen rolled off Thor as they both sat up and looked. Thor jumped to his feet, protective of Gwen, wondering what it could be. He didn’t see anyone. But someone—or something—must be there, just feet away, in the tall grass.

Krohn appeared before them, and in his mouth, in his small, razor-sharp teeth, there dangled a huge, limp white snake. It must have been ten feet long, its skin a brilliant, shining white, as thick as a large tree branch.

Thor realized in an instant what had happened: Krohn had spared the two of them from an attack by this deadly reptile. His heart rushed with gratitude for the cub.

Gwen gasped.

“A Whiteback,” she said. “The most lethal reptile in the entire kingdom.”

Thor stared at it in awe.

“I thought this snake did not exist. I thought it was just a legend.”

“It is very rare,” Gwen said. “I’ve only see one in my lifetime. The day my father’s father was killed. It is an omen.”

She turned and looked at Thor.

“It means death is coming. The death of someone very close.”

Thor felt a chill on his spine. A sudden cold breeze ran through the meadow on this summer day, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that she was right.

Chapter XXV

GWENDOLYN WALKED ALONE THROUGH THE castle, taking the spiral staircase, twisting and turning her way to the top. Her mind raced with thoughts of Thor. Of their walk. Of their kiss. And then, of that snake.

She burned with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she had been elated to be with him; on the other, she was terror-stricken by that snake, by the omen of death it brought. But she did not know for whom, and she could not get that out of her mind either. She feared it was for someone in her family. Could it be one of her brothers? Godfrey? Kendrick? Could it be her mother? Or, she shuddered to even think, her father?

The sight of that snake had cast a somber shadow on their joyous day, and once their mood had been shattered, they had been unable to get it back. They had made their way back together to the court, parting ways right before they came out of the woods, so they would not be seen. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to catch them together. But Gwen would not give up Thor so easily, and she would find a way to combat her mother; she needed time to figure out her strategy.

It had been painful to part with Thor; thinking back on it, she felt bad. She had meant to ask him if he would see her again, had meant to make a plan for another day. But she had been in a daze, so distraught by the sight of that snake that she had forgotten. Now she worried that he thought she didn’t care for him.

The second she had arrived at King’s Court, her father’s servants had summoned her. She had been ascending the steps ever since, her heart beating, wondering why he wanted to see her. Had she had been spotted with Thor? There could be no other reason her father wanted to see her so urgently. Was he, too, going to forbid her to see him? She could hardly imagine that he would. He had always taken her side.

Gwen, nearly out of breath, finally reached the top. She hurried down the corridor, past the attendants who snapped to attention and opened the door for her to her father’s chamber. Two more servants, waiting inside, bowed at her presence.

“Leave us,” her father said to them.

They bowed and hurried from the room, closing the door behind them with a reverberating echo.

Her father rose from his desk, a big smile on his face, and ventured toward her across the vast chamber. She felt at ease, as she always did, at the sight of him, and felt relieved to see no anger in his expression.

“My Gwendolyn,” he said.

He held out his arms and embraced her in a big hug. She embraced him back, and he directed her to two huge chairs, placed on an angle beside the roaring fire. Several large dogs, wolfhounds, most of whom she had known since childhood, got out of their way as they walked toward the fire. Two of them followed her, and rested their heads in her lap. She was glad for the fire: it had become unusually cold for a summer day.

Her father leaned in toward the fire, staring at the flames as they crackled before them.

“You know why I have summoned you?” he asked.

She searched his face, but still was not sure.

“I do not, Father.”

He looked back in surprise.

“Our discussion the other day. With your siblings. About the kingship. That is what I wanted to discuss with you.”

Gwen’s heart soared with relief. This was not about Thor. It was about politics. Stupid politics, which she could not care less about. She sighed in relief.

“You look relieved,” he said. “What did you think we were going to discuss?”

Her father was too perceptive; he always had been. He was one of the few people who could read her like a book. She had to be careful around him.

“Nothing, Father,” she said quickly.

He smiled again.

“So, then, tell me. What do you think of my choice?” he asked.

“Choice?” she asked.

“For my heir! To the kingdom!”

“You mean me?” she asked.

“Who else?” he laughed.

She blushed.

“Father, I was surprised, to say the least. I am not the firstborn. And I am a woman. I know nothing of politics. And care nothing for them—or for ruling a kingdom. I have no political ambition. I do not know why you chose me.”

“It is precisely for those reasons,” he said, his expression deadly serious. “It is because you don’t aspire to the throne. You don’t want the kingship. And you know nothing of politics.”

He took a deep breath.

“But you know human nature. You are very perceptive. You got it from me. You have your mother’s quick wit, but my skill with people. You know how to judge them; you can see right through them. And that is what a king needs. To know the nature of others. There is nothing more you need. All else is artifice. Know who your people are. Understand them. Trust your instincts. Be good to them. This is all.”

“Surely, there must be more to ruling a kingdom than that,” she said.

“Not really,” he said. “It all stems from that. Decisions stem from that.”

“But Father, you are forgetting that, first, I have no desire to rule, and second, you’re not going to die. This is all just a silly tradition, linked to your eldest’s wedding day. Why dwell on this? I’d rather not even speak of it, or think of it. I hope the day should never come when I see you pass—so this is all irrelevant.”

He cleared his throat, looking grave.

“I have spoken to Argon, and he sees a dark future for me. I have felt it myself. I must prepare,” he said.

Gwen felt her stomach tighten.

“Argon is a fool. A sorcerer. Half of what he says doesn’t come to pass. Ignore him. Don’t give in to his silly omens. You are fine. You will live forever.”

But he slowly shook his head, and she could see the sadness in his face, and she felt her stomach tighten even more.

“Gwendolyn, my daughter, I love you. I need you to be prepared. I want you to be the next ruler of the Ring. I am serious in what I say. It is not a request. It is a command.”

He looked at her with such seriousness, his eyes darkening, it scared her. She had never seen that look on her father’s face before.

She felt her eyes well, and reached up and brushed away a tear.

“I am sorry to have upset you,” he said.

“Then stop talking of this,” she said, crying. “I don’t want you to die.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot. I need you to answer me.”

“Father, I do not want to insult you.”

“Then say yes.”

“But how can I possibly rule?” she pleaded.

“It is not as hard as you think. You will be surrounded by advisors. The first rule is to trust none of them. Trust yourself. You can do this. Your lack of knowledge, your naïveté—that is what will make you great. You will make genuine decisions. Promise me,” he insisted.

She looked into his eyes, and saw how much this meant to him. She wanted to get off this topic, if for no other reason than to appease his morbidity and cheer him up.

“Okay, I promise you,” she said in a rush. “Does that make you feel better?”

He leaned back, and she could see him greatly relieved.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Good, now can we talk of other things? Things that might actually happen?” she asked.

Her father leaned back and roared with laughter; he seemed a million pounds lighter.

“That is why I love you,” he said. “Always so happy. Always able to make me laugh.”

He examined her, and she could sense he was searching for something.

“You seem unusually happy yourself,” he said. “Is there a boy in the picture?”

Gwen blushed. She stood up and walked to the window, turning from him.

“I’m sorry, Father, but that is a private affair.”

“It is not private if you will be ruling my kingdom,” he said. “But I won’t pry. However, your mother has requested an audience with you, and I assume she will not be so lenient. I will let it go. But prepare yourself.”

Her stomach tightened, and she turned away, looking out the window. She hated this place. She wished she were anywhere but here. In a simple village, on a simple farm, living a simple life with Thor. Away from all of this, from all of these forces trying to control her.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and turned to see her father standing there, smiling down.

“Your mother can be fierce. But whatever she decides, know that I will take your side. In matters of love, one must be allowed to choose freely.”

Gwen reached up and hugged her dad. At that moment, she loved him more than anything. She tried to push the omen of that snake from her mind, praying, with all she had, that it was not meant for her father.

*

Gwen twisted and turned down corridor after corridor, past rows of stained glass, heading toward her mother’s chamber. She hated being summoned by her mother, hated her controlling ways. In many ways, her mother was really the one who ruled the kingdom. She was stronger than her father in many ways, stood her ground more, gave in less easily. Of course the kingdom had no idea; he put on a strong face, seemed to be the wise one.

But when he returned to the castle, behind closed doors, it was she whom he turned to for advice. She was the wiser one. The colder one. The more calculating one. The tougher one. The fearless one. She was the rock. And she ruled their large family with an iron fist. When she wanted something, especially if she got it into her head that it was for the good of the family, she made sure it happened.

And now her mother’s iron will was about to be turned toward her; she was already bracing herself for the confrontation. She sensed it had something to do with her romantic life, and feared she had been spotted with Thor. But she was resolved not to back down—no matter what it took. If she had to leave this place, she would. Her mother could put her in the dungeon for all she cared.

As Gwen approached her mother’s chamber, the large oak door was opened by her servants, who stepped out of the way as she entered, then closed it behind her.

Her mother’s chamber was much smaller than her father’s, more intimate, with large rugs and a small tea set and gaming board set up beside a roaring fire, several delicate, yellow velvet chairs beside them. Her mother sat in one of the chairs, her back to Gwen, even though she was expecting her. She faced the fire, sipped her tea, and moved one of the pieces on the game board. Behind her were two ladies-in-waiting, one tending her hair, the other tightening her strings on the back of her dress.

“Come in, child,” came her mother’s stern voice.

Gwen hated when her mother did this—held court in front of her servants. She wished she would dismiss them, like her father did when they spoke. It was the least she could do for privacy and decency. But her mother never did. Gwen concluded it was a power play, keeping her servants hovering around, listening, in order to keep Gwen on edge.

Gwen had no choice but to cross the room and take a seat in one of the velvet chairs opposite her mother, too close to the fire. Another of her mother’s power plays: it kept her company too warm, caught off guard by the flames.

The Queen did not look up; rather, she stared down at her board game, pushing one of the ivory pieces in the complex maze.

“Your turn,” her mother said.

Gwen looked down at the board; she was surprised her mother still had this game going. She recalled she had the brown pieces, but she hadn’t played this game with her mother in weeks. Her mother was an expert at Pawns—but Gwen was even better. Her mother hated to lose, and she clearly had been analyzing this board for quite a while, hoping to make the perfect move. Now that Gwen was here, she made her play.

Unlike her mother, Gwen didn’t need to study the board. She merely glanced at it and saw the perfect move in her head. She reached up and moved one of the brown pieces sideways, all the way across the board. It put her mother one move away from losing.

Her mother stared down, expressionless except for a flicker of her eyebrow, which Gwen knew indicated dismay. Gwen was smarter, and her mother would never accept that.

Her mother cleared her throat, studying the board, still not looking at her.

“I know all about your escapades with that common boy,” she said derisively. “You defy me.” Her mother looked up at her. “Why?”

Gwen took a deep breath, feeling her stomach tighten, trying to frame the best response. She would not give in. Not this time.

“My private affairs are not your business,” Gwen responded.

“Aren’t they? They are very much my business. Your private affairs will affect kingships. The fate of this family. Of the Ring. Your private affairs are political—as much as you would like to forget. You are not a commoner. Nothing is private in your world. And nothing is private from me.”

Her mother’s voice was steely and cold, and Gwen resented every moment of this visit. There was nothing Gwen could do but sit there and wait for her to finish. She felt trapped.

Finally, her mother cleared her throat.

“Since you refuse to listen to me, I will have to make decisions for you. You will not see that boy ever again. If you do, I will have him transferred out of the Legion, out of King’s Court, and back to his village. Then I will have him put in stocks—along with his whole family. He will be cast out in disgrace. And you will never know him again.”

Her mother looked up at her, her lower lip trembling in rage.

“Do you understand me?”

Gwen breathed in sharply, for the first time comprehending the evil her mother was capable of. She hated her more than she could say. Gwen also caught the nervous glances of the attendants. It was humiliating.

Before she could respond, her mother continued.

“Furthermore, in order to prevent more of your reckless behavior, I have taken steps to arrange a rational union for you. You will be wed to Alton, on the first day of next month. You may begin your wedding preparations now. Prepare for life as a married woman. That is all,” her mother said dismissively, turning back to the board as if she had just mentioned the most common of matters.

Gwen seethed and burned inside, and wanted to scream.

“How dare you,” Gwen said back, her rage building. “Do you think I am some puppet on a string, to be played by you? Do you really think I will marry whomever you tell me to?”

“I don’t think,” her mother replied. “I know. You are my daughter, and you answer to me. And you will marry exactly who I say you will.”

“No I won’t!” Gwen screamed back. “And you can’t make me! Father said you can’t make me!”

“Arranged unions are still the right of every parent in this kingdom—and they are certainly the right of the king and queen. Your father postures, but you know as well as I do that he will always concede to my will. I have my ways.”

Her mother glared at her.

“So, you see, you will do as I say. Your marriage is happening. Nothing can stop it. Prepare yourself.”

“I won’t do it,” Gwen responded. “Never. And if you talk to me any more of this, I will never speak to you again.”

Her mother looked up and smiled at her, a cold, ugly smile.

“I don’t care if you never speak to me. I’m your mother, not your friend. And I am your Queen. This may very well be our last encounter together. It does not matter. At the end of the day you will do as I say. And I will watch you from afar, as you live out the life I plan for you.”

Her mother turned back to her game.

“You are dismissed,” she said with a wave of her hand, as if Gwen were another servant.

Gwen so boiled over with rage, she could not take it anymore. She took three steps, marched to her mother’s game board, and threw it over with both hands, sending the ivory pieces and the big ivory table crashing down and shattering to pieces.

Her mother jumped back in shock.

“I hate you,” Gwen hissed.

With that, Gwen turned, red-faced, and stormed from the room, brushing off the attendants’ hands, determined to walk out on her own volition—and to never see her mother’s face again.

Chapter XXVI

THOR WALKED FOR HOURS THROUGH the winding trails of the forest, thinking about his encounter with Gwen. He could not shake her from his mind. Their time together had been magical, way beyond his expectations, and he no longer worried about the depth of her feelings for him. It was the perfect day—except, of course, for what happened at the end of their encounter.

That white snake, so rare, and such a bad omen. It was lucky they had not been bitten. Thor looked down at Krohn, walking loyally beside him, happy as ever, and wondered what would’ve happened if he had not been there, had not killed the snake and saved their lives. Would they both be dead right now? He was forever grateful to Krohn, and knew he had a lifelong, trusted companion in him.

Yet the omen still bothered him: that snake was exceedingly rare, and didn’t even live in this portion of the kingdom. It lived farther south, in the marshes and swamps. How could it have traveled so far? Why did it have to come upon them at just that moment? It was too mystical, and he felt absolutely certain that it was a sign. Like Gwen, he felt it was a bad omen, a harbinger of death to come. But whose?

Thor wanted to push the image from his mind, to forget about it, to think of other things—but he could not. It plagued him, gave him no rest. He knew he should return to the barracks, but he had not been able to. Today was still their day off, and so instead he had walked for hours, circling the forest trails, trying to clear his mind. He felt certain the snake held some deep message just for him, that he was being urged to take some action.

Making things worse, his departure with Gwen had been abrupt. When they’d reach the forest’s edge, they had parted ways quickly, with barely a word. She had seemed distraught. He assumed it was because of the snake, but he could not be sure. She had made no mention of their meeting again. Had she changed her mind about him? Had he done something wrong?

The thought tore Thor apart. He hardly knew what to do with himself, and he wandered in circles for hours. He needed to talk to someone who understood these things, who could interpret signs and omens.

Thor stopped in his tracks. Of course. Argon. He would be perfect. He could explain it all to him, and set his mind at ease.

Thor looked out. He was standing at the northern end of the farthest ridge and from here had a sweeping view of the royal city below him. He stood near a crossroads. He knew Argon lived alone, in a stone cottage on the northern outskirts of Boulder Plains. He knew that if he forked left, away from the city, one of these trails would lead him there. He began his journey.

It would be a long journey, and there was a good chance Argon would not even be there when Thor arrived. But he had to try. He could not rest until he had answers.

Thor walked with a new bounce in his step, walking double-time, heading toward the plains. Morning turned into afternoon, as he walked and walked. It was a beautiful summer day, and the light shone brilliantly on the fields all around him. Krohn bounced along at his side, stopping every now and again to pounce on a squirrel, which he carried triumphantly in his mouth.

The trail became steeper, windier, and the meadows faded, giving way to a desolate landscape of rocks and boulders. Soon, the trail, too, faded. It became colder and windier up here, as the trees dropped away too, and the landscape turned rocky, craggy. It was eerie up here, nothing but small rocks, dirt, and boulders as far as the eye could see; Thor felt like he was journeying on a wasted earth. As the trail completely disappeared, Thor found himself walking on gravel and rock.

Beside him, Krohn began to whine. There was a creepy feeling in the air, and Thor felt it, too. It wasn’t necessarily evil; it was just different. Like a heavy spiritual fog.

Just as Thor was beginning to wonder if he was heading in the right direction, he spotted on the horizon, high up on a hill, a small stone cottage. It was perfectly round, shaped as a ring, built of black, solid stone and low to the ground. It had no windows, and just a single door, shaped in an arch—yet with no knocker or handle. Could Argon really live here, in this desolate place? Would he be upset that Thor had come uninvited?

Thor was beginning to have second thoughts, but forced himself to stay on the path. As he approached the door, he felt the energy in the air, so thick he could hardly breathe. His heart beat faster with trepidation as he reached out to knock with his fist.

Before he could touch it, the door opened by itself, a crack. It looked black in there, and Thor could not tell if only the wind had pushed it open. It was so dark, he could not see how anyone could be inside.

Thor reached out, gently pushed open the door, and stuck his head in.

“Hello?” he called out.

He pushed it wider. It was completely dark in here, save for a soft glow on the far side of the dwelling.

“Hello?” he called out, louder. “Argon?”

Beside him, Krohn whined. It seemed obvious to Thor this was a bad idea, that Argon was not at home. But still he forced himself to look. He took two steps in, and as he did, the door slammed closed behind him.

Thor spun, and there, standing at the far wall, was Argon.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Thor said, his heart pounding.

“You come uninvited,” Argon said.

“Forgive me,” Thor said. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Thor looked around as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and saw several small candles, laid out in a circle, around the periphery of the stone wall. The room was lit mostly by a single shaft of light, which came in through a small, circular opening in the ceiling. This place was overwhelming, stark and surreal.

“Few people have been here,” Argon replied. “Of course, you would not be here now unless I allowed you to be. That door only opens for whom it is intended. For whom it is not, it would never open—not with all the strength of the world.”

Thor felt better, and yet he also wondered how Argon had known he was coming. Everything about this man was mysterious to him.

“I had an encounter I did not understand,” Thor said, needing to let it all out, and to hear Argon’s opinion. “There was a snake. A Whiteback. It nearly attacked us. We were saved by my leopard, Krohn.”

“We?” Argon asked.

Thor flushed, realizing he had said too much. He didn’t know what to say.

“I was not alone,” he said.

“And who were you with?”

Thor bit his tongue, not knowing how much to say. After all, this man was close to her father, the King, and perhaps he would tell.

“I don’t see how that is relevant to the snake.”

“It is entirely relevant. Have you not wondered if that is why the snake came to begin with?”

Thor was caught completely off guard.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Not every omen you see is meant for you. Some are meant for others.”

Thor examined Argon in the dim light, starting to understand. Was Gwen fated for something evil? And if so, could he stop it?

“Can you change fate?” Thor asked.

Argon turned, slowly crossing his room.

“Of course, that is the question we have been asking for centuries,” Argon replied. “Can fate be changed? On the one hand, everything is destined, everything is written. On the other hand, we have free will. Our choices also determine our fate. It seems impossible for these two—destiny and free will—to live together, side by side, yet they do. It is where these two intercede—where destiny meets free will—that human behavior comes into play. Destiny can’t always be broken, but sometimes it can be bent, or even changed, by a great sacrifice and a great force of free will. Yet most of the time, destiny is firm. Most of the time, we are just bystanders, put here to watch it play out. We think we play a part in it, but usually we don’t. We are mostly observers, not participants.”

“So then why does the universe bother showing us omens, if there’s nothing we can do about them?” Thor asked.

Argon turned and smiled.

“You are quick, boy, I will give you that. Mostly, we are shown omens to prepare ourselves. We are shown our fate to give us time to prepare. Sometimes, rarely, we are given an omen to enable us to take action, to change what will be. But this is very rare.”

“Is it true that the Whiteback foretells death?”

Argon examined him.

“It is,” he said, finally. “Without fail.”

Thor’s heart pounded at the response, at the confirmation of his fears. He was also surprised by Argon’s straightforward response.

“I encountered one today,” Thor said, “but I don’t know who will die. Or if there is some action I can take to prevent it. I want to put it out of my mind, but I cannot. Always, that image of the snake’s head is with me. Why?”

Argon examined him a very long time, and sighed.

“Because whoever will die, it will affect you directly. It will affect your destiny.”

Thor was increasingly agitated; he felt that every answer bred more questions.

“But that’s not fair,” Thor said. “I need to know who it is that will die. I need to warn them!”

Slowly, Argon shook his head.

“It may not be for you to know,” he answered. “And if you do know, there may still be nothing you can do about it. Death finds its subject—even if someone is warned.”

“Then why was I shown this?” Thor asked, tormented. “And why can’t I get it from my head?”

Argon stepped forward, so close, inches away; the intensity of his eyes burned bright in this dim place, and it frightened Thor. It was like looking into the sun, and it was all he could do not to look away. Argon raised a hand and placed it on Thor’s shoulder. It was ice to the touch and sent a chill through him.

“You are young,” Argon said, slowly. “You are still learning. You feel things too deeply. Seeing the future is a great reward. But it can also be a great curse. Most humans who live out their destiny have no awareness of it. Sometimes the most painful thing is to be aware of your destiny, of what will be. You have not even begun to understand your powers. But you will. One day. Once you understand where you are from.”

“Where I’m from?” Thor asked, confused.

“Your mother’s home. Far from here. Beyond the Canyon, on the outer reaches of the Wilds. There is a castle, high up in the sky. It sits alone on a cliff, and to reach it, you walk along a winding stone road. It is a magical road—like ascending into the sky itself. It is a place of profound power. That is where you hail from. Until you reach that place, you will never fully understand. Once you do, all your questions will be answered.”

Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself, to his amazement, standing outside Argon’s dwelling. He had no idea how he got here.

The wind whipped through the rocky crag, and Thor squinted at the harsh sunlight. Beside him stood Krohn, whining.

Thor went back to Argon’s door and pounded on it with all his might. There came nothing but silence in return.

“Argon!” Thor screamed.

He was answered only by the whistling of the wind.

He tried the door, even putting his shoulder to it—but it would not budge.

Thor waited a long time—he was not sure how long—until finally the day grew late. Finally, he realized that his time here was over.

He turned and began to walk back down the rocky slope, wondering. He felt more confused than ever, and also felt more certain that a death was coming—yet more helpless to stop it.

As he hiked in that desolate place, he began to feel something cold on his ankles and saw a thick fog forming. It rose, growing thicker and rising higher by the moment. Thor did not understand what was happening. Krohn whined.

Thor tried to speed up, to continue his way back down the mountain, but in moments the fog grew so thick, he could barely see before his eyes. At the same time, he felt his limbs grow heavy, and, as if by magic, the sky grew dark. He felt himself growing exhausted. He could not take another step. He curled up in a ball on the ground, right where he stood, enveloped in the thick fog. He tried to open his eyes, to move, but he could not. In moments, he was fast asleep.

*

Thor saw himself standing at the top of a mountain, staring out over the entire kingdom of the Ring. Before him was King’s Court, the castle, the fortifications, the gardens, the trees, and rolling hills as far as he could see—all in the full bloom of summer. The fields were filled with fruits and colored flowers, and there was the sound of music and festivities.

But as Thor turned slowly, surveying everything, the grass began to turn black. Fruits fell off the trees. Then the trees themselves shriveled up to nothing. All the flowers dried up to crisps, and, to his horror, one building after the next crumbled, until the entire kingdom was nothing but desolation, heaps of rubble and stone.

Thor looked down and suddenly saw a huge Whiteback slithering between his feet. He stood there, helpless, as it coiled around his legs, then his waist, then his arms. He felt himself being suffocated, the life squeezed out of him, as the snake coiled all the way around and stared at him in the face, inches away, hissing, its long tongue nearly touching Thor’s cheek. And then it opened its mouth wide, revealing huge fangs, leaned forward, and swallowed Thor’s face.

Thor shrieked, then found himself standing alone inside the King’s castle. It was completely empty, no throne left where one used to be. The Destiny Sword lay on the ground, untouched. The windows were all shattered, stained glass lying in heaps on the stone. He heard distant music, turned toward the sound, and walked through empty room after empty room. Finally he reached huge double doors, a hundred feet tall, and opened them with all his might.

Thor stood at the entrance to the royal feasting hall. Before him two long feasting tables stretched across the room, overflowing with food—yet empty of men. At the far end of the hall was one man. King MacGil. He sat on his throne, staring right at Thor. He seemed so far away.

Thor felt he had to reach him. He began to walk across the great room toward him, between the two feasting tables. As he went, all the food on either side of him went bad, becoming rotten with each step he took, turning black and immediately covered with flies. Flies buzzed and swarmed all around him, tearing apart the food.

Thor walked faster. The King was getting close now, hardly ten feet away, when a servant appeared out of a side chamber carrying a huge, golden goblet of wine. It was a distinctive goblet, made of solid gold and covered in rows of rubies and sapphires. While the King wasn’t looking, Thor saw the servant slip a white powder into the goblet. Thor realized it was poison.

The servant brought it closer, and MacGil reached down and grabbed it with both hands.

“No!” Thor screamed.

Thor lunged forward, trying to knock the wine away from the King.

But he was not fast enough. MacGil drank the wine in big gulps. It poured down his cheeks, down his chest, as he finished it.

MacGil turned and looked at Thor, and his eyes opened wide. He reached up and grabbed his throat until, gagging, he keeled over and fell off his throne; he fell sideways, landing on the hard stone floor. His crown rolled off it, hit the stone floor with a clang, and rolled several feet.

He lay there, motionless, eyes open, dead.

Estopheles swooped down, landed on MacGil’s head. It sat there, looked right at Thor, and screeched. The sound was so shrill, it sent a shiver up Thor’s spine.

“No!” Thor screamed.

*

Thor woke screaming.

He sat up, looking all around, sweating, breathing hard, trying to figure out where he was. He was still lying on the ground, on Argon’s mountain. He must have fallen asleep here. The fog was gone, and as he looked up he saw that it was daybreak. A blood-red sun was breaking over the horizon, lighting up the day. Beside him, Krohn whined, jumped into his lap, and licked his face.

Thor hugged Krohn with one hand as he breathed hard, trying to figure out if he was awake or asleep. It took him a long time to realize it had just been a dream. It had felt so real.

Thor heard a screech and turned to see Estopheles perched on a rock, just a foot away. The large bird looked right at him and screeched, again and again.

The sound sent a chill up Thor’s spine. It was the same screech from his dream, and at that moment he knew, with every ounce of his body, that the dream had been a message.

The King was going to be poisoned.

Thor jumped to his feet and, in the breaking light of dawn, sprinted down the mountain, heading for King’s Court. He had to get to the King. He had to warn him. The King might think he was crazy, but he had no choice—he would do whatever he could to save the King’s life.

*

Thor raced across the drawbridge, sprinting for the castle’s outer gate, and luckily, the two guards recognized him from the Legion. They let him through without stopping, and he continued running, Krohn by his side.

Thor sprinted across the royal courtyard, past the fountains, and ran right to the inner gate of the King’s castle. There stood four guards blocking his way.

Thor stopped, gasping for air.

“What is your purpose, boy?” one of them asked.

“You don’t understand, you have to let me in,” Thor gasped. “I need to see the King.”

The guards looked at each other, skeptical.

“I am Thorgrin, of the King’s Legion. You must let me through.”

“I know who he is,” one guard said to the other. “He’s one of us.”

But the lead guard stepped forward.

“What business have you with the King?” he pressed.

Thor still fought to catch his breath.

“Very urgent business. I must see him at once.”

“Well, he must not be expecting you, because you are ill informed. Our King is not here. He left with his caravan hours ago, on court business. They won’t be returning until tonight, until the royal feast.”

“Feast?” Thor asked, his heart thumping. He remembered his dream, the feasting tables, and eerily felt it all coming to life.

“Yes, feast. If you are of the Legion, I am sure you will be there. But now he is gone, and there is no way you can see him. Come back tonight, with the others.”

“But I must get him a message!” Thor insisted. “Before the feast!”

“You can leave the message with me if you like. But I can’t deliver it any sooner than you.”

Thor did not want to leave such a message with a guard; he realized it would seem crazy. He had to deliver it himself, tonight, before the feast. He only prayed it would not be too late.

Chapter XXVII

THOR HURRIED BACK TO THE Legion’s barracks at the crack of dawn, luckily arriving before the day’s training began. He was winded when he arrived, Krohn at his side, and he ran into the other boys just as they were waking, beginning to file out for the day’s assignments. He stood there, gasping, more troubled than ever. He hardly knew how he would make it through the day’s training; he would be counting down the minutes until the night’s feast, until he could warn the King. He felt certain the omen came to him so that he could deliver the warning. The fate of the kingdom rested on his shoulders.

Thor ran up beside Reece and O’Connor as they made their way out to the field, looking exhausted, and began to line up.

“Where were you last night?” Reece asked.

Thor wished he knew how to respond—but he didn’t really know where he had been himself. What was he supposed to say? That he had fallen asleep outside on the ground, on Argon’s mountain? It made no sense, not even to him.

“I don’t know,” he answered, not knowing how much to tell them.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” O’Connor asked.

“I got lost,” Thor said.

“Lost?”

“Well, you’re lucky you made it back when you did,” Reece said.

“If you had come back late for the day’s assignments, they wouldn’t have let you back into the Legion,” Elden added, coming up beside them, clapping a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you. You were missed yesterday.”

Thor was still shocked at the difference in how Elden treated him since their time on the far side of the Canyon.

“How did things go with my sister?” Reece asked, in a hushed tone.

Thor blushed, unsure how to respond.

“Did you see her?” Reece prodded.

“Yes, I did,” he began. “We had a great time. Although we had to leave abruptly.”

“Well,” Reece continued, as they all lined up side-by-side before Kolk and the King’s men, “you will get to see more of her tonight. Put on your finest. It’s the King’s feast.”

Thor’s stomach dropped. He thought of his dream and felt as if destiny were dancing before his eyes—and that he was helpless, fated to do nothing but just watch it unfold.

“QUIET!” yelled Kolk, as he began to pace before the boys.

Thor stiffened with the others as they all fell silent.

Kolk walked slowly up and down the lines, surveying them all.

“You had your fun yesterday. Now it’s back to training. And today, you will learn the ancient art of ditch-digging.”

A collective groan rose up among the boys.

“SILENCE!” he yelled.

The boys fell quiet.

“Ditch-digging is hard work,” Kolk continued. “But it is important work. You will one day find yourself out there in the wilderness, protecting our kingdom, with no one to help you. It will be freezing, so cold you can’t feel your toes, in the black of night, and you will do anything to keep warm. Or you may find yourself in a battle, in which you need to take cover to save yourself from the enemies’ arrows. There may be a million reasons why you need a ditch. And a ditch may be your best friend.

“Today,” he continued, clearing his throat, “you will spend all day digging, until your hands are red with calluses and your back is breaking, and you can’t take it anymore. Then, on the day of battle, it will not seem as bad.

“FOLLOW ME!” Kolk yelled.

There came another groan of disappointment as the boys broke down into lines of two and began marching across the field, following Kolk.

“Great,” Elden said. “Ditch-digging. Exactly how I wanted to spend the day.”

“Could be worse,” O’Connor said. “It could be raining.”

They looked up at the sky, and Thor spotted threatening clouds overhead.

“It just might,” Reece said. “Don’t jinx it.”

“THOR!” came a shout.

Thor turned to see Kolk glaring at him, off to the side. He ran over to him, wondering what he had done wrong.

“Yes, sire.”

“Your knight has summoned you,” he said curtly. “Report to Erec at the castle grounds. You’re lucky: you’re off duty for today. You will serve your knight instead, as all good squires should. But don’t think you’re getting out of ditch-digging. When you return tomorrow, you will be digging ditches by yourself. Now go!” he yelled.

Thor turned and saw the envious looks of the others, then ran from the field, heading for the castle. What could Erec want from him? Had it something to do with the King?

*

Thor ran through King’s Court, turning down a path he had never gone down before—toward the barracks of the Silver. Their barracks were much grander than those of the Legion’s, their buildings twice the size, lined with copper, and their pathways paved with new stone. To get there, Thor had to pass through a large arched gate where a dozen of the King’s men stood guard. The path then broadened, stretching out across a huge, open field and culminating in a complex of stone buildings encircled by a fence, and guarded by dozens more knights. It was an imposing sight, even from here.

Thor raced down the path, conspicuous in the open field. The knights already prepared for his approach, even though he was so far away, stepping forward and crossing their lances, looking straight ahead, ignoring him as they blocked his path.

“What business have you here?” one of them asked.

“I am reporting for duty,” Thor responded. “I am Erec’s squire.”

The knights exchanged a wary look, but another knight stepped forward and nodded. They stepped back, uncrossed their weapons, and the gate slowly opened, its metal spikes rising, creaking. The gate was immense, at least two feet thick, and Thor thought that this place was even more fortified than even the King’s castle.

“The second building on the right,” the knight yelled. “You’ll find him in the stables.”

Thor turned and hurried down the path through the courtyard, passing a compound of stone buildings, taking it all in. Everything was gleaming here, spotless, perfectly maintained. The whole place exuded an aura of strength.

Thor found the building, and was dazzled by the sight before him: dozens of the biggest and most beautiful horses he’d ever seen were tied up in neat rows outside the building, most of them covered in armor. The horses gleamed. Everything here was bigger, grander.

Real knights trotted by in every direction, carrying various weapons, passing through the courtyard on their way in or out of various gates. It was a busy place, and Thor could feel the presence of battle here. This place was not about training; it was about war. Life and death.

Thor passed through a small, arched entranceway, down a darkened corridor of stone, and hurried past stable after stable, searching for Erec. Thor reached the end of it, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Looking for Erec, are you?” a guard asked.

Thor turned and nodded.

“Yes, sire. I am his squire.”

“You are late. He is already outside, preparing his horse. Move quickly, then.”

Thor ran down the corridor and burst out of the stables into an open field. There was Erec, standing before a giant, valiant stallion, a gleaming black horse with a white nose. The horse snorted as Thor arrived, and Erec turned.

“I am sorry, sire,” Thor said, out of breath. “I came as fast as I could. I did not mean to be late.”

“You are just in time,” Erec said with a gracious smile. “Thor, meet Lannin,” he added, gesturing to the horse.

Lannin snorted and pranced, as if in response. Thor stepped up and reached out a hand and stroked his nose; he whinnied softly in return.

“He is my journey horse. A knight of rank has many horses, as you will learn. There is one for jousting, one for battle, and one for the long, solitary journey. This is the one you forge the closest friendship with. He likes you. That is good.”

Lannin leaned forward and stuck his nose in Thor’s palm. Thor was overwhelmed by the magnificence of this creature. He could see intelligence shining in his eyes. It was eerie; he felt as if the horse understood everything.

But something Erec said threw Thor off.

“Did you say a journey, sire?” he asked, surprised.

Erec stopped tightening the harness, turned and looked at him.

“Today is the day of my birth. I have reached my twenty-fifth year. That is a special day. Do you know about Selection Day?”

Thor shook his head. “Very little, sire; only what others tell me.”

“We knights of the Ring must always continue on, generation after generation,” Erec began. “We have until our twenty-fifth year to choose a bride. If one is not chosen by then, law dictates for us to find one. We are given one year to find her, and to bring her back. If we return without one, then one is given to us by the King, and we forfeit our right to choose.

“So today, I must embark on my journey to find my bride.”

Thor stared back, speechless.

“But sire, you are leaving? For one year?”

Thor’s stomach dropped at the thought of it. He felt his world crumbling around him. It wasn’t until this moment that he realized what a liking he had taken to Erec; in some ways, he had become like a father to him—certainly more of a father than the one he’d had.

“But then who shall I be squire to?” Thor asked. “And where will you go?”

Thor recalled how much Erec had stuck up for him, how he had saved his life. His heart sank at the idea of his leaving.

Erec laughed, a carefree laugh.

“Which question shall I answer first?” he said. “Do not worry. You have been assigned a new knight. You will be squire to him until my return. Kendrick, the King’s eldest son.”

Thor’s heart soared to hear that; he felt an equally strong attachment to Kendrick who, after all, was the first one to look out for him and assure him a spot in the Legion.

“As far as my journey….” Erec continued, “…I do not yet know. I know I will head south, toward the kingdom that I hail from, and search for a bride in that direction. If I do not find one within the Ring, then I may even cross the sea to my own kingdom to search for one there.”

“Your own kingdom, sire?” Thor asked.

Thor realized that he didn’t really know that much about Erec, about where he came from. He had always just assumed he had come from within the Ring.

Erec smiled. “Yes, far from here, across the sea. But that is a tale for another time. It will be a far journey, and a long one, and I must prepare. So help me now. Time is short. Harness my horse, and stock it with all manner of weapons.”

Thor’s head was spinning as he sprang into action, running to the horse armory and retrieving the distinct black and silver armor that belonged to Lannin. He ran back with one piece at a time, first placing the mailcoat on the horse’s back, reaching up to drape it around his huge body. Then Thor added the shaffron, the thin, plated metal for the horse’s head.

Lannin whinnied as he did so, but seemed to like it. He was a noble horse, a warrior, Thor could tell, and he seemed just as comfortable in armor as a knight would.

Thor ran back and retrieved Erec’s golden spurs, and helped attach one to each foot as Erec mounted the horse.

“Which weapons will you need, sire?” Thor asked.

Erec looked down, seeming huge from this perspective.

“It’s hard to anticipate what battles I might encounter throughout a year. But I need to be able to hunt, and to defend myself. So of course, I need my longsword. I also should bring my shortsword, a bow, a quiver of arrows, a short spear, a mace, a dagger, and my shield. I suspect that will do.”

“Yes, sire,” Thor said, and broke into action. He ran to Erec’s weapons rack, beside Lannin’s stable, and looked over the dozens of weapons. There was an impressive arsenal to choose from.

He carefully removed all the weapons Erec specified, bringing them back one at a time and handing them to Erec or placing them securely in the harness.

As Erec sat there tightening his leather gauntlets, preparing to leave, Thor could not stand to watch him go.

“Sire, I feel it is my duty to accompany you on this journey,” Thor said. “I am your squire after all.”

Erec shook his head.

“It is a journey I must take alone.”

“Then may I at least accompany you to the first crossing?” Thor pressed. “If you are heading south, those are roads that I know well. I am from the south.”

Erec looked down, considering.

“If you want to accompany me to the first crossing, I see no harm in that. But it is a hard day’s ride, so we must leave now. Take my squire’s horse, in the rear of the stable. The brown one with the red mane.”

Thor ran back to the stable and found the horse. As he mounted it, Krohn stuck his head out of his shirt and looked up and whined.

“It’s okay, Krohn,” Thor reassured.

Thor leaned forward, goaded the horse, and burst out of the stable. Erec had barely waited for him to catch up when he and Lannin raced off at a gallop. Thor followed Erec as best he could.

They rode together out of King’s Court, through the gate, as several guardsmen pulled it back and stood to the side. Several members of the Silver were lined up, watching, waiting, and as Erec rode by, they raised their fists in salute.

Thor was proud to ride beside him, to be his squire, and excited to accompany him, even if it was only to the first crossing.

There was so much Thor had left to say to Erec, so many things he wanted to ask him—and so much he wanted to thank him for. But there wasn’t time, as the two of them galloped south, bursting across the plains, the terrain constantly changing as their horses charged down the King’s road in the late morning sun. As they passed a hill, in the distance Thor could see all the Legion members in a field, breaking their backs as they dug. Thor was glad he was not among them. As Thor watched, he saw one of them stop and raise a fist in the air toward him. It was hard to see in the sun, but he felt sure it was Reece saluting. Thor raised a fist back as they rode on.

The well-paved roads gave way to untended country roads: narrower, rougher, and eventually hardly more than well-trodden paths cutting through the countryside. Thor knew it was dangerous for common folk to ride these roads alone—especially at night, with all the thieves that lurked on them, but Thor had little worry of this himself, especially with Erec at his side—in fact, if a robber should confront them, Thor feared more for the robber’s life. Of course, it would be crazy for any thief to attempt to stop a member of the Silver.

They rode all day, hardly taking a break, until Thor was exhausted, out of breath. He could hardly believe Erec’s stamina—yet he dared not let Erec know he was tired, for fear of seeming weak.

They passed a major crossroads, and Thor recognized it. He knew that if they bore right, it would bring them to his village. For a moment, Thor felt overwhelmed with nostalgia, and part of him wanted to take the road, to see his father, his village. He wondered what his father was doing right now, who was tending the sheep, how irate his father must have been when Thor had not returned. Not that he cared for him much. He just momentarily missed what was familiar. He was, in fact, relieved he had escaped from that small village, and another part of him wanted to never return.

They continued galloping on, farther and farther south, to territory even Thor had never been to. He had heard of the southern crossing, though he had never had reason to be there himself. It was one of three major crossroads that led to the southern reaches of the Ring. He was a good half day’s ride now from King’s court, and already the sun was getting long in the sky. Thor, sweating, out of breath, was starting to wonder with trepidation if he would make it back in time for the King’s feast tonight. Had he made a mistake to accompany Erec this far?

They rounded a hilltop, and finally Thor saw it, there on the horizon: the unmistakable sign of the first crossing. It was marked by a large, skinny tower, the King’s flag draped from it in all four directions, and members of the Silver standing guard atop its parapets. At the sight of Erec, the knight atop the tower blew his trumpet. Slowly, the gatehouse rose.

They were but a few hundred yards away, and Erec slowed his horse to a walk. Thor had a knot in his stomach as he realized these were his last few minutes with Erec until who knew how long. Who knew, indeed, if he would even return. One year was a long time, and anything could happen. Thor was glad, at least, that he had had this chance to accompany him. He felt as if he had fulfilled his duty.

The two of them walked side-by-side, their horses breathing hard, the men breathing hard, as they approached the tower.

“I may not see you for many moons,” Erec said. “When I return, I will have a bride in tow. Things may change. Though no matter what happens, know that you will always be my squire.”

Erec took a deep breath.

“As I leave you, there are some things I want you to remember. A knight is not forged by strength—but by intelligence. Courage alone does not make a knight, but courage and honor and wisdom together. You must work always to perfect your spirit, your mind. Chivalry is not passive—it is active. You must work on it, better yourself, every moment of every day.

“Over these moons, you will learn all manner of weapons, all manner of skills. But remember: there is another dimension to our fighting. The sorcerer’s dimension. Seek out Argon. Learn to develop your hidden powers. I have sensed them in you. You have great potential. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sire,” Thor answered, welling with gratitude for his wisdom and understanding.

“I chose to take you under my wing for a reason. You are not like the others. You have a greater destiny. Greater, perhaps, even than mine. But it remains unfulfilled. You must not take it for granted. You must work at it. To be a great warrior, you must not only be fearless and skilled. You must also have a warrior’s spirit, and carry that always in your heart and your mind. You must be willing to lay down your life for others. The greatest knight does not quest for riches or honor or fame or glory. The greatest knight takes the hardest quest of all: the quest to make yourself a better person. Every day, you must strive to be better. Not just better than others—but better than yourself. You must quest to take up the cause of those lesser than yourself. You must defend those who cannot defend themselves. It is not a quest for the light-hearted. It is a quest of heroes.”

Thor’s mind spun as he took it all in, pondering Erec’s words carefully. He was overwhelmed with gratitude for him, and hardly knew how to respond. He sensed that it would take many moons for the full message of these words to sink in.

They reached the gate of the first crossing, and as they did, several members of the Silver came out to greet Erec. They rode up to him, big grins on their faces, and as he dismounted they clapped him hard on the back, as old friends.

Thor jumped down, took Lannin’s reins, and led him to the keeper at the gate, to feed and rub him down. Thor stood there as Erec turned and looked at him, one last time.

In their final goodbye, there was too much Thor wanted to say. He wanted to thank him. But he also wanted to tell him everything. Of the omen. Of his dream. Of his fears for the King. He thought maybe Erec would understand.

But he could not bring himself to. Erec was already surrounded by knights, and Thor feared that Erec—and all of them—would think him crazy. So he stood there, tongue-tied, as Erec reached over and clasped his shoulder one last time.

“Protect our King,” Erec said firmly.

The words sent a chill up Thor’s spine, as if Erec had read his mind.

Erec turned, walked through the gate with the other knights, and as they passed through, their backs to him, the metal spikes slowly lowered behind him.

Erec was gone now. Thor felt a pit in his stomach. It could be an entire year until he saw him again.

Thor mounted his horse, grasped the reins, and kicked hard. Afternoon was here and he had a good half day’s ride to make it back for the feast. He felt Erec’s final words reverberating in his head, like a mantra.

Protect our King.

Protect our King.

Chapter XXVIII

THOR RODE HARD IN THE darkness, racing through the final gate of King’s Court, barely slowing his horse as he jumped off it, breathing hard, and handing the reins to an attendant. He had been riding all day, the sun had fallen hours before, and he could see immediately from all the torchlight inside, hear from all the reverie behind the gates, that the King’s feast was in full swing. He kicked himself for being away for as long as he did, and only prayed he was not too late.

He ran to the nearest attendant.

“Is all in order inside?” he asked in a rush. He had to find out whether the King was okay—though of course he couldn’t directly ask if he had been poisoned.

The attendant looked at him, baffled.

“And why shouldn’t it be? All is in order, except that you are late. Members of the King’s Legion should always be on time. And your clothes are filthy. You reflect poorly on your peers. Wash your hands, and hurry inside.”

Thor rushed through the gate, sweating, put his hands in a small stone laver filled with water, splashed it on his face, and ran it through his longish hair. He had been in constant motion since early in the morning, he was covered in dust from the road, and it felt as if it had been ten days in one. He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself and seem orderly, and strode quickly down corridor after corridor, toward the vast doors of the feasting hall.

As he stepped inside, through the huge arched doors, it was just like his dream: before him were the two feasting tables, at least a hundred feet long, at the far end of which sat the King at the head of his own table, surrounded by men. The noise struck Thor like a living thing, the hall absolutely packed with people. There were not only the King’s men, members of the Silver and of the Legion seated at the feasting tables, but also hundreds of others, bands of traveling musicians, groups of dancers, of jesters, dozens of women from the brothels…. There were also all manners of servants, of guards, dogs running about. It was a madhouse.

Men drank from huge goblets of wine and beer, and many of them stood, singing drinking songs, arms about each other, clinking casks. There were heaps of food laid out on the tables, with boar and deer and all sorts of other game roasting on spits before the fireplace. Half the room gorged themselves, while the other half mingled about the room. Looking at the chaos in the room, seeing how drunk the men were, Thor realized that if he’d arrived earlier, when it began, it would have been more orderly. Now, at this late hour, it seemed to have evolved into more of a drunken bash.

Thor’s first reaction, aside from being overwhelmed, was deep relief to see that the King was alive. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was okay. He wondered again if that omen meant nothing, if his dream meant nothing, if he was just overreacting to fancies, making something bigger in his head than it should be. But still, he just could not shake the feeling. He still felt a pressing urgency to reach the King, to warn him.

Protect our King.

Thor pushed his way into the thick crowd, trying to make it the long way toward the King. It was slow going. The men were drunk and rowdy, packed shoulder to shoulder, and MacGil sat hundreds of feet away.

Thor managed to get about halfway through the crowd when he stopped, suddenly spotting Gwendolyn. She sat at one of the small tables, off to the side of the hall, surrounded by her handmaids. She looked glum, which seemed unlike her. Her food and drink were untouched, and she sat off to the side, separated from the other members of the royal family. Thor wondered what could be wrong.

Thor broke from the crowd and hurried over to her.

She looked up and saw him coming, but instead of smiling, as she always did, her face darkened. For the first time, Thor saw anger in her eyes.

Gwen slid her chair, got up, turned her back, and began to march away.

Thor felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. He could not understand her reaction. Had he done something wrong?

He raced around the table, hurrying over to her, and grabbed her wrist gently.

She surprised him by throwing it off roughly, turning and scowling at him.

“Don’t you touch me!” she screamed.

Thor took a step back, shocked at her reaction. Was this the same Gwendolyn he knew?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant you no harm. And no disrespect. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I have no words left for you,” she seethed, her eyes aglow with fury.

Thor could hardly breathe; he had no idea what he had done wrong.

“My lady, please tell me, what have I done to offend you? Whatever it is, I apologize.”

“What you have done is beyond remedy. No apology will suffice. It is who you are.”

She started to walk away again, and a part of Thor thought he should let her be; but another part of him couldn’t stand to just walk away, not after what they’d had. He had to know—he had to know the reason why she hated him so much.

Thor ran in front of her, blocking her way. He could not let her go. Not like this.

“Gwendolyn, please. Just please give me one chance to at least know what it is that I have done. Please, just give me this.”

She stared back, seething, hands on her hips.

“I think you know. I think you know very well.”

“I do not,” Thor stated earnestly.

She stared, as if summing him up, and finally, seemed to believe him.

“The night before you saw me, I am told that you visited the brothels. That you had your way with many women. And you delighted in them all night long. Then, as the sun broke, you came to me. Does that remind you? I’m disgusted by your behavior. Disgusted that I ever met you, that you ever touched me. I hope I shall never see your face again. You’ve made a fool of me—and no one makes a fool of me!”

“My lady!” Thor yelled out, trying to stop her, wanting to explain. “It isn’t true!”

But a band of musicians got between them, and she darted off, slipping through the crowd so fast that he could not find her. Within moments, he completely lost trace of her.

Thor was burning inside. He could not believe that someone had gotten to her, had told her these lies about him, had turned her against him. He wondered who was behind it. It hardly mattered; his chances with her were now ruined. He was dying inside.

Thor turned and began to stagger through the room, remembering the King, feeling hollowed out, as if he had nothing left to live for.

Before he’d gone a few feet, Alton suddenly appeared, blocked his way, and sneered down with a satisfied smile. He wore silk leggings, a velvet blazer, and a feathered hat. He looked down at Thor, with his long nose and chin, and with the utmost arrogance and self-pride.

“Well, well,” he said. “If it’s not the commoner. Have you found your bride-to-be here yet? Of course you have not. I think rumors have spread already far and wide of your exploits in the brothel.” He smiled and leaned in close, revealing small, yellow teeth. “In fact, I’m sure they have.

“You know what they say: if there’s a glimmer of truth, it helps spark a rumor. I found that glimmer. And now your reputation is ruined, boy.”

Thor, seething with rage, could take it no longer. He charged and punched Alton in the gut, making him keel over.

Moments later, bodies were on him, fellow Legion members, soldiers, getting in their way, pulling them apart.

“You have overstepped your bounds, boy!” Alton yelled out, pointing at him over the bodies. “No one touches a royal! You will hang in the stocks for the rest of your life! I will have you arrested! Be sure of it! At first light I will have them come for you!” Alton yelled, and turned and stormed away.

Thor couldn’t care less about Alton, or his guards. He thought only of the King. He brushed the Legion members off and turned back for MacGil. He shoved people out of the way as he hurried for the King’s table. His mind was swimming with emotions, and he could hardly believe this turn of events. Here he was, just as his reputation was rising, only to have it ruined by some malignant snake, to have his love cheated away from him. And now, tomorrow, the threat of being imprisoned. And with the Queen aligned against him, he feared that just maybe he would be.

But Thor didn’t care about any of that now. All he cared about was protecting the King.

He pushed harder as he weaved his way through the crowd, bumping into a jester, walking right through his act, and finally, after pushing through three more attendants, making it to the King’s table.

MacGil sat in the center of the table, a huge skin of wine in one hand, his cheeks red, laughing at the entertainment. He was surrounded by all his top generals, and Thor stood before them, pushing his way right up to the bench, until finally, the King noticed him.

“My liege,” Thor yelled out, hearing the desperation in his own voice. “I must speak with you! Please!”

A guard came to pull Thor away, but the King raised a palm.

“Thorgrin!” MacGil bellowed in his deep, kingly voice, drunk with wine. “My boy. Why have you approached our table? The Legion’s table is there.”

Thor bowed low.

“My King, I am sorry. But I must speak with you.”

A musician clanged a cymbal in Thor’s ear, and finally, MacGil gestured for him to stop.

The music quieted, and all the generals turned and looked at Thor. Thor could feel all the attention on him.

“Well, young Thorgrin, now you have the floor. Speak. What is it that cannot wait till tomorrow?” MacGil said.

“My liege,” Thor began, but then stopped. What could he say exactly? That he had a dream? That he saw an omen? That he felt the King would be poisoned? Would it sound absurd?

But he had no choice. He had to press on.

“My liege, I had a dream,” he began. “It was about you. In this feasting hall, in this place. The dream was…that you should not drink.”

The King leaned forward, eyes opened wide.

“That I should not drink?” he repeated, slowly and loudly.

Then, after a moment of stunned silence, MacGil leaned back and roared with laughter, shaking the whole table.

“That I should not drink!” MacGil repeated. “What a dream is this! I should call it a nightmare!”

The King leaned back and bellowed, and all his men joined in. Thor reddened, but he could not back down.

MacGil gestured, and a guard stepped forward and grabbed Thor and began to take him away—but Thor roughly yanked the guard off of him. He was determined. He had to give the King this message.

Protect our King.

“My King, I demand that you listen!” Thor screamed, red-faced, pressing forward and banging the table with his fist.

It shook the table, and all the men’s turned and stared at Thor.

There was a stunned silence, as the King’s face dropped into a scowl.

“YOU demand?” MacGil yelled. “You demand nothing of me, boy!” he screamed, his anger rising.

The table quieted even more, and Thor felt his cheeks redden in humiliation.

“My King, forgive me. I mean no disrespect. But I am concerned for your safety. Please. Do not drink. I dreamt you were poisoned! Please. I care very much about you. That is the only reason for my saying so.”

Slowly, MacGil’s scowl lifted. He stared deeply into Thor’s eyes and took a deep breath.

“Yes, I can see that you do care. Even if you are foolish boy. I forgive you your disrespect. Go on now. And don’t let me see your face again until the morning.”

He gestured to his guards, and they yanked Thor away, strongly this time. The table slowly resumed its merriment as they all went back to drinking.

Thor, dragged several feet away, burned with indignation. He feared for what he had done here tonight, and had a sinking feeling that tomorrow he would pay the price. Maybe even be asked to leave this place. Forever.

As the guards gave him one last shove, Thor found himself at the Legion’s table, maybe twenty feet away from the King. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun to see Reece standing there.

“I’ve been searching for you all day. What happened to you?” Reece asked. “You look as if you have seen a ghost!”

Thor was too overwhelmed to respond.

“Come sit with me—I saved you a seat,” Reece said.

Reece pulled Thor down beside him, at a table set aside for the King’s family. Godfrey had a drink in each hand, and beside him sat Gareth, watching with shifting eyes. Thor hoped beyond hope that Gwendolyn might be there, too, but she was not.

“What is it, Thor?” Reece prodded, as he sat down beside him. “You stare at this table as if it will bite you.”

Thor shook his head.

“If I told you, you would not believe me. So best I just keep my mouth shut.”

“Tell me. You can tell me anything,” Reece urged with intensity.

Thor saw the look in his eyes, and realized that, finally, someone was taking him seriously. He took a deep breath and began. He had nothing to lose.

“The other day, in the forest, with your sister, we saw a Whiteback snake. She said it was an omen of death, and I believe it is. I went to Argon and he confirmed that a death is coming. Shortly after, I had a dream that your father would be poisoned. Here. Tonight. In this hall. I know it in my bones. He will be. Someone is trying to assassinate him,” Thor said.

He said it all in a rush, and it felt good to get it off his chest. It felt good to have someone actually listen.

Reece was quiet as he stared back into his eyes for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

“You seem genuine. I have no doubt. And I appreciate your caring for my father. I believe you. I do. But dreams are tricky things. Not always what we think.”

“I told the King,” Thor said. “And they laughed at me. Of course, he will drink tonight.”

“Thor, I believe you dreamt this. And I believe you feel this. But I’ve had terrible dreams, too, my entire life. The other night, I dreamt I was pushed out of the castle, and I woke feeling that I was. But I was not. Do you understand? Dreams are strange things. And Argon speaks in riddles. You must not take it all so seriously. My father is fine. I am fine. We’re all fine. Try to just sit back and drink and relax. And enjoy.”

With that, Reece leaned back in his chair, covered in furs, and drank. He gestured to a servant, who put a huge portion of venison before Thor, along with a drinking goblet.

But Thor just sat there, staring at his food. He felt his whole life dissolving around him. He didn’t know what to do.

He could still think of nothing but his dream. It was like being in a waking nightmare, sitting there, watching everyone drink and feast around him. All he could do was watch all the drinks, all the goblets, heading for the King. He watched closely every server, every goblet of wine. Every time the King drank, Thor flinched.

Thor was obsessed. He could not look away. He watched and watched for what felt like hours.

Finally, Thor spotted one particular servant who approached the King with a goblet unlike the others. It was large, made of very distinct gold, covered in rows of rubies and sapphires.

It was the exact goblet from Thor’s dream.

Thor, his heart pounding in his chest, watched with horror as the servant came closer to the King. When he was just feet away, Thor could stand it no longer. Every ounce of his body screamed this was the poisoned goblet.

Thor leapt from his table, shoved his way through the thick crowd, roughly elbowing everyone in his way.

Just as the King took the goblet into his hands, Thor leapt up onto his table, reached out, and slapped the goblet from the King’s hands.

A horrified gasp filled the entire hall as the goblet flew threw the air and landed on the stone with a hard clink.

The entire hall went dead silent. Every musician, every juggler, stopped. Hundreds of men and women all turned and stared.

The King slowly stood and glowered down at Thor.

“How dare you!” shrieked the King. “You insolent little boy! I will put you in the stocks for this!”

Thor stood there, horrified. He felt the entire world crashing down on him. He just wanted to disappear.

Suddenly, a hound walked over to the puddle of wine now forming on the floor, and lapped it up. Before Thor could respond, before the room could move again, all eyes went to the hound, who started making awful, horrible noises.

A moment later, the hound froze up and fell on its side, dead. The entire room looked at the dog with a horrified gasp.

“You knew the drink was poison!” yelled a voice.

Thor turned and saw the Prince Gareth standing there, coming up beside the King, pointing accusingly at Thor.

“How could you have possibly have known it was poisoned? Unless you are the one who did it! Thor tried to poison the King!” Gareth yelled out.

The entire crowd cheered in outrage.

“Take him to the dungeon,” the King commanded.

A moment later, Thor felt guards grabbing him hard from behind, dragging him through the hall. He squirmed, and tried to protest.

“No!” he screamed out. “You don’t understand!”

But no one listened. He was dragged through the crowd, fast and quick, and as he went, he watched them all disappear from him, his whole life disappear from him. They crossed the hall and out a side door, the door slamming shut behind them.

It was quiet here. A moment later, Thor felt himself descending. He was being pulled by several hands down a winding stone staircase. It grew darker and darker, and soon he could hear the cries of prisoners.

An iron cell door opened, and he realized where he was being taken. The dungeon.

He squirmed, trying to protest, to break free.

“You don’t understand!” he yelled.

Thor looked up and saw a guard step forward, a large, crude man with an unshaven face and yellow teeth.

He scowled down at Thor.

“Oh, I understand very well,” came his raspy voice.

He pulled back his arm, and the last thing Thor saw was his fist, coming down right for his face.

Then his world was blackness.

The Story Continues In… A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

Afterword

MORGAN RICE IS THE #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER’S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS. Morgan’s books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Other Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

THE SORCERER’S RING
A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)
A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)
A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)
A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)
A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)
A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)
A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)
A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)
AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)
A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)
THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY
ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)
ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)
BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)
BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)
CRAVED (Book #10)
FATED (Book #11)

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WHILL OF AGORA

Michael J. Ploof

Chapter I

The Travelers

THE FULL MOON LINGERED LIKE a magnificent pearl in an ocean of black. Fresh snow gave a faint crunch as the riders’ horses made their way down the old road. Cold, tired, and hungry, Whill and Abram rode silently toward Fendale.

Usually they would make camp with the setting of the sun, but not tonight. The storm they had encountered the previous two days had set them back many hours.

“We should still be in time for the Winter’s End Celebration,” Whill said.

“As long as we do not wander into another of those damned storms, we should be plenty early,” answered Abram as he scoured the woods. Something was on his mind, but Whill did not bother wondering what; he had thoughts of his own, like the feast they would enjoy the next night, and the music. The Winter’s End Celebration of Fendale was always a great treat. It had been going on as long as anyone could remember. People came from all surrounding towns and villages to take part. Abram had brought Whill when he was only eleven years old, and Whill had marveled at all the dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and animal tamers that had performed. The knights of Eldalon had put on a mock battle, and Whill sat in awe for hours watching them dual and joust. He had read their history in the books Abram had given him as a young child. To see them in person had been a surreal experience. The celebration had lasted all day and long into the night. The food had been fit for kings, and the children had received candy. Whill, now nineteen years old, was no less excited than he had been when he was eleven.

“Do you think that King Mathus will attend this year?” wondered Whill. Abram did not reply. He lifted his hand, motioning Whill to stop. Whill gently slowed his horse and was about to ask what was wrong when Abram put a finger to his lips.

Whill surveyed the surrounding forest, but saw only the silhouettes of trees and the darkness beyond. Pine branches bent under the weight of the snow, as did the birches, which in some spots bowed down almost to the road. It was a world of white and black, shadows and moonlights. Minutes passed, but still, Whill neither saw nor heard anything. He looked over at Abram, who sat like a statue upon his steed. Something indeed was wrong. Abram was not suffering from his usual excess of paranoia; it was too quiet. Lost in his thoughts of Fendale, Whill had not noticed until now. In an almost inaudible whisper, Abram told him to ready his bow. He did so as silently as he could, with a sudden and intense feeling that someone was watching, waiting. He resisted the urge to turn and look, and sat as still as he could— bow in hand, his arrow ready. Abram had also readied his bow, and with a quick dart of his eyes, indicated a part of the woods in front and to the left of them. Whill peered at the spot and, at first, saw nothing; then he spotted sudden movement beyond the trees. It was a strange black shape, quick and silent, darting from behind one tree to hide behind another. It moved like a shadow, and Whill would have mistaken it for one if not for the moonlight reflected in its eyes. Whill’s horse gave a whine and began to stir, now alert to some danger. With a jerk Abram turned to scowl at the scared beast, and as he did the forest erupted with movement.

Abram hollered, “Ride, boy, ride!”

His heart hammering in his ears, Whill kicked the flanks of the horse, which was eager to comply. As it began to speed into a full gallop, Whill saw five black wolves dart out of the woods in front of them with alarming speed. Without looking he knew that more raced at them from behind. Before he could think he let loose an arrow at the closest wolf. With a cry the beast went headfirst into the snow, the arrow protruding from its neck. Even before the blood could flow, Whill had pulled another arrow, and Abram took down another of the approaching pack.

Instead of scaring the remaining beasts, the fall of the two wolves only seemed to infuriate them. Baring teeth, they charged ever faster toward the riders. In unison Whill and Abram let loose their arrows and dropped the two closest wolves. Whill reached for another arrow to take down the last wolf when suddenly two more jumped at Abram’s horse. Teeth snapping, they bit fiercely at its legs. A terrible cry issued from the horse as yet another wolf attacked; distracted by the others, they had not seen it coming. The wolf jumped, its jaws snapping at the face of Whill’s horse. He struggled to stay mounted and lost hold of his bow as the horse reared, almost throwing him to the ground. Alert to his trouble, Abram shot the wolf in the side as it rebounded and prepared to lunge once more. Whill was now facing the right side of Abram’s horse, whose legs were being ripped apart by the other three attacking wolves. It jumped and kicked as it tried to throw off the beasts, but they were too many. Whill drew his sword, ready to charge, when another wolf attacked his own horse from behind. He turned to see it clawing its way up his horse’s back and, with a swift blow, chopped its head clean off. He turned and, to his horror, saw Abram’s horse go down under the relentless attack. Immediately, the three wolves lunged on top of him. Jumping from his horse, Whill could not see his friend— only thick black coats of matted fur, thrashing and jerking where he had been.

With a cry, Whill attacked with his sword, and in a frenzy of slashing metal, blood, and flying fur, he quickly killed the beasts. In his fury, he barely heard a low growl behind him. He turned to see a nightmarish sight— six more wolves less than ten feet away. They stood, hair raised, teeth bared, ready to attack, and uttered low, menacing growls; all except the largest, which barked ravenously at him. Whill knew why they hadn’t yet attacked. They were afraid.

Not knowing if Abram was alive or dead, Whill was not afraid but angry. Rage welled in him and erupted into a primal scream. The wolves tensed and backed a step. “Come on!” he screamed, challenging the wolves. “Come on!”

The wolves backed up further, confused. They looked at each other, then at Whill, and then again at one another. Then the leader answered Whill’s challenge and charged straight at him. Drool falling from his open mouth, he lunged for Whill’s neck. The young traveler dropped to his knees and, as the wolf passed over him, gutted the beast from neck to tail—it landed in a dead heap. Another charged, and Whill impaled the beast with a sickening crunch. Heaving the limp wolf to the side he ran at the remaining four, eyes wild and his own growl now echoing through the forest.

With their leader dead, the wolves quickly retreated in the presence of this fearless foe. Whill ran after them, actually wishing they would fight. He was so enraged, he had forgotten about Abram.

As the wolves ran for the forest, Whill returned to his fallen friend. Abram was pinned under the great weight of his dying horse and three dead wolves. Whill heaved the beasts off and was devastated by what he saw. Blood covered every inch of Abram’s face. He knelt next to his injured friend, tears in his eyes, and began to wipe the blood away. Abram moaned and opened his eyes. Then, to Whill’s surprise, he smiled. “I thought we were in trouble there for a minute,” he said.

“Are you all right?”

“Knock it off,” Abram grumbled, swatting his hand away. “I’m hurt but I’m not dying. The blood is mostly from the wolves. Now help me get out from under this poor horse.”

Whill heaved the saddle in an attempt to lift the horse and free Abram’s leg, but to no avail.

“Don’t bother. My leg isn’t broken. Just help me pull it free before those damned wolves get their courage back.”

Whill pulled on Abram’s leg above the knee and, with many grunts and curses from his injured comrade, it came free.

He now saw the wounds on Abram’s arms; shreds of fabric hung from his sleeves, his hands were scratched and bloody, and large puncture wounds covered him where he had tried to fend off the beasts. Whill was amazed that Abram’s leg had not broken, but he guessed it was on account of the soft snow. He took some clothes from his bags—to use as bandages—and a bottle of redclove.

“You did well,” said Abram as Whill began tearing the cloth into strips.

“Not well enough. You’re a bloody mess, and the horse is dead.”

“Stop being negative. It doesn’t become you.” Abram returned the smile. “You killed many wolves and haven’t a scratch. That’s quite a feat for any man.”

Whill began applying the redclove to Abram’s wounds. A quick hiss escaped him as the liquid touched his torn flesh. Redclove worked well on such wounds but burned like a hot brand.

“Besides, we still have your horse,” said Abram through clenched teeth. “She can carry us both, and we can get a good bit of money for those wolf hides.”

Whill marveled at the way Abram could always find good in anything. He thought of the time their boat had sunk in the ocean. With no land in sight and their cargo lost, Abram had said, “Well, at least we still have our arms to swim to shore.” Whill had almost drowned laughing. Now he could only smile and thank the gods that Abram was with him; to lose him would be to lose his whole world.

Abram had taken care of Whill since he was a baby. His earliest memories were of living in Sidnell, a small town on the eastern edge of Shierdon. Abram had entrusted him to his sister for most of his childhood. Whill called her Aunt Teera, and she was a stout woman with an even bigger heart. She was the healer of Sidnell, and he had lived comfortably with her and her three daughters until he was eleven.

Abram stayed with them often but was usually gone for months at a time. Whill would beg him to stay, but Abram would tell him he had to go, and that one day he would understand. Before leaving, Abram always gave Teera a list of things he wanted Whill to learn in his absence. In this way, he learned the medicinal and culinary uses of every herb and plant in the known lands.

When Abram was home he taught Whill a great many things. He learned to speak Elvish and Dwarvish, though he had never met anyone of either race. He also learned a great deal of the history of the kingdoms of Agora, and also about its peoples and geography. He learned sewing, cooking, tying a variety of knots, and countless other skills. He never complained but mastered all that was set before him—out of sheer love of learning and his own pleasure in making Abram proud.

Whill knew that Abram was not his father, for he had told him so when Whill was old enough to understand. When he asked who his parents were, Abram had only said, “I will tell you when you are ready, and I will judge when that time is. I know that it is the one answer you seek to know most, but you must trust me; some things in this world must not be known until the time is right. Bear no hard feelings for me because of this. I only do it to protect you.”

Whill had wondered about his true lineage since that day but never asked again, knowing Abram would not tell. Still, the question burned in him every day of his waking life. Perhaps it was this burden that led him to apply himself so strongly to learn all else that he did not know.

Eventually the day came when Abram said he was leaving again, but that this time Whill would go with him. On that warm June night, Abram took him to the seashore and said, “You have been very patient, and you are an excellent student. There is nothing more for you to learn from my books, and Teera has taught you much that I cannot. You are nearing manhood now, and I must now teach you how a man protects himself with the fist and blade, and how to live in the wild and on your own.”

From that day on Whill had been at Abram’s side as they traveled from one end of Agora to the other and back again. They sailed the seas together and braved the mountains, and always Whill was eager to learn more. Every day they sparred and practiced with fists and weapons. Abram had taught him to hunt, use a bow, throw a spear, use an axe, and wield a knife. Eventually Whill’s skill surpassed his own.

Now, sewing Abram’s larger gashes with needle and thread on this cold March night, that June day on the shore seemed like decades ago. Whill had become wise beyond his years and stronger than most his age. When he had finished suturing, he looked at his work. “They should heal with little scarring,” he said, and began to bandage Abram’s arms.

“You are one of the most skilled healers I know. I’m sure they will heal fine.” Abram grimaced as he put on an extra shirt and coat. “I will remove what supplies I can from my horse and make a fire while you skin all those hell-born wolves. I would help, but I don’t want to ruin your stitch work with too much movement.”

Whill collected the carcasses and went to work while Abram gathered his supplies and searched for wood dry enough to burn; with flint and dried moss from one of his bags, he managed a small fire. Whill worked tirelessly for hours until the first morning light appeared in the sky. When the last hide was finished, he washed his knife and arms with snow Abram had melted. After a breakfast of dried meat and cheese, they set out once again toward Fendale.

With two riders, the extra supplies, and ten wolf hides to carry, the horse’s pace was slow. “We are about twenty miles from Fendale,” Abram said. “At this pace we will be there in about seven hours, including a couple of breaks for our poor horse.”

“It will be nice to lie on a bed and eat warm food after that night.”

“Indeed it will.”

Chapter II

Fendale

THE SUN HUNG LOW IN the east, an orb of orange bringing warmth to the world below. The land was alive with the sounds of the wild. Birds flew from tree to tree singing their songs of joy, and squirrels scurried here and there, cheeks bulging with winter’s rare treasures. It was a landscape of pure white with a sky of clear blue, a pleasant change from the endless grey that had plagued the previous two days of travel. The storm they had encountered had not been typical for this time of year. Already it had begun to warm considerably, and in a few days the snow would melt and be gone.

“It will be a good night for the celebration,” Whill noted.

“That it will,” Abram agreed. “We should reach Fendale by noon and have plenty of time to rest, though I won’t be in any shape to dance. Shame, really. This celebration brings some of the finest ladies this side of the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

“You old dog. If you have half your usual charm they’ll be flocking regardless. Just don’t get us into the kind of trouble we had in Brindon. Steer clear of blacksmiths’ wives and we’ll be just fine.” Whill chuckled at the memory of it.

Abram laughed and started to make a rebuttal but could think of none.

“I’m surprised that after almost getting your arms ripped to bits, all you can think of is women and dancing.”

Abram smiled. “Life goes on. Those who dwell in the past have no future, as my father used to say. Besides, it could have been much worse.”

Whill looked forward to staying in the city. When not in the wild they stayed briefly in small, out-of-the-way towns throughout Agora. They had no true home, and swore allegiance to no one but each other. Abram kept them constantly on the move, never making themselves known in any place for too long. Life with Abram had the feeling of running away from something or someone. But Whill fancied his life of adventure and never questioned Abram’s motives. He knew that Abram hated the Uthen-Arden empire, for he regularly spoke of King Addakon of Arden with a mean tongue. King Addakon had come to rule after the death of his brother Aramonis not twenty years before. Within that year, the Ebony Mountains had been invaded by Draggard and thousands of dwarves slaughtered. There had been many battles between the peoples of Agora and the Draggard. Abram said that a great war was coming, that Addakon would see to it. He suspected that Addakon would move to conquer all of Agora and make it one kingdom under himself. Already there was strife between the kingdoms. It was for these reasons that Whill and Abram seldom traveled within the realm of Uthen-Arden. If they were to travel to Shierdon or Isladon, it would be by water rather than land.

They rode on; the hours passed. The rising sun brought small but welcome warmth to the world. Stopping only twice for the sake of the horse, and for only a few minutes, they made good time. Soon Fendale was in sight, as was the coast.

“There it is,” said Abram with a smile. “The great coast city of Fendale.”

Whill had not laid eyes on the city in eight years, but he remembered it well. Now he looked upon it with the same awe he had as a child. Fendale sat upon the northern coast of Eldalon, and a large stone wall, thirty feet high, surrounded its entire border. At Fendale’s center stood a great lighthouse seven stories high, the oldest standing building in Fendale. The lighthouse, called by the people “the Light of the West,” was also home to Rogus, Lord of Fendale. The thriving coast city was a main source of trade for most of Agora. Its wealth was very evident in its beauty. The exterior wall boasted ten magnificently crafted mermaid statues, each more than fifty feet high. They lay with fins curled, long flowing hair falling over their breasts, watching guard over the city. Four looked west to the sea, and two each to the north, east, and south. Within the eyes of all sat a guard, and so the statues were called the Eyes of Fendale.

The wall itself was as smooth as marble, with an arched overhang making it inaccessible to ladders. The main gate stood thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, made of oak five feet thick and covered in iron.

The rear of the city was built on a cliff in such a way that the wall actually hung over the ocean. A large cave under the city acted as its harbor, with four points of entry capable of admitting the largest vessel. Each entry point had a massive iron gate that could be closed in seconds, effectively making the harbor inaccessible. Aside from being a port city, Fendale was also Eldalon’s main naval base able to house more than one hundred warships.

As they approached the main gate, which stood open, Whill marveled at the mermaid statues that loomed overhead. Already he could hear the crowd within. A soft buzz of activity emanated from the city.

“This will be a night to remember,” he said with a grin.

Abram nodded. “But do not forget, these are times of war, and a pair such as we may look slightly suspicious. Most outsiders coming to the celebration have done so in great numbers. It is not often men travel alone these days, so act naturally.”

Whill laughed nervously. “I was acting naturally until that bit of advice, thank you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking.” He slapped Whill on the back.

Upon reaching the gate, four guards on horseback approached Whill and Abram. They were fully armored, with swords at their sides and shields in hand.

“What is your business?” asked the guard closest to them.

“The celebration, of course,” answered Abram with a smile. “We also hope to sell these here hides.”

The guard looked suspicious. “Not much of a cargo for traders.”

“We are not traders, so to speak; we were actually attacked by these rascals last night. Luckily we escaped with our lives, though my horse was not so fortunate.”

The guard looked them over closely. “You must be great fighters to take down so many wolves without harm to yourselves,” he said in a skeptical tone.

Whill had the urge to ask if they would like to find out, but held his tongue. Abram gave a small laugh. “Oh, they drew blood, friend, but not enough. Great fighters we are not, but a man must know how to defend himself these days. We are simple men who only wish to enjoy your great city. That is all.”

Not looking completely satisfied, the guard, nevertheless, said, “Go ahead.”

Abram nodded. “Good day.”

Upon entering the city, Whill saw more people than he had ever seen at once. The city was alive with the excitement of the celebration. Crowds filled every street. Already there were booths set up and people digging in their pockets to buy a trinket or treasure. Many women gazed longingly at fine silk and jewelry. Men tested the weight of a blade or looked over various tools. Children ran wild, candies in hand, chasing each other with gleeful laughter.

The city was shaped in a half circle with the wall spanning its entirety. It consisted of mostly stone buildings, with the exception of a few wooden houses here and there. Twenty streets arched throughout the city. One main street ran the length of it from gate to ocean wall, effectively splitting the city into two parts.

“Follow the main road for a while, then turn left onto Third Street. I know of a good place to find drink and lodging,” said Abram. Soon they came to a beautiful, two-story stone building with finely carved windows.

Abram told Whill to stop and dismounted with a groan. A boy of about ten with shoulder-length blond hair ran up to them. “Welcome to Ocean Mist. Will you be needing a room tonight?”

“In fact we will, young lad. What is the price?”

The boy lit up. “You’re in luck, we have a few rooms left for only ten coins a night.”

Abram scowled. “Hmm. That is a little steep, is it not?”

The boy gestured toward the crowd. “Well, you can look around if you want, but you’ll not find better quality for your money, and when you return you’re sure to find us booked.”

“A born businessman, eh? What is your name, lad?”

The boy gave a slight bow. “I am Tarren. My father is the innkeeper.”

“Well, Tarren, see to it that our horse finds a stable and our belongings are not touched, and there will be more of these for you.” He tossed him a coin.

The boy looked at the silver with glee. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir, I will, sir!” He led the horse to the stables.

Whill followed Abram inside. The main room was a large tavern with a bar extending the length of the back wall. A staircase wound its way up and over the bar on both sides of the room, leading to the living quarters. They went to the bar and sat down. After guzzling two tall beers, they banged the cups together and said, “Lelemendela”—in Elvish, “to life.”

Whill wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s been a while since we could do that.”

“Too long.”

After two more beers, hot stew, and fresh bread, they were feeling the effects of their long night. The bartender gave them keys to their room and accepted a fine tip. They made their way upstairs and were pleased to find a full water basin, fresh bedding on both beds, and a good view of the city.

“It’s about one o’clock now,” Whill said. “We should be able to take a good nap and be ready for tonight.” But Abram was already snoring softly. Whill laughed aloud and plopped down on his own bed. Soon he was asleep, dreaming of fair maidens and fine music.

Chapter III

Winter’s End Celebration

WHILL WOKE WITH A START. He looked around, bewildered, trying to figure out where he was.

“Dreaming of wolves, are we?” Abram asked, chewing a green apple.

“No, I don’t think so. What time is it?”

“About seven. Don’t worry, the real party hasn’t started yet.”

Whill got up and washed himself, the basin water cool on his skin. When he had finished, Abram handed him a new set of clothes. “I sold the wolf hides while you were sleeping. We got fifteen coins each. Not too bad, eh?” He looked out the window at the busy street.

“One hundred fifty coins for ’em, that’s damn good.” Whill grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl that sat on a small table. It was delicious. Moving to sit at one of the chairs, he started tying his boots with the apple in his mouth.

“I also entered you into a sword-fighting contest,” Abram said with a mischievous smile.

“Eyu ut!” He spat out the apple and said again, “You what!”

“Lord Rogus has put up a challenge for tonight: whoever can beat one of his best knights with a blade wins his own weight in gold.”

“And you think I have a chance?”

“Yes. Besides, I have already made a side bet of one hundred coins in your favor.”

Whill was speechless. He had only ever fought Abram and the occasional troublemaker. He knew he was good—but to beat a knight?

“You underestimate yourself, my friend. You surpassed my own skill years ago. I know no better contender.”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry yourself, the competition is a while off. Now let us eat.”

They made their way down the stairs and out of Ocean Mist. The city was abuzz, and as the sun set, lights were being lit all over. Green, blue, red, orange, purple, and yellow lanterns hung from every building and were stretched across every street. Children now wielded sparkle-sticks and pop-balls as they ran the streets, leaving loud bangs and crackles in their wake. Abram gave a teenage kid a couple coins and motioned for Whill to get in a strange, two-wheeled cart. Once they were seated on the heavily cushioned seats, the boy picked up the two poles that pulled the cart and began to run. Abram gave Whill a wink.

“Beats the hell out of walking. This is a big city, and if you go on horseback, you have to worry about finding a stable. This is a nice way to get around.”

Whill sat admiring the city. “This is a beautiful place. I could get very comfortable here.”

“You might as well—we’ll be here for a while, at least until my arms heal a bit.” Abram rubbed his forearms.

After about ten minutes they had reached the middle of the city. To the left loomed the great lighthouse. Seeing it up close, Whill noticed that its surface was made entirely of pure white marble tiles that curved perfectly in intricate shapes. Between the tiles were strips of fine silver, and at the top was a glass-encased room which emanated a white light in all directions— so bright that it illuminated most of the city. It was a gift from the elves of Elladrindellia, given to the king of Eldalon more than four hundred years ago. It was rumored to have been made by elven magic and that it would burn eternally.

After another ten minutes of silent travel, during which Whill thought of the upcoming competition, they reached their destination. Getting out of the cart, Abram threw another coin to the driver and thanked him for the ride.

They ascended the steps of an expansive building. “This lodge boasts the best dining this side of the Thendor Plains, my friend. I hope you’re hungry,” Abram said.

Inside, the large room was filled with soft music and hearty laughter. Four huge pillars stood in each corner of the great room, carved with exquisite craftsmanship. Large paintings adorned the walls, depicting naval battles of old, dragons attacking ships, underwater scenes, and various figures of renown. The walls themselves were made of fine oak. At the rear of the room was a window that made up the entire back wall. Through it, the moonlit ocean was so still it appeared to be made of glass itself.

Abram gave Whill a nudge. “Come, you can marvel while we sit.”

Thanks to a handsome tip to the host, they were seated at a table next to the large window. After ordering the “celebration feast,” they toasted Fendale. The wine was sweet and warmed their bellies till the food arrived— a feast of seafood fit for a king. Upon large plates sat lobster tails and shrimp, scallops and crab. There were heaping bowls of vegetables and a variety of cheeses. Fresh bread and butter and a delicious-smelling soup were set before them, along with roasted duck and snails bathed in a thick white sauce.

They ate mostly in silence, speaking only to comment on one item of food or another. They had not eaten this well in a long while and Whill savored every bite. When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and gazed out at the ocean beyond.

“It will be nice to sail again, to get away from land for a bit and feel the free wind on my face.”

Whill simply smiled as he took a long drink of wine.

“Not too much of that, or you will be in no condition to fight tonight,” Abram warned.

“You know, I had hoped to enjoy myself tonight and not worry about using my sword. We are here to relax, are we not?” Whill asked, a hint of aggravation in his voice.

“I understand, but will you not enjoy yourself the more if you win your weight in gold? Besides, there are certain people that are anxious to see you fight.”

Whill frowned. “What people? And why should they want to see me fight?”

Abram took a drink from his glass. “Lord Rogus, for instance, and King Mathus.”

“The king!” Whill exclaimed. “The King of Eldalon wishes to see me fight? How in the world would he know of me and why—?” Suddenly he sat up in his chair. “Abram, what is going on here?”

“Whill, listen. There are a great many things you do not know about yourself.” Whill started to speak, but Abram silenced him. “Let me speak. Your lineage being what it is, the king and a great many other people have a keen interest in you. I have told you of the oncoming war; soon you will have a choice to make— a very great choice that will shape your future in ways you cannot imagine.”

Whill stared at Abram, his brow bent with anger. “What choice? For years you have kept my heritage a secret from me, and now you decide to hint about it here, in this place? What is the harm in my knowing? I am a man now. I have waited patiently for years to hear the truth from you.” His eyes burned, but Abram stared back kindly.

“I intend to tell you all you wish to know, soon—very soon. Trust me, Whill, it pains me to keep such secrets, for I know that you deserve to know all that you should.” He looked out at the moon that lingered among faint clouds. “I love you like a son, and I do what I think your father would wish. I have helped you become a man—prepared you to face whatever road you choose, be it a road of peace or of war. And I will stand by you until the end of either road.”

Whill listened to Abram with a feeling of both anger and relief. Tears welled in his eyes at the mention of his father, a man he had never known—a man who had not been mentioned to him in fifteen years. He had seen his father in dreams only: once he was a sailor; another time, a farmer; another, a knight. Sometimes he had brown hair and green eyes; other times, his hair was raven black and his eyes blue. His mother too had haunted his dreams; on those nights, he had awakened with an intense feeling of loss and regret.

“I will trust you as I always have, but know that I do not demand answers only out of respect for your judgment,” said Whill. “If you say I will know soon, then I wait for the day with all my heart, but it pains me to wonder, still. As for the competition, I will fight, and these people you speak of will see me for what I am.”

With that, Whill rose and Abram followed him into the night. They joined a gathering crowd that made its way down Twentieth Street.

“I assume they are going to the competition,” Whill said.

“Yes.”

Abram tried to keep up. Soon they reached the competition area. It was a small coliseum built against the western wall of the city. It was not an extremely large building, but it still seated more than two thousand spectators. However, only the wealthiest people or personal friends of Lord Rogus could attend. Now Whill knew how he and Abram had been allowed to watch the competition when he was eleven: Abram was a friend to Lord Rogus.

“Why didn’t you tell the guards that you knew Lord Rogus when we arrived?” Whill asked as they made their way toward the main entrance. “They would not have given us a hard time.”

“Because they would not have believed me.”

Guards were keeping a walkway clear for the distinguished guests as people tried to sneak, lie, or buy their way in. Abram led Whill to the entrance.

“Name?” the guard asked.

“I am Abram. This is Whill. He is a competitor here tonight. His number is two-seven-nine-four-eight.”

The guard looked at a long scroll for a moment, tracing his finger down the length of it. “Very well. After entering, go left to the fighters’ quarters. And good luck.”

Inside, the crowd roared as trumpets sounded the beginning of the competition. Whill and Abram made their way to the fighters’ quarters. A hall led around half the length of the circular building under the crowded seats. Soon they arrived at a great oak door. Abram repeated Whill’s fighter number to the standing guard and they were admitted to the room. The quarters, nothing more than a large room with about a dozen benches, were crowded with about fifty men who had signed up to challenge the knights. They eyed Whill and Abram as they entered. Some were fitting themselves with armor while others practiced for the fight. There were small men and large men, but a few rough-looking fellows towered over the rest—their shoulders broad as tree trunks with arms like thick branches. Armor hung from the walls; above each set was a numbered cloth. Whill found his number and was astonished to see the armor that hung under it. He looked at Abram.

“This must be a mistake. Surely they do not lend such armor to just any fighter.”

“You are not just any fighter. Lord Rogus himself has given you this to use, and he said if you win tonight, you may keep it.” The armor consisted of fine chainmail and a chest plate made of silver embellished steel. The arm and leg guards were of the same make.

“To accept such gifts from someone I do not know would mean that I owe him something. No matter what he knows of me, I will not accept what I have not earned.”

“Don’t be foolish, Whill, wear the armor. It would be suicide not to.”

Whill raised an eyebrow. “Who says the knight’s blade will get close enough to cut me?”

“It would be an insult not to wear it,” Abram warned. “You owe nothing in accepting this, and it is not yours until won. Come, try it on.”

Whill reluctantly put on the armor. It was of fine make, light and unobtrusive. He was impressed with its flexibility. He attached his sword and flexed his arms. Drawing his sword he made short, circular slashing motions. Satisfied, he sheathed his sword and said he was ready.

Exiting through the other side of the room, they entered another hall that led to the tournament grounds. The roaring crowd was deafening. Cheers and stomping feet emanated from the coliseum and shook the ground beneath them as they came to the open end of the hall. From inside, the coliseum looked gigantic. People sat or stood upon cushioned seats of stone that circled the building in thirty ascending rows. The fighting grounds were in a ring at the center of the building. A ten-foot wall separated the crowd from the sand-covered fighting grounds. Directly across and on the top row was a large booth adorned with great banners. One was blue with a white tower topped by a brilliant star. The other was white with a great ship upon a blue sea and the sun above, its ray stretching out behind the ship. Within the booth sat Lord Rogus and King Mathus.

Beyond the doorway in which Whill and Abram stood was a segregated section of seats. These were the fighters’ seats and were made up of three levels. Whill followed Abram to the top and they sat. Once again the trumpets sounded, marking the address of Lord Rogus. All fell silent and turned to the royal booth as the lord stood and extended both arms to the crowd.

“My dear people of Fendale, and travelers from afar.” His voice echoed throughout the coliseum. “Tonight you will witness the skill and splendor of the great defenders of Eldalon—those who keep our oceans safe from pirates, who keep the dragon menace at bay, and who keep this land free of the Draggard. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…the Knights of Eldalon!”

The crowd erupted into a frenzy. The coliseum roared like thunder breaking on a quiet day. A shower of roses fell onto the white sand as the entrance gate opened and the knights marched out. At the sight of them the cheers escalated to the point of pandemonium. They marched four wide, with two leaders carrying banners of both Eldalon and Fendale. They wore full armor that shone like highly polished silver. At each of their sides hung a dark blue sheath holding their sword. A brilliant blue gem rested within the center of each silver hilt. Upon their left arm, each knight carried a broad shield of the same make as their armor. The tops of the shields were the shoulder-width of their owners, gradually narrowing down its length into a sharp point at the base. At the center was the emblem of Eldalon.

Whill watched as the knights made their way to the center of the ring. Much like the child he had been, he sat entranced. Knowing the legend of the knights and having read of their glory, they now seemed to Whill like the single most powerful force on earth. Light from the lighthouse gleamed off their armor so that they seemed to glow. Together, they stopped and turned to the royal booth. They stood tall— the proud fighters of the free peoples of Eldalon—and numbered one hundred, a small percentage of their Order. As one, they drew their swords and raised them high toward the king, and, as one, drove them into the sand before them and knelt upon one knee. The crowd’s enthusiasm was rampant. Still more roses rained down onto the sand and the kneeling knights. Whill’s head was light. He felt drunk with excitement. Abram gave him a light elbow to his side and looked amused.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Whill.”

Whill was surprised to discover that he actually had been holding his breath. He now let it out, feeling slightly foolish.

The knights once again stood tall and sheathed their swords as the king stood and took Lord Rogus’s place at the front of the booth. The entire crowd fell silent and bowed before King Mathus as he looked upon his loyal subjects. Whill and Abram did the same. With one knee to the floor and an arm resting upon the other, Whill sneaked a look at the king but then quickly lowered his head again. He was sure that the king had been looking right at him. He quickly discarded the thought as the king began his speech.

“Good people of Fendale, arise, for I look upon you as my equals. I am privileged only by the honor of being your leader. Tonight we celebrate brotherhood and the joy of life itself. The winters of our lives will always come, and they will seem to linger with the cold of remorse, regret, and despair. During such times each of us will question ourselves and this world. We will wonder how such a bleak and miserable time can ever end—the seemingly eternal misery that is our darkest hour. But end it does, for to every winter there is a spring, and to every tragedy there is newfound joy. A cold heart is one that has forgotten hope and knows no love. We will stay warm throughout the most bitter cold and have hope when all else is lost because we are the people of Eldalon; we know no defeat, and we are all brothers. No force on this earth or from the heavens will ever break our spirit. It is in love that we find our greatest strength… and our unwavering hope.

“So I ask you all now to look upon each other as family, and to put aside differences and petty quarrels. I ask you all to look around at the beautiful city you have created. Its magnificent splendor shines above all things. Without you, it would be only stone and dirt. Without the great people of Eldalon, it would be nothing. This celebration honors the light in the darkness, hope in times of despair, and love in the face of hate. It signifies the beginning of an end. May your sails forever catch the warm wind, and may your families prosper.”

The coliseum was as quiet as a forgotten tomb. It had the feeling of the calm before the storm. All eyes shimmered as one in the presence of the king, and upon every face there was a smile. The king looked around at his people, his own smile bright. At last he said, “And now, let the competition begin!”

The crowd broke into deafening applause. Whill stood with them, cheering. A new and foreign sense of belonging sent a pain through his chest as he clapped vigorously, hot tears welling in his eyes.

Chapter IV

The Tournament

AS ONE, THE KNIGHTS TURNED and filed out of the fighting ring. In their place came men carrying dividers for the first competition: the joust. Within minutes they were finished and the first of the knights entered the ring on horseback.

“Do you remember who won the joust when last we were here?” Abram almost had to holler to be heard.

“Yes, it was Rhunis the Dragonslayer.”

“That’s right.”

“And he’s won every year since.” Whill had heard stories of Rhunis from Abram. Rhunis had lived in Senteal, a small coast town at the southernmost tip of Eldalon. When he was only sixteen he had killed a dragon that had been terrorizing the town. The Knights of Eldalon had been sent to defeat the beast but instead found it lying dead upon the beach, a spear protruding from its left eye. Rhunis lay next to it, half dead himself, suffering from severe burns. The boy had recovered and been honored by the king, who made him a knight and personal guard.

“Do you think Rhunis will win tonight?” Whill yelled over the crowd, which was now cheering the knights entering the fighting circle.

“I have yet to see him lose to man or beast, in competition or battle.”

“Does he still ride the white horse or—?” Suddenly he stopped. “Did you say battle? Have you fought alongside Rhunis?”

Abram laughed. “I told you of the many battles with the Draggard in which I took part.”

Whill shook his head in admiration. “You never fail to surprise me.”

The scoreboard was now uncovered, listing the names of thirty-two knights. There were sixteen names on each side of the board, with winners’ brackets leading inward to two spaces for the final match. One scorekeeper stood at each end of the dividers, ready to place the scoring flags. A hit to the other rider gave a knight one point, while a dismount was an instant win. The winner was the first to score three points.

The first match began with a loud blast of trumpets. The knights raced toward each other—sand flying from their horses’ hooves, long lances gleaming. They collided with a clang, splinters flying in all directions. The scorekeepers marked double points. The crowd loved every minute; cheers and screams filled the coliseum as the knights charged once again.

Soon Rhunis entered the fighting ring upon a horse of white. His challenger entered behind. Moving to the opposite end of the dividers, Rhunis bent forward as if speaking to his horse. Whill watched with excitement as the match began. Rhunis’ horse reared, and his master lifted his lance high. The crowd answered with a loud cheer. His opponent charged, his horse’s muscles rippling with every thrust of its legs. Rhunis also charged forward with alarming speed. The riders descended upon each other, lances aimed at one another’s chest. They came together with a loud clash of metal. Rhunis had shifted toward his adversary, dodging his lance and at the same time thrusting his own weapon. The other rider was lifted clean off his horse and thrown ten feet before landing on his back. The crowd went berserk, feeding on the great energy around them. Rhunis dismounted and lent a helping hand to his dazed comrade. Together they slowly exited the arena.

More matches followed as the list of knights was cut in half. Rhunis won his second match hands down with another instant dismount.

“I have never seen such a competitor,” said Whill.

“He is the best that Eldalon has,” Abram agreed. “I can think of only one other I would want next to me in a battle.”

“Who would that be?”

Abram laughed. “The Wolf- Slayer.”

With eight knights left, the tournament now reached its third round. Rhunis would next be going against the knight Ebareal. Whill’s cheers matched those of the crowd as the riders hurried towards each other. Time seemed to slow as they collided, both breaking their lance upon the other. The score was now one to one. Again they charged, but this time there would be no tie. Rhunis got the better of Ebareal and sent him flying into the soft sand.

Rhunis was now among the top four. Abram predicted that the knight Amadon would be against Rhunis in the final battle. Amadon proved Abram right, not winning by dismount but bettering his opponent all the same. Rhunis also won the fourth round, defeating his adversary in the same manner. Now it was down to Rhunis and Amadon in what seemed like a friendly battle, but with this victory came a year’s worth of bragging rights; there was no doubt about the seriousness of both riders.

They readied themselves, and a hush fell over the crowd. It seemed that even the stars stared down upon the coliseum to witness this test of power. Whill sat at the edge of his seat, tense as a bowstring. As the riders advanced upon each other, the crowd broke into a deafening chant: “Rhunis, Rhunis!” Beams from the great lighthouse gleamed from the knights’ lances and the crowd rose to its feet. With the force of two great storms, they collided. Each scored a direct hit to the other. Amadon’s lance caught Rhunis in the shoulder, while Rhunis hit him square in the midsection. Their wooden lances disintegrated under the impact as both knights struggled to keep balance. As Rhunis was thrown sideways across his steed, Amadon was pushed off his saddle to the rear of his horse, struggling to stay mounted. But as they passed each other and their horses rode on, it was Rhunis who managed to stay mounted. As Amadon fell, the crowd broke into frenzy and the chant for Rhunis echoed throughout the building. Whill too found himself chanting the knight’s name. Rhunis was the winner.

With the joust complete, the second competition began—the knight’s challenge. In his excitement Whill had forgotten about the fight. He was now reminded as the jousting scoreboard was replaced with a new one. The names of all fifty challengers were listed, and Whill was one of them—in fact, he was the last. Thinking this fact slightly odd, he turned to Abram.

“If I go last, won’t I be fighting an exhausted knight?”

“No. There are fifty challengers but many more knights. The same knight will not fight all of the challengers. They have matched everyone with a Knight of his own size, out of fairness. The idea is that no challenger can beat a knight of Eldalon.”

“Has it ever been done?”

“Of course it has, but only a few times. Usually a winner will become a knight himself.”

As the jousting dividers were being carried away, Lord Rogus arose and stepped to the front of the booth once again. “And now the challengers will please step into the fighting circle,” he said in a loud voice. With a nod from Abram, Whill followed the other men into the circle. Lord Rogus continued. “These men have taken upon themselves the challenge of fighting a knight of Eldalon, be it out of sheer courage, the want for gold, or simple stupidity.” The crowd erupted with laughter. “No matter their motives, they should be commended for their bravery and the excitement they bring to the competition.”

The crowd’s laughter turned to applause. “Let me remind you all of the rules,” Lord Rogus went on. “There is only one: he who betters his opponent wins. The reward is the winner’s weight in gold. Now, all fighters be seated again but for the first of the brave challengers”

Whill made his way back to his seat as the first challenger now stood reluctantly in the ring.

“Well, that was fun,” he said as he sat next to Abram.

He gave Whill an amused look. “You just watch and see why others fail.”

The knight’s entrance opened as the first challenger readied himself. Out strode a knight in full armor but no shield. The crowd cheered as the two fighters began to circle each other, waiting for the other to attack. It was the challenger who moved first, with a lunging strike at the knight’s chest. The knight easily blocked the attack and spun around the man, kicking him in the backside. The crowd roared with laughter as the man turned furiously toward the knight and charged. His advance was short-lived as the knight moved to the side, tripping the attacker. This comedy went on for several minutes until finally the knight disarmed the man and put his sword to his throat, ending the dual.

“He didn’t stand a chance,” Whill said. Abram nodded in agreement, too bent with laughter to speak.

None of the other fighters were a match for the knights’ skill or speed. One after another, they went against the knights and were quickly outdone. As the last of the men lost to the knights, Whill stood, ready to enter the arena. Abram grabbed his arm.

“Remember, Whill, while you enter this fight unsure of its outcome, the opponent thinks he will win. Use this to your advantage. An underestimated foe can hold the biggest surprises.”

Whill nodded and descended the steps to the ring. Thousands of eyes were upon him; never before had he known such attention. His throat became dry and he began to sweat, though it was cool in the coliseum. He looked around at the crowd, which seemed to him like a venomous mob. They stood in the aisles or upon their seats, screaming like demons. Whill suddenly felt lightheaded. He knew he must look ridiculous to them now— a silly young man with a sword, ready to challenge a knight. He tried to remember why he had agreed to this. What had he been thinking? He wanted nothing more than to be far away, out of the city, with no more eyes watching him.

The gate opened and a knight walked out. With large strides he entered the ring and then stopped and removed his helmet. He seemed about Abram’s age, with long brown hair and handsome features, but for the burn scar which covered the right side of his neck and cheek. Before the crowd could chant his name Whill realized who his opponent was: Rhunis the Dragonslayer. A powerful dread came over him. How could Abram have done this to him? He searched for his mentor but could not spot him in the frenzy. The crowd began their chant for Rhunis. The name which had earlier rolled so enthusiastically from Whill’s own tongue now filled him with anxiety. Rhunis put his helmet on once again and slowly walked toward him. He stood frozen, as if his feet had fused to the sand beneath him. Still, Rhunis advanced until he was not five feet away. He stopped and drew his sword offering a challenge. Whill instinctively withdrew his own sword and took up a defensive stance. Rhunis began to circle him. Whill simply moved in circles, holding his ground. You can do this, you can do this, he is only a man, Whill thought, but quickly doubted his own advice. Finally Rhunis lunged with a powerful overhead strike, almost knocking Whill to the ground as he blocked it. Before Whill could think of a counterattack Rhunis was swinging again, this time at his side. Whill blocked the attack as Rhunis stepped back. The crowd was wild; the chant for Rhunis became unbearably loud. Again he attacked, and Whill parried every blow. Around they went, Rhunis attacking and Whill blocking, until it seemed the fight would never end.

He’s playing with me, Whill realized. He thinks he has me. He played along for a moment, pretending to barely block the blows, acting tired and weary. Then with all his might he parried a side attack and began his own. Blade gleaming, he swung at Rhunis again and again, unrelenting, as the knight blocked his blows. Rhunis backed a step and gave Whill a nod.

“Do you wish to have my best fight?” he asked.

“That I do, sir.”

With that the dual escalated to a point that none had seen yet that night. Rhunis showed no sign of tiring, nor did Whill. The crowd was on its feet, as were Lord Rogus and King Mathus. Cheers filled the coliseum and fists pumped as the crowd chanted for the Dragonslayer. Whill, however, was oblivious to the crowd. It was as if he and Rhunis were suspended in the sky upon the sand, and nothing existed but the ring and his opponent. Rhunis made an overhead attack and Whill quickly blocked it, bringing them together in a struggle. Swords pointed at the sky, they circled, hands upon each other’s wrists. Rhunis quickly moved to the side and smashed the side of his helmet against Whill’s face. Whill was thrown back, their swords still tangled. Rhunis thrust the hilt of his sword at Whill’s face, sending blood spraying from his nose. Whill fell back onto the sand. Tears welled in his eyes as he fumbled to get up. Rhunis was upon him and kicked him back to the ground. Then he stepped on Whill’s hand, pinning his arm and his sword as he brought his blade around to end the match.

With his free hand Whill grabbed the leg that held him down and simultaneously brought his leg up and around Rhunis’s midsection. With all his might he pushed and managed to send Rhunis falling on his back and jumped to his feet. With nose bleeding profusely, and eyes still blurry, he lunged at his opponent—who had also gotten to his feet. Attacking with the fury of a caged beast, he sent Rhunis stumbling backward and noticed that the sound of the crowd had changed. They had taken up a new chant, faint at first but growing louder.

“Whill! Whill! Whill!” they cried, as steady as a drumbeat. Rhunis seemed to weaken but Whill felt stronger than he ever had. With powerful thrusts he came down on his now backpedaling opponent—he was winning. In fact, it was now he who was toying with Rhunis; all he needed to do was decide when to claim his victory. With this revelation, he left an intentional opening for Rhunis to exploit. When the knight took advantage, he blocked and, in one circular motion, sent Rhunis’s sword flying. He quickly brought the tip of his blade to Rhunis’s neck as the defeated knight’s weapon soared through the air and stuck into the sand with a wobble. The crowd went into frenzy; the chant for Whill now sounded throughout the arena.

Rhunis slowly lifted his arms to his helmet and removed it. Whill lowered his sword. Rhunis looked upon him sternly as he got to his feet, but then his face broke into a smile.

“That, my friend, was my best fight, but it seems yours was better. I hope you are never an enemy to Eldalon, for you would be a dangerous foe.” He gave a small bow.

“Thank you,” Whill panted. “But I will never be an enemy to your great kingdom; I will remain ever its ally.”

“Then maybe one day we will draw swords together.” Rhunis retrieved his blade and returned it to its sheath. With another small bow he made his way to the knights’ quarters. Whill stood on the sand, roses showering him as the crowd cheered. He looked up to the royal booth and saw the king staring down at him. He nodded at Whill, and Whill nodded back.

Chapter V

The Award Ceremony

WHILL RAISED HIS HAND AND waved to the crowd. In return they cheered loudly, fists pumping in the air as the chant for Whill grew louder still. Among the cheering fighters he saw Abram and a large smile spread across his face. Whill gave a bow and walked to the fighters’ section. He was greeted with many congratulations and pats on the back as he ascended the steps to his seat. He stopped before Abram, who extended his hand and shook Whill’s heartily.

“I never had a doubt.” Abram pulled him into a small hug, still shaking his hand, and offered him a towel for his face. “That was some of the best swordsmanship I have ever seen. I see you’ve come up with some of your own moves.”

Whill wiped the blood from his face. “I have only you to thank. You have been a great teacher.”

The blood had stopped flowing from his nose, but his cheekbones throbbed. He was going to have two magnificent black eyes. He touched two fingers to the bridge of his nose with a grimace. “I think it’s broken.”

“We’ll have you fixed up after the ceremony; you still have your reward to receive.”

Whill had forgotten completely about the reward. His weight in gold—he could hardly fathom the wealth he had won. Lord Rogus again went to the front of the royal booth to speak. The crowd quieted.

“I offer my congratulations to the young fighter, Whill. We should all take a moment to congratulate him.” Rogus began a slow clap which was taken up by the crowd. The coliseum filled with loud applause that sounded like thunder breaking over crashing waves. Abram nudged Whill, indicating that he should stand. He complied, a smile spreading across his blushing face. He extended a fist into the air, sending the crowd into loud cheers and whistles. After a moment he sat, and the applause died down as Rogus continued.

“And now for some light-hearted entertainment.” The gate opened and a mob of jesters, jugglers, and dancers filled the ring, followed by more than twenty men carrying great drums. The drummers circled the ring and began an intricate, upbeat rhythm. The pounding echoed throughout the coliseum. The dancers jumped and spun, putting on a grand performance. Four men costumed as dragons took up the center of the ring. Facing each other at a safe distance, they blew fire from their mouths. The crowd cheered, the drums pounded, the dancers reeled.

To Whill the night had become surreal. He had beaten one of the most legendary knights in Agora. He thought of the gold he had won, and a possibility occurred to him. What if King Mathus made him a Knight of Eldalon?

Soon the show was over and the colorful performers exited the ring. Trumpets blared as King Mathus himself entered the ring, followed by ten knights. He shone with a brilliant light as he walked to the center. He wore light armor of silver underlain with light blue fabric. Upon his back was a large cloak that could easily have covered his entire body if pulled around. Light reflected from it in a way Whill had never seen— a dragonhide cloak, he guessed. The knights followed King Mathus in two rows of five. The front four carried a large iron chest between them. Behind the knights, ten more men entered the ring pulling a strange-looking mechanism. Made of wood, and with four large wheels, it resembled a large battering ram, but in the ram’s place was a long wooden beam teetering upon two shorter ones. At one end was a large basket, and at the other, a chair.

“Is that what I think it is? Do they mean to weigh me here, now?” Whill asked.

Abram laughed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It is a better show for the people to see you weighed. Have fun with it. Give them what they want.”

King Mathus raised an arm and the crowd quieted again. He turned and addressed Whill. “It is time for your reward, young man.” He extended a hand.

Whill felt the thousands of eyes upon him once more, but he didn’t mind the feeling this time. He descended the steps and entered the ring. He approached the king, who stood among his guards. He regarded Whill with a curious smile. He looked to be slightly older than Abram. His long black hair hung to his shoulders, and his face was covered with a full, neatly trimmed beard. Within his soft brown eyes Whill saw compassion and kindness. He liked the man’s face, and not merely because he was about to give him a pile of gold. The king gave off an unmistakable energy, one of great power and pure goodness. He was not the type to sit upon his throne and enjoy a life of lavish luxury while his people went without. Any attack on them was considered a personal attack on him, Whill knew. King Mathus traveled often among the cities, towns, and villages of his kingdom, personally witnessing the lives of his people.

The king took Whill’s hand in his own. With a firm grip, he shook it and congratulated him. He then led Whill to the seat positioned on the scale.

“My good people of Fendale, and those of far cities, I ask your assistance. This chest is filled with twenty-pound bags of pure gold coins. I ask that you count aloud as they are put into the weighing basket. Let’s see this lad’s weight in gold.”

The crowd cheered and Whill sat upon the scale, feeling a little awkward, with his feet still on the ground.

“The first bag of gold, please!”

A knight took a bag of gold from the chest and put it in the basket.

“One!” the crowd cried. Another bag was put into the basket. “Two!” More bags were added. “Three! Four! Five! Six!” Whill had started to rise slightly with the additional gold, but his feet still touched the ground.

“Seven!” the crowd cheered as the knight put in yet another bag of gold. “Eight! Nine!” Whill’s feet finally left the ground. “Ten!” At last the beam evened out. Whill was bursting with elation. Two hundred pounds of gold!

Knights on both sides took hold of the beam as he was lowered. The king again shook his hand. “Congratulations, Whill. I look forward to meeting privately with you soon.”

“Thank you, Sire. I also look forward to such an honor.”

“If you like, the gold will be kept safe for you until such time as you are prepared to take it.”

Whill had wondered how he and Abram would leave with two hundred pounds of gold. He thanked the king and returned to his seat. Then he and Abram made their way out of the coliseum and into the noisy street. They quickly found another wheel cart and, with a coin toss to a young lad, were on their way.

“Where are we going?” Whill asked. “The king said he wants to meet privately with me.”

“Of course he does. But the meeting will not be for a while, and it will not be in Fendale.”

“What do you mean?”

“First we have a small journey to make, one that will better prepare you for the counsel of the king.”

Whill had no idea what Abram meant, but he wasn’t going to ponder the issue. Tonight was to be a night of celebration. “So where are we headed?”

“To the best pub this side of—”

“Let me guess: the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

Abram grinned. “No smartarse, I was going to say the best pub this side of the ocean. But you get the point.”

They rode for about ten minutes towards the heart of the city and stopped in front of a rustic-looking pub. The crowd had not subsided at all, though it was now well into the night. People laughed and cheered in the streets as they followed one of the many parades that had been snaking their way through the city all day. Whill followed Abram into the pub.

The pub was called the Wet Whistle and was aptly named. It was filled with music and laughter, and packed from wall to wall with men and women drinking the house beer. All smiled or nodded as Whill and Abram walked to the main bar.

“They sell one thing in this pub and one thing only: the house ale,” Abram hollered over the crowd and the band that played in a far corner. “At one time the owner of this place was a sailor. He ran a merchant ship from here to Del’Harred, the port city of Isladon.”

A fat bartender with a merry face approached. Abram ordered four beers and continued his story as the man began to pour the ale from large barrels.

“One day old Barlemew—that’s the owner—one day he was sailing his normal route, which happened to bring him within fifty miles of Drakkar, the dragon island. Suddenly off the starboard side he spotted a dragon flying high. This is a regular occurrence with merchants of that route, so Barlemew didn’t worry much—that is, until the dragon flew directly at them.”

Abram laughed and went on. “You won’t believe what happened next. Old Barlemew gets scared and tells his men to ready the harpoons. Well, the dragon flies right over them but, to everyone’s surprise, doesn’t attack. Instead he drops a pile of dung on the ship, covering old Barlemew.” Abram pointed at the bartender.

“That’s Barlemew?” Whill asked. Abram merely nodded, so choked with laughter he couldn’t speak. Whill laughed also at the thought of a dragon taking a giant shyte on the poor fat man. With tears in his eyes, Abram continued.

“So there’s old Barlemew, covered in dragon shyte, his men on the floor in laughter, and the poor fool has an idea. You see, Barlemew had always fancied himself a gardener. He had been trying to grow hops and barley for years, but his ale had always been only tolerable at best. So he had his men save the dung until he docked here in Fendale, and then he used it as a fertilizer for his garden. Come to find out, dragon dung is the single best fertilizer for a garden. Crops grown in it are the finest any farmer has ever seen. To make a long story short, old Barlemew stumbled upon the secret to the best beer that has ever been brewed, and he has made a fortune on it.”

The bartender put their beers on the bar. “So, you told the young lad my story, eh?”

With great effort, Whill managed to speak. “I’m glad to hear of your good fortune, sir.”

“Uh huh, Try the ale and you’ll wish a dragon had done his business on your head,” Barlemew said with a laugh.

Whill complied and took a long drink from the large mug. The ale was superb— hands-down the best he had ever had. It was rich and thick yet smooth and satisfying. Putting down the mug, he looked at the bartender with astonishment.

“This is the best ale in all of Agora, no doubt. I congratulate you, sir.”

Barlemew smiled with pride. “I thank you, lad. Folks say it’s magical, too, you know. I drink a glass of my Dragon’s Brew every day and have had perfect health since. Even feel stronger.”

Abram gave Whill a wink. “I don’t doubt that, good sir.”

Barlemew gave them two more. “These are on the house. Don’t worry ’bout drinkin’ too much, neither. You’ll feel like new men after a night of this stuff.”

They both thanked Barlemew and toasted the man. After two mugs each, Abram said, “Maybe I’ll be able to dance after all.” And with that, he headed in the direction of the music. Soon he was surrounded by a crowd of both women and men cheering him on. Abram was good at a great many things, dancing being one of them. He performed the Jolly Two-Step, to everyone’s delight, and soon motioned for Whill to join him.

Three hours and six beers later, they stumbled into the street singing. The crowd had thinned and the first light of dawn was slowly making its way into the sky. They got a ride on a wheel cart and soon were back at their inn. Abram fell out of the cart in a fit of laughter and tipped the boy his entire sack of coins.

“Be here at high noon and there will be more of that.”

The kid smiled in disbelief and bowed frantically. “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

They made their way to their room and quickly fell asleep, Whill in his bed and Abram on the floor.

Chapter VI

Plans for the Sea Maiden

WHILL AWOKE FROM STRANGE DREAMS of dragons and gold. A faint breeze drifted in from the open window along with the new day’s light. The scent of cherry pipe tobacco lingered in the air. Abram was not in, but he was not surprised. Abram always arose before he did. Whill realized that, though they had drunk heavily, he did not have the usual headache. He actually felt great, refreshed and alert, but he was very hungry and his mouth was as dry as desert wood. He got up and undressed. His clothes and hair smelled like beer, smoke, and women. Whill laughed as he began to wash. The water basin had been filled with fresh hot water, probably at Abram’s command. Clean and clothed, he went downstairs and found his friend sitting at a small table in the main room, a steaming cup of coffee and long scroll in hand.

“Ah, so the great fighter awakes,” Abram said as Whill took the seat opposite. “I’ve ordered eggs, bacon, and toast. Two orders each, which is not quite enough if you are as hungry as I.”

“Good, I’m starved.”

A startlingly beautiful young woman about Whill’s age walked up to the table. “Will you be wanting coffee also?” she asked him.

“Yes, I would, if you would be so kind, with six lumps of sugar.”

“Six? Do you have a thing for sweet stuff?”

He smiled. “That I do, though I would be ill-fated to try to find anything as sweet as you.”

The waitress blushed and gave Whill a coy smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Abram grinned. “You didn’t learn that one from me. I’m impressed.”

“What?” Whill feigned ignorance. “The truth rolls from the tongue easier than anything rehearsed.”

“That it does, my friend.”

The waitress soon returned with Whill’s coffee, which was in a larger glass than Abram’s and topped with a thick coat of frothy cream.

“Thank you very much.”

“If you need anything else, please don’t be afraid to ask.”

Soon the large plates of food arrived, and Whill and Abram dug in with a hunger they usually only knew on the road. After finishing, Abram ordered another coffee for each of them and lit his pipe. Whill cleaned his plate and sat back feeling very content.

Abram blew large smoke-rings into the air and watched them rise and linger. They sat for a moment in silence. The coffee came shortly and they again thanked the waitress. Whill watched Abram’s smoke-rings hang high above them, as still as stone.

“You know,” said Whill, “we could buy a nice ship with that gold I won.”

Abram laughed. “With that much gold you could buy a whole fleet. But a ship would be a very good investment.”

Whill thought for a moment. “You said we would be here for a while. Do you think it will be long enough to have a ship built?”

Abram raised his eyebrows. “I suppose we could. I do know an excellent shipbuilder—if he’s still alive, that is. I haven’t seen him since last we were here, and he was an old man then.”

“We should go and see him today. I’ve been tossing a ship design around in my head for years—just a daydream, really—but now it seems we can have it made,” said Whill as his excitement grew.

Abram nodded as he sipped his coffee. “I had planned to buy a small boat, but now that you have won this grand prize, perhaps we won’t have to. I have to take you somewhere so that I may finally tell you all you wish and deserve to know. But it is far from here, and by sea we will get there much more easily. Dy’Kore,” he said, before Whill could ask. “The dwarf city in the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

Whill regarded him with utter astonishment. “We are going to the dwarf city?”

“Long ago I fought alongside the dwarf king Ky’Ell against the Draggard. He has since been a good friend. These long years since your birth, he has kept heirlooms of yours safe. Within the mountains lies your past, and there your story should be told to you.”

Whill had read about and heard many stories of the dwarves. They were a race who kept to themselves, mostly, and were not seen often beyond the mountains. They were made up of three clans, the Ky’Dren, the Elgar, and the Ro’Sar. The mountains they inhabited had been named after the dwarf kings who had first settled them. The Ky’Dren dwarves were allies to Eldalon and watched over the Ky’Dren Pass, the only land route into the kingdom of Eldalon. In return the king supplied the dwarves with a means to transport and trade their gold and jewels, as well as safe passage by ship to visit their kin—the Elgar. The Ro’Sar, who had lived within what were now called the Ebony Mountains, were all but wiped out. A great host of Draggard had come by sea twenty years before and invaded the Ro’Sar Mountains. All but a handful had survived by fleeing to Dy’Kore.

“Then it’s settled,” Whill said. “We’ll build a ship and sail to the mountains, and finally I will know my past.”

They finished their coffee and ventured out into the street. It was high noon and the day was mild. The outer walls of the city gave good protection from the wind. The streets were littered with paper confetti and bits and pieces of pop-balls. Already people were cleaning up, and it appeared that not only hired cleaners, but also many citizens, lent a hand. As Abram had expected, the young man from the previous night was waiting by the door with an expectant smile. Abram threw him a coin and told him their destination.

They again traveled towards the center of the city and soon stopped before a large three-story building. It was made of exquisitely crafted stone that had a shiny gloss. It boasted four large pillars, each of which was decorated with Fendale’s emblem. A large set of marble steps led up to the main door. Upon the very top of the building, stone letters as tall as a man declared “Bank of Fendale.” Whill noticed that archers were positioned every ten feet along the top of the building. There were also four armed guards at the base of the stair.

“This is where your gold is being kept. I assumed that you would want to make a withdrawal.”

“You assumed correctly. You’ve paid my way long enough; it’s high time I treated you for once.”

Abram laughed as they climbed the marble steps to the front door. An armed guard stood at each side.

“What is your business, good sir?” the guard on the right asked Abram.

“We are here to make a withdrawal,” Whill said.

“What are your names, please?”

“I am Whill, and this is Abram.”

The guard gave Whill a queer look. “You’re the one who beat Rhunis?”

“This would be he, good sir,” said Abram. “And if you don’t mind, we have pressing business that must be attended to—unless you want an autograph from the young lad, that is.”

The guard looked embarrassed. He put on a serious face again. Leave your weapons at the check-in or you won’t be permitted inside.”

With that he turned and, together with the other guard, opened the great doors. Whill and Abram entered a small room with bare walls. Another great door lay directly in front of them. To the right there was a guard behind a three-foot-square opening to another room—the weapons storage room. He told them to sign in on a scroll and gave them a quill.

“All weapons must be surrendered here,” he declared in a flat voice.

They complied and handed over their swords and knives. Satisfied, the guard went to a small slit in the wall and said, “Ocean blue.”

The door opened and they went into the main lobby of the bank. It was a large room with many doors. At the other end was a large oak desk. A short little man with large glasses hurried towards them. With an exaggerated hello and handshake, he led them to the vault where Whill’s winnings were being kept. Inside, the twenty sacks of gold sat upon a large wooden table covered with a red velvet cloth. He opened one of the bags and let the coins fall out onto the table with a heavy clang. Abram took a coin and tested it with his teeth, then eyed it in the torchlight. The light reflected on the surface was deep orange. The emblem of Eldalon was stamped on both sides.

“I’ll be taking a half a bag today,” Whill told the little banker.

“Of course, sir, and it will be our pleasure to hold the rest for as long as you want—at one percent interest, of course.”

Abram scowled at the little man. “In that case we won’t be keeping it here long.” He grumbled and left the vault, mumbling something about damned vultures.

After retrieving their weapons and leaving the building, they headed to the shipbuilder’s home. It was a nicely built and decorated house near the city’s ocean side. This time Whill tipped the wagon boy himself, throwing him a gold coin from his bag. The kid looked at the gold in his hand, astonished. Abram laughed. “You do know how much that’s worth?”

“A wise man once told me there is no point in having wealth if you cannot use it to spread joy.”

Abram smiled. “You’re a quick learner.”

They left the astonished boy standing in the street and went to the front door of the house. After two knocks the door was opened by an old man in a green vest with a white undershirt. His pants were a fine brown fabric, and on his feet he wore thick fur slippers.

“May I help you?”

“Freston, you old dog! Are you so senile you don’t remember old friends?”

The old man’s frown turned into a wide smile. “Abram, I hadn’t expected you. Folks say you were killed in one of your crazy journeys.”

Abram laughed. “There are more stories of my death than there is sand on the beach.”

Freston chuckled. “Come in, come in. I was just about to have a little tea. Now I have someone to share it with.”

Whill and Abram entered the house, which was just as nice inside as out. Paintings of ships adorned every wall, and numerous shelves were dedicated solely to small ships in bottles. Whill looked at these closely, wondering how they had been put inside. Freston led them to his study and offered them each a seat at his scroll-covered table. “Sorry for the mess, but a builder’s work is never done. I’ll return in a moment with the tea.”

Whill noticed that the scrolls were ship drafts and designs He cocked his head at one plan that caught his attention as Freston returned with a tray and three tea cups.

“Feel free, young lad. Those are just new ideas I’ve been working on.”

Abram and Freston talked while Whill pored over the drawings. Freston’s sons now built most of the ships, he said, as he was too old for much of the work. But he was very excited about the proposition to build a ship of Whill’s own design.

“Usually I build merchant ships or small sailboats, though I’ve made a few for the royal navy over the years,” he said. “Helping you bring your ideas to life would be a rare pleasure.”

They talked for a while about Whill’s vision for his ship, and Freston wrote one detail or another down on a piece of paper. Abram added his recommendations to the plans. After a few hours of drawing, planning, and calculating, they had a rough draft of what the ship would look like.

Whill held the sketch up to the light. “She’ll be a beauty.”

“That she will, and if done right, also one of the fastest that ever sailed these blue waters,” Freston agreed.

They made plans to meet the following day and said farewell. Upon leaving, Whill and Abram stopped in their tracks—outside Freston’s house were fifteen kids with pull carts, all offering them a ride.

Abram laughed aloud at the sight. “It looks like the word is out.”

Whill said politely that they would be walking, to the lads’ disappointment. “We could use a good walk anyway,” he told Abram, who simply chuckled.

The kids followed them for a while but soon gave up on the prospect. Whill and Abram walked in silence as the sun set beyond the city walls. The streets were not crowded; only the occasional horseman or guard rode along. Women in long gowns and men in an assortment of spring colors strolled from shop to shop. Couples walked hand in hand, laughing and talking in excited voices. Some children still ran about, letting off small fireworks from the previous night.

After about a half hour, Whill and Abram reached the Ocean Mist and enjoyed a fine dinner of seafood and wine. They talked over their plans for the ship and made more for the days ahead. They had estimated that it would take a month to build the ship, and by that time, Abram would be almost fully healed.

The next day Whill brought his horse out beyond the city to give it some exercise. He rode for hours up and down the coast, the fresh saltwater spraying his face as his horse raced along the beach for miles and miles. It was nice to be out of the city. As much as he liked it, he liked the freedom of the open land much more. He had always loved his life of travel, going from town to town and never making any one place his home. He figured he would settle down one day, but not any time soon. He looked forward to setting sail on his own ship, with nothing between him and the setting sun but the gentle blue ocean. There was nothing better than a night on a ship in calm waters. Sometimes the stars seemed so bright and close, he felt as though he could reach up and touch them. When the sky was clear and the water was still, there were times when he could not tell where the world ended and the sky began. He was truly at peace on the sea, where the mysteries of the water were more complex than his own. It was a place where he could let go of all his worries and be lulled into quiet tranquility.

As he sped along the beach, he thought of his childhood home. The beaches of Sidnell had been his favorite place to think. He would sit for hours on the sand and read. Abram brought him the most interesting books—some with facts about Agora, some a complete history of each kingdom. Then there were his favorites, the books of the elves. As soon as he had learned to read Elvish, he had been fascinated by them. They had come to Agora five hundred years before Whill was born. Their story was one of great loss and suffering. They had lived in a land called Drindellia, far to the east. The elves thrived there for tens of thousands of years and built great cities within. The books then told of a great foe, the Draggard, who were created through the evil works of the Dark elf Eadon. Using what people call magic—the elves call it Orna Catorna—he combined an unborn elf with a dragon egg in the hopes of creating a powerful breed of elves. The Draggard had the shape of the elves and the features of dragons. Their skin was dark green, and rough and scaly upon their backs. They had hideously sharp teeth and claws, and strong thin tails that could whip or impale a man. They were stronger than elves but, like them, could live for centuries—dying only from injury and not age. Like their dragon kin, the Draggard also laid eggs, which was where they found their real strength: great numbers. A queen could lay thousands of eggs a year.

Eadon had proclaimed himself lord of all Drindellia and with his followers, and the Draggard, began a bloody war against King Verelas, ruler of the Elves of the Sun. The war raged for nearly 110 years. The Draggard were many in number, but the elves were skilled in body and in mind. Slowly the elves were pushed to the west of Drindellia where they were to make their final stand. It was then that Verelas sent a great number of his people over the sea in hopes that, even if the war was lost, the race would not perish. Across the sea and into unknown lands went a thousand elves. With them went Verelas’ wife, Queen Araveal; their three daughters, Zilena, Avriel, and Kiella; and their only son, Zerafin. The king insisted that he stay and fight with his fellow elves, though the queen begged him to leave. He told her to go and find a safe land where the elves might prosper again and live in peace. That day a fleet of ten great elven ships left Drindellia forever, and as the land faded from sight, the Draggard army could be seen advancing upon the beaches.

For five long months the elves sailed ever westward until they finally reached Agora. They landed on the easternmost coast of Uthen-Arden and made contact with the people of Opalmist. Soon, the ruler of Arden— at that time, King Thoerolus— heard of the refugees and went personally to see them. Whill knew many songs, in both human and elven tongues, that told of the meeting between the queen of the elves and the good king of Arden. The king agreed to help and gave the elves a great land in the southeast, which they called Elladrindellia. Since then, the elves had lived there quietly and built great cities—the likes of which had never been seen in Agora.

Whill had heard countless stories of the elves from Abram and never tired of them. He longed to meet one someday, but that was not likely since they did not leave their territory often, and humans had been banned long ago, by King Thoerolus, from entering without permission. Most people regarded the elves with fear, mostly because of their use of what humans called magic. The dwarves particularly despised the elves and blamed them for the appearance of the Draggard in Agora. For two hundred years both men and elves had kept the Draggard at bay. They always came from the east and were always defeated by the navies of the five kingdoms. But recently the Draggard had been attacking from all sides, and had already overtaken the Ebony Mountains and made them their own. This only infuriated the dwarves more, intensifying their distrust in the elves.

Whill thought of the stories and wondered if he should indeed become a knight of Eldalon. Abram had told him of the war that would come, and suspected that Abram would expect him to become a soldier. Whill headed back towards the city as the sun climbed higher in the sky. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Freston.

He entered the city and rode to the shipbuilder’s house. Abram was already there, and they soon continued the plans for the ship. Freston calculated what it would cost in materials to build, and estimated the time in labor for each of his three sons. This brought the total to one hundred gold coins, hardly one percent of Whill’s fortune.

That night Whill and Abram enjoyed a hearty dinner before visiting the Wet Whistle again. For hours they listened to Barlemew tell his tall tales of dragon attacks and mermaids.

The next day Whill awoke to find a light rain falling on Fendale. From the grey sky, thin sheets of mist lazily fell to the earth. He was unsure of the time since the sun failed to shine through the thick clouds. He guessed it was only a couple hours past dawn. He got up and stretched with a great yawn, and was about to begin washing when he saw a note on the small table:

Whill,

I’ve gone to take care of some small business. I’ll be back after dusk.

-Abram

Whill wondered what business Abram was tending to. He was a little disappointed that his friend would not be at the docks; today began the building of his ship. He finished washing and dressed. After a small breakfast he headed to the Fendale Bank, on horseback, and withdrew enough gold to pay Freston in advance and buy Abram a gift. After stowing the gold in his saddlebags, he headed for Freston’s house. Making his way down Fendale’s main street, he felt as though he was being watched. Since the tournament, many people recognized him as he passed by; he gave rise to many hushed whispers and pointing fingers wherever he went, and some children even asked for his signature. But this was not the feeling of adoring fans watching him. It was more like the feeling he had in the woods before the wolves attacked.

He stopped his horse and looked around. Rain fell softly on the cobblestones as a woman shook a rug from a second-story window. Only a small crowd moved about the fairly quiet street; three children hurried after two women; men on horseback rode by, talking loudly; a kid pulling a wheel cart ran past. The strange feeling did not ebb as Whill searched for its source. He began to ride again, slightly faster now.

The feeling followed him all the way to Freston’s door. Once inside, he peered out through its small window. A lone horseman slowly rode by, coming from the same direction that Whill had. He could not determine whether the man had been following him, for he looked straight ahead and showed no interest in the house.

“Are you ready to begin work on your beauty?”

Whill jumped. The old man looked at him oddly. “Are you alright, Whill?”

“Uh, yeah, fine, a little jumpy. I brought payment for the ship.” He handed over the heavy bag of gold coins. “That is the agreed-upon amount.”

Freston’s eyes grew wide as he felt the weight of the gold. “You know, you could have just transferred the gold from your vault to mine.”

Whill felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, it didn’t cross my mind. I should have assumed that a man such as you would have his own vault. Now I feel like a genuine ass.”

“No matter,” assured Freston. “But you shouldn’t travel the city with so much gold. There isn’t a person in Fendale who doesn’t know about your victory—or your generosity. You have become a target of bandits and thieves already, I’m sure. But they will not be bold enough to try to rob you here in the city. They will wait until you set sail.”

“I could just leave the money here in Fendale.”

“That you could, but they will assume you have the gold on you anyway. Your best bet is to trade whatever gold you might take for jewels, which are much easier to carry and less difficult to conceal. As for setting sail, I would ask for a naval escort if I were you.”

Whill pondered the situation. “Maybe you’re right. Would Lord Rogus grant such an escort?”

“He could spare at least one ship, I’m sure. Don’t worry yourself about it. Abram has been through worse than a pirate raid. I’m sure he is prepared for such things.” Freston smiled reassuringly. “Now let’s see how my boys are coming with the frame.”

Whill followed Freston the short distance to the dock entrance. There were many ways to get to the docks; at least twenty passages led from different parts of the city down into the great cave. They headed down a wide spiral stairway lit by large torches mounted every few feet. As they descended, Whill’s excitement increased. He had, of course, read about the great cave-harbor of Fendale, and had even seen elaborate drawings of it in many books. Now he was having his own ship built there. They reached the end of the stairway and Whill beheld the great harbor.

The cave was bigger than Whill had envisioned—at least a half a mile across, as far as he could tell. Its ceiling was more than two hundred feet high in some places. Light from the sun, along with the ocean waters, came in through four great gates carved out of the cave wall and reflected off its shiny mineral rich surface. He guessed the distance from the back wall to the gates was about a thousand feet. It was hard to believe that above them sat the great city of Fendale. Within the immense cave there were over a hundred ships docked. The harbor was abuzz with movement. There were fisherman unloading their latest catch from giant nets and merchants loading their cargo for distant cities of Agora. Others unloaded cargo that had just been imported to the city, carrying large bags of grain or hauling large barrels from the decks.

Whill was in awe. He followed Freston to where his ship was being built, and noticed a large section of the docks that was for use only by the royal navy. Great warships the likes of which he had only seen in books loomed overhead. They were massive, nearly three hundred feet long. Down the large ramps of some came soldiers in full armor, while on others, soldiers were boarding to spend a few months patrolling the great ocean. It was a very emotional sight; while the returning soldiers were greeted by their loved ones—with open arms and many hugs and kisses—the departing soldiers endured the tears of theirs. Women and children waved and blew kisses as one of the ships launched, the great many large oars protruding from its lower sides rowing in perfect unison. Freston stopped and bowed his head as the women began the farewell song. Taking his lead, Whill did the same as the voices of the women rose to the ceiling and echoed throughout the vast harbor.

Goodbye, my love, till your ship returns

To the city of light, where the elven torch burns.

May the ocean be kind, may the wind catch your sail

May the stars guide true, and may your vessel not fail.

As the light from the sun rises each day

In my heart you will dwell, and forever stay.

Though foe you may find, and fell they may be,

You will vanquish each threat, you are kings of the sea.

If darkness doth find you, and find you it may,

Think of the clear light that shines night and day.

I’ll wait for you here till your ship returns

To the city of light, where the elven torch burns.

The song ended as the ship left the cave and entered the open sea. Freston raised his head with watery eyes. “My father was a soldier for the royal navy. I was only ten when my mother and I sang that very song. I was forty when my wife sang it for my eldest son.” He gave the women a nod and smile as they walked by— some with children, some without. “Their ships never returned, my father’s nor my son’s.”

He started for the building site. Whill followed, not quite knowing what to say. His mood had been greatly dampened by the sight of the leaving ship—and by the song. “This city has lost many men to the sea, be they fisherman or soldiers,” Freston said. “Dragons, pirates, storms, and the Draggard wars are a constant threat to all who venture over the great waters. Every month one or more ships do not return, and lately their number has doubled. There is a need for more and more soldiers to hold the eastern borders of Agora. Ships that used to be gone for only weeks are now on duty for months. There is hardly anyone in this city who has not known loss to the ocean. Yet, we love it still. And we will remain people of the blue waters until the day they overtake this land.”

Whill looked at the old man as he spoke, and saw him as he had not before. Within his weathered face and pale blue eyes, he now saw a quiet sadness.

“I never knew my father,” Whill said. “All I know of him is that he died when I was just an infant. I sympathize with your great loss and hope that no other befalls you.”

“Tragedy is a storm we all must weather, my friend. To let it break you is the worst tragedy of all. Instead, we stand tall in defiance and wear a smile when all reason for smiling has left us. Let this great vessel of yours be a symbol of defiance of your own tragedy, and let us take joy in it.”

Whill wondered if Abram had gotten his optimism from living in Fendale. He was never discouraged by anything—a virtue he had tried to instill in Whill at an early age, and for which he was now thankful. Without such an influence, he could have easily become a very different man.

“Ah, here we are.” They had finally reached the building platform. Three men were busy at work on the frame of what would become Whill’s ship. Freston put two fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle. The men stopped what they were doing and greeted their father.

“Come here, boys. I’d like you to meet a friend.” The men put down their tools and joined Whill and Freston on the walking platform. Whill extended a hand and shook with each of them in turn.

“Aye, Kellis is the name. Nice to meet you,” said the first and biggest of the three men. He wore brown pants and boots with a white shirt cut off at the sleeves. His long brown hair was pulled into a tail to keep it away as he worked. A thick beard covered his jolly face, and his father’s eyes, as bright as his smile, peered at Whill above a proud nose.

“Name’s Trellen,” said the second man. He was dressed like his brother with the exception of a black shirt. His hair was brown like Kellis’s, but it hung in curly clumps about his face. His smile was like his father’s also, though his face was clean-shaven.

“Nice to meet you, Whill. I’m Leukas,” said the third and youngest man. He wore white pants that had been soiled with sawdust; his shirt was blue and long at the sleeves. His hair was long like his brothers’, but blond rather than brown, and it was pulled back like Kellis’s. He wore a thin, pointed beard on his chin and long thin sideburns. He was the best-looking of the three, with a well-defined jaw and sharp features.

“So, boys, how goes it?” Freston asked, eyeing the frame of the ship.

“It’s going as well as it can. We’re actually ahead of schedule,” said Trellen with a proud smile.

Whill gazed with pride at the one-hundred-foot-long skeleton that would become his ship. He could hardly wait until the day they launched.

“You gentlemen mind a little help?” Whill asked, ready to get his hands dirty.

“The more help the better,” answered Leukas.

Kellis put a hand on Whill’s shoulder. “It’s good to see a man with money who is still eager to work.”

Together the five of them went to work. Whill enjoyed the company of Freston’s sons and was eager to learn all he could about the building process. He asked many questions, which the men were happy to answer. He was impressed by their passion for building. Even Freston, who had been building all his life, still went at the project with great enthusiasm. As the sun set over the ocean, they called it a day and agreed to start again at first light.

Whill left the dock feeling excited and energetic, eager to tell Abram all he had learned. But first he rode to one of the many blacksmiths in the city and bought a full set of armor for Abram. Since he had won his own beautiful armor on account of Abram, he felt it only fair that the man have his own. He paid the blacksmith and, with the armor in a large bag, headed for Ocean Mist. As he rode down the main street to their lodgings, he suddenly felt the eyes again. Trying to ignore it, he rode on looking straight ahead. He wasn’t as perceptive as Abram, but he could not shake the intense feeling of being watched. He abruptly stopped his horse and jerked his head to look behind him—but no one was there. Nor did he see anyone on the rooftops of the large, surrounding buildings. This part of the street was fairly empty but for the occasional horseman or guard. Indeed, no one looked at all threatening or took any apparent interest in him.

Whill urged his horse into a quick trot and was happy to see Tarren waiting by the Ocean Mist door. He dismounted and handed the reins to the boy.

“Hello, Master Whill!”

“Good day, Tarren.” He surveyed the surrounding street. Still he found nothing to justify his paranoia.

“I heard that you defeated Knight Rhunis at the tournament. I wish I could have seen it,” Tarren said with great jubilation as he acted out a mock swordfight. “Do you think you could teach me some moves?”

Whill looked at him with amusement. “Do you hope to be a knight yourself one day?”

Tarren nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. I can’t wait until I’m of age for the tryouts.”

“Well, if your father says it’s alright, then I would be happy to.”

Whill didn’t think that the boy could exhibit more joy than he already had, but at this response, he managed to. “That will be great! Do I get my own sword?”

“Slow down, my young friend. Let’s start with your father’s permission and then we’ll work out the details.” He gave Tarren a gold coin. “Take good care of that horse for me. We’ve been through a lot together. And see to it that this bag of goods finds its way to my room.” Tarren looked at the coin with wide eyes and thanked him.

Once inside, Whill spotted Abram sitting at their usual table near the bar, facing the door—he had a thing for facing the door. Whill took the opposite seat.

“How did the day treat you, Whill?”

He eagerly told him about the ship and what they had accomplished. Soon the serving girl from the other morning came to the table.

“Ready to order?” She aimed a particular smile at Whill.

“Beef stew for me—with fresh bread—and another bottle of mead, please,” said Abram.

“I’ll have the same, Miss—”

The girl stared at Whill as if transfixed. “Oh, sorry, my name is Brillia.”

“Brillia. That’s a beautiful name. Mine’s Whill.”

“I know.” She blushed. “I mean, everyone has heard of your fight with Rhunis. My father told me all about it. He’s been bragging that the best fighter in Eldalon is staying at Ocean Mist. Well, I’ll be back shortly with your food.” Abram gave him a withering look. Whill waited until she had disappeared through the kitchen door before he spoke. “Do you think it’s bad that so many know of our whereabouts? Because of the gold, I mean?”

“Yes, I do.” Abram seemed tense. Whill could tell something was on his mind.

“Freston brought it to my attention that we should be careful of thieves.”

Abram looked annoyed. “Of course we should be careful. I’m surprised no one has yet tried to rob us. You go about throwing your gold around like it’s candy and you wonder if we might get a little attention from the no-good scoundrels that walk these very streets. I haven’t raised you to be naive.”

Whill looked at Abram with burning eyes. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

“I’m not treating you like—”

“Yes, you are! And what of you, Abram? If anything, I was taking your lead in my generosity. Of course it’s crossed my mind that we are in danger of thieves, but if they have half a brain they know the gold is locked up. And if they do try to take it from us I wish them luck, for they will bleed before they get their greedy hands on a single coin. It is I who beat Rhunis in that tournament—I, a man, not a child—and it was I who saved your hide from those wolves. But that means nothing to you. You eagerly sign me up to fight one of best knights in Eldalon, but you think me too weak to handle my own past.”

Whill had not been this angry in a long time, and never at Abram. He knew he was overreacting but he couldn’t stop. It was as if a dam had broken, releasing years of animosity towards Abram about the secrets he would not reveal.

“What if you had been killed by those wolves, or that damned black bear last year?” he went on. “Or any of the many battles you fought when I was just a child? Where would I be then? If you were dead, there would be no one to tell me what only you know.” He breathed heavily but felt relieved to have his feelings out in the open.

Abram was solemn. “I’m sorry. You are a man to me by every measure, and I am thankful to you for saving my life. Shortly you will know all you wish, as I have told you. You’re right, my death would have robbed you of all of your answers. But if I had not been able to finish your training, you would not be prepared to know them. I have not spent these long years teaching you in order to prepare you for a life of normality or peace. You could be a Knight of Eldalon—or of any kingdom, for that matter—with your knowledge and skill. But that is not your path. Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

Whill felt terrible for what he had said. Abram had saved his life countless times. He had dedicated nineteen years to Whill’s well-being and had treated him as a son. He began to apologize but could not find his voice. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked away, ashamed.

“I know, Whill. And I’m sorry for having to put you through all this. But soon we will sail, and soon you will know.”

Brillia returned with the steaming food. It smelled delicious but Whill had lost his appetite. He ate little of the stew and bread, and left the table saying that he was tired from the day’s work. As he lay on his soft bed and watched the moon flirt with the passing clouds, he realized that he indeed was very tired. Sleep soon found him—as did dreams of his long-dead parents. They stood upon a tall hill, waving happily. But he could not reach them; no matter how he tried, he could not find the top of the hill. The faster he climbed, the taller it got… until a mountain stood before him.

Chapter VII

Farewell to the City of Light

THE SUN SHONE IN UPON Whill’s face. The sky was clear blue and the morning air, sweet. A small bird sat at the windowsill peering curiously at Whill, quickly jerking its head to get different angles of him. He sat up as the bird flew away and noticed Abram sitting at the small table, looking at what appeared to be a map.

“Good morning,” he said as Whill climbed out of bed and hurriedly got dressed.

“Damn! I’m supposed to meet the brothers at first light.”

“Relax, I sent word with that boy Tarren that you would be late. I want to show you something.” He gestured to the opposite seat and rotated the map for Whill to see.

“I told you I had small business yesterday. Well, I met with King Mathus and Lord Rogus. The king is very eager to meet with us when we are finished in the mountains.”

“Why?”

Abram took a deep breath as if troubled. “It seems that King Addakon of Uthen-Arden has declared war against Isladon. As we speak, war wages upon its borders. No word has come from King Fenious of Isladon. The Arden navy has blocked off the entire coast, and Mathus fears that Drindale will soon fall.”

Whill sat back in his chair in disbelief. “So Mathus wants to know if we intend to fight?”

“That he does.”

“And you told him yes, I assume.”

“No, I told him our answer will come after we visit Dy’Kore.”

Whill thought for a moment about the severity of a war within Agora. There had not been strife among the kingdoms for more than five hundred years.

“What of the Draggard within the Ebony Mountains?” Whill asked.

“It is as I have warned the kings for years; King Addakon has made them his allies. It was obvious when Addakon did nothing to help Isladon in vanquishing that retched scourge from the mountains. But the kings would not listen. They did not want to believe the ugly truth. Now it is apparent.”

Whill was stupefied. “But how can Addakon persuade his soldiers to fight their own kind—and alongside those demonic beasts?”

“Addakon is of strong mind and he can make his will that of others. His army is nothing but a group of mindless pawns.”

“And what of the people of Uthen-Arden? They must object to this outrage.”

“The people know not of his alliance with the Draggard. He has told them that Fenious is the one who has befriended the fell beasts, and he has turned them against the elves as well. He tells his people that the elves are indeed the masters of the Draggard, and that they are plotting to take all of Agora for their own. I fear that Elladrindellia will be Addakon’s next target.”

Whill sat shocked. “This is ridiculous! King Addakon has treated his people terribly since he has been in power. Never in the history of Arden has there been a more brutal king. How can they believe his lies and follow so blindly?”

“Do not forget, Whill, Addakon would have been carefully planning all this for many years. And though he has treated his people badly, they will follow his lead if presented with a common enemy—especially one as terrible as the Draggard.”

Whill’s mind raced as he tried to comprehend what he had heard. He stood up and slammed his fist down on the table. “We must do something! There is no time to wait for the ship to be finished. Let us go now to the mountains and be done with it! We must tell Mathus that we will fight.”

Abram smiled. “I’d hoped you would say as much.”

With that, Whill and Abram grabbed their things and hurriedly packed their bags. They left Ocean Mist and made their way to the bank on Whill’s horse. Once inside, they converted all but one bag of gold to diamonds. Upon finishing the transaction, they quickly rode to the docks and found Freston.

“We must leave Fendale at once, my friend,” Abram told him.

“What’s wrong? Is there trouble?”

“Yes, of the worst kind.” He quickly explained what he knew of the Isladon siege.

Freston did not seem shocked. “I knew Addakon was no good. Ever since his brother died, things haven’t been right in Arden.”

“We wish to leave today—as soon as possible,” Abram said. “Do you know of anyone who will sell us a vessel?”

“Of course. I will.” He pointed to a small ship docked forty feet away. “I have three of them, as you know, but there is no need to buy it. If you must go, go now and take Old Charlotte. She’s not much to look at but she’s sturdy, and fast.”

Whill stepped forward. “Will you take care of my horse until we return?”

“Like she were my own. And your ship as well, lad. It’s a shame you won’t see her come to life.”

Whill nodded. “I was looking forward to sailing her soon, but that will have to wait.”

Freston led them to a large wooden building built into the back of the cave. It was a store for sailors to get last-minute supplies. Whill ordered dried meats, cheese, bread, and a barrel of water. Next to the water he noticed barrels of wine, mead, and... “Dragon’s Brew”. He read the bold red letters, laughing to himself, and said, “I’ll take a small barrel of old Barlemew’s as well.”

He overpaid and carried the meat while a young boy wheeled the rest of the things to the boat. Together, Whill and Abram loaded the vessel and said their farewells to Freston and his sons.

“Are you ready to sail, my boy?”

“That I am, sir. That I am.”

Together they opened the sail and quickly caught wind. Whill took in the familiar smell of the ocean water. With the wind in his hair and the wheel in hand, he steered them westward. Their path would bring them completely around the western coast of Eldalon, roughly a thousand miles, to the port town of Sherna.

Whill regretted having to leave Fendale; he loved its people and the city itself. But at least now he would find out his past, the secret of which was locked away somewhere in the dark recesses of the Ky’Dren Mountains.

They sailed steady the entire day until the sun began to set behind the vast blue ocean. It appeared to be bigger than usual, soft orange behind the clouds.

“Ah, sunset upon the ocean,” Abram mused as the sun’s rays shot up from behind the clouds in brilliant hues. “Never will man mimic such beauty.”

With the stars came a chill that rode on the wind as the night air pushed the ship steadily along. Whill shivered with the drop in temperature. Abram went below and retrieved his long, hooded brown robe.

“I was going to give you this in Fendale on your birthday next week, but I figure you’ll be needing it now. Besides, I can’t hide it forever.” He held up a large black fur coat. “I saved some of the wolf hides and gave a tailor your measurements.”

Whill inspected the fine coat. It was black as a moonless night and so long it would fall to his knees. Around the waist was a long strip of leather to hold it tight, and there were large silver buttons down the front.

“Thank you, Abram! It is a fine gift.” He put the coat on and buttoned it up. It was very warm and a welcome barrier against the wind.

As the night passed Whill kept true to their course; with the silhouette of the coast to his far left, it was hard to veer off. Abram put a hand on his shoulder. “You can handle her for a while, eh? I’m going to catch some sleep.”

“Go ahead, I’ll be fine.”

As he stood at the wheel, hypnotized by the steady crashing of small waves and the endless bobbing of the boat, Whill thought of the journey ahead. They had ventured the Ky’Dren Mountains before, but that had been years ago, when Whill was just a boy. Still, he knew much of the history of the mountains—and indeed of every land. He and Abram had lived for a time in many towns, and he had learned many of the traditions and ways of the various peoples. They had stayed in Brindon, Orenden, Bearadon, and even Belldon of the Shierdon kingdom.

Most major towns of Shierdon were built on the edges of Lake Eardon. It was more than 150 miles across, with a large island, Belldon, taking up the middle. Belldon was more of a fortress than a town. In the early days, during the war between the kingdoms, the people of Shierdon could retreat to Belldon and find safe refuge. No army in the history of Agora had ever overtaken the island fortress. As people settled and spread throughout Agora, there were often wars waged over land as each king fought to increase the size of his own kingdom or take over another. Many times Belldon had saved its people, being virtually inaccessible but by boat.

In those days there were many more than four kingdoms of men. What was now Uthen-Arden had at one time been made up of more than twelve small kingdoms, constantly battling for power. As the years passed and lands were taken by war, two kingdoms rose above the rest—Uthen and Arden. After a bloody war between the two, they finally ended the strife and outlined their borders in the Uthen-Arden Peace Treaty. The kingdom of Uthen spanned from what was now the Isladon border, and the existing mountain border of Ky’Dren, eastward to the center of the Thendor Plains. The kingdom of Arden extended from there to the easternmost coast of Agora, beyond the Elgar Mountains and including what was now called Elladrindellia.

The two kingdoms lived in peace for nearly four hundred years until war broke out between them once again. The great war of Uthen-Arden raged for more than thirty years, during which time children were born to both kings: Aldolas, son of the king of Arden and heir to the throne; and Bryella, daughter of the king of Uthen—an old man who had yet failed to produce a son of his own. In the midst of the war, a secret love affair arose between Aldolas and Bryella. It happened that when both kings fell in battle on the Thendor Plains, Aldolas became king of Arden. Shortly after, he called an end to the war and took Bryella as his queen, combining the two great kingdoms into one called Uthen-Arden—though many referred to it simply as Arden.

Isladon had established itself long before the wars of Uthen-Arden. The borders that existed along the Ebony Mountains and down to the coast were made years before either great kingdom came to power. Though many attempts had been made to overtake Isladon, none had succeeded.

Eldalon was the oldest, and possibly strongest, of the four kingdoms of men. This was mostly due to the mountain borders and the Ky’Dren Pass, against which many armies had marched and been defeated. Unlike all other kingdoms, Eldalon maintained a strong alliance with the dwarves. According to legend, this amiable relationship dated back to the time when the king of Eldalon gave the great mountains back to the Dwarves; it had been taken by what was, at one time, the barbarian kingdom of Gothneck. The mines of the Ky’Dren were rich with gold and diamonds, and the dwarves thought a man who would give back such a treasure must be of the noblest kind. They never forgot Eldalon’s kindness and fought alongside it every time the Ky’Dren Pass was challenged.

Whill looked forward to meeting the Ky’Dren dwarves, but more so, he looked forward to finding out what secrets of his their deep chambers and vaults possessed. As he went over the long history of Agora in his mind, he wondered if there was indeed a possibility that it would ever fall to the Draggard. After all, the beasts had conquered the elves of Drindellia. True, the armies of Agora were strong—and the navies stronger still—but the elves had powers that humans did not; if they could be defeated by the Draggard, then what chance did humans have?

Though the sky was clear and the night was calm, Whill was troubled. Suddenly he heard a loud banging noise that jolted him from his trance. Abram appeared from below the deck, swearing loudly and rubbing his head. Whill laughed. “You alright, old man?”

“The damned ceiling down there was made for a dwarf. I swear, if it were any lower I would have to crawl around like a fragging dog.”

“Well, Mr. Brightside, at least you’ve still a head to hit things on—it’s got to be the hardest head this side of the Thendor Plains,” Whill said, mocking Abram’s voice, which he happened to be very good at.

“Very funny.” Abram checked his fingers for blood.

“If you like, I could try to find you an iceberg to bring down the swelling.”

Abram chuckled. “Alright, jester, why don’t you get some rest. I’ll take over for the rest of the night.”

Whill gave Abram a pat on the back as he took over the wheel. He went below deck to the sleeping quarters and crossed the dark room with his arms outstretched. Suddenly he banged his head on a low beam. A flash of light appeared before his eyes and he became dizzy. Sharp pain shot from his throbbing forehead as he heard Abram burst into a fit of laughter above.

“Look out for that beam! My father always said what comes around goes around. You all right, boy?”

“Never better,” Whill grumbled as he found the cot. “Good night.”

Chapter VIII

Diamonds and Greed

“WAKE UP, WHILL, WE HAVE trouble!”

Abram shook Whill out of his quiet and dreamless sleep. He sat straight up in the cot, alert and ready. “What is it?”

“Come above.” Abram started for the steps.

Whill followed Abram to the deck and looked at the sails and then the ocean with wonder as the older man untied rope holding the wheel steady. “What’s wrong?”

Abram pointed to the rear of the ship. “There.”

Whill followed Abram’s finger toward the horizon. With the morning sun just rising in the east, it was not hard to see the faint dot. “A ship, I presume?”

Abram nodded, troubled. “I noticed it not an hour ago. Whoever they are, they have been following our course steady, and they’re gaining.”

“Pirates!” Whill spat over the side of the boat.

“Yes. Followed us from Fendale, I imagine.” He slammed his hand down hard on the rail. “Damn, but I am a fool. We are not prepared for this.”

“Can we outrun them?” Whill asked.

Abram answered bluntly. “No. This ship is no match for theirs.” He paused. “We could sail toward shore and try to make land in time.” He pointed toward the coast, which was nothing more than a phantom beyond the fog.

“But broad cliffs line those shores for miles. Our only option is to fight.” Whill looked at the ship upon the horizon, already growing larger. “What if we just give them the diamonds? That’s what they want.”

“Pirates have a code, as you know: leave no man alive whom you have wronged. They will take what they want and kill us without hesitation.”

“Then what chance do we stand?”

Abram smiled at him. “None but hope, my friend—hope that our path is not destined to end here. That is all we have.”

Whill was not encouraged by Abram’s speech. “We should start tossing everything we don’t need!”

“That will give us a little more speed and a little more time, but not enough. Let us prepare for battle.” Abram loaded his quiver with arrows. Whill went below and donned his armor from the tournament. He also grabbed the armor he had bought for Abram and brought it up to the deck.

“I was going to give this to you yesterday, but we left in such a hurry I didn’t have a chance.” He held out the bag.

Abram emptied it and marveled at the silver armor. He gave Whill a one-armed hug and pat on the back. “Thank you, Whill. Not only is this a wonderful gift, but it could’ve come at no better time.”

The hours passed and the ship gained steadily on them. Soon it was not more than a half-mile away. Whill could now see that it was a black ship with all-black sails—but for a large dragon symbol outlined in white at the center of each.

“That can’t be,” Whill gasped.

“I’m afraid it is—The Black Dragon.”

Whill knew of the Black Dragon, as did most people living in Agora. The ship and its captain, the notorious pirate Cirrosa, had once been part of the Arden navy. Their last mission had been to escort a merchant ship sailing from the port city of Hentaro. Destined for Fendale, the cargo had been a wealth of diamonds and jewels—over twenty chests. After sailing from Hentaro, neither the Black Dragon nor the merchant vessel were seen again. It was rumored that the ships were lost to a great storm or destroyed by dragons, but when a vessel identical to the Black Dragon was reported to have been plundering ships, it became clear to the king and people of Arden that it was indeed Captain Cirrosa and his crew. Since then, Cirrosa had become the most feared and wanted pirate to sail the great oceans of Agora.

Abram scowled at the approaching ship. “We have but one advantage: the element of surprise.”

Whill knew exactly what Abram had in mind and he quickly went to work. From one of his bags he retrieved a length of bandage cloth. He tore it into long thin strips and wound them around the end of his arrows. Next he dismantled a lantern, opening it at the basin so that he could dip the arrows into the oil. He and Abram quickly converted ten arrows in this manner. Finally, Abram lit a torch and they were ready for their surprise attack, feeble though it might be. There was nothing to do now but wait.

When the Dragon seemed to Whill to be about two hundred yards away. He nodded to Abram, gesturing for him to light his arrow. With the tip of his arrow ablaze, Whill steadily pulled back on the bow as he aimed at a point high in the sky. Bringing the bowstring all the way back until the feather of the arrow touched his cheek, he fired. The blazing arrow flew high into the sky in a large arch and began its descent upon the ship. Instead of hitting the sails, it missed and landed on the deck of the vessel. Whill and Abram could hear someone cursing and screaming obscenities, and assumed it was Captain Cirrosa ordering his men to put out the small blaze. As the first arrow hit, though, Whill was ready with another. Abram lit this one in the same fashion and Whill recalculated his shot. The second arrow took flight and found its target. It hit the closest sail in a small burst of flame, which quickly began to spread. Men swung from ropes, trying to douse the fire with buckets of water. The captain’s barked orders became more urgent now, and Whill heard him yelling, “Drop sail, you useless fish turds, drop sail!”

Before the crew of the Dragon could comply, Whill shot another arrow at the same sail, this time hitting higher than before. He followed with two more aimed at the deck of the ship. Still, the Dragon had gained enough that Whill could see a small group of archers preparing to fire upon them. He let loose another arrow, aiming this time directly at them. The men saw it coming and ducked out of the way as the arrow stuck in the mainmast, spraying liquid fire on the surrounding ship. They quickly resurfaced, though, and shot a barrage of their own arrows. Whill yelled, “Get down!” and ducked in the stern as they struck the deck.

Not daring to peek over the side of the ship, Whill watched as Abram abandoned the torch and went for his own bow, which lay beside him. He readied an arrow and said, “Alright, when they get—” but his words were interrupted by a deafening crash as the Black Dragon rammed them at the starboard rear. Huddled close to stern, Whill and Abram were now smashed hard against it from the great force of the collision. As they recovered from the blow, they saw the bow of the Dragon come into view. It loomed high over Old Charlotte and seemed ten times as broad. Abram scrambled into a shooting position, as did Whill, and as the archers came into view, the pair took down two of them with simultaneous shots. Their fellow archers cursed them as they let their own arrows fly. Anticipating the return fire, and with no immediate cover, Abram grabbed Whill and ran for the sleeping quarters. Arrows fell right where they had been, and more followed close at their heels. Abram and Whill had instinctively notched another arrow each, and took the opportunity to fire before the archers could again. They stopped just long enough to get off a clear shot, and then quickly closed the distance to the stairs as two bodies fell to their deck from above.

Whill and Abram hurried down and took cover. Whill stood closest to the opening. “That’s one hell of a large ship,” he said as arrows hit the back wall.

Abram nodded as he readied another arrow.

Whill did the same. “There must be dozens of men aboard.”

“Aye. And here they come.”

Whill heard what could only be large ropes hitting the deck. Abram grabbed his arm and switched places with him.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s no time to bicker.” Abram abandoned his cover, dropped to his knees, and fired three arrows in rapid succession. Whill heard a loud thud as at least one body hit the deck. Abram retreated within the stairway once again and strung another arrow.

“There are seven ropes over the side of the Dragon and men are filing down one after another. We can’t hide here forever. Let’s do the unexpected and meet them head on, my boy. Are you up for a good fight?”

Before Whill could answer, Abram ran out into the opening, firing arrows as he went. Whill followed suit and ran screaming onto the deck. At least twenty men were now descending upon the ship down the long ropes. Whill shot at the men highest of them, hoping they would take some of their fellow seamen with them as they fell. He took up his position next to Abram and they took down two more men. Though they were excellent bowmen, the pirates were too many, and soon they covered the deck. Some had swords, while others brandished a long knife in each hand. Still others carried hatchets and maces. The men didn’t look anything like Whill thought pirates might. They wore rags for clothes and looked very thin, as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks. Two men charged forward and were quickly taken down, but as they fell, four more charged in their place. Outnumbered and out of arrows, Whill and Abram drew swords and made a charge of their own. The men came at them with wild screams and curses, fearless in their attack.

Whill blocked a blow meant for his head and quickly brought his sword down and across the chest of his attacker. Pushing the man back into the group of pirates, he ducked as an arrow zinged past his left ear. Abram had killed two men, and was now fighting a third, but Whill noticed an archer taking aim at his friend. He quickly dispatched another pirate, grabbed his knife, and threw it at the archer high overhead. The blade found its mark and hit the bowman in the throat as the arrow intended for Abram hit a pirate descending the ropes. Two men now came at Whill—one with a hatchet, the other, a sword. The hatchet-wielding pirate made a two-handed overhead attack as the other jabbed straight at Whill’s chest. Whill blocked the swordsman and spun away from the hatchet blow. Abram chopped into the neck of the hatchet-wielder and blocked a blow of yet another foe as Whill parried the swordsman’s attack. The pirate was no match for Whill, who cut the man down with ease. Even as more men came onto the deck, Whill and Abram steadily drove them back.

“Come on, you pirate scum!” Whill screamed as he took down another. Abram was now fighting a large man who was using two swords. Whill again faced a man with a hatchet, who came at him with a wild cry. As the pirate swung at Whill’s head, he quickly blocked the blow. Swinging his sword down hard, he effectively caused the hatchet to lodge in the deck floor. Before the attacking pirate knew what had happened, Whill stabbed him through. Before the body could fall, he impaled another pirate who had just landed on deck. Turning, he grabbed the hatchet stuck in the deck and simultaneously blocked a sword attack. Abram killed Whill’s attacker and was quickly faced with yet another foe. Whill launched the hatchet toward the top of the rope that held the most men. It cut clean and sent six men falling towards the deck. Just then, there was a shout from the ship above.

“Enough!”

Captain Cirrosa leaned with his hands upon the rail, looking down at the battle below. His hair and clothes were black as night. His face was deeply tanned, and rough with age and years at sea. He wore a mustache and pointed chin beard which, along with his menacing eyes, gave him the look of a bird of prey ready to attack.

The attacking pirates stopped where they were, and Whill watched as the rage drained from their faces and was replaced by intense fear. There was a thud as Abram let the last of his attackers fall to the deck, having stabbed him through.

“You useless scum can’t do anything right,” The captain yelled to the men below.

Whill pointed it at Cirrosa. “If you want more of your men to die, then by all means, send them down the ropes. And if you want my diamonds, sir, then come down yourself and try to take them. But I promise you that you will bleed.”

Cirrosa gave a hearty laugh, as did his men from above. The men below did not.

“You have a fighting spirit, young Whill! Good for you. But in fact, you have killed none of my men. Those you have slain are slaves, nothing more.”

Whill looked at the men, who cowered as the captain spoke. They stood with their arms at their sides, heads down, shoulders hunched.

Again Cirrosa laughed. “I told them that if they could kill the two of you, I would set them and their women and children free. If not, they would die.” The crew began to cheer and whistle.

Abram stepped forward. “You always were a heartless killer, Cirrosa.”

The captain’s face lit up. “Abram, my old friend. It’s been a long time. I see you too have abandoned Arden. We have something in common after all.”

Abram ignored Whill’s puzzled look. “For one, Cirrosa, we are not friends. And second, if you do not leave now, you and your men will all die today. Twelve men remain on our ship—slaves, you would call them. But I call them free men who will fight alongside us to free the women and children you speak of.”

Cirrosa laughed again, but cut it short and, instead of a smile, bared his teeth. “I fear that you and your friend have not counted on one thing.” With one swift movement, he produced a long knife and pulled a child close to himself. He put the knife to the child’s throat, and Whill recognized the boy immediately. It was Tarren.

“No!” Whill lurched forward but was halted by Abram. Cirrosa ran the blade teasingly along the terrified boy’s throat.

“You have something I want, and it seems I have something you want. Give me the diamonds and the boy will go unharmed.”

Whill began to curse the captain, but Abram spoke over him. “If we give you the diamonds, you will kill us anyway, along with the boy and these men’s families. We find no comfort in the word of a pirate.”

Cirrosa shook his head and grinned. “So be it. We will kill you all and take the diamonds anyway. Shame, really. I could have gotten good money for this boy.” With that he slit Tarren’s throat and let the boy fall to the deck below. Whill could hear nothing but his own screams as Tarren’s body fell. He ran to his limp body as real pirates now made their way down the ropes.

Cirrosa spoke again, this time to his men. “Kill them all, and one hundred coins to the man who retrieves the diamonds!”

As Whill held the dying boy in his arms, he heard Abram yelling to the slave men, “Fight for me, bleed for me, and I swear your families will not perish!” The slave men answered with a primal scream that could only be produced by the truly oppressed, those who have given up hope for themselves and fight only for the lives of those they love.

As if through a long tunnel, Whill heard faintly the sounds of swords clanging and men fighting. He could not take his eyes off Tarren, who lay in his arms—bleeding from the neck, body broken from the fall. As he watched the boy die, he could distantly hear Abram calling his name and yelling something about getting up. Whill’s head began to churn. His rage alone was enough to make him dizzy. Anger welled within him—anger for Tarren’s death; anger for having killed slaves who were only fighting for freedom; anger that he might die today without learning his true heritage. The injustice of it all sent him into a trance-like state. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand covered Tarren’s throat.

As his flesh made contact with the young boy’s blood, Whill felt a strange sensation run through him. It was as if his energy and life force were suddenly being sucked from his body. Tarren’s chest heaved as a Whill’s energy filled him. Whill became dizzy and disoriented as men fought around them. He became aware of nothing but Tarren and himself and the bond they now shared. A strange blue light was all Whill could see as tide after tide of energy pulsed through his body and into Tarren’s. As the blue light faded into blackness, he was suddenly jolted out of his trance and slammed to the deck as the sounds of the world came rushing in. He saw blood and bodies and fire—and Abram looking down at him.

Over Abram’s shoulder a red dragon flew past.

Abram shook him, but he would not respond. He was unconscious and would remain that way for some time, if he snapped out of it at all. The fighting had slowed as many slaves and pirates stood dumbfounded by what they had seen. Abram rose. There was nothing he could do for Whill now but win this battle. He turned to the slaves.

“Behold, men, your gods fight with you! Go forward without fear, and may their blessings lead your strikes!”

The slaves’ cheers grew into a primal scream. The pirates upon the deck did not live more than ten heartbeats after that. The slaves were heading up the ropes when suddenly an explosion hit the pirate ship, deafening all nearby momentarily, and shaking many from their feet. From the ship Abram saw the source of the carnage: the massive red dragon. The distraction was enough to ensure that the climbing slaves made it up to the deck of the pirate ship—with Abram right behind them. He hit the deck and was engaged by a pirate wearing all black with only a thin slit revealing his eyes. He brandished two daggers and came in hard, slashing with one and stabbing forward with the other. Abram barely avoided the slash but was ready for the stab. When it came, he spun away from the strike and jumped up onto the rail. Knowing that the pirate would go for his ankles, he jumped backwards from his perch and brought his legs up high, tucking his knees, and came down with a powerful slice. As the pirate swiped at his legs with both blades and missed, he had a glimpse of his leaping enemy and a shining blade… and then he saw no more.

The slave men were tearing into the pirate force with reckless abandon. The ship was aflame, and the dragon repeatedly swooped down on the battle to scoop up a pirate in his huge claws or maw. Then down into the battle the dead and bloodied pirate would drop—usually on top of one of his comrades. This horrible image alone sent many pirates scrambling for the rails and into the ocean. Abram had his suspicions as to why the dragon seemed to fight for them, but he did not care; it was enough to sway the battle. The men had already begun opening the many iron doors upon the deck that led to the slave quarters and were setting their families free.

“Get them onto my ship and set sail!” Abram ordered. “Do not wait for me—look for me in the waters!” He spotted Cirrosa making a run for the lower decks and followed. Through a door and into a small stairwell went the most wanted pirate in two centuries—whose scrolled list of crimes against the peoples of every kingdom in Agora would have fallen to the floor. Murder, theft, kidnapping, rape, torture, and many, many more vile and heartless acts—Abram wanted this man dead out of sheer duty if nothing else.

He followed Cirrosa slowly into the mess hall. There was a door to the kitchen on the right, and three doors to the left. He knew the Dragon’s style of ship and took the door to the right. Upstairs and into the captain’s quarters he went cautiously, and there he found Cirrosa and a flying dagger. Abram rolled as he hit the landing, the blade whizzing by his head. Then he leapt to his feet and charged Cirrosa.

“Come on!” The pirate taunted as he brought up his short sword and a long curved dagger. Abram came in hard with a slash to the left that was deflected by the short sword. The dagger came in and Abram spun out, keeping his distance from the blade. Cirrosa went into a slash-and-stab dance that kept Abram on his toes in the close quarters. Cirrosa worked the two blades like a master, but Abram was prepared. He knew the pirate’s fighting style well, for they had been friends for a time in their academy days. He was keeping pace but needed to get one of the blades out of the fight. He deflected the short sword high to the left and came in close, knowing Cirrosa would go for the gut. A split second before Cirrosa thrust with the dagger, Abram was already pulling back from the strike. Down his blade came from the short sword parry; straight came the thrust of Cirrosa’s blade. In an instant Abram sliced deep into Cirrosa’s forearm, nearly severing it. It swung sickeningly from the pirate’s arm. Cirrosa let out a howl of pain and spun away from Abram. The Dragon was rocked again and lurched to the side. Abram and Cirrosa were thrown to the wall. Abram got his footing as quickly as possible and came at the injured captain. Cirrosa’s eyes went wild with pain and rage. He lunged with his blade, but Abram easily blocked it. The pirate was too weak from his injury to win, but Abram knew he wouldn’t stop until the bitter end. Cirrosa would never allow himself to become a prisoner, nor to see the inside of a courtroom. For Cirrosa, being caught meant a fate worse than death.

There was no time for speeches; the ship was falling apart around them. Abram deflected another feeble slash and stabbed Cirrosa through the heart.

Cirrosa jolted and his body froze. Then he found Abram’s gaze and grabbed his shoulders. Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m glad it was you,” he said, and then his eyes went blank.

“So am I.”

Abram watched Cirrosa fall before he fled to the empty and burning deck above, climbed the rail, and dove into the ocean.

Chapter IX

An Ocean of Mystery

WHILL AWOKE TO MORE PAIN than he had ever known. He was sure that he was dead or dying. Every fiber of his being ached to a point that was almost unbearable. He was not sure if he were actually awake or asleep. A fog blurred his vision as strange shapes loomed over him and spoke in a language he could not understand. He tried to move but could not; he tried to speak but found he could not remember how. He lay in fear—fear of the seemingly endless pain, fear of the shadows which spoke to him in such a strange tongue.

Once again he blacked out and slipped into the world of dreams. He could see a man and woman standing upon a small hill. Though he did not remember ever seeing them, he knew they were his parents. Joy flooded through him as he ran toward them, ready to finally embrace the mother and father who had been stolen from him. But as he ran the hill grew bigger, and his parents’ smiles withered. The faster he ran, the higher the hill grew until it was a mountain before him, and his parents’ faces smiled skeletons’ grins—he realized the mountain was time itself

Whill screamed as he awoke and sat up. His vision was still blurry and the strange figures grabbed at him. He tried to fend them off but they soon subdued him. Vaguely he recognized the boy Tarren sitting next to him, smiling. He knew then that he was dreaming again, for Tarren was dead. He struggled to wake. As his vision grew clearer, he could now see that with Tarren sat many women and children he did not know. He tried to move and was almost rendered unconscious as pain jolted through his body. As his vision blurred again, he saw Abram walking towards him. Then blackness found him once more.

He lay in great pain while the voices spoke soothingly. Then the blue light returned, slowly at first, dancing along the edges of his vision. As it became stronger, his pain finally left him and he found he could sit up. Surrounded by the blue light, he now saw a figure, a person, standing before him. The figure drew close enough that he could tell it was a woman. She came and knelt before him. Her hair was so long that when she knelt it touched the ground. It was brown and shone with a great radiance, as did her body. Her face was a picture of pure beauty; her skin smooth as silk. Her eyes were bright blue—the irises ringed in a darker shade—and within them Whill sensed great compassion and kindness, and wisdom beyond mortal understanding. He thought he must be dreaming of his mother again until he noticed her ears. They were pointed and protruded from under her hair. He knew at once that he was in the presence of an elf. As he stared in wonder, she simply smoothed his hair back and spoke, in an almost humming tone, the same words over and over: “Endalla orn, Whill, elan orna menon, lelalda wea shen ora.”

He was lulled into a deep and peaceful sleep, one without pain or fear. As the elf woman’s voice slowly faded, he felt more at peace than ever he had before.

The bed rocked slowly, and Whill could feel a wet cloth being applied to his forehead. His body ached and his throat burned, but he had enough strength to open his eyes. He was in the sleeping quarters of Old Charlotte, where more than a two dozen women and children sat staring at him with strange expressions. Instantly he surveyed the surrounding crowd for the elven beauty, but to no avail. The only women in the room were human, and none of them resembled the elf. Perhaps he had been dreaming after all…except that she had seemed more real than these women did now.

“Please, my good lady,” he said to the woman sponging his forehead. “Where has the elven woman gone?”

She gave him a queer look. “I’m sorry, lad, there is no elf here. You still have a fever. You should rest some more.”

Whill ignored her request and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Dressed only in his pants, he quickly grabbed a shirt and threw it on. Again he surveyed the surrounding people. They wore ragged clothes, and their hair was dirty and matted. They looked as though they had not bathed or eaten in weeks. He assumed that these were the families of the men who had first attacked—but how had they gotten onto his ship, and where were the pirates? He needed to find Abram.

With the woman’s help, he stood and made his way to the stairs. He stepped on deck and into the open air, and instantly began to feel better as the cool wind and saltwater mist bathed his face. The sun hung low in the east; it was just past dawn. Abram was at the wheel, talking with a young slave boy. Four of the slave men were on deck also, and they gave Whill friendly smiles. He simply nodded; even though he had no choice, he felt ashamed for killing their friends.

Abram turned, as if sensing Whill’s approach. The boy turned too. When Whill saw the child’s face, he froze. It was Tarren.

“Whill, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Abram with a warm laugh.

Tarren stood smiling, seemingly oblivious to what had happened to him. Whill reached out to touch his head and peered at the boy’s neck. There was no sign that it had ever been cut.

“Are you feeling better, Whill?” Tarren asked.

“Uh, yes…yes, I feel better.”

“That’s good, you gave us a good scare. Thank you, Whill. Thank you for saving me.” There were tears in his eyes as he flung his arms around Whill’s waist, who returned the hug and patted his back. There were a million questions on his tongue, but he bit them back behind an awkward smile.

“You’re welcome, Tarren, you’re welcome.”

Tarren released Whill after a few moments and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Abram broke the silence. “Tarren, lad, do you think you could steer the old girl for a while so I can speak with Whill?”

“Yes, sir, I sure could!”

Abram put his arm on Whill’s shoulder and led him to the front of the ship so they could talk privately.

“Abram, what’s going on? How can Tarren be alive? What happened to me back there? Where are the pirates?”

“Relax, Whill, relax. It can all be explained. First off, you have been in a feverish sleep for two days now.”

“Two days!”

“Yes. You would wake up screaming and flailing about. I assumed you were having nightmares. You have been running a high fever up until this morning. How do you feel now?”

“I’m hungry as all hell, but otherwise I feel alright. Why, what happened?”

Abram studied Whill for a moment as if trying to read something of his health. “You don’t know what you did?”

“No. After Tarren fell I took him in my arms, then everything went strange and I blacked out.”

“You healed him, Whill. You saved his life.”

Whill shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“When you went to Tarren, I was rallying the slave men to fight. Everything happened at once. The pirates attacked again; down the ropes they came and we began to fight. But you would not move. I screamed to you to get up, to fight, but you were not with us—not in mind, anyway. You just stared at Tarren, and then you put your hand upon his throat.” Abram stopped and looked at the slave men and at Tarren.

“When you touched Tarren’s throat, Whill, your hand began to glow with blue light. It was faint at first, but then it grew until it was hard to look directly at it. So bright it was that it took the attention of all who were near. Even the pirates who had just joined the fight stared in awe, transfixed by what they were witnessing. Having seen an energy healing before, I knew what was happening—and what danger you were in. As fast as I could, I ran and pushed you back to break your contact with the boy.”

Whill took in what he had just heard. “So I healed Tarren with my own energy?”

“Yes, but you didn’t know what you were doing. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have poured all of your life force into Tarren and dropped dead on the spot.”

“But how could I have done that? Only elves have the power to heal with energy. Everyone knows that it is not a human gift.” Then he remembered the elf from his dreams, and how he had at first mistaken her for his mother. “Was my mother an elf? Is that why I was able to heal Tarren?”

Abram studied Whill for a moment, as if deciding upon something. “No, Whill, she was not.”

Whill let out a frustrated sigh. “Then why do I have such powers, and to what extent do I have them?”

Abram gave Whill a sympathetic smile. “You have a gift. I was surprised when you healed Tarren; I had no idea you would be able to tap into your abilities before you were properly trained—but you did. How you did it I do not know. It seems that your emotions were so strong, you instinctively did what was needed to save the boy, but since you have no control, it was very dangerous. It takes a great deal of energy to heal a person who is on the brink of death. Not only did you heal his wound, you mended his broken bones as well. That is why the feat took such a toll on you. It takes as much energy from the healer as it would take for the person to heal himself.”

“That doesn’t explain how I can do it.”

“That, my friend, I would rather explain to you, along with everything else, within the mountain.”

Whill had known that would be the answer, but he was too mentally drained to argue. “Fine, then. At least tell me what became of the pirates.”

Abram’s face relaxed, visually relieved to have the subject changed. He put his hands on the rail and began to recall the events after Whill’s blackout.

When he finished, Whill was wide-eyed. “And the dragon didn’t advance?”

Abram laughed. “No. It finished off the pirate ship, circled overhead twice, and flew away.”

“Why did it help us?”

Abram shook his head. “I really don’t know, Whill. It may be that when it saw what you were doing to Tarren, it thought you were indeed an elf. The dragons and elves have a strange friendship, as you are aware. It has been less strong of late, since the creation of the Draggard by the Dark elf Eadon. But some loyalty still lies between them.”

Whill was at a loss for words. He couldn’t believe how they had all escaped such peril. And he still had not fully absorbed the fact that he had healed Tarren with energy. His head began to ache as he pondered the implications of such powers.

Abram again put his hand upon his shoulder. “Come, Whill, let’s get you something to eat. You’ve lost at least ten pounds in the last two days, or hadn’t you noticed? The slaves, it turns out, are from Eldon Island. The Eldonians are great fisherman and have caught quite a feast.”

Whill regarded the men at the opposite side of the boat. “They hold no animosity towards us? After all, we killed many of their people.”

“No, they do not blame us. They know we had no choice; we did what we had to do. On the contrary, they are grateful that we helped free them. Now come, and do not feel ashamed.”

Whill followed Abram to the rear of the ship and together they joined the Eldonian men. The men had caught a bundle of tuna, which Whill was eager to accept. Though he still felt awkward around them, he could not deny his hunger. He ate four bowls of the tuna as he listened to the Eldonians speak of their homeland. Eldon was a large island off the southern coast of Eldalon. In times of war it had been used as a lookout point. In the event that an attacking fleet was spotted, the people of Eldon would light great beacons atop the mountain peaks, which thus became known as the Burning Mountains. In return for their constant watch over the waters, the Eldonians received protection from the king of Eldalon, and were allowed to live the way they had for centuries. Fishermen by trade, they lived peacefully on their island and were thought by many to be a primitive people. They shunned many of the ways and practices of the mainland peoples and were content to live by their own customs.

Whill listened with admiration as an Eldonian man spoke of the ways of his people. “We want only blue skies and long lives; we are happy having what we need. The want for unnecessary material things leads only to envy and greed; wars are spawned from such ways of thought. We help the king of Eldalon because, in this day, it is a necessity for us to have his protection. We will defend our shores, if need be, but we would rather live in peace, as we were intended to.”

He paused and looked at Whill, who glanced away, uneasy. “When the pirates took us we were far out at sea, which is why Eldalon was not alerted to our dilemma,” the man went on. “We had been prisoners of those beasts for almost a full year. They attacked our ship and made us their slaves. Many of us they killed—not because we tried to revolt, but for their own enjoyment. The old, the weak, and the sick were disposed of quickly. They used our women...”

The man stopped, so filled with rage was he at the memory of their imprisonment. He took a deep breath and looked to the sky with tears in his eyes. “And then the captain told us about the two of you; he said that if we could kill you, he would let us go. So you see, we had to attack; though we knew you not, we saw you as our enemy—the only thing standing between us and freedom. In my heart I knew that Cirrosa would not hold true to his word, but we had no choice. We would have all surely died if it had not been for you, and for that we are grateful. Those who died attacking you did so with honor, and we begrudge you not for it.”

Whill did not know what to say. He knew the man was sincere and harbored no ill will for the slaves who died at their hands, but still he felt a deep guilt that seemed would never really be washed clean. He himself had never known his father… and now he had killed the fathers of many children. They had been good men, forced to fight. The thought of it all made Whill sick to his stomach. Hoping not to be thought rude, he excused himself from the eating circle and joined Tarren at the wheel.

“Hello, Master Whill, did dinner do you some good?” He wore the same wide smile with which he always regarded Whill.

“I’m no longer hungry, but I couldn’t feel worse.” He looked solemnly out over the waters. “Tarren, what do you remember of what happened on that ship? I mean, when I…when I helped you?”

Tarren’s face scrunched up in thought. “I remember pain, and falling. Then I saw nothing but blackness. Then your voice—you were angry—and a blue light.” His eyes were wide, and a new excitement entered his voice and demeanor. “And then I felt the strangest thing I’ve ever felt in my life, or call me a liar. It was like when you know it’s your birthday soon and you can’t wait, or when you’ve eaten way too much candy. Inside you feel like you might explode. It was like being in the center of a screaming crowd, but all of their excitement is inside your body. I felt no pain, and before I knew what had happened, your friend picked me up and told me to hide below.” He looked upon Whill with puzzlement and wonder. “How did you do it, Whill?

He put a hand atop the boy’s head. “I don’t know, Tarren. I don’t know.”

Chapter X

Survivors

THE NIGHT WAS COOL, THE ocean calm. The stars shone brightly in the heavens, untouchable diamonds of the night. To Whill it seemed that the ocean mocked the night sky, reflecting the stars with the same brilliance, but also making them dance and shimmer in a way that the sky never could. He stood at the bow, entranced, hands on the rail, mind drifting with the midnight sea. He was tired but not hungry. He needed rest but could not sleep among those he felt he had wronged. His legs, back, arms, and even his mind ached. He knew he had not fully recovered, and was not sure how soon he would. Yet, contemplating the length of time it would have taken Tarren to heal from his broken bones, Whill wondered how he himself had recovered so soon. Had the elf woman been real? Had she helped him along with some kind of magic—an energy healing of her own? Surely that was absurd, for they were hundreds of miles from Elladrindellia. She had been a dream figure and nothing more. But the more Whill thought of her, the more real she seemed. The way her hair hung low, her beautiful smile, her eyes….

Startled, as Abram put a hand upon his shoulder, Whill jumped back to reality and the cool night air.

“Sorry, Whill, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Are you alright?”

Whill let out a deep breath and gave Abram a weak smile. “I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

Abram gave him a pitying look. “Thinking of the Eldonian men? Whill, don’t beat yourself up; we had no choice in the—”

“No. Not about that. I was thinking of the elf woman I dreamed about last night.”

Abram looked puzzled. “What elf woman?”

Whill told him all about the dream in detail as Abram listened keenly. At the end of the story, Abram gave him a slight frown of puzzlement. “What was it she said to you?”

Whill thought for a moment. “Endalla orn, Whill, elan orna menon, lelalda wea shen ora. ‘Worry not, Whill, feel no pain, nothing can harm you.’ It was more like a chant, and when she said it, all pain left my body and I was at peace—more at peace than I have ever felt. I could not only see and hear her, I could feel her inside. I could feel her energy within me, pulsing, soothing. It felt so real.”

Abram regarded him, straight-faced. “It very well could have been real, Whill.”

Whill’s face lit up. To hear it from Abram gave the idea substance, made it seem like a real possibility.

“Elves have many powers that people do not, and will never understand,” Abram said. “It is quite possible that what you experienced was indeed real. She may have helped you to heal in much the way you helped Tarren. If nothing else, your fast recovery may be proof of it.”

Whill was baffled. “But I know her not. I have never even met an elf. Who was she, and why would she help me?”

Abram looked at him the same way he always did when asked this kind of question; Whill knew he held the answers, and also knew that he would not tell him. He looked at Abram with disappointment. “Let me guess: in the mountain.”

Abram sighed. “I am as tired of these secrets as you are. From your description I can only guess that she was one of Queen Araveal’s daughters. Which one I do not know, for they are all similar in appearance.”

Whill was not shocked to hear this; more so, he was relieved to hear an explanation at all. “So this woman—princess—she knows me?”

“She does, as does the queen. Why she does is part of a tale that must wait. It will be less than a week before we reach Dy’Kore. Be patient, my friend.”

Whill laughed a tired laugh. “I’ve waited nineteen years what’s another few days?”

Tarren sounded a small bell mounted above the wheel. “The island, I see it!”

Abram took over the wheel as the Eldonians hurried onto the deck. Whill watched as the island drew closer. Even now, at night, he could see the vast beach and forest beyond. Abram steered them into the Eldon Channel between the island and Eldalon. They sailed with Eldon to starboard for more than an hour, well into dawn. As the sun began to rise, the city of Do’Adore became visible. As they approached a large dock, where there was a fleet of small fishing boats, a great horn sounded from the trees; it was answered by another from within the city. Abram gently and masterfully steered the ship to the dock, and an Eldonian man secured a line.

The city was amazing. It had no great buildings, and no barrier separating it from the surrounding land. It consisted of thousands of large huts, each with smoke coming from a small chimney. The huts were identical, though some were larger than others. This, Whill had learned while listening to the Eldonian men speak of their village, was only due to the size of each family living within. Social status was not reflected in the size of one’s home, or in the things one might own. Each person had a purpose, and each purpose was vital to the survival of the people. Whill wondered why more people didn’t live in this manner. While others fought viciously over things they did not need—and in the end, brought them no lasting joy—the Eldonians lived in harmony with their surroundings, celebrating and sharing in good fortune, and mourning each other’s losses.

As the former slaves went down the ramp to the beach, they were greeted by their kin. Sobbing and laughing jubilantly, they hugged and kissed the family and friends who had thought them lost at sea.

Whill was reluctant to leave the ship, his guilt still weighing heavily on his heart. Abram came over to him. “Look, Whill, at the joy we have brought to so many people. If not for our actions, these people would never have returned. They would have died along with those other men. Don’t you see the good that has come from something so terrible? Those men would have died anyway, or been worked to death by Cirrosa and his men. If you had not won the tournament, Cirrosa would never have pursued us, and these people would not have a second chance at the life they love so. Everything happens for a reason, Whill. Take comfort in the joy you see before you.”

Whill knew Abram was right, and he told him so. Together with Tarren, they made their way onto the beach and were introduced by the Eldonians as great saviors of the sea. Blushing and feeling very uncomfortable, Whill nevertheless accepted hugs from the Eldonian women. Most were dressed in long hooded robes, due to the morning chill, but some wore only cloth covering their genitals. The men carried long thin spears, and some brandished swords.

The Eldonians insisted that they join them in a celebration meal. What Whill expected to be a small breakfast turned out to be a grand feast and celebration that lasted late into the day. By the time they were ready to leave, the sun was beginning to set. The surviving men and the chief walked them back to Old Charlotte, followed by what seemed to be the entire island population. As they approached the ship, the chief spoke.

“Once again, thank you for returning our people. We are forever in your debt and at your service. If ever you are in need, please, think of Eldon as an ally. You are welcome here eternally.” With that he bowed, as did the rest of the people of Eldon. Whill, Abram and Tarren bowed in return and made their way onto the ship. As they set sail once again, with Abram at the wheel, Whill and Tarren watched the people of Eldon wave happily after them. Night fell as the three companions sailed toward Sherna.

The deep blue sky had made way for a blackened one, and the stars awoke. They shone brightly in their heavenly realm, untouchable diamonds of the night. With the stars came a chill that rode on the whispering winds and clung to Whill’s bones like a long-lost love. Carrying an oil lantern, he went below to fetch his wolf-hide coat. It hung above his cot, which was now occupied by Tarren. The boy slept peacefully, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. But to Whill he appeared too peaceful, too still, as though death had come back to reclaim him—to fulfill a fate which had been altered. He nudged Tarren on the shoulder, and to his relief the boy rolled over, mumbling something inaudible.

Satisfied, he pulled a blanket up to the boy’s chin and retrieved his coat before silently returning to the deck. Abram was still at the wheel, sailing steadily east. Whill joined his friend, and for a while they stood in comfortable silence, sailing by moonlight. They were lucky to have the benefit of a full moon. Abram seemed mesmerized by its reflection upon the water, and more at peace than he had in a great while.

Noticing Whill staring at him, Abram simply smiled. “Is Tarren sleeping soundly?”

Whill turned his gaze to the water once more. “Out cold. He did have a long day.”

Abram laughed. “Didn’t we all. You should get some rest too. You must be tired, having not slept last night.”

Whill shook his head. “No, I’m not; I’m wide awake. I guess two days rest is enough for a while. I’ll take over for a bit, Abram; you haven’t slept either. I’ll wake you at dawn. If this wind keeps steady; we’ll be in Sherna well before noon. I’ll rest then.”

“Alright, Whill.” Abram gave him a pat on the back and stretched with a great yawn before heading to the sleeping quarters.

“Wait,” Whill said. “What do we do with Tarren? We can’t see him safely back to Fendale personally.”

Abram turned at the stair. “Do not forget we have a wealth of diamonds. Once in Sherna we will find a good woman to look after him until we return from the mountains. Then we will go to Kell-Torey to meet with the king. He will see to it that Tarren finds safe passage back to Fendale. Worry not, Whill.” With that, he disappeared below and left him alone with the moon and stars.

Whill took the wheel and once again let his mind drift with the waters. He thought of Tarren, and how amazing it still seemed that he had healed him. Only the elves had the power to heal with energy; if Whill was not of elven blood, then what could the explanation be? Also, if he could heal, what other powers did he possess? Could he also use his abilities to fight as they did? The ocean held no answers. Only within the mountains would Whill find any revelation.

As he sailed steadily east, the sun began to rise. The blackness of the night sky was replaced slowly by a dark blue. As the stars disappeared, the horizon glowed orange with hints of radiant pinks, reds, and purples. When the sun finally showed its face, it gleamed down upon the world with the magnificence and splendor of a god.

Whill secured the wheel and quickly went below to wake Abram. Though he meant not to, he woke Tarren as well. Soon the three friends were enjoying a simple breakfast of fish, gifts from the Eldonians. They passed the remaining time of their journey mostly answering Tarren’s candid questions.

As high noon approached and the mist parted, they could see the harbor of Sherna come into view. As it drew closer, Whill saw the distant snow-capped mountains beyond. The sight made his chest swell with excitement. Soon all his questions would be answered; all the secrets, revealed.

With Tarren’s help, Whill lowered the sail as Abram steered the ship into the small harbor. There were only seven vessels docked: six fishing boats and a small royal ship. Off the coast, the mother ship could be seen rocking lazily with the waves. It was a battleship of the Eldalon navy. Whill could now see over a dozen Eldalon soldiers waiting on the dock. As Old Charlotte eased next to them, Whill threw a line to one of the soldiers, who quickly secured it to a worn post.

Abram lowered the small ramp and greeted the soldiers. “Beautiful day, no?”

The guards showed no expression. One stepped forward. “What business do you have in Sherna? Are you merchants?”

Abram’s usual patience seemed to desert him. “We are not merchants—we have no cargo but ourselves and our personal items. I am Abram, and that lad there is Tarren. The man next to him is Whill—of whom I’m sure you’ve heard, or vultures don’t eat red meat. We have had a long and tiresome journey from Fendale, and seek only a good day’s rest.”

The guards looked at one another, and the first man spoke again. “That man there—you say he is Whill? The one who beat Rhunis? But he is barely a man!” The guards all began to chuckle.

Whill went down the ramp, wearing a slight smile. Facing the guard, he looked him in the eye and let his smile fade. “It is true I beat Rhunis, and I have the diamonds to show for it—not to mention the king’s leave to travel all of Eldalon freely. And the man you see next to me, Abram, has not three days ago slain the menacing Captain Cirrosa—a feat that the great navies of Eldalon have failed to accomplish for a decade.”

The guard stared in wonder as Abram passed the other guard a scroll bearing the royal seal. Whill let his smile return. “Now would it be so much to ask for us to go on our way without more pestering? We have much to do and little time. Don’t be mistaken, I respect and admire the fact that you soldiers are far from your homes, serving your king and protecting these lands; but we are not enemies of Eldalon—we are forever its allies.”

The guard was left speechless. He simply looked Whill in the eye as if trying to sense whether he were lying. The other guard nodded that the seal was genuine. At last he said, “You say that Cirrosa is dead?”

Whill nodded. “No longer will the Black Dragon be a menace to the great seas of Eldalon.”

The guard eyed Whill, who stared at him straight-faced. Finally the guard smiled. “It seems as if you bring good news in bad times. The king will be very pleased to hear of this. As you must know, there is a large bounty on Cirrosa’s head.”

Abram spoke up. “I will tell the king personally soon enough. But I wonder, good sir, could you tell us what has happened within Isladon as of late? Has war started there?”

The guard’s face became solemn. “No one has been able to enter Isladon yet. The Arden navy has claimed the waters surrounding the coast. This may be something better discussed when you see the king. I am not at liberty to speak of such things to—excuse the label—strangers.”

Abram nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

With that the guards returned to their posts; the three travelers unloaded their things from the ship and went in search of lodging.

Beyond the harbor, the town spread out upon a slight hill. It was a relatively small town, with a butcher, a blacksmith, a town hall, and stables. The buildings, including homes, were made mostly of logs. Beyond the main street, rolling hills spread out as far as the eye could see.

There were few people about the street, most of which gave no notice whatsoever to the new arrivals. The town smelled like most port towns did; the sweet scent of the ocean was everywhere. It reminded Whill of Sidnell. He hadn’t seen Teera and her daughters in over two years—since he and Abram had last visited—and had a feeling he wouldn’t see them again for a long while still.

As they ventured into the heart of the town, Tarren pointed out a small Inn. Much like the other buildings, a log structure, it was two stories high with many small chimneys perched on its roof. The sign above the door read HAGUS’S INN. Tarren led the way and opened the main door for Whill and Abram. Inside, the room was filled with smoke. More than a dozen fishermen and other locals sat at the bar and surrounding tables, drinking and talking loudly. At one table sat six Eldalonian soldiers talking in hushed whispers and eyeing them suspiciously. There was also a group of women dancing in the middle of the room and, in the far left corner, a small band consisting of a fiddler and two guitarists; in harmony they sang:

By the ocean’s water or dragon’s fire

The end shall come at long last;

So light up your smoke so fast you choke

And drink your beer down fast!

Whill was familiar with the old drinking song, for he had heard it in countless other taverns and pubs. He hummed along as he looked around the room. It had a high cathedral ceiling; stairs on the right led to the second-floor balcony, which boasted many doors but no windows. Abram led them to the bar, and many eyes followed. The bartender was a stout, rugged-looking fellow with a white beard down to his belt. He wore a fisherman’s cap and brown overalls with a white shirt. He smiled at their approach, and his leathery skin seemed to stretch uncomfortably as he presented a toothless grin. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who did a lot of smiling, and Whill could see that this one was rehearsed.

“Good day, good day, friends! Name’s Hagus. What can I do for ya?”

Before Abram or Whill could respond, Tarren spoke up. “We’ll be needing a room for the night, three cots if you have ’em, and hot baths if you could.” He grinned at Whill and went on. “We been at sea for a long and dangerous haul, and need bath and good food. I can still feel the pirate scum on my skin.”

Abram laughed, and Hagus frowned. “The boy’s name is Tarren,” Whill said. “I’m Whill, and this is Abram. Tarren is right, we could use all he requested. The room we’ll need only for the night—if you have one available.” He mussed Tarren’s hair.

Hagus maintained a steady frown as he pondered on something, and in the absence of teeth, his bottom lip touched his nose. “Pirates, says you. Is the boy one with a wild and fibbin’ imagination, or does he speak true?”

Abram gave Tarren’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “The boy has a good imagination, yes, but a liar he is not. I’m afraid it is a long one, but if you could get us what we need, we will tell you the tale of Cirrosa’s demise—over some Dragon’s Brew, of course.”

“Cirrosa!” Hagus yelled, catching the attention of half the room. He bent low and whispered, “That scum hasn’t been spotted in these waters in over a year.”

Whill bent low to match the bartender’s stance and, after an animated look, said, “Seen him we have—and his blood dries upon my friend’s sword as we speak.”

Hagus’s bushy eyebrows seemed in danger of leaping from his face. “No!”

“Yes. Would you like to be the first on land to hear the story, or can you not accommodate us at this time?”

Hagus fumbled for some glasses. “No, no! No—um, Dragon’s Brew you said? Comin’ right up, and—oh—Sheria! Sheria!” he called towards the door at the back of the bar.

A woman of about fifty emerged carrying two bowls of stew. She wore a long brown dress with orange trim, and a brown handkerchief upon her head held back her long grey hair. She was pretty, with a more natural smile than Hagus’s.

“Sheria,” Hagus said hastily, “after you’ve served those, get our guests a room ready. Make it the north room.” He poured the Dragon’s Brew from a large barrel mounted on the back wall. Sheria nodded and began on her way as Hagus burst out again, “Wait, woman, I’m not done! Have three baths prepared, and see to their luggage—and horses, if they have any.” He turned to Whill as he set the beer in front of them. “Do you have horses?” Whill shook his head in amusement. “No horses? Never mind—em, ah—and have Jenna cook up the special—three orders, right? And not today’s special, the special special.”

Sheria didn’t move. She merely stood and deadpanned her husband. Though Whill thought it impossible, Hagus blushed and gave a weak smile, “Please, my love?”

Sheria nodded, satisfied. “Of course, dear.”

She gave them a small bow and went on her way. Hagus let out a long breath. “My wife, she’s a doll. Jenna, our daughter, she’s the cook in the family. My other daughter—Oreona—she works with us also. Now, uh, where was I—oh, yes—young lad, could I interest you in some cider?”

“Please, sir!”

Hagus got Tarren a tall glass of cider and excused himself, retreating to the back.

Whill chuckled. “Have you ever seen anyone so excitable?”

Abram took a long swallow, then turned to Tarren, who had just taken a seat on a large stool. “Listen, my boy, when we tell our version of the story, keep quiet about getting your throat cut and Whill healing you.”

“Aww, but that’s the best part!”

“That may be,” Whill said, “but I don’t want the trouble of having to explain powers I don’t understand. And that kind of stuff makes people nervous. Just don’t mention it, alright? For all our sakes.”

“I guess,” Tarren huffed.

“Promise?” Abram asked.

“I Promise,” he said reluctantly.

Tarren looked very disappointed, so Abram smiled and patted him on the back. “I tell you what. If you can keep quiet about it now, I’ll let you tell the whole story to the king when we get to Kell-Torey.”

Tarren lit up, and Whill thought the boy’s eyes might pop out of his head. “The king, really? You really mean it, Abram? You have my word!”

Hagus returned and set two more beers on the bar. His expression was a little easier now. “Your rooms will be ready shortly. You can leave your luggage with me and it will be seen to. Your baths are ready as well, and food will follow. So whenever you’re ready, go ahead. The bathing room is up the stairs, first room on the right.”

“Thank you,” Whill said. “I think I’ll do just that.” He retrieved two gold coins from his pocket and set them on the bar.

Hagus looked at the gold in amazement. “Good sir, the room, meal, bath—well, the cost for all is no more than twenty in silver.”

Whill leaned in and said, “Yes, but we will need more of your services before we leave. Consider this advance payment. A man’s silence is a costly thing at times. I trust we will not gain any unwanted attention by entrusting you with our story. Not, that is, until we are far from here.”

Hagus was adamant. “Yes, sir, mum’s the word! You can count on me!”

“Good.”

Whill made his way upstairs, and Abram and Tarren soon followed. The bathing room consisted of four large tubs, three steaming with hot water. Next to each tub there was a small table with towels, soaps, and scrub brushes. A large fireplace roared with four large kettles of boiling water above it.

Whill soaked in the hot water long after Abram and Tarren had finished. His muscles still ached from the incident with Tarren. The hot water and fire had almost lulled him to sleep when a girl, who must have been Oreona, entered the room. She instantly looked at the floor.

“Begging your pardon, Whill, sir, but your food is ready and your friends await you downstairs.”

“Thank you. Tell them I will join them shortly.”

She nodded and left as Whill got out and dressed in clean clothes.

Downstairs the band had taken a break, and there were about half as many people as before. Abram and Tarren sat at a large table; they had waited for Whill to begin. The table was set with a blue velvet cloth and fine dishes. A large pot of steaming stew sat at the middle with two loaves of marbled bread, a small plate of butter, white cheese, and an assortment of fruits. There was also a pitcher of beer with two Tankards, and a smaller pitcher of cider with a mug for Tarren. Whill grabbed a Tankard and toasted with his friends.

“Lelemendela.”

Tarren asked what it meant and Whill explained, “To life.” Tarren insisted that they do it again so he could join in.

They ate and made little conversation. Whill was surprised by his own appetite; he had three helpings of stew and finished off a loaf of bread by himself—along with half the brick of cheese.

When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and sat back, content. “While you were bathing, Hagus told me of an excellent blacksmith where we can purchase some fine arrows,” he said.

Tarren lit up. “Do you think I could get my own sword? I might need it if we run into villains on the way to the mountains.”

Abram and Whill eyed one another.

“Tarren, Abram and I must venture to the mountains alone.”

“But, Whill—”

“Let me finish. In your father’s absence we must do as he would wish. I do not think your father would permit you to go into the mountains. You will stay here in town until we return.”

Tarren’s eyes watered. “But who will I stay with? Wouldn’t I be much safer with the two of you? What if the pirates come back for me? Please let me go, please!”

Will knew exactly how the boy felt; he had felt the same when Abram left those many times in his youth. Now he saw himself in Tarren—a scared child trying desperately to act tough; not understanding why he must stay; wondering if he was unwanted.

“I know you want to come, Tarren, and I would love to have you with us, but this is not a decision we can make on your parents’ behalf. When we return, you will journey with us to Kell-Torey. Let there be comfort in that at least.”

Tarren’s shoulders sank. “How long will you be?”

“It will take us two days each, there and back again,” Abram said. “How long we will be in the dwarf city, I cannot say, but it should be no longer than a few days.”

Tarren looked no happier with this information. He slumped back in his chair and stared at his empty plate. Whill stood. “Would you like to come with me to get some supplies for our trip?”

Tarren could not help but smile as he got up from his chair. “Aye.”

Abram said he would stay behind to speak with Hagus and reminded them of some of the items they would need. Together, Whill and Tarren left the inn.

They spent most of the afternoon gathering supplies for the following day’s journey. At the blacksmith’s they purchased four dozen arrows and, to Tarren’s delight, a small knife that could be hung from the boy’s belt. From the town store they bought bread and cheeses; meat, Whill explained, would be acquired in the wild.

As they ventured up the main street, Whill took in the pleasant sea air once again. It was a beautiful late afternoon. Faint white clouds hung in the sky, seemingly unmoving, as the sun bathed the world with warmth. They passed many log homes, a few with stone walls. People were busy with the day’s chores but still had time to offer a “good day” or a “heya” as they passed. A butcher was busy preparing a hog for sale, while a young lad sat on the porch of the butcher shop, plucking a headless chicken. On the opposite side of the street a woman swept dirt from a doorway. She gave Tarren a wink as she hummed a jubilant tune.

They headed towards the healer’s house on the outskirts of town. As the buildings thinned and the forest trail came into view, a woman ran past with two soldiers following. They went straight to the healer’s house and were greeted by urgent voices which Whill could not decipher. He began to jog toward the home and Tarren followed suit. As they neared the building, Whill began to make out the urgent words emanating from the open windows and doors. A woman was screaming in a way that made him cringe.

“No! No! My baby, my baby! Do something, please! Can’t you? Why won’t she breathe, why won’t she breathe? Let me see her, damn you, she won’t—” Her voice trailed off into a deep, breathless sob.

Whill and Tarren reached the door, the room was bright, but the scene was a dark one. A woman lay on a blood-soiled bed, being comforted and held down by three older women. One, who Whill sensed was her mother, held her tight and cried hard into the young woman’s shoulder. A man of about twenty stood with a dead stare—and watering eyes—aimed at a bundle on the foot of the bed. An elderly man and woman, whom Whill suspected to be the town healers, huddled over the dying infant, trying urgently to revive it. Whill could hear nothing but his own heart. It pounded in his ears steadily, faint hues of red flashing before his eyes with every beat.

There is no injury, he thought. I can do this. She only needs enough to start her heart.

Whill faintly realized that all were now watching him as he advanced into the room toward the infant. He wondered why they did not try to hold him back. Then he saw what they saw; from the palm to each fingertip of his outstretched hand, blue tendrils of light convulsed and danced. The mother had stopped sobbing and stared in wonder. The healers made way for Whill and stepped to the sides, never taking their eyes off him. The infant laid upon the blanket—small, weak, unmoving—a blue hue to its skin. The look on her face was that of great discomfort, not peace. She wants to come back, he thought.

As Whill bent and put his hand upon the baby’s head, he instantly felt her presence. Her faint spirit stumbled into his as a blind man might do, lost in an unknown place. The tendrils from Whill’s hand spread across the limp infant’s body, becoming ever brighter. Her spirit clung strongly to Whill as he tried desperately to monitor the transfer of energy. Then suddenly he felt a great urgency, a desperate struggle to hold on to life as it slipped away. He felt the baby’s simple emotions—the need for what he gave her. Before he could break contact, a sudden jolt surged through his body, dropping him to his knees. He stiffened as her desperate spirit drained from him all the energy it could. Whill was no longer in control. Unable to stop, and fighting hard to break contact, he saw now that the baby had lost her blue color. Through the energy bond, he felt the baby’s heart begin to beat. It pounded faster and faster, stronger with every beat. Her spirit devoured the energy pulsing from him. He mustered his strength and told her spirit kindly to let go.

Suddenly he felt a sense of recognition and understanding, and then great knowledge and a vast intellect, within the spirit’s consciousness. A wisdom of countless years resided within; memories, like waves, crashed into him. He saw strange lands and strange people; oceans, forests, and streams where he had never ventured. Mountain ranges, foreign to him, loomed before his mind’s eye and disappeared. He watched as an entire life played out before him. There was a flash of light, and another set of memories, faces, and feelings began. It ran its course and ended in another flash. Again and again—faster and faster—the cycle repeated until the lives of this ancient spirit poured into him like an avalanche. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Now a landscape he recognized spread out before him. The Ky’Dren Mountains, Lake Eardon, and Drakkar Island flashed before him. He saw the Castle of Del’ Oradon, and felt great love. Now oblivious of his physical surroundings, he had no conscious link to the world around him. There was only this spirit, and its memories. He was not afraid; rather, he felt great comfort and trust. As he watched the life memories of the spirit unfold, something caught his eye. It had only been for an instant, but he asked to see it again. The spirit obliged and he saw in greater detail the form he sought. It was Abram, and he was a young man in his mid-twenties.

Another vision flashed before him—a long corridor hung with great banners. Through the spirit’s memories, Whill watched as the view turned to face a grand mirror. In the reflection he saw a stunningly beautiful woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties, with long black hair and a flawless face. Whill knew then, for the first and last time in his life, he was looking upon his mother. She gazed at herself and then at her large belly. She gave it a few loving strokes before continuing down the hall. Whill urgently tried to make her turn, but the vision faded. Now all was black—but he was not alone. The spirit, that had at one time been his mother, coddled him as if he were the infant. Without words, she told him that she loved him and was very proud, as was his father. She made him understand that the baby he had saved was a new life and would have no memory of him. She told him not to be sad, but thankful that they had shared this rare experience.

Whill knew it was time to go, but protested. She reassured him once again, with great love and pride, and was gone. He knelt at the foot of the bed, his eyes burning with hot tears. He could hear the infant wailing loudly and smiled to himself as he passed out.

Chapter XI

The Road to the Mountain

WHILL WAS AGAIN IN THE state he had been after healing Tarren. His body ached, his head pounded, and he floated in and out of strange, feverish dreams of his parents, the mountain, and of places and people he had never known. He awoke briefly to find an old woman wiping his brow with a cool cloth. He attempted to ask of the infant, but his head swooned with pain and he fell once again into a deep sleep.

Again the elf woman came to Whill and, with her soothing touch and warm smile, took away all pain. Her beauty surpassed that of any mortal he had ever seen, and he was sure he would be content to stare into her eyes forever. Her face radiated with great compassion, but Whill could sense an urgency born of fear. As she soothed his many pains with her own healing energy, she spoke.

“Whill, he can sense you. You must not use your powers again until you are among us. He knows where you are. You must go now.”

Whill awoke abruptly and sat up. Abram jumped, his eyes heavy. Whill surveyed his surroundings. He knew where he was—the house of healing. The old man and woman now tended to him, and they seemed as shocked as Abram. Even Tarren stared in wide wonder as Whill attempted to get out of the bed.

“Abram, we must go, we have to leave now!”

Abram gave Whill a look of concern. “Whoa, whoa there, friend, relax. Give yourself a minute. Are you alright?”

Whill found his clothes and hurriedly put them on. Tarren retrieved his boots. “Thank you,” he said. “Abram, the elf woman from before told me we should leave— just now, before I awoke.”

Abram’s face turned to a hard scowl. “What else did she say?”

Whill tied his boots quickly. “She said something like ‘he can sense you,’ though I don’t know who she was talking about.”

Abram paced the room for a moment as if in deep thought. “You’re right, we must go, and we must go now. Tarren, go and tell Hagus we are leaving.”

The boy ran from the room without a word, and the old man peered out the window with a scowl. “I don’t know how easily you will escape the crowd, good sir.”

“What crowd?”

“That crowd, there.” The old man pointed.

Whill went to the window. “They have been outside for four days now, awaiting a glimpse of the great healer; he being you of course, sir.”

He was not surprised at being unconscious for days, but he was by the crowd. More than fifty people were camped outside of the small home. A man noticed Whill and cried, “There he is, there he is!”

Whill quickly ducked away from the window as the people began to cheer. The old man smiled at him. “That was a wonderful thing you did for the child; though, I know not how you did it. You have a great gift, son—an elven gift, if I may. Tell me, are you part elf?”

“Uh, no, I am not. I do not understand my…abilities, either. How is the child, anyway?”

The old woman smiled as she poured Whill some tea. “She is doing excellently, thanks to you. You know, upon learning your name, the mother named the baby Whilliana in your honor. She is most grateful and has come every day to see how you are. The town has been in an uproar; the sick have even begun coming from surrounding towns to ask to be healed by you.”

She handed Whill the tea and he thanked her. Abram peered out the window, wearing the same scowl. “Not all of them are admirers, mind you,” he warned. “Just last night a band of fools arrived carrying torches, demanding to have the sorcerer handed over. The soldiers would not let them pass, of course, but they came nonetheless. Word of this will soon spread throughout Agora, Whill. Our troubles have only just begun.”

Whill could sense that he had much more to say on the issue but was holding his tongue for now. Outside, the crowd was still cheering and demanding for Whill to come out. He peered through the side of the window. Twenty armed Eldalon soldiers had formed a barrier in front of the house, and he suspected that there were more guarding the rest of the building. He could hear women and men alike pleading for him to work another miracle.

“Please, my son is blind, if you could just help him,” one woman pleaded.

“My father is sick, good sir, would you take just a moment—” said another.

“My mother, she cannot walk, surely you can help us?” asked a young man.

And there were countless others.

Whill looked at Abram, who gave him a look that said clearly, “No!” The pleas were making Whill sick to his stomach, and he wanted to be far from this place as fast as possible.

“How do we get out of here without being noticed?” he asked.

“I have had four days to plan our escape, Whill. Do not worry. As you know, many of the herbs and roots and such needed by a healer must be kept cool.”

Whill nodded. “An underground storage room.”

The old man pointed to a trapdoor near the northern wall. “There is a tunnel that leads to our cold room; it can be exited through a small hatch that looks like a tree stump.”

“I told Tarren to have Hagus bring a wagon around back,” Abram said. “From there we should have no problem escaping to the woods.”

Whill was satisfied. “Sounds like you have thought of everything. But what shall we do with Tarren?”

Abram gestured to the old man and woman. “Iam and Laurna have agreed to be so kind and watch over him until we return.”

“We would be happy to,” said Iam.

“It is our honor,” Laurna added with a smile.

“Thank you, both, so very much,” Whill said. “And please accept payment for this deed. I insist. If not for yourselves, then take it for your patients. I know that gold can buy medicines that are scarce in these parts. And though I cannot help these people right now, as I would wish, perhaps my money can.”

From the window, Abram spoke. “Tarren has returned. We must go.”

Abram had readied their things so they could leave as soon as Whill awoke; their weapons, packs, and supplies sat in a heap at the foot of the bed. As they prepared for travel, Tarren entered the room and quickly closed the door on the screaming crowd. The sound of the mob was unsettling; Whill tried to block out the sounds of the pleading people, but found it difficult. He wished he had control over his powers; he wished he could help every one of them. But knew he could not.

Once ready, he turned to Tarren. The boy smiled bravely with a slight shimmer in his eyes, and Whill could tell he was scared. Bending to one knee, he said, “You be good for Iam and Laurna, alright, lad? Help them out and stay out of trouble.”

Tarren tried to be tough, as always. “When will you be back?”

Whill knew how Tarren felt; he saw himself in the boy now more than ever. “We will return before the tenday. I promise, Tarren, we will come back for you. You have my word.” He gave the boy a hug and turned away with watery eyes of his own, and joined Abram at the trapdoor.

Abram regarded Tarren with a reassuring smile. “You be a good lad. We’ll be back before you know it.”

It was the same thing he always told Whill before leaving on one of his adventures. To hear it now made him even more somber. Together with Abram, he descended the steps to the tunnel. Iam closed the hatch behind them, whispering, “Farewell, and good luck.”

The tunnel was dark, but for the candle that Abram held, and smelled of earth. Low and not more than ten feet long, it was cool and dank. The emerging roots left just enough space to walk in a crouch, but soon the two came to the cold room. It was fairly small, and spanning its entirety were shelves of various roots and herbs, tinctures, and animal extracts; it was a well-stocked supply room. At the opposite end of the small room was a ladder leading to the hatch. Abram ascended it a few feet and lifted the hatch just enough to peer outside.

“Good, Hagus is here. Ready, Whill?”

Whill nodded and Abram extinguished the candle. As he lifted the hatch, Whill was blinded by the daylight, but quickly followed Abram outside. Directly in front of them was Hagus’s wagon. They scampered to the rear of it and jumped inside as Hagus urged his horses into motion.

The wagon was not covered, but the innkeeper had furnished a large blanket to conceal them until they were out of town. They rode quietly as the wagon made its way to the forest trail. After about fifteen minutes Whill peered out from under the blanket and saw the surrounding treetops. The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly overhead; it looked as though it would be a good day to travel.

After another half hour of riding, the wagon stopped and Hagus said, “You’re clear.” The two emerged from under the blanket and got out of the wagon. “I loaded all the things you asked for, Master Abram. Also a few treats made by m’ dear wife. If there is anything else I could do fer ya, let me know. I would be honored.”

Abram grabbed a few of the supply bags and his bow. “You have done us a great service, Hagus, and we are grateful. We need not remind you to keep silent about where we are headed.”

Hagus raised his eyebrows and shook his head vigorously. “No, no, I will not say a word, not to no one. You have me word.”

Abram eyed Hagus for a moment, more to intimidate him than out of suspicion. “Good. And thank you once again.”

Whill finished unloading his things and stood next to Abram. He too thanked Hagus for his services, and they watched as the wagon traveled out of sight back down the forest trail.

Whill surveyed the surroundings. To the south and north the forest trail could be seen winding slightly through the forest. The trees were in bloom now, and sprouts could be seen on almost all of them. Some early-blooming flowers also stood proudly, scattered here and there along the forest floor. At a hurried pace, they left the trail and headed eastward through the forest, toward the mountains.

Whill thought of the infant and his mother. Now it all seemed like a dream. He knew Abram had much to say on the topic, but decided to wait until he brought it up. At the moment his friend was silent, thinking deeply on something. They walked for an hour until Whill could no longer bear the silence.

“Abram, I’m sorry for the other day.”

Abram did not look at him. “Whill, I don’t think you understand what you have done.”

He let out a deep breath. “I know, I shouldn’t have healed the infant, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was like—”

“You could have died! Again! Not only that, but you have alerted the enemy to your existence and whereabouts. We will be hunted now, you can be sure of that.”

Whill took the offensive. “Hunted by whom? Men who think I’m a sorcerer? Let them come.”

Abram stopped and looked Whill in the eye. “The Draggard will be after us now, son— many of them. Surely he knows where we are, and they will be sent.” He began to move again.

Whill, shocked, hurried to catch up. “The Draggard! They come for us now? Why? And who is this man you speak of?”

“He is a very powerful foe. If the elf woman warned you of him, then we are in great peril for sure. Do not ask more on the subject. We will be in the mountains soon.”

Whill was left once again to wonder. He feared the Draggard; though he had only seen paintings of the fell beasts, he feared them like he feared no man. They were bred for one purpose: killing. Rumors had begun in Agora that winged Draggard—named Draqwon by the elves—had been seen near the Ebony Mountains. This thought greatly unsettled him.

Abram’s voice pulled him from his violent imagination. “Other than the elf woman’s visit, what else occurred during your healing?”

Whill thought for a moment. It sounded mad, but he told Abram anyway. “I saw my mother.”

Abram turned to Whill, dumbstruck. “Your mother?”

For the next hour of their journey, Whill told Abram what had happened. When he was done, Abram went silent for a moment. “Then I suppose it was good that you healed the infant, or you never would have had this...encounter,” he said at last. “You are fortunate for such a thing.”

Whill was surprised. “You believe me?”

“Of course I do. For one, your description of your mother was perfect. For another, I believe that we move on to live other lives. It is true that your tale is a fantastic one, but fantastic things do occur. Take comfort in your mother’s words and be grateful. We shall soon see how great the price will be.”

Whill was not comforted by Abram’s statement, though he was still grateful for the chance to meet his mother, if only in spirit. He felt bad for bringing more peril upon them. He was, however, comforted by the mountains that could now be seen in the distance. The forest had become considerably less dense, and the terrain steeper. From his vantage point he could see the many rolling hills ahead, and the mountains beyond. The sun was high and shone brightly among thick white clouds. There was little wind, and a strong scent of pine floated in the air. The forest floor was alive with rich greens and flowers. Ferns were in abundance, as were redclove plants.

They walked steadily for the rest of the day, talking little— which was of no concern to either; they had traveled together for many years and were comfortable in their silence. Also, Whill could sense that Abram was wary of danger.

With each step, he was closer to the mountain that held so many answers for him. Who his parents had been, what their names were, and most importantly, why Abram had withheld such information? His excitement grew, as did the mountains before him.

With the sun getting low and only a few hours of daylight left, Abram picked up the pace. They had not taken a break since they started out, and Whill knew that he did not intend to.

“At this pace, we will reach the foot of the mountains before dark,” Whill said. “Do you intend to camp?”

Abram reached for his leather water bag and took a long drink. “If we do indeed have pursuers, it would not be safe camp here in the forest. We would be better off on the mountains at night.” He wiped the dripping water from his mouth.

The terrain was very steep as they climbed one of the final hills that stood between them and the mountains. Whill’s legs and shoulders ached from the exertion. He was used to carrying many packs when hiking, but they usually did not go this long without a break, or keep up this hurried pace. Before them the mountains loomed like great gods with bodies of stone and white crowns. The peaks of some could not be seen as they pierced the clouds above. Scattered upon the mountains were pines and birches, which thinned out considerably with elevation.

Finally they reached the base of the mountains. Directly ahead of them was an impassable rock wall, rising more than one hundred feet. Abram surveyed the area and pointed to the southeast. “The passageway to the city is about two miles that way,” he said. “We will barely make it before dark, lad, so keep up.”

Whill laughed. “Alright old man, I’ll try.”

They made their way along the base of the cliff until they were able to ascend the mountain. They grasped trees and roots when possible, to aid in the climb, and even when they found a fairly flat portion of rock, the advance was slow. They had been hiking since before noon with no break, eating on the go, and were both exhausted. Finally Abram stopped, hands on his knees, and said, “Let’s take a little break.”

“If you insist.” Whill panted.

Abram laughed weakly, but his laughter was short-lived as a small hatchet flew through the air and stuck in a tree, right next to his head. Together he and Whill drew swords and turned in the direction it had come from. They saw no one. They were in a perfect position to be ambushed; the only refuge was a large boulder, and they quickly took cover behind it. They readied their bows and listened keenly, but heard nothing. Peering out over the rock, Whill saw many other boulders, any of which could harbor a foe.

Abram cupped his hands around his mouth. “Who goes there?” There was no response. “We mean no harm to the dwarves and are willing to come out unarmed!”

Whill grabbed Abram’s arm. “What are you doing, they could be Draggard!”

Abram nodded toward the buried hatchet. “That is dwarf-made. If it were the Draggard, they would have attacked already. He is most likely a sentry.” He put down his bow and sword and walked out in the open.

“Now the other!” a gruff voice ordered.

Abram nodded to Whill, who reluctantly joined him.

“We come in search of Dy’Kore,” Abram said. “We come as friends and allies. I am Abram of Arden, and this is my companion, Whill.”

“Those names mean nothing to me. And if ye be allies, why d’ye have a band o’ Draggard following ye? Maybe ye’r scouts, and should die where ye stand.”

Whill started for the ledge to see for himself, but the dwarf’s words stopped him. “Move an’ ye’ll die. Think you’ll signal to em, eh? No, stay where ye are.”

“Master dwarf, we are not scouts,” Abram insisted. “I am a personal friend of your King Ky’ell, and have proof of it.”

“Ha! Show the proof, if ye have it. But be doin it slow.”

Abram slowly reached for the chain around his neck and took it off. Upon it was a large golden seal, embedded in jewels. He lifted it into the air.

“Throw it here,” said the dwarf, extending a hand from behind the closest boulder and exposing his position. Abram did so. The dwarf quickly retrieved the necklace and disappeared again behind the rock.

“That was given to me by the king to ensure passage into the city. As you know, it bears the royal crest and cannot be obtained falsely.”

The dwarf came forward slowly. He stood not five feet tall, and was shod in large boots. His clothes were a strange shade of grey that made him blend in well with the surrounding rock. At either side, he carried hatchets— two on the right, one on the left. In his hands was a great axe, four feet long with two large half-moon blades. The edge of the blades sparkled even in the faint light. The shaft was well polished and smooth. The handle was wrapped tightly with leather, and at the base there was a sapphire the size of a child’s fist.

The dwarf came within five feet and spoke, but did not ease his grip on the axe. “What’s yer business in the city?”

“We seek counsel with the king and have business of a personal nature.”

The dwarf eyed Abram and Whill in turn. His long brown hair was clumped in thick locks, and his brown beard reached his belt. Behind his large flat nose were watchful green eyes.

“Ye do indeed be friends o’ the king if ye carry such a pendant, but ye must be great fools to bring a horde of Draggard at yer heels to the mountain pass. Quick, now— get yer weapons an’ follow me.”

The dwarf waited as they retrieved their weapons, and then walked to the ledge. “There.” He pointed. “They’ve been following ye nigh an hour.”

Whill could faintly make out movement far below. Abram saw them too, “There are at least twenty, damn! Do you think we will make it to the pass in time?”

“Doesn’t matter whether we will or no. We’ll kill ’em before we get there,” he said with a proud voice.

“What!” Whill exclaimed. “You intend to fight them? I am sure you can wield that axe with great skill, but they are too many; we are outnumbered almost six to one. It would be suicide!”

“I’ll not run from those beasts! This is a dwarf mountain, this is, and I’ll defend her as such. Those foul ones will learn the ferocity o’ the dwarves. We don’t back down, and we don’t run. They be the trespassers, and they will pay for their crimes.”

The dwarf’s face was red and his eyes watered as he spoke. Whill could sense that something very intense fueled this dwarf’s hatred for the Draggard.

Abram spoke up. “You may be proud enough to die taking on that many Draggard, but do not be foolish. We can get reinforcements and return to fight.”

“No!” The dwarf insisted in a deep voice. “If they find the door to the city, they’ll send messengers to report it. As ye know, they’ve a keen sense o’ smell—that’s how they track ye still. If they learn o’ the passageway, I’ll have failed in me duty, and that will not happen. I will fight! Ye can run like cowards if ye wish, but ye will never see the city!”

Whill stepped forward. “We are no cowards! But we should not run to fight these beasts hastily. We need to have a plan for attack.”

Abram agreed. “He’s right. I have seen one Draggard rip through ten men before falling to the blade. We will not defeat them if we simply stand and fight.”

The dwarf squinted at them, frowning. “I been watching ye and yer pursuers fer an hour now. I have thought o’ a plan for ambush already.” He pointed at a ledge directly above them. “There be many boulders up there— large enough to kill those beasts, but small enough to push. I’ll wait there; the two o’ ye should wait o’er there.” He pointed in the direction from which he had come. “Ye can attack with those bows o’ yers once I’ve let loose the boulders.”

Abram looked at the ledge above, and at the boulders he and Whill would use as cover. “It is a good plan, master dwarf, but they will not all be killed by your falling rocks, nor our bows.”

The dwarf smiled mischievously. “I know. The rest will die by our blades.”

Whill laughed nervously. “You’re mad, did you know that?”

The dwarf’s smile faded. “Ye know, boy, men have died fer saying less to a dwarf. That can be settled later, laddie, but I advise ye to watch yer tongue.”

Abram watched the exchange and eyed Whill with a raised brow. Whill let out a frustrated sigh. “I apologize, master dwarf. Perhaps I have mistaken your bravery and cunning for—pardon the expression— insanity.” The dwarf eyed him suspiciously. “Could I know the name of such a fearless dwarf?”

The dwarf eyed him still. Whill assumed he was pondering whether to chop off his head or introduce himself. At last the dwarf, being accustomed to the ways of men, extended his hand. “I am Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din.” Whill shook his hand. It was like a rock. His skin was rough and his grip was crushing. Whill tried not to grimace and instead he manifested his discomfort into an animated look of surprise.

“You are the son of Ro’Din? Fallen king of the Ebony Mountains?”

Roakore released Whill’s throbbing hand. “Aye, but this ain’t no time fer conversation. Let us ready ourselves quickly.” He looked over the ledge once again. “They’ll be here soon.”

Just then Whill had an idea. “What if we bait the Draggard— try to get more of them in range of the boulders?”

“What do you mean?” Abram asked.

Roakore laughed. “If ye would like to be the bait, boy, go ahead.”

Whill ignored him and produced the bag of diamonds from his pocket. He looked up at the ledge, determined the best spot, and dumped the diamonds onto the ground. They gleamed brightly, even in the dim light. Roakore gasped at the sight of the large pile of gems. “How did ye obtain such a wealth o’ diamonds?”

“He defeated Rhunis of Eldalon in competition,” Abram said.

Roakore’s expression of shock did not fade. He looked at the diamonds and to Whill again. Finally he composed himself. “Indeed, if ye can beat the Dragonslayer, ye will be an able ally… though it makes me uncomfortable to leave these diamonds fer those beasts.”

Whill mocked the dwarf’s earlier conviction. “I as well, but they will all die as sure as the sun will set.”

Roakore simply nodded and let out a growling laugh. Abram urged them as he peered over the ledge, “They are coming.”

Of the boulders they could use for cover, Abram chose a large one about sixty feet from the diamonds. It was about nine feet tall and as wide as four men, with a large crevice on the side opposite the ambush. He climbed atop the boulder and squatted within the crevice. It was perfect for his intentions; it was a good vantage point and he could quickly bring his bow up over the top.

Roakore nodded his approval. “I think that Whill here should come with me. ’Twill be a more effective attack if a bowman was directly above ’em as well. It’ll confuse ’em.”

Though Whill did not like the idea, Abram agreed. From the boulder he said, “Aim for the neck and eyes.”

Whill nodded and began to follow Roakore. As the dwarf began to climb the rock face, he spoke over his shoulder, “Quickly, boy, so we are not seen!”

Whill scrambled to keep up. The dwarf, with his short legs and arms, surprised Whill by how well he scaled the steep rock face. Once on the ledge, Whill peered over the side and could now see the Draggard much better. There were two scouts ahead of the main pack, stopping often with their snouts in the air.

“Come,” said Roakore.

Whill followed him along the ledge to the boulders he had spoken of. Once again Whill peered over the edge cautiously. They were directly above the diamonds. Roakore smacked his back. “Help me, laddie. Gather as many large rocks as ye can.” He walked over to one directly behind them. “This size is perfect.”

Whill regarded the rock in disbelief. It was three feet tall and just as wide. “I cannot lift that!”

Roakore had found another of the same size. He regarded Whill with frustration. “Then roll the damned thing.” He squatted, took a deep breath, lifted the giant rock onto his shoulder, and carried it over to the ledge. Whill was astonished. He had heard of the dwarves’ strength but was amazed nonetheless.

He got behind his rock and, with great effort, began to roll it to the ledge. By the time he finished, Roakore had gathered five more. The dwarf peered over the ledge, “Hurry, boy! Get another, they be almost upon us!”

Darkness was advancing quickly now. The sun would set completely in twenty minutes, to their disadvantage. The Draggard could see excellently in the dark, a fact that unsettled Whill as he looked to the horizon. He retrieved another—smaller—rock as Roakore gathered four more. Satisfied, the dwarf took position behind the largest boulder.

“Will you need help with those?” Whill asked.

The dwarf laughed. “No, you just have that bow of yours ready and I’ll worry about the rocks.”

Peering over the ledge again, Whill could see Abram perched upon his boulder, his bow ready. He looked back, and Whill thought he saw him wink. Below and to the right he could see the Draggard scouts nearing the diamonds, the rest of the band now close behind. At this distance he could see that they wore no armor or clothes. They had no shields, either, only long metal staffs with large curved blades at each end.

The sun now met the horizon as it began to set. It was a brilliant array of red, orange, and purple that spread out like ghostly fingers among the thin clouds. Whether or not it was because it might be the last sunset he would ever see, Whill thought it was the most beautiful. He did not get to enjoy it long, however; the Draggard scouts had reached the diamonds. He watched as they peered at the gems, growling low and hissing violently. In the dying light their skin was dark green with black markings. They had ears like an elf’s, though much longer, and stood about seven feet when fully erect, which was rarely. The two scouts seemed to favor a slightly bent posture. Their bodies were well defined and muscular, with thick scales covering all but the chest and belly. They had short horns protruding from their backbones and at the end of their long tails—which, being one half of their total body length, were formidable weapons in and of themselves.

Suddenly the two scouts let out a horrible cry that made Whill’s blood curdle. He watched as the Draggard pack stopped, fell to all fours, and ascended the mountain with alarming speed. The scouts surveyed the land, but seemed half-hearted in their search as they snarled and pushed each other, fighting for dominance of the diamond pile. Whill backed away from the ledge slowly, silently stringing an arrow, as Roakore got ready to push. He could tell from the many snarls and growls below that the rest of the Draggard had reached the scouts. Roakore waited as the noise grew.

Sensing that it was time, the dwarf made a silent grimace as he pushed the boulder with all his might. At first it did not move, but then slowly began to roll. To Whill’s dismay, the movement sent small stones and pebbles tumbling over the ledge. The noises below stopped. Roakore pushed the boulder with all his might and sent it tumbling violently over the ledge. Whill took the opportunity to bring his bow around and take aim.

He saw a horrific sight; twenty Draggard stood in a circle below, looking up at them. As the boulder descended, many of them let out ear-piercing cries. Whill let loose an arrow; it flew into the open maw of one of the beasts and stuck in the back of its throat. As it flailed violently, the rest of the beasts scrambled to get out of the way of the falling boulder— five were not so lucky. The giant rock came down with bone-shattering force upon the Draggard, and was quickly followed by a smaller one, though still quite large, hurled through the air by Roakore. This too found its mark, slamming hard into the face of a howling Draggard. Simultaneously, Abram shot an arrow that hit another of the beasts in the eye.

The Draggard were bewildered and scampered from the fallen boulder as the three rained death upon them. As Abram shot repeatedly, killing two Draggard that advanced in his direction, many of the other beasts began to ascend the rock face, heading straight for Whill and Roakore. Whill shot the closest one in the forehead, but to his amazement, the arrow was deflected by its thick scales. The beast screamed insanely, baring hideous teeth. As Roakore dropped a large rock, the creature tried to avoid it, but was hit square in the chest. Whill strung another arrow and this time aimed for the eyes. He hit his mark and the beast fell hard, landing on the boulder below in a dead heap.

Seven Draggard remained; five ascended toward Whill and Roakore, while two more advanced on Abram. Whill shot another through the eye, and it fell with a loud thud on the ground below. Roakore had now abandoned the stones and grabbed his great axe. Whill followed suit and unsheathed his sword.

As the last audible note of Whill’s unsheathed sword reverberated in the air, the sun finally set and the Draggard topped the ledge. Whill was scared, more scared than when facing the wolves or the pirates. The Draggard were a nightmarish sight up close. They did not attack at once, but simply waited.

The dwarf let out a scream. “Come on, ye foul beasts!”

They did not move. Instead, they let out cries of their own. The sound hurt Whill’s ears and his body shook. The beasts growled and hissed, spittle falling from their pointed teeth. They had stood side by side but now began to spread out in pairs. He could not take the anticipation. He searched himself for the strength needed to face these fell creatures. They were the only thing standing in the way of all his answers. They were the scourge of the earth, a plague. They should not be feared, thought Whill. They should fear me!

From below Abram cried in pain and Whill jolted into action. He lunged forward at the closest Draggard but was met with greater force. The beast attacked with its double ended weapon, which Whill blocked with difficulty. Roakore swung at the one closest to himself, but his great axe only sounded a heavy whoosh as it missed its target and cut through the air. Whill blocked as both of his opponents swung and stabbed at him with their blades. They were relentless, hissing violently as they advanced. Whill knew if they got him against the rock wall he would be doomed.

Roakore, meanwhile, was not being driven back. He screamed and growled as he swung his heavy axe.

Whill parried yet another blow and, finding an opening, sliced the leg of the beast to his right. It howled in pain and let up long enough for Whill to be one-on-one with the other. The beast brought down its blade, meaning to hew Whill’s head. He moved out of the way in time and, with one powerful stroke, cut off the beast’s right arm. Roakore, who was now ten feet away and closer to the ledge, blocked a series of blows and quickly dropped to his knees, avoiding one meant for his head. With lightning speed he swung his axe at the closest Draggard, and chopped its leg off above the knee. He followed with a heavy blow that cut the beast’s head clean off, and quickly rolled sideways as the other one lunged at him.

Whill was inspired by what he had seen of Roakore’s masterful counterattack. He blocked again as the uninjured of his two attacking opponents struck. The beast that Whill had cut screamed again in rage and barreled straight at him. As they exchanged blows, the other dove at him, arm extended, legs spread. He blocked an overhead attack and spun away from the diving beast. Reversing his sword grip, he thrust backward and impaled the one-armed Draggard through the chest. The other one, undeterred, continued its attack. Whill had no time to parry. Instead he abandoned his sword and jumped high into the air as the blade barely missed him. He back-flipped over the impaled Draggard and landed behind it. His foe spun blindly with an attack, but its blade struck his dead kin rather than Whill. The beast wailed in anger as it pulled its weapon free. Now unarmed but for his knife, he ran toward the ledge. In the darkness, he could just barely see his abandoned bow. He dove with an outstretched hand, and pulled an arrow from his quiver with the other. In fluid motion, he landed and rolled on his back, bow in hand. He frantically strung it, pulled back, and shot at the Draggard, which was now only a few feet away. The arrow found its mark and hit the beast in the belly, but had little effect. As the Draggard’s blade came down and he feebly raised his knife in defense, Roakore suddenly barreled into the creature and they disappeared over the ledge.

Whill was about look over the ledge but quickly wondered what had become of the other Draggard Roakore was fighting. He whipped his head around and saw its demonic silhouette not fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and took a shooting stance as the monster ran at him with a menacing howl. He shot the Draggard in the chest, but the arrow barely penetrated. He shot again, this time hitting it in the belly. The beast slowed but did not stop; it came at him with an impaling attack. He shot again, pulling back hard on the bow. The arrow sliced through the air and hit the Draggard again in the belly, sinking deep this time. The beast stumbled before dropping its weapon and falling to its knees. Whill had another arrow ready and aimed for the monster’s face, but the dying Draggard quickly swung its tail around and broke the bow in two. Suddenly it lunged forward again and grabbed him by the neck. The Draggard’s strength was incredible. Whill could not breathe and knew his neck would soon be crushed. As the beast’s sharp claws sunk into his flesh, he unsheathed his knife and thrust it upward. It came to rest behind the creature’s ribs and the grip on his neck loosened. Whill stared into the Draggard’s hideous black eyes, and they stared back— burning with anger. The grip on his neck tightened once again, and the Draggard whipped its tail deep into Whill’s left thigh, baring its pointed teeth in triumph. Whill could not scream in pain—he could not breathe—and his vision had begun to go black. With what strength he had left, he shoved the knife as far as he could and gave it a sharp twist. The beast’s eyes widened and its growl turned to a gurgle. The claw around his neck loosened and finally fell as the beast dropped on its side, dead.

At first, Whill still couldn’t breathe; he was on the verge of passing out. He struggled as his damaged windpipe finally opened enough to let in a shallow breath. He sucked greedily at the air and his breathing slowly became deeper. His throat burned and he went into a coughing fit that made his head spin. He fell forward, exhausted, and groaned in pain as he reached for the tail still stuck in his leg. With great effort and immense pain he pulled it from his flesh.

He crawled towards the ledge, wondering what had become of Roakore and Abram. He peered into the darkness below and saw Roakore hacking away at a lifeless Draggard that lay next to the fallen boulder—the beast was already in pieces. Roakore swore profusely and kicked a decapitated head, sending it rolling. He looked up at Whill with a hard scowl still on his face. “Ye still alive, boy?”

Whill could not answer. He simply nodded and pointed in the direction Abram had last been. The dwarf ran and began to look. Whill’s heart sank as Roakore raised both arms in the air as if to say “I don’t know,” and continued searching.

Whill feared the worst. Crawling back from the ledge, he attempted to stand. His head spun and his leg gave out as he fell to his knees, wheezing. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him suddenly and moved to retrieve his knife. With an effort, he pulled it from the fallen Draggard body and struggled to see what approached. When it was almost upon him, Whill began to make out a large figure and prepared himself for another fight. Then he heard a familiar voice:

“Whill, are you alright?”

He dropped his knife as Abram knelt beside him.

Chapter XII

The Mountain Passage

THE THICK CLOUD COVER MADE the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram, and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.

“If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we’d have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy. Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”

Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak, he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.

“Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathin’.”

Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”

“Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”

Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from Iam and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.

“Good wound. That’ll take some time to heal that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”

Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”

“Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist.”

Abram tied the bandage tightly. “He’s right. He’s much stronger than I, and you cannot walk the distance with an open wound.” He offered Whill a drink of water, which he accepted. It went down like thorns and made his eyes water. Abram loaded Whill’s weapons and packs onto his back as Roakore offered the injured young man a hand.

“Put yer weight on yer good leg when I pull ye up.”

Whill nodded and Roakore pulled him up and over his shoulder with ease. He turned to Abram and said, “Follow me,” as he started off at a jog.

Whill was amazed yet again at the dwarf’s strength. Roakore ran with ease even with Whill over his shoulder and his great axe in his left hand; he was also careful not to put pressure on his injured thigh. They ran for what seemed like hours, and Whill became dizzy with pain from his aching leg and throat. Blood had rushed to his head and pounded dully in his ears. With every step the pain increased, and he could see little in the torchlight.

Finally Roakore stopped and slowly let Whill down onto his good leg. Abram was quickly at his side, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

Before them was a great wall of stone, smooth as ice. Its edges escaped the torchlight, giving it a mammoth appearance in the black night. As they watched Roakore keenly, he slowly ran his right hand along the stone, as if looking for something, and then turned to them and said, “All assume that elves alone have the power to do magic—or so ’tis called by ye humans—but we dwarves have powers also. ’Tis a gift from our gods, bestowed upon us to aid in our purpose.” His expression hardened and he took a step forward. “What yer about to witness is to never leave yer lips, nor be set to paper, as long as ye draw breath, Understood?”

“I swear with my life, it shall fall upon no ear,” Abram said solemnly.

Whill struggled to find his voice. “I swear the same.”

Roakore eyed them for a moment, then turned and raised his arms. Head bowed, he stood like a statue for a moment. Nothing happened. Then words burst from him so loud it startled Whill. “Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty!” The dwarf reached out into the air as if grabbing something, and the stone wall rumbled. Roakore slowly pulled the phantom object with both hands. Whill stood in awe while a circular section of the rock wall began to move as if hinged. Roakore took a step back and, as if pulling an invisible rope, heaved the door open. Before them was the tunnel to the city.

The dwarf stood breathing heavily; Whill had not yet seen him tire, but now beads of sweat ran down his brow as he walked into the passage. Whill and Abram followed.

Within, the tunnel was perfectly round. Having been made for dwarves, the ceiling was low; Whill and Abram had to crouch. Roakore turned and once again spoke the command, this time for the door to close. The heavy stone door moved inward with a great rumble, and gave a loud thud as it came to its resting place. Roakore breathed heavily and sat down to rest on the stone floor.

Whill wondered about the dwarf’s power to move stone but decided against asking him. He and Abram sat as well, and Whill rolled up his pant leg to look at the blood-soaked bandages over his wound. Abram found a needle and thread and positioned himself to stitch it up. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Can’t I just—?”

“No.” Abram shook his head. His eyes darted to Roakore and then back to Whill. The dwarf did not notice.

Whill understood. If he used his powers to heal himself, the dwarf would become suspicious; only elves had powers to heal, and dwarves did not like elves. Reluctantly he let Abram begin, who went to work quickly but carefully. Masterfully stitching the wound, he soon finished and Whill inspected the work. “It looks good, Abram. Thank you.” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

Roakore nodded with a low “hmm,” and helped Whill up as they prepared to keep moving. “So, lad, ready fer another ride?”

Whill tried to clear his hurt throat. “No, we are in no danger now. I can walk. Slow though I may be.”

“Aye, then let’s be off. Not far ahead the tunnel widens; it should be a wee bit more comfortable fer ye tall ones.”

Whill again put his arm around Abram and together they followed Roakore. Shortly they came to the wider part of the tunnel. It was about ten feet high and just as wide, but unlike the last section, had a flat floor.

“This tunnel runs for fifteen miles southwest under the mountain,” Roakore explained, his voice echoing. “Along the way it is met by other tunnels as well.”

The going was slow, even now that they could walk fully erect. Whill slowed them down considerably. Roakore looked back at them. “At this pace we’ll not reach the city until after noon—that is, if we stop to rest.”

Whill limped along as quickly as he could with Abram’s help. “Do you intend to rest, Roakore?” he asked hoarsely.

The dwarf laughed. “Aye, Whill, that I do. I been on patrol for many a day and night with no sleep. Even we dwarves grow weary—though not easily.”

They walked on for another hour, torchlight leading the way in the dark passage. Little was said, as they were all very tired. It was surprisingly warm in the tunnels. Either that, Whill thought, or he was beginning to run a fever. Finally, to his relief, Roakore stopped. “We should get some rest. This be as good a place as any.”

Whill sat on the stone floor, his leg throbbing madly. From one of the packs Abram retrieved food and water. He offered Whill some cheese and dried meat. “I imagine your throat still hurts, but you should eat what you can. We’ve had quite a day, and you will need your strength.”

Whill accepted the food and ate what he could. Every swallow was torture, though the cool water from his canteen helped a little. He ate only enough to quiet his growling belly and then lay back, propping his head on his pack. His eyes were grainy and heavy, his body sore. Even on the stone floor, with no pillow but a lumpy bag, he soon fell asleep to the sounds of Roakore and Abram’s voices echoing softly throughout the tunnel.

His dreams were dark, filled with broken bodies and blood. He imagined he was in a great battle. All around him lay the slain bodies of elves, men, and dwarves. Thousands of Draggard warriors surrounded him and Abram. Overhead dragons flew, their fire raining down. Whill fought hard against the hordes of Draggard, but as he slew one, more took its place.

Whill was awakened by the nagging pain in his leg. He lifted his head from his bag to find Abram and Roakore awake. “Good morning, laddie,” said Roakore as he gnawed on a piece of dried meat.

Abram smiled at Whill, “Sleep well?”

Whill sat up. “Not really, but I feel a little better.” He rolled up his pant leg. The bandages around his wound were slightly soiled, but not enough to constitute changing them. He rolled the pant leg back down with a groan. His throat felt a little better, though it was very dry. He took a long drink from his canteen, finishing it off with a satisfied sigh.

“Here.” Abram offered Whill his own canteen. “Roakore says we can replenish our water supply up ahead. Help yourself.”

Whill accepted the canteen and drank greedily. He was surprised by his own thirst.

Roakore stood and brushed off his legs. “A little farther down the passage there is a spring that trickles down from the ceiling. The best darn water ye’ll ever drink, or I’m a midget.” He burst into hearty laughter at his own joke. His voice boomed in the small space, echoing throughout the tunnel. Whill had a slight headache, and the sound was like a hammer to his temples. Nevertheless, he found the dwarf funny and laughed also. With a hand from Abram, he got to his feet. His leg still hurt, but he was able to put a little more weight on it now.

They began once again down the tunnel. It had run fairly straight for most of the journey, but now it began to wind in some places. It became slightly steeper in some spots, and then ran down again. With no sunlight penetrating the space, Whill had no idea what time of day it was. He guessed it was early morning. Roakore spoke as they walked, giving them a short history of the mountain and the Ky’Dren dwarves. Whill remembered that Roakore had said he was from the Ebony Mountains, and hoped it would not be rude to inquire.

“Roakore, may I ask…what has become of your people?” he said in a raspy voice.

The dwarf slowed and turned to look at him. He cleared his throat and walked on, now to Whill’s right rather than in front. “Like me, they be livin’ here within the mountain. Our numbers were greatly diminished after the Draggard attack, but we’ve survived.” Whill thought that to be the end of the awkward conversation, but then the dwarf went on, looking past the torchlight to the darkness beyond.

“It were twenty years ago when it happened, but I remember it like it be yesterday, ’twas a black day for us dwarves. A black day indeed. Somehow the Draggard learned of our southern harbor passage. Shortly after dark they came. There were thousands. Our guards were quickly overrun, an’ word came from the survivors that the beasts had penetrated the tunnels. The great horn of Illia blew, soundin’ the alarm, an’ that is when we heard ’em coming.

“We dwarves can fight better’n men, make no mistake, especially when guarding our treasures an’ family. But they were too many. We wasn’t prepared for such an attack and were greatly outnumbered. I alone killed more’n a hundred, but still they came, hordes and hordes of ’em, bloodthirsty an’ wild. I watched as me kin fell dead all ‘round me. An’—me father.” Roakore stopped. He still stared straight ahead, his eyes now watery. Whill tried to act as if he did not notice, and Roakore went on with his tale of horror.

“Me father died in me arms. With his last breath he told me the mountain had fallen and I had to leave. I begged him to let me fight—I told him I would kill every last one. But he forbade it. He said I would not lose my honor if I fled. He asked me to save as many as I could and flee here to our kin, the Ky’Dren, and return one day with a great army to claim the mountain once again. His last words were, ‘Ye be king now, me son. Ye alone must lead our people to victory. Do this and ye shall join me in the Mountain o’ the Gods.’ I did as he wished, and we retreated through the northern tunnel. For weeks we traveled north through the Uthen forest, all along hunted by the Draggard.” He stopped. His last word echoed eerily throughout the passage. Whill had a newfound sense of dread. The dwarves had been defeated by thousands of Draggard that inhabited the mountain still. No one believed such a number were living within Agora, or if they did believe, they refused to admit it. But having seen Roakore fight, he knew it would indeed take thousands to defeat so many dwarves.

Whill saw Roakore wipe his eyes surreptitiously. He felt sorry for the dwarf, surviving king of a mountain lost. “Have you yet tried to take it back?” He inquired, hoping not to anger Roakore. Abram gave him a warning look.

“No, that we have not. King Ky’Ell o’ Ky’Dren believes that this be a test. He has said that it be the duty o’ the survivors, women an’ children alike, to take back the mountain. He will help, o’ course, as will the Elgar dwarves, but not until the older children and men have mastered the arts o’ war.

“These many years we’ve done naught but train vigorously, preparing fer the day the mountain is taken back. And it will be soon. Many o’ the young’uns are now grown. They be handy with the blade and eager to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

They came to the spring Roakore had mentioned. It trickled from the ceiling and into a large basin that had been built to catch it. The basin was made of white marble and had no stand, but was attached to the wall. From its curved lip, water poured steadily into a small hole in the floor. Each of them took a turn filling his canteen and drinking the fresh mountain spring water right from the basin. Whill drank his fill and let out a satisfied sigh as the water ran down his chin. The water made his sore and parched throat feel much better.

“Indeed, master dwarf, that is the best water I have ever had, or call me a liar,” he said.

Abram wiped his mouth and capped his canteen. “Aye, the best water this side of the great blue ocean.”

Again they journeyed down the long tunnel. For hours they walked, stopping rarely to eat and rest, but talking all the way. Whill listened mostly, due to his still-irritated throat. Abram told Roakore their story, leaving out how he had come to have Whill in his care. He spoke also of their many travels, the tournament, and the battle with the pirates. He left out any mention of Whill’s healing ability, however, knowing it would not settle well with the dwarf.

The going was slow, but finally they came to the entrance to the city. The tunnel ended as they ventured into a large room with high ceilings. It was well lit with torches, and a great pit lay at its center. Whill could see more torches lit on the other side, along with many armored dwarves. Looking over the edge of the great pit, he could see no bottom. A large wooden drawbridge stood closed on the other side. “Who goes there?” called a gruff voice.

Abram nudged Whill and pointed up. “It looks as though security has risen since last I was here.” Whill looked up and saw that a large rack hanging from the ceiling bristled with long sharp spikes. He assumed that if they did not answer correctly, the rack would quickly be dropped. “’Tis I, Roakore o’ the Ro’Sar Mountain,” the dwarf announced. “I come from guard duty, and with me be two humans—one a good friend o’ the king an’ carryin’ the family crest. Just last night they helped me destroy a horde o’ twenty Draggard intent on finding the city. We wish to enter.”

Soon the drawbridge began to lower with a rumble. The thick wood came down with a loud thud that reverberated throughout the large chamber. Roakore guided them across the bridge and stopped when he reached the other side. Ten armored dwarves stood guard, blocking the passage beyond. Two came forward, greeting Roakore in turn with a slam to the chest. They eyed Whill and Abram suspiciously. Their great axes were like Roakore’s, and upon their heads were thick helmets that covered all but their faces. Their armor was thick and appeared very heavy. It consisted of broad shoulder and chest plates with thick mail underneath. Their arms and legs were protected by what appeared to be dragonhide; the thick scales overlapped one another and shimmered in the torchlight. The guard with the red beard spoke up, pointing at Whill and Abram.

“What binness d’ye ‘ave ‘ere?”

Abram answered in the dwarf tongue, telling him that they sought counsel with the great king. When questioned, Whill spoke Dwarvish as well. The guards were visibly impressed by their fluency, and by the royal crest that Abram presented.

“Welcome, dwarf friends,” said the red-bearded dwarf. “It be good to see men who’ve taken time an learnt our talk, an’ speak it so good. I’ve heard of ye, Abram. Ye fought aside our great king. ’Tis an honor.” He did not bow, and he did not shake hands. Instead, he slammed his fist to his own chest and nodded, casting his gaze to the ground in the greeting of respect. The second guard did the same, but did not speak.

Abram did not return the gestures, he simply nodded to each. This was not meant as an insult, Whill knew; it simply was not required of him to greet them in such a manner, as he did not know their names or reputations. The dwarves simply regarded Whill with a nod, which he returned. Roakore, however, received the same greeting as Abram had, for his stature among his kin was great. If they had not greeted him in such a way, it would have been a sign of lack of respect.

The red-bearded dwarf regarded Roakore. “’Tis good to see ye return Roakore, can ye tell me aught o’ this battle with the Draggard?”

Roakore answered plainly, “Ye’ll hear o’ it soon enough, I’m sure, but not from me. We seek the comfort o’ Dy’Kore and be eager to arrive. Go well, friend.”

The dwarf was visibly disappointed but stood tall and, in a firm voice, responded, “Go well.”

Roakore nodded to Whill and Abram and started off once again down the tunnel. It had widened considerably and was now lit by wall hung torches every ten feet. The walls themselves were decorated with carvings from top to bottom. Whill got a keen sense of the age of their culture, along with nostalgia for a vast and deep history. There were many carvings concerning the battles of old, such as dwarf kings sitting on great thrones, dragons spewing fire by the mountain, and dwarf armies marching against men; and many others which were less war-like in nature, like diamond-mining, great feasts, and celebrations. But above all else the walls depicted the revered dwarf gods. Great murals loomed above, spanning the arched tunnel. Whill had only ever heard stories of the dwarf religion from Abram. There were no books on the subject, as they were a very secretive people and did not usually bother to explain their beliefs to outsiders. Whill could only guess who the gods in the carvings were, and though he was eager to find out, he thought better than to ask Roakore.

Soon they came upon two guards, one at either side of the tunnel. As Roakore approached, they gave him the same gesture of respect the drawbridge guards had. Without a word, the three walked past. Whill soon realized that a pair of guards was stationed every two hundred feet or so, and as they passed each, Roakore received the same gesture.

Whill was relieved when they finally reached the entrance to the city. Before them was another large pit of darkness and, across it, another large drawbridge. As before, Roakore answered a guard’s inquiry and the bridge was lowered. Whill gasped as he viewed the giant double doors that lay beyond. Each stood more than fifty feet high and twenty feet across, and appeared to be made of iron with huge steel braces. Across their front were ancient dwarf runes written entirely in silver. Whill marveled as he read “Azrokea’s Passage.” Azrokea, he knew, was a high god of the dwarves, and this was one of the many ways they paid homage. As they ventured across and the doors began to open, their hinges emitting a dull moan, Whill could see that each side was at least five feet thick. Beyond, the great city of Dy’Kore awaited.

Chapter XIII

A Tale of Betrayal

WHILL HAD READ COUNTLESS BOOKS about the dwarves. He had learned their language, customs, and history. As a child in Sidnell he had dreamed of exploring the immense caves and caverns of the Dwarf Mountains. Now he was in the ancient dwarf city of Dy’Kore, a place few men had ever ventured. Within these stone walls slept remnants of his past, and with them his future awaited. A chill ran down his spine and a tear welled in his eye, though he did not know why.

The city was more than he could have imagined, and the few drawings he had seen of it did not begin to capture its beauty. Before him was a great hall with high ceilings, easily over a hundred feet. Eight great pillars, ten feet across and beautifully carved, extended from floor to ceiling. Dozens of tunnels opened into the hall, and dwarves filled the great room, busy in their duties and daily travels. The floor, he noticed, was of highly polished white marble, and the walls, though not marble, were exquisitely carved and decorated with beautiful banners.

Roakore stopped a passing dwarf and whispered something that made him eye Whill and Abram with wonder. He nodded to Roakore and quickly ran off down a tunnel to the left. Roakore looked up at them with a smile. “I told him who ye be, an’ that ye wish to speak to the king immediately. If ye wait here, a guide will come to take ye to him. I got me own things needin’ tendin’.” His face turned serious. “’Twas an honor fightin’ with human warriors such as yerselves, go well, friends.”

“Go well, King Roakore,” said Whill.

Roakore eyed Whill with a look of sorrow. “That title be mine when them words echo throughout me reclaimed mountain. Until then I be just a dwarf waiting to fulfill his destiny.”

Whill felt foolish. “Go well, friend,” Abram said, and Roakore turned and walked away.

“Will we see him again?”

“I imagine we will, lad. I imagine we will.”

Soon the messenger returned with a well-dressed dwarf in tow. They approached Whill and Abram and stopped. The dwarf who followed wore a blue hooded robe with a silver chain over his portly stomach. He was elderly, with a grey beard and hair. In his right hand he held a silver staff as tall as himself, set with a large sapphire at its crown.

“Abram, me friend, ’tis good to see ye again.” He slammed his fist to his chest and looked to the ground. He had a deep, gruff voice like Roakore’s, yet it was melodic and fluid. Whill assumed that this was a dwarf of high stature who could turn a crowd with his words alone.

Abram returned the gesture. “It is good to see you as well, friend.”

The dwarf turned to Whill and, to his surprise, gave the same greeting he had given Abram and said, “I am Fior, high priest o’ the Dy’kore clan. ’Tis good to meet you Whill.”

Whill instinctively returned the gesture of respect, hoping he was not making a mistake; he assumed a bow would be expected, given Fior’s title. To Whill’s relief, Fior smiled and turned to Abram. “Ye have a good one here, ye do. Now, I hear tell o’ a Draggard attack this day’s eve, outside these very walls. I shall want to hear o’ that in detail, indeed, But not afore the king. I understand ye have things to attend to.”

“That we do,” answered Abram

“If ye will follow me then.” Fior turned and began crossing the great hall. “I know yer able to find yer way around Dy’Kore, Abram, but the state o’ things being what they are, ’tis best ye have an escort with ye at all times—as not to alarm anyone, or stir up rumor.”

“I understand.”

They followed Fior across the hall and into another large tunnel. They walked for a minute in silence before turning left onto a large marble stair, which spiraled downward for about fifty feet before opening into a large room. This one was larger than the hall had been, considerably larger. It had a floor of black marble, and walls of polished stone that shimmered in the firelight—torches hung every ten feet along the mineral-rich walls. The reflection off the stone cast a beautiful spectrum of color on the room, which Whill would have marveled at had he not known what they were here for; this was a vault, and behind one of the many doors set between the torches, his secrets waited to be revealed.

Fior turned to them, looking like a dwarf sorcerer in the torchlight. “It is door number twenty-seven, on the left. I will wait here.”

He handed Whill a large key. Momentarily, he only gazed at it—the key to his past. He looked to Fior, then to Abram, then to the distant door. He walked toward door twenty-seven. The light swirled throughout the room as the torches flickered, and Whill worried for a moment that maybe this was all a dream—that maybe he was still in Iam’s house of healing, fighting a high fever. He feared he would open the door and find nothing but another ever-growing mountain with his parents atop, waving happily as they aged before his eyes and turned to dust.

Thirteen, read the door to his left; he was halfway there. He heard nothing but his heart in his chest, and it seemed to echo throughout the vast room. His leg no longer hurt, or if it did, he was not aware of it. He had already determined where the door stood, and focused on it for fear that it would vanish. It had haunted his dreams since Fendale, and now it was here in front of him. Seconds seemed like hours as he made the short walk, but at last he stood before it.

He jerked as Abram put a hand upon his shoulder. How long had they been standing there? A few seconds, minutes? Abram handed him one of the wall torches, and he looked again at the key in his hand. Finally, he inserted it into the lock and turned the large brass handle. He heard the sound of many locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door opened in silence.

The vault was dark. Whill entered slowly and raised the torch high so that he could see. The light shone on walls bare but for an unlit torch on each. At first he saw nothing, but as his eyes adjusted and he walked to the center, he could make out a large iron chest, two wooden chairs, and a small circular table. He turned to Abram, baffled.

Abram took the torch and lit two others upon the walls. He replaced the last torch with the one in his hand and said, “Have a seat, Whill.”

Taking the chair to the left, he eyed the chest curiously. Abram took the other, retrieved his tobacco bag, and lit his pipe. He puffed softly, eyeing the chest as well.

“Long have I pondered how best to present you with this story,” he said finally. “How to begin, where to begin—and I have determined I cannot tell any part of the story without first telling you who your parents were.” He took another long drag from his pipe, seemingly relaxed with one leg crossed over the other, while Whill sat literally on the edge of his seat.

“I don’t know any other way to say it, Whill, so I’ll just come out with it. Your father was King Aramonis of Uthen-Arden, and your mother was Queen Celestra.”

Of all the things Whill had anticipated, this was not one. He sat in utter shock. “King Aramonis? How can that be? I thought all perished in the ambush that killed the king and queen of Arden. She was with child at the time, but—”

He stopped as he comprehended what he had just said.

“Yes,” said Abram. “She was pregnant, with you.”

Whill’s mind raced. The gravity of reality bore down on him as he realized what this meant. “Then that means that I…I am…a prince?”

Abram shook his head and blew smoke into the air as he sat up in his chair and looked Whill straight in the eye. “No, Whill. It means that you are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”

Whill stood in disbelief and began pacing. “King? I’m no king. If I am King Aramonis’s son, why was I not brought back to Arden? Why wasn’t I raised there? Why would the surviving heir to the throne of Uthen-Arden be kept a secret from the world? Why—”

“Because your uncle wants you dead. That’s why.”

Whill stopped cold in his pacing as Abram answered his many questions with one answer. He began to understand. “King Addakon of Arden, my father’s brother—are you saying he had them killed? That he planned the Draggard attack that killed his own brother?”

“Yes, but there is much more to it. Please sit, my friend, you’re making me nervous.”

Whill sat back down in his chair, tense as a bowstring and shaking. His mouth had become parched and his head ached. He could hardly take in all that Abram had revealed so far.

“This story goes back hundreds of years, to the coming of the elves to Agora.” Abram sat back once again and puffed on his pipe between sentences. “The elves, as you know, were driven from Drindellia by the dark elves and the Draggard. Hoping to ensure his people’s survival, the elf king Verelas sent the queen and their children, along with hundreds of others, over the ocean. When they reached the shores of Agora, over five hundred years ago, they were met by the people of Opalmist. Upon hearing of the refugees, King Theorolus of Arden quickly rode to meet them. Soon a great friendship arose between Theorolus and Queen Araveal. By then the king had learned of the elves’ ability to manipulate energy, which, as you know, they call Orna Catorna. He made a deal with Queen Araveal: in exchange for the land now called Elladrindellia, he asked that the elves teach him and his decedents Orna Catorna. The queen agreed and the deal was made, and with every new birth in the royal family, the elves have kept their word. At the age of twenty, the royal children are brought to the elves to be taught for a year. This is a well-guarded secret, of course. Your father and your uncle were taught by the elves, as you shall be.”

“Me? I am to be taught by the elves?” Abram nodded and Whill thought for a moment. “But how is it that I have the power to heal already?”

Abram tapped his pipe on the chair arm, emptying the bowl. “You are a descendant of King Theorolus. You have, in your blood, hidden powers given by the elves. Though they usually do not emerge before being taught, the ability lives within you. You completely surprised me, of course, when you healed Tarren.”

“So that is how I did it,” Whill said as he stared off into the distance. “What of my parents, Abram. Were you there when they died?”

“I was. I’m getting to that. Now as you are aware, your father and uncle were identical twins born only minutes apart; your father Aramonis first, and Addakon second. You must understand that your father treated Addakon as an equal. He loved his brother deeply. Addakon, on the other hand, harbored a deep and dark hatred for your father which he did not show openly. The fact that Aramonis would be king angered Addakon deeply; he was insanely jealous and felt that he had been cheated by mere chance. When they were sent to learn the ways of Orna Catorna, it only got worse. Addakon had a thirst for power that, once he got a taste of it, could not be quenched. He wanted to be king at any cost, and eventually he proved that no cost was too great.”

Abram stood and began to pace slowly, his hands behind his back. “Your father was my best friend, Whill. I loved him, and your mother, deeply. They were the kindest and most righteous people I have ever known.”

He stared into the torchlight a moment before continuing, “I was a knight of Arden, and I met your father when he was sixteen. I was twenty-two at the time, and trying to make a name for myself within the ranks of Arden. I fought in many battles against the Draggard, on both land and sea, and soon caught the attention of your grandfather, King Armond. I was made a personal guard to the royal family at age twenty-five, and shortly thereafter King Armond died in the Battle of Fendora. As you know, it is the greatest Draggard attack on Agora to date. They came with hundreds of ships, and their army numbered over ten thousand. It took the combined strength of all four kingdoms of men, and the elves, to defeat the enemy. Afterward, your father became king, and I his personal guard—and friend. He took as his wife the beautiful Princess Celestra of Eldalon. Years passed and the kingdom of Arden prospered, as did its people. Your father was known as the greatest and most generous king to take the throne of Uthen-Arden, and his death was deeply mourned throughout Agora. As you know, the kings of Arden have been legendary warriors since the time of King Theorolus. Now you know that this is largely due to the fact that they possessed elven powers. Each king in your line has striven to become a greater legend than all before him. It has helped the kingdom to thrive, but it has also led to many untimely deaths. This thirst for power and fame, along with a boldness that comes with great power, has made you and Addakon the last in the line of Theorolus.”

Whill waited intently as his friend paused; he had many questions but held his tongue. After a moment Abram tapped his pipe on the table and sat down again.

“The day your parents died, I was there; I was with them. Your mother was eight months pregnant with you at the time, and they were on their way to Eldalon to visit your mother’s family; the King and Queen of Eldalon were very eager for a grandchild and the unity it would bring to the two kingdoms.

“We traveled north from Del’Oradon towards the Ky’Dren Pass, but two days into our journey we were ambushed by a great host of Draggard. They came in the morning and our small camp was overrun. Traveling with us were eleven of the greatest knights of the time, along with forty other soldiers, but the Draggard numbered over three hundred. The fight lasted less than an hour as our men fell. They protected their king and queen valiantly until the end, but we were too hopelessly outnumbered. And though they had managed to kill a great many Draggard, over a hundred still remained. Your mother was killed in the fight by a Draggard spear.”

Abram looked at him, his eyes shimmering in the torchlight. “It was quick, Whill. She did not suffer. The Draggard had circled us and stood waiting, as they do when they are sure of victory. Your father held your mother in his arms and wept, unable to heal her.

“I was hit also.” He pointed to his upper right chest. “Though I knew I would die, I was ready to give my life defending my king—my friend. Your father stopped me, however, from attacking the beasts, for as the Draggard waited, a man came to us from their ranks. It was Addakon.

“Your father was crushed. Holding his dead wife, he asked, ‘Why, brother, why would you do such a thing? Have I not been good to you, have I not loved you all these years?’ Then he stood and cried, ‘Is your thirst for power so great that you would see your own brother die at the hands of these beasts?’ Addakon told your father he was a fool and would die a fool’s death. Then Aramonis spoke to me for the last time. He told me to take his child, and see to it that one day he took back the throne.

“Turning to Addakon, he said, ‘If I am to die today, brother, then you will die with me.’ He raised his sword high and spoke, in the words of the elves: ‘Ortho min brensa las enna, engrona de lementho brydon.’

“Addakon knew what the king was doing and ordered the Draggard to shoot him. Spears took flight but were stopped in midair, inches from us, as your father bellowed the elven chant of death. Addakon knew he was beaten and started to run.

“I will never forget what happened next. Your father drove his sword deep into the ground, and a great boom and flash of light exploded through the air. Every last surrounding Draggard fell to the ground dead, as did your father.”

Abram reached over the table and put his hand on Whill’s shoulder. Tears slid down his cheeks. “He died to save you, Whill.”

Whill could not meet Abram’s gaze. He stared at the floor, a lump swelling in his throat. Abram stood and stared into the torchlight. “Your father performed the Orrona Dekarra, the sacrifice of life, the most powerful elven attack. He used all of his energy, and all the energy left in his sword, to kill over a hundred Draggard. When they fell, I watched in horror as he died too.

“There was no sign of Addakon, though I know now that he survived. I did what I knew I had to do, Whill; I took your father’s sword and cut you from your mother. You were alive, due to your father’s attempt to heal your mother, but I knew you would die soon if I did not find help. I mounted the closest horse and rode as fast as I could to Elladrindellia, seeking the aid of the elves. For days I rode, knowing that hell itself was at my heels. When I finally reached the elves, you were barely holding on and I feared the worst. But Queen Araveal healed you that day. And now here you are, a man by every measure—one whom your father would surely be proud of.”

Abram went to the large iron chest. He produced a key from his pocket and disengaged the lock. Whill watched intently as he opened it and retrieved a small object from within. He held it in his fist and turned to Whill. “This, I’m afraid, is all I have to give you of your mother’s.” He laid a silver ring in his friend’s hand, and Whill took it between thumb and finger. As he gazed at it, a pang of sorrow rose from his very core. Abram spoke again, “That ring has been in the Eldalon royal family for hundreds of years. It was made by the dwarves for the queen of Eldalon. It has been passed down from mother to daughter ever since. Celestra received it on her sixteenth birthday and cherished it dearly; she wore it always.”

The ring was made of pure silver, and at the center sat a large pearl encircled by sapphires. Whill tried the ring and found that it fit his smallest finger. Abram returned to the chest once more and produced a sheathed sword. He presented it to Whill with open palms. “This was your father’s sword. It is called Sinomara.”

Whill took it by the hilt, and his eyes filled with hot tears; he could find no words—this was the sword his father had wielded to save his son’s life. Slowly he pulled off the sheath and set it on the chair, and eyed the great sword with reverence. It was an elven sword. Its long hilt was bound in black leather and bright blue silk, and the single-edged blade was three feet long and slightly curved. The hand guard was a thick steel ring encrusted with small diamonds. Along the length of the blade, on both sides, were elven runes. They read, “This is the blade Sinomara, made for a king of men. May it protect its master in times of peril, and vanquish all that dare to stand before it.”

Whill inspected the sword in the firelight. It was the most beautiful and well-crafted peace of weaponry he had ever seen. Simply holding it in his hand gave him a sense of great power and strength.

“I will leave you now for a while,” Abram said solemnly, and went to the door. Whill barely heard him close it, so transfixed was he by the sword in his hands. He looked at the ring and the sword in turn. Tears welled in his eyes again and a dam of emotion broke within him. He was flooded by sorrow and fell to his knees weeping. Staring at the sword through blurred vision, he spoke to his long-dead parents:

“I will avenge you, mother. I will avenge you, father. With all the power I possess, I will hunt down Addakon and make him pay for what he has done. I will make him pay.”

Overcome with grief, his voice cut out. He wailed and gasped, shuddering as he held the sword. Then his sorrow was replaced by a great rage, and holding the sword high with both hands he bellowed, “I will not rest until he is dead!”

Chapter XIV

The Dwarf King

WHILL STAYED WITHIN THE VAULT for a time unknown, chanting to himself over and over his promise of vengeance. His rage and sorrow did not ebb; he focused on it intently, replaying in his mind the final minutes of his parents’ lives. His father’s words echoed through his head in a maddening chorus. Why, brother? Why would you do such a thing? He heard his mother’s final screams, and the sounds of battle. Abram’s voice joined in the chorus. He died to save you, Whill.

His head spun and his mind raced. He thought of the life he might have known, the life that had been taken from him—his mother’s laughter, his father’s smile. These too joined in the deafening chorus of pain that was Whill’s world. When he was finally exhausted he fell into deep sleep, his father’s sword still in hand.

His dreams were filled with blood, screams, and pain. He stood next to Abram as his father cradled his dead mother in his arms. Draggard soldiers were all around, hissing and laughing at them. Then Whill saw Addakon. He came from among the crowd of Draggard with a malevolent smile on his face. Whill drew his father’s sword and charged. At first, Addakon simply stood and laughed, but as Whill neared, the evil king unsheathed his own sword and ran to meet the attack. Whill came down with a powerful first strike, and then proceeded to slice and jab with all his might, but his uncle just laughed and blocked every blow with ease.

Suddenly Addakon raised a hand and Whill was paralyzed; but as he turned and walked toward Aramonis and Abram, he realized Addakon controlled his every movement. He fought to stop himself, but to no avail. When he finally reached his father, he raised his sword high for a killing blow. As the blade came down, Whill awoke with a scream.

“No!”

He sprang to his feet. At first he did not know where he was. He looked around the room bewildered, and then saw the sword in his trembling hands. He breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered he was in Dy’Kore. For a moment he stood unmoving, trying to shake the vision of his nightmare. He walked to the chair, retrieved the sword’s sheath, and attached it to his belt. After one last glance, he put the sword away and opened to the door. As he did so, he turned to look back at the chamber—he had come to this room a boy seeking answers; now he left it the rightful king of Uthen-Arden.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud as he made for the vault entrance. Abram and Fior awaited him at the stair. He approached them in silence. Abram looked solemnly at him and asked, “Are you alright, Whill?”

He simply nodded and tried, in vain, to fake a smile. Fior broke the silence with his deep and majestic voice. “I will lead ye to yer quarters.”

Whill and Abram followed Fior down the stairs and through a series of halls and tunnels in silence. Many dwarves stopped in their tracks as they saw the three, but Whill paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

They reached their quarters shortly. Fior told them to rest well and the king would see them first thing in the morning, and then left with a bow. Whill silently went to his room and closed the door.

Abram respected his privacy, though he was worried about him. He knew that it would be hard for Whill to accept his heritage even though he had prepared him for this day as best he could. Whill was wise beyond his years, a brilliant scholar, and his prowess as a fighter was masterful; But, Abram reminded himself, he was also still young—and the mind of a young man could be more tumultuous than the great sea. He understood how hard it would be for Whill. He walked to the large mirror on the wall, and stared into his own eyes for a long while. How quickly the time had passed.

“He is ready,” he said aloud, more to convince himself than as a statement. On that dreadful day almost twenty years earlier, he had made a decision: to forsake his own life for that of Whill’s. He had vowed on the blood of the king to care for Whill, and in his heart he knew he had done well. He had been utterly shocked by the recent display of Whill’s power, but ultimately pleased by the revelation. But still, troublesome thoughts lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. Would Whill exhibit the same lust for power that had darkened his uncle’s heart? Or would he grow to be a great man like his father?

He felt guilty for even thinking such a thing, but he could not deny that Whill was indeed powerful—more powerful than even his father and uncle had been at that age—and had used his powers instinctively without any training, a feat never accomplished by his forefathers. Would such power corrupt the student Abram had dedicated his life to? If it did, what then would be Abram’s responsibility?

These questions and many others kept him awake for hours, until finally he drifted off into the much-needed realm of sleep.

Whill awoke to find that he no longer had a single trace of the wound upon his leg. As he lifted the bloody bandages from his thigh he found only smooth flesh, with not so much as a scar. Amazed, he leapt from his soft feathered bed and quickly went to Abram’s room, where he found him sleeping soundly.

“Abram, look at this!”

Abram jumped from his bed, instantly alert and brandishing his dagger. He looked around, puzzled, and then at Whill. With a sigh he plopped back down onto his bed and rubbed his tired eyes. “What is it Whill?”

Whill sat next to him on the bed and rolled up his pant leg enough for Abram to see. “It was like this when I awoke. I swear I didn’t try to heal it.”

Abram eyed the healed skin with a worried glare. It was many moments before his eyes found Whill’s.

“You healed yourself, Whill, whether you meant to or not. There’s no other explanation.”

Whill shook his head and was about to speak, but there was nothing he could really say. Instead, he just sat there confused. Abram rose and paced the room, looking down at the floor and obviously distraught. He continued to do so even after he started speaking again. “This is why you must go soon to the elves. I have taught you much, but I cannot teach that which you now need to know. You have great abilities, Whill, but without knowledge and control, they could prove disastrous.” He stopped and looked suddenly to Whill. “Your father’s sword! Did you hold it long?”

Whill did not understand Abram’s urgency. He was the one who had given him the sword in the first place. “Yes, after you left I held it for a long while… but I did nothing…I…I fell asleep.”

Abram sat again and tried to explain. “The sword of your father has life once again. Elven swords are very powerful; when you held it in your state of…despair, and anger, powerful dark energy—your energy—poured into it. This, as you will learn, is a practice forbidden by Elves of the Sun—only the Dark Elves use such techniques, Whill.”

There was much gravity in Abram’s words. Whill began to understand how little control he had over his power to heal, and the thought scared him.

“It is not this use of the mind itself that they shun,” Abram continued. “It is the use of negative thoughts and emotions that they do not allow. If one fills their sword with anger, hatred, and other negative energy, they too will become consumed with these emotions. The elves know this, and that is why it is not practiced; though it can bring great power quickly, it can destroy one’s soul and blacken their heart just the same.”

He was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Yes?” said Abram.

“It is I, Fior. The king requests breakfast with you an’ Whill in a half-hour’s time.”

“We will be ready, my good friend.”

“I will return for ye then, Abram,” he replied, and with that he was gone.

Abram turned to Whill once again. “We will talk of this more later. Now we should bathe and dress. The king awaits us.”

A half-hour later Fior returned and led them to the king’s quarters. Having been given rooms in the king’s guest wing, it was a short walk. The floors in this wide corridor were black marble, and the walls were adorned with many carvings. There were also great stone arches, each one a work of art, every twenty feet or so. Years beyond reckoning had gone into the designs of this ancient lair, and Whill took in all its great beauty.

Fior led them to a large, open door and stepped to the side, gesturing for them to enter. The room beyond was massive, easily a few hundred feet wide and twice as long. There were high cathedral ceilings supported by gold and silver arches, and the floors were of white marble. The walls, platinum, were highly polished and added to its grand appearance. Dozens of large dwarf statues lined both sides of the room, standing over twenty feet tall. These were the past kings of Dy’Kore, their exact likenesses carved into the stone with great precision.

“This is the Chamber of the Kings.” Fior’s voice echoed from behind them. “Within each statue lies the king depicted.” He led them down the great chamber, past dozens of similar statues, to where King Ky’Ell sat waiting.

“The most magnificent sight I have ever seen,” Whill said as he looked at the largest statue of them all. It was directly ahead, behind Ky’Ell’s throne. The image that stared down at them was that of a bald, sturdy-looking dwarf with a long braided beard. In his left hand was a massive axe, and in his right, the curving horn of a dragon. Below the statue sat a large black marble plaque. Its Dwarvish words, written in diamond dust, read

Here lies Ky’ Dren, the Dragons Bane

First king and founder of Ky’Dren

Warrior of the Gods

Slayer of Five Dragons

Savior of the Dwarves

0–350

Finally, they came to the king’s court. Two dwarves stood on either side, dressed as Fior was, and four steps led to the marvelous gold throne. Ky’Ell himself was big by dwarf standards. His hair was grey, as was his long beard, which in his seated position, fell below his feet. His eyes were blue and alert, watching keenly behind a wide nose. At first glance he seemed a stern and serious dwarf, even mean, but as Whill and Abram stopped before him, his eyebrows shot upward and a wide smile spread from under his thick beard.

Abram slammed his right fist to his chest and bowed slightly. “Ky’Ell, my friend, it is good to see you once again.”

The king returned the gesture and, in a deep and powerful voice, responded, “An’ you, Abram. I am glad to see that the many rumors o’ yer death be false, fer such a loss to the world o’ men would be a grievous loss indeed.”

Abram laughed. “If I had a gold coin for every rumor of my demise, I would be the envy of kings.”

The king laughed, his great booming voice echoing throughout the chamber. As the laughter died away, Whill took the opportunity to greet him. He slammed his right fist to his chest in the sign of respect and bowed slightly. “It is an honor to meet the great king of Dy’Kore.”

To Whill’s utter amazement, the king returned the gesture. “’Tis I who am honored to finally meet the rightful king o’ Uthen-Arden. I’ve heard much of ye from Abram, Whill. He’s indeed done a good job of training ye. I hear tell from Roakore that ye slew many Draggard single-handed. Ye indeed be a great warrior o’ men, an’ ye’ll be a great king in yer time.”

Whill was barely used to the idea of being a king, and hearing himself spoken of in such a way made him uncomfortable. “Thank you, good king.”

After a moment of silence, Ky’Ell rose from his throne and descended the four steps. “Let us eat, then. Ye must be starved from yer journey.”

With that, he led Abram and Whill to a passage at the right of the throne. It went down into a wide tunnel. They soon stepped into a huge dining room. This one was smaller than the Chamber of Kings but, like that room, boasted highly polished marble floors. Its walls were adorned with great banners and paintings of kings of old. Five massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and at the center of the right-hand wall, sat a giant fire place, more than twenty feet wide. In the middle of the long room, a beautiful stone dining table had been exquisitely crafted, and adorned with various gems and precious stones. Its wooden chairs were no less beautiful, intricately carved as they were, with silver trim and blue satin cushions. The stone table could seat over one hundred, and Whill found that four places had been set for breakfast at the end closest them.

Whill assumed that the fourth chair meant that Fior would be joining them, but when Roakore entered the room, the king sat and bade the three to do the same. Fior gave a small bow and exited the room as four dwarf maidens entered. Whill looked in wonder at the sight of the dwarf women. To his knowledge, no man had ever laid eyes upon a female dwarf, and rarely were they even mentioned in any of the accounts he had read concerning the dwarves. Whill suddenly felt embarrassed by his gawking. The king noticed his reaction but only grinned; the women were not bearded, as many of the stories told, nor were they in any way ugly. They were shorter than the male dwarves—a foot shorter on average—and had thick flowing hair that was so long, it had to be held up with ribbons to keep it from dragging on the floor. They wore full length dresses and aprons over their plump figures, and merry cheeks accompanied warm smiles as they set the many dishes before them. Whill thought to himself that at any moment one of them would fall over under the weight of their huge bosoms, and he fought off a chuckle.

When they finished, the maidens bowed slightly and, with wide smiles, exited the room.

“Our women are built as sturdy as the mountains themselves,” noted the king. “You should know, Whill, that you are one of the very few outsiders who has ever laid eyes upon them. We love and guard our women as fiercely as we do our treasure, for they are the givers of life, the greatest gift bestowed upon us by the gods.”

Whill regretted his earlier thoughts and wondered for a foolish moment if the king had read his mind. “I am honored once again, good king. They are indeed a treasure.”

The king eyed Whill for a moment. “Fret not, young Whill, fer years I too have pondered the mystery o’ how they stay on their feet.”

Whill flushed as he realized that his eyes had given him away. He began to stutter a response but the king interrupted. “But how I do love to investigate the many aspects o’ that mystery!” His chuckle grew into all-out laughter. Abram and Roakore joined in and, after a moment, Whill was laughing too.

When they had all finally stopped, the king took a piece of roasted duck from one of the platters and bit into it fiercely. “Eat up, friends, and tell me the tale o’ your meeting and the battle with the Draggard.”

Before them sat a feast of roasted duck, boiled goose eggs, strips of fried wild boar, ham, cakes, pastries, coffee, juices, goat’s and cow’s milk, and various fruits and bread. Whill found that he had a monstrous appetite, and knew that it was due to the healing of his leg. The food was good and the wine sweet, and the king listened intently to the story, He complimented Whill’s genius in using the diamonds as bait, and grunted approvingly at the ways the Draggard had been dispatched.

When they had finished eating, Abram took out his pipe, as was his habit after a good meal, and so did Roakore and Ky’Ell. The king gestured to Whill with his pipe. “Do ye smoke, lad?”

Hoping not to offend him, Whill answered truthfully, “No, thank you. I never acquired a taste for it myself, but I do enjoy the smell of another’s.”

“Very well.” The king puffed and blew a large smoke-ring into the air, and quickly sent another smaller one through the middle.

“Now for business.” He sat up in his chair. “What of the invitation I have received from Kell-Torrey?” He asked Abram.

“King Mathus of Eldalon has summoned all the other kings of Agora—as well as the Queen of Elladrindellia—to a secret meeting in his castle at Kell-Torey. He has not, however, invited King Addakon.” He paused and glanced at Whill. “Instead, he has requested that Whill attend, being that he is the rightful heir to the throne, and true king of Uthen-Arden.”

King Ky’Ell scowled. “The elf queen? I’ll be damned if I enter the company of an elf.”

Abram, who had foreseen that the mention of Queen Araveal might hamper the meeting, continued cautiously. “Please, Ky’Ell, hear me out.” Ky’Ell nodded and puffed on his pipe. “Addakon has invaded Isladon. There has been no word from King Fenious for weeks, and King Mathus has decided to hold this meeting under my council. He believes, as do I, that King Addakon intends to take over all of Agora, including the mountains of the dwarves.”

Ky’Ell choked on his smoke. “Bah! The snake can try, but he’ll not find it an easy task. He is flanked on both sides by Dwarf Mountains.”

Abram continued. “There is more, good king. I’ve told you I was there when Whill’s parents were killed—that it was Addakon who saw to it.”

Ky’Ell nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, ye told me the tale.”

“What I failed to tell you was that the ambush was performed by a host of Draggard.”

The king was suddenly concerned. “Twenty years ago?”

Abram nodded. “Yes. It is my strong belief that Addakon has made allies with the beasts—to what extent, I can only guess—but if he has waited this long to act, I can only assume he has been amassing a Draggard army. Worse yet, he may be in alliance with Eadon himself.”

Ky’Ell spat on the floor at the mention of Eadon, the Dark elf who had crossed dragon with elf and created the Draggard. “Then the elves o’ Elladrindellia be in on it also, the scum! Brought the dragon half-breeds here to take our treasures, eh?”

“No!” Abram interrupted. “If you value me as a friend, and know me to be a man of truth, listen to my words! The elves of Elladrindellia have more disdain for the Draggard than even the dwarves do. They are not in league with the Dark elves. Their people were slaughtered and driven from Drindellia those hundreds of years ago by the Draggard.”

“Bah! A lie built to hide their true intent! I’d wager they aim to take over Agora themselves, an’ enslave us all with the help o’ the Draggard scum. Yer deluded, Abram. Ye believe a lie!”

Whill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The tension in the air had become suffocating since the mention of the elves. He feared that Ky’Ell would erupt with rage. Roakore watched the exchange too, but his face showed that he was on the side of the king.

“If you will not listen to me, then listen to logic,” Abram continued, “If the elves of Elladrindellia are what you say, then why have they waited over five hundred years to strike? Wouldn’t they rather have amassed their army and crushed Agora long ago? Would they show up claiming to be refugees, only to wait hundreds of years before attacking?”

Calmer now, the king pondered for a moment. “I know that ye believe in what ye say, an’ if yer correct, Agora will have a valuable ally in the elves. But think for a moment, What if yer wrong, an’ the king has invited the enemy to the meeting? Then all is folly, an’ they will know our every move.”

“Well met, Ky’Ell. But I would wager my life that the queen and her people are good, and do indeed despise the Draggard as fiercely as yourself.”

The king leaned forward and puffed his pipe. “On what grounds would ye make such a wager?”

Abram looked at Whill. “On the grounds that, if the elves were indeed in league with Addakon, they never would have let Whill live, let alone save his life!”

The king scowled as he eyed Abram, then Whill, but did not speak. Abram went on. “When I took Whill from that bloody field, he was barely alive. I brought him to Elladrindellia and the queen herself healed our wounds. She knew who he was, yet she helped. So I ask you, good king of Dy’Kore, why would an ally of Addakon save the true king from certain death?”

Ky’Ell leaned back in his chair. Even Roakore seemed stumped. Whill watched with anticipation as the silence thickened. Abram, however, crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, his pipe hanging from his mouth. He seemed to know he had won. Finally the king spoke.

“Ye present a good argument, Abram, one which I cannot dispute. But know that I remain wary.” He puffed on his pipe, but found it spent and began packing another load. “Enough o’ this bickering. Let us assume fer now that what ye say be true. What does King Mathus propose?”

“That is the purpose of the meeting. He would like to present the facts of Addakon and the Draggard to all, and hear what each has to say. But one thing I do know: he believes that unity alone will ensure our victory in the coming war.”

Ky’Ell did not look convinced. “I understand that Uthen-Arden be the largest kingdom o’ men, an’ boasts the largest army, but they be no match for the combined armies o’ the other kingdoms, which flank them on all sides. Surely it will be an easy defeat. I doubt also that the soldiers o’ Uthen-Arden will have much heart fer battle under a ruler such as Addakon. It is well known that he is hated by most of his people.”

“You are correct in that assessment, but the presence of the Draggard implies that something much graver awaits us all.” He looked at Roakore. “I believe that when the Draggard took over your mountain twenty years ago, it was under the command of Addakon.” Roakore tensed as Abram let the statement set in. “I also believe that the purpose of the attack was to set up a base for the Draggard army. It is my theory that within the great halls of your fathers lies a Draggard queen. For these twenty long years, I suspect, the Draggard army has been steadily growing, hidden within the mountain, waiting to be unleashed.”

Roakore was speechless, but his rage was apparent. The King looked at Abram, wide-eyed. “How many, do ye guess?”

Abram sighed and leaned forward. “It is said that a queen can lay more than twenty eggs a day, and those eggs can lay dormant for years. I would guess we are looking at an army of well over a hundred thousand.”

Whill could hardly comprehend such an estimation. He tried to envision an army so vast, and his body involuntarily shuddered at the prospect.

Roakore stood, red-faced. “I said it long ago, we should’ve taken back the mountain immediately!” He pointed at Ky’Ell with a shaking hand. “Ye have damned me father to the hells! Why have ye made us wait? Just so the children o’ the fallen mountain could partake in the reclaiming o’ it! Are ye not now shamed in yer folly, in yer cowardice?”

King Ky’Ell sprang to his feet, his own rage twisting his face into a snarl. His voice boomed throughout the room. “Do not forget who ye speak to, Roakore o’ the Ebony Mountains! I’ll not be called a coward in me own halls. If ye were any other dwarf, I would kill ye where ye stand! But the gods have another plan for ye, son of the fallen mountain. Do not anger me again!”

From Roakore’s twisted face came tears of frustration. He bent his head low and weakly hit his fist to his chest. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I am sorry, great king o’ Dy’Kore, me tongue was led by me rage. Ye have been nothing but good to me people.”

He slumped back into his chair and peered at the king. His face was no longer filled with anger; rather, he looked like a dwarf without hope. His despair was so great that it eased the king’s rage as well. Ky’Ell spoke again, more softly this time.

“Ye will have yer chance, son o’ Ro’Din. Sooner than ye think. But know this: I’ve waited to help ye take back the mountain fer many reasons. Yer correct, I do feel it’s the right o’ the eldest sons o’ the fallen mountain to fight fer it, but I intended on fightin’ alongside ye in them halls; and since I be old an’ at the end o’ me days, I had to leave me mountain in order, an’ know that the son o’ me choosin’ be ready to lead if I don’t be returnin’. Call it a selfish ol’ dwarf’s vision o’ glory in the eyes o’ the gods, an’ ye’d be correct. Now it seems I be needed here in me own mountain after all.” He turned to Abram and added. ”If indeed what ye say be true.”

He paused to consider his next statement, and turned back to Roakore. “I’m thinkin’ ye should go with ’em to Kell-Torey an’ represent the dwarves. Ye’ll speak fer meself an’ fer King Du’Krell o’ the Elgar Mountains. When ye return, we begin plans to reclaim the Ebony Mountains. What say ye, son o’ Ro’Din?”

Roakore rose once again and slammed his fist to his chest. “I would be honored to represent our people.”

The king looked to Abram and Whill. “’Tis settled. These two sons o’ fallen kings shall journey together to Kell-Torey, and the fate of Agora will be decided. Let many a song be written to tell the tale o’ this great war. An’ may the Draggard be destroyed once an’ fer all!”

Chapter XV

The Dwarves of Dy’Kore

AFTER THE MEAL WHILL AND Abram returned to their rooms without the guidance of Fior—Ky’Ell had made it known that a visiting king of men was a guest within the city, and free to roam as he pleased. He had also offered them a tour later that day, and they had graciously accepted

As they entered their quarters, Whill turned and asked, “How do you think the meeting went?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Whill. What is your opinion?”

Whill sat down upon a heavily cushioned chair and thought for a moment. “I like Ky’Ell. He is gruff, opinionated, and stubborn—everything you would expect from a dwarf king—but he is kind and wise as well. I must say, though, I do not presume to be qualified to judge such a character.”

Abram laughed. “But, Whill, you are qualified. You are the rightful king of the most powerful throne in all of Agora! I see the title makes you cringe, but you may as well get used to it if you intend on claiming the throne.”

Whill sighed and slowly put a hand through his hair. “All of my life I have wondered of my parents. I have dreamed of them in many ways, but never have I considered such a possibility as the story you have told me Abram. I can still hardly believe it to be true”

Abram spoke gently. “I do not mean to press.”

Whill sat up in his seat, his elbows upon his knees, and a smile spread across his face. “I know, and you are right. I do intend to claim the title, and I intend to see Addakon pay for his treachery, but I am afraid. If my uncle has been taught by the elves—worse yet, if he has teamed with Eadon, as you said—then what chance do I have?”

Abram sat down across from Whill and lit the pipe he had been preparing. “You mean what chance do we have, Whill. When I made my vow to your father, I swore with all of my heart to see to your survival; but I also swore that one day you would take back the throne. I still live by that vow, and I shall die by it. I have told you before that I will follow you down whatever road you choose—because of the vow, yes, but more so because I love you as a son and a cherished friend.

“And do not forget,” Abram went on, “You have powers far beyond your contemplation—powers that, when fully understood and mastered, will make you a very real threat to Addakon.”

Whill furrowed his brow. “But the trouble has already begun. I know I must be trained by the elves, but I assume that training will take years. How can I be of any use in the coming war?”

“I also have pondered that point. It is unfortunate that Addakon has begun his crusade against Agora so soon, and it would seem that time is indeed against us. But do not forget your history: wars are not won and lost overnight, and the other kingdoms of Agora are strong indeed. You must prepare to face Addakon, and let that be your goal.

“We have trained every day for the last ten years. Your prowess as a fighter is great indeed, and will only become greater. The elves will teach you things I cannot, and I do not doubt, given the abilities you have already demonstrated, that you will master their ways quickly.”

“And when do you suggest I go to Elladrindellia?”

“After the meeting in Kell-Torey—the elf queen is invited, do not forget. I suggest that we depart with her.” Whill was happy with the idea. He was eager to learn the ways of the elves like his father had.

Roakore walked the distance to his clan’s housing. It was not a great distance from the king’s quarters, but he took his time. His thoughts drifted to that dire day twenty years before when his mountain had fallen to the Draggard. News that a queen was most likely within the Ebony Mountains, laying her thousands of filthy eggs, did not settle well with the dwarf. His anger towards King Ky’Ell had died quickly; he himself had been shocked by his own words.

Roakore thought of the coming journey he was to take with Abram and Whill. In his few dealings with man, he had never acquired much of a liking for them—but these two had proven themselves great warriors in his eyes.

As he turned the last bend in the tunnel to his clan’s caverns, he could hear the telltale sounds of dwarves training with weapons. Every dwarf within the mountain lived for one thing, and one thing only: to aid in the will of the gods. If a dwarf dedicated his life fully, it was believed they would find a place among their kin within the Mountain of the Gods. Their cause was to mine the great mountains of the world and retrieve the many precious metals and gems their gods had created, and which the god of the dragons had hidden deep long ago. To kill a dragon was the greatest feat of all, one that would ensure not only a place within the Mountain of the Gods, but even a seat among them.

This belief was set firmly in the minds of the dwarves from childhood. It was their religion. They spent their lives mining and crafting their treasures, which were then—by means of trade—returned to the world above.

Shortly after Roakore’s clan arrived in Dy’Kore, however, it was deemed that they should not participate in the mining; rather, their salvation would come in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains. Since that day they had trained for battle. More than five thousand women and children had escaped, along with about a hundred adult males. Over a thousand of the children were now considered men, and trained hard with their elders for the coming battle. The women were not expected to fight; their duty was to increase the numbers of the diminished clan, which had once numbered more than fifty thousand. Because each elder male had many wives, Roakore’s clan had seen over ten thousand births in twenty years. Roakore himself boasted the highest number with twenty-seven wives. In those long two decades, they had borne him over two hundred children, one hundred and nine of them males. At the age of 120, he was young by the reckoning of the dwarves, who could live to see hundreds of years. He had not previously given much thought to women, however, and had not sired a child before the attack. His love had been the mines and, though he was a prince of the Ebony Mountains, he worked side by side with the other dwarves. He was renown throughout all the dwarven clans as a craftsman, indeed one of the greatest. His forte was weapons, and his masterful works were some of the most sought-after pieces every trading season.

Roakore came out of the tunnel and into the main chamber of his people; at the opposite end stood two more tunnels—one to the living quarters, and the other to the training chambers. He headed toward the main training room, passing many smaller ones and armories. As he stepped into the main room, pride welled in his heart at the sight of his loyal people.

The room was vast with a domed ceiling. Three of the walls boasted a number of huge fireplaces, and an enormous chandelier held hundreds of torches. The highly polished surfaces of the chamber reflected the many torches and shed a great amount of light throughout the room.

Roakore watched from the shadows as his fighters, mostly young dwarves with only small beards, practiced as hard as ever. These grueling sessions had gone on the last twenty years for fourteen hours a day, and he knew that those before him were the greatest warriors that dwarf history would ever know. Each had a horrible story to tell of the evil day their mountain was taken, and each harbored within him the rage that drove them to train so intensely each and every day thereafter.

Roakore did not want to disturb their practice but, having been gone at his own request on sentry duty, he knew that his appearance would inevitably bring the training to an abrupt halt. Preparing himself, he walked slowly into the room. Before he had gone more than five steps into the well-lit chamber, a young dwarf stopped sparring and slammed his fist to his chest. He began to announce the arrival of their great leader, but the proclamation was cut short as his opponent’s wooden axe caught him in the side of the head and sent him crashing to the floor. Roakore laughed, and as he walked over to the dazed dwarf, the other one took up the cheer instead: “Roakore has returned!”

His words were taken up and echoed throughout the chamber until every dwarf had slammed his chest and bowed low, silently waiting for Roakore to speak. The dazed dwarf made an utterly miserable sound as he tried to focus on his leader. Roakore took him by the arm and helped him to stand. The young dwarf shook his head and slammed his chest, almost knocking himself to the ground.

Knowing that he now had the attention of more than a thousand young fighters, Roakore spoke loudly so all could hear. “What is yer name, boy?”

The young dwarf eyed him through heavy blinks and slightly crossed eyes. “Haldegoz,” he answered groggily.

“Well, young Haldegoz, can ye tell me why it be ye lost this fight?”

Haldegoz scrunched up his thick eyebrows and scratched his short beard. “I saw ye, good king—that is—ye, Roakore.” He cowered at his near mistake. Every dwarf knew that Roakore had prohibited anyone from calling him king until he stood before his people within the chambers of the Ebony Mountains—upon the throne of his forefathers.

Roakore ignored the slip and instead scowled at the surrounding crowd. “In warfare there ain’t no time fer pleasantries, there ain’t no time fer formality! In warfare there ain’t no rules but one: if ye don’t kill yer opponent, he’ll kill ye! Haldegoz was defeated because he let his concentration slip, he let down his guard. In the midst o’ battle, to lose yer concentration be to lose yer life. Never let down yer guard, never relent, and never take yer eyes from yer enemy!”

He patted the young dwarf on the back and raised his arms. “Now let us see what Haldegoz’s opponent has learned!” He took up Haldegoz’s wooden axe and eyed the dwarf he had been fighting. “What is yer name, lad?”

The slightly older boy puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I be Ky’Drock, son o’ Ky’Kronn.”

Roakore slammed his chest and bowed slightly, purposefully, though he owed the young dwarf no such sign of respect. Ky’Drock beamed as he returned the gesture. It was just what Roakore had wanted. In a flash he was upon the bowing dwarf, striking hard with his wooden axe. Ky’Drock’s expression turned from sheer delight to horror as the rightful king of the Ebony Mountains attacked. The lad barely blocked the massive blows as he tried to stay on his feet. Roakore did not relent; he swung low, then high, then straight down from above. To his delight, the young warrior met him blow for blow.

After a while, Ky’Drock found his rhythm and took the offensive. Roakore intentionally weakened his own defenses until it appeared as though he could barely fend off the attack. Ky’Drock gained confidence with every strike. When he finally became too cocky, his master stepped up the fight. As a heavy blow came down from overhead, Roakore stepped aside and let the wooden axe hit the floor. He then quickly brought his own axe over top, pinning it to the ground. With his left fist he gave the young lad—who was still bent over, clutching his axe handle with a look of surprise—a strong backhand to the face. After a few more, Ky’Drock fell to his knees, and Roakore swung his axe at the lad’s face. Ky’Drock let go of his weapon and rolled out of the way, before the lad could get up, though, Roakore came out of his spin swinging, and sent him rolling away again. Ky’Drock rolled away three more times as Roakore continued to swing, and then quickly reversed his spin towards his opponent’s legs. He kicked Roakore hard in the gut—but the skilled dwarf just spun away, absorbing the force.

No matter, Ky’Drock was on his feet in an instant. He retrieved his weapon, and charged in hard. He swung from overhead and then the side. Both attacks were parried. Next he went for the feet, but his master was too quick. Roakore leapt over the axe and came in hard as Ky’Drock’s momentum spun the young dwarf to the side. The mighty dwarf struck him behind the knee, forcing him down onto it, and then spun in the opposite direction. The ensuing blow was so powerful that, even though Ky’Drock blocked it, he went flying onto his back.

Roakore chopped at Ky’Drock’s legs, but the energetic dwarf proved agile, indeed, as he somersaulted backward into position—axe ready. Then Roakore came on full force, keeping the lad on his heels. Left, right, left, overhead, right: the onslaught came. Finally, Roakore feinted right and Ky’Drock twirled left. Before the young dwarf knew what happened, he had been struck in the side, and had his legs swept out from under him. Roakore spun again and stopped his wooden axe an inch from Ky’Drock’s neck.

“Yer dead.”

The astonished dwarf only stared and gulped. Roakore lent the lad a hand, with a heavy pat on the back, and handed Haldegoz his axe. He addressed the on looking crowd.

“Me good dwarves o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains! Hard ye have all trained these long years. Before me now I see skilled warriors, dedicated fighters: a great tribute to our fallen kin. Let me say that each o’ yer fallen fathers smiles down upon ye this day from the great Mountain o’ the Gods! Long has been our road—and stained in blood it be—but we finally reach the end. A war is coming, one that’ll include all kingdoms o’ Agora! Our part will be one o’ great importance. Not only will we take back what be rightfully ours, but we will rid the world o’ a great evil.”

The chamber erupted in cheers. The deep, booming voices of the thousand dwarves was deafening.

“But be knowin’ this: we must not underestimate our enemy! Fer a trusted source tells me that a queen Draggard now inhabits our lost mountain.” Roakore spat at the mention of the beasts, as did hundreds of his followers. “We may be facing an army o’ over a hundred thousand!”

Roakore watched closely as many hushed conversations broke out. On the faces of his followers he saw surprise, anger, and confusion, but he did not see fear.

“But, me brave warriors, we be not alone! When the time comes, our kin’ll march with us—from Ky’Dren and the Elgar Mountains to the east.” He raised his voice so that his next statement echoed loudly throughout the chamber. “An’ let it be known now: the march o’ the three clans o’ the dwarves will be echoed in song fer all eternity! The great deeds we do in the name o’ our fathers will live on in our sons fer all time. We will reclaim our mountain, we will defeat the Draggard, and we will bleed with wide smiles in the faces o’ our enemy. Victory, glory, our home: will soon be ours!”

The chamber roared. The cheers and the stomping boots of the excited dwarves were so great, they could be felt by Whill and Abram far down the long corridors of Dy’Kore.

There came a knock at Abram’s door, and Ky’Ell entered. “Are ye ready for a tour o’ me great city, then?”

They followed the barrel-chested king through the many halls and chambers of Dy’Kore. After descending a number of stairs they came to the great under-city. Huge furnaces roared on all sides as they walked through. Thousands of dwarves were hard at work shoveling coal into the large pyres, or wheeling barrels of it from adjoined tunnels. The heat was almost unbearable for Whill, and after only a few minutes his brow dripped with sweat. Steel, iron, gold and silver were melted down to be reshaped by the great smiths of the city. Next to each furnace was at least one work station; hundreds of smiths banged away tirelessly, crafting goblets, jewelry, weapons and armor.

It took almost five minutes to walk the length of the furnace room, and though Whill was amazed at what he had seen, he was relieved to be out of the grueling heat. The next stop was an entrance to the mines. The areas close to the main under-city had been milked dry centuries before, so they had to follow Ky’Ell for almost half an hour, taking many turns in the maze of tunnels, before finally coming to the current mines. He handed both men a lantern and Whill gasped aloud as they entered a rich tunnel. The walls on both sides gleamed and shimmered as the light shone on the many veins of gold within the rock.

“This tunnel were cut not a month ago,” the king boasted. “The gold veins go on into the stone fer thirty feet, as far as we can yet see. The devils tried to hide it away forever, they did, but we found it. We always do, fer the glory o’ our gods.”

Whill knew that, by “devils”, the king was referring to the dragons. It was said by dwarf religion that, in the beginning, there were two kinds of gods. The Dwarnevly—the good gods—had created the beauty of the world: gold, silver, diamonds, and jewels. The Dargandae—the dragons—were insanely jealous, for until then, they themselves had been the most magnificent beings in all the world. A great war ensued. The dragons, unable to destroy the beauty of the Dwarnevly works, hid the treasures instead. Deep in the earth and mountains they buried it, never again to be seen. And so the dwarves had been created—to retrieve and spread again the great beauty of the Dwarnevly’s creations throughout the world.

When Whill had first heard the many stories of the dwarves from Abram, he had been more than skeptical and thought their beliefs rather silly; but after what he had experienced in the last few weeks, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

After returning from the mines and passing once again through the hot furnace chamber, the king led Whill and Abram above the under-city to the Chamber of Treasures. This chamber, aptly named, was the largest and most breathtaking Whill had yet seen. Here were some of the most beautiful artifacts the dwarves had ever crafted. The room was brightly lit with golden chandeliers and hundreds of torches, positioned in such a way that not a shadow could be seen in the vast room. The walls, floor, and ceiling aided in the effect, for they were covered with diamond dust. Millions of sparkles caught Whill’s eye from every direction as Ky’Ell led them deeper into the magnificent chamber. The crowns of each of the many kings were set upon marvelous pillars, in order from Ky’Dren down, along the right side of the room. Whill could hardly believe that he was looking upon the actual crowns worn by so many ancient dwarven kings, and he realized he was one of few humans to lay eyes on these priceless treasures.

To the left of the crowns were various other treasures, many crafted by a king or his sons, or by one of the many famous smiths of Ky’Dren. Great axes and hatchets, war hammers, and maces of old stood proudly on display, along with magnificent suits of armor adorned in jewels and plated in silver and gold. The three spent more than an hour within the Chamber of Treasures. The king told the many tales that went along with each item, and Whill looked on in amazement all the while.

Next the king brought them to one of the main living quarters of the dwarves, a twenty-story cylindrical shaft more than five hundred feet wide. Whill stood in awe as he looked over the rail from the top story down onto the many balconies. Each level was identical with hundreds of doors all spaced the same distance apart, and a torch burning at every one. The only difference between each door was the family name, which was set in stone and decorated to the inhabitant’s liking. The living quarters boasted four equally distanced, large pulley machines, with four stout dwarves manning each. Up and down they went, carrying up to ten passengers within a circular cage. Though there were stairs as well, the machines made it much easier for the more than fifty thousand dwarves within these quarters to come and go.

The king showed Abram and Whill many more wondrous sights that day, and made a point of repeating that it would take years to see all of the dwellings and tunnels of the mountain; Dy’Kore, though large, was but a small piece of the Ky’Dren kingdom, which stretched more than seven hundred miles under the Ky’Dren Pass and north to the sea.

When they returned to the king’s chambers, Ky’Ell rubbed his stout belly and informed them with a grin that it was dinnertime.

To Whill’s dismay, Roakore did not join them this time, but he was both delighted and greatly impressed when he walked into the dining room once again and discovered more than a hundred dwarves—men, women, and children alike—seated at the massive table. This, Abram quietly told him as they sat down, was the tradition of the king’s banquet. Every other night the king would dine with his people, regardless of rank or position. Invitations were sent out months in advance, and dwarves would come eagerly from the farthest reaches of the mountain, some traveling for weeks, to dine with their king.

Whill was truly impressed. His respect for Ky’Ell had been great from the beginning, but now it was profound. Upon the face of every dwarf seated at the massive table was a bright smile, and each regarded their king with utter reverence.

Before the food, came ale in large mugs. White froth dripped down the sides of the overfilled and heavily adorned goblets. Barrels had been set along the table every five feet, each tapped and ready, to better accommodate the ale-loving lot. The king took his cup and stood, and every dwarf in attendance followed in his lead.

“Let me begin by commending each and every one o’ ye, me dear dwarves. May yer beards grow to the floor, and may yer families prosper. May each and every one o’ ye, through ye many great deeds—whether large or small—find yer way into the Mountain o’ the Gods.”

The dwarves responded with a hardy “who-waaahh” and chugged their beers. Whill and Abram followed suit, guzzling frantically to keep up with the veteran king. After the mugs were emptied, and at Ky’Ell’s lead, they filled them once again.

“Also, to me left be two visitors from the outside, great warriors an’ great men indeed—Draggard slayers they be! Our friends an’ allies: Abram, an’ Whill o’ Agora!”

Again the dining hall erupted into many cheers, which were soon muffled as the dwarves chugged down their ale.

With introductions complete, the king refilled his mug again and sat down at the head of the great table. On cue, Fior nodded to the waiting servers, and the food came out by the wheel-barrels—literally. Whill had never seen so much food and, indeed, did not know what some of it was. It did not take him long to surmise that the dwarves favored meat—and lots of it—for the only vegetables he could see were potatoes. Nevertheless the food was excellent, nothing less than what one would expect from the table of the king.

Such feasts were commonplace among the dwarves, whose wealth had no rivals. Aside from the constant hard work—which they reveled in—every last dwarf of Ky’Dren lived a lavish and comfortable life. Ky’Dren was the greatest Kingdom of all the dwarf mountains. The precious metals, weapons, jewelry, gold, and other such wares that they produced, were traded throughout Agora; in return, the dwarves received all the food, supplies, and ale they would ever need.

The feast went on for more than two hours, and by that time Whill was feeling the effects of the dark dwarf ale; he was so full he thought he might burst. The dwarves spoke openly with the king, telling stories and sharing jokes, and simply enjoyed their once a year dinner with the great dwarf. Whill looked around in wonderment at the joy around him—the hearty laughter of the king, the joyous smiles of the common folk. He made a mental note to host similar banquets when he himself became king.

When he became king… the thought brought a solemn expression to the young man’s face. How could he be king? Uthen-Arden was the largest Kingdom in all of Agora, with hundreds of thousands of citizens. How could he rule such a powerful empire?

Whill was not the sort to think little of himself; on the contrary, he knew he was well educated, could speak every language of the peoples of Agora, and was indeed a great fighter. But a voice within said that this task was beyond him—that he would fail—and many would suffer his folly. Perhaps it was the pressure of sudden responsibility, or perhaps it was the ale, but Whill had a keen feeling that his legacy would be one of tragedy and failure. He indeed feared King Addakon; could he defeat such a foe? Pondering this, he realized when he finally did look upon Addakon, he would be in essence looking upon the image of his own father. Whill’s first encounter with Addakon would give him a glimpse of his lost father. In those first moments of revelation—in the heat of the inevitable battle—would he lift his sword for the kill? Could he strike the image of his father down?

After four hours of hard training with his men, Roakore commanded all to stop. This had been one of the most grueling sessions to date, and every dwarf in the training room was winded and soaked with sweat. Each had obtained more than a few bruises, and all were utterly spent. They had sparred nonstop for ten hours straight, and how proud Roakore was. He looked upon his dwarves now with a great smile—the greatest warriors his race had ever known—and imagined their glory when the mountain was finally taken back.

“Ye have all done well, ye have all done me proud!” Roakore cried, and then fought back the swelling in his throat and the moisture in his eyes as he took in the sight before him. Here stood one thousand loyal dwarves. Most were barely considered adults, but all felt the loss of their prided mountain. Many of these lads before him would die in the reclaiming of it—perhaps all—but none cared. For the glory of their king, and the vengeance of their kin, each and every warrior before him would walk to the ends of the earth and fight an army of demons. Roakore knew then, as he looked into the eager eyes of his followers, that no force in the world would stop them in their time of glory. Dragon or Draggard be damned, the mountain would be theirs once again!

“Our time o’ glory soon approaches! Soon we will march to our homeland; soon we’ll again see the great peak o’ Drenzedell; soon will be our hour o’ vengeance!”

The room once again erupted in cheers. Soon, Father, he said to himself. Soon will be the hour.

He left the training room and made his way to his family’s hall. He did, after all, have twenty-seven wives waiting for him, all hoping for a chance to aid the cause with another child.

After the fine ale and shared stories, everyone filed out of the dining room and down several winding corridors. It had come to Whill’s attention that it was a holy day among the dwarves—the day in which Dy’Kore himself had claimed the great mountain. The day of promise was celebrated every year.

Feeling very warm inside, and unable to hide his ale-induced grin, he ambled along with a group of very excited dwarves. All of them had welcomed Whill and Abram warmly, uncharacteristic of their gruff reputation. No doubt it was due to the spreading story of the fight with the Draggard two nights previous.

With every step Whill could hear the growing sound of many drums—hundreds it seemed—beating in unison in the chamber ahead. Soon the group entered a massive natural cavern much unlike the halls and tunnels of the rest of the city. Here no walls had been smoothly chiseled, no level ceiling had been smoothed out; indeed, the only alteration to the immense cavern was the carvings on the many walls, and the massive stalactites and stalagmites.

Abram and Whill stood side by side in mutual awe at the sight of the tens of thousands of dwarves already within the cavern. Before Whill could comment, the drumming abruptly stopped, and all attention fell upon the western wall of the cavern. Fior stood high upon a ledge where all in attendance had a clear view. He wore red flowing robes with gold trim, and in his left hand was a staff adorned with enough jewels to see ten men through fifty years of comfortable life. As the final echo of the drums was lost in the surrounding stone, and the murmurs died away, Fior spoke in Dwarvish.

“Long ago, on the vast green surface world, a great dwarf by the name o’ Ky’Dren was born.”

He paused for effect as his deep melodic voice echoed throughout the cavern. Near him stood four dwarf children, still as stone and looking wide-eyed up at the storyteller. They had of course heard this tale a hundred times, but only rarely did they have the pleasure of hearing it from the mouth of the gifted Fior.

“Before the time o’ Ky’Dren, our people lived on the surface, on the never ending rolling fields o’ green we called home. We were aimless creatures, broken into many tribes; many o’ us fought amongst ourselves as the humans still do. Always were we at war, and ever were we threatened by the horrible dragons. But our gods sent us a prophet, a messiah—indeed, the greatest dwarf that ever lived!”

Fior paused as the crowd bellowed “Ky’Dren” in unison.

“The gods spoke to Ky’Dren, and bestowed upon him the ability to move stone with only a thought. ‘Go to the mountains,’ the gods told him, ‘for within them lies the most beautiful o’ our creations, buried by the jealous and evil gods. Defeat the dragons, find and free our riches, and forever shall ye live within the Mountain o’ the Gods.’”

He paused once again as a slow beat was taken up by the many drummers. “And so Ky’Dren and his many followers went to the great mountain range now named after him, and there carved out what would become the first halls of our ancient city.”

Fior went on for more than an hour, recounting the many battles those ancient dwarves had faced, and the grandest of all stories, how Ky’Dren had single-handedly killed five dragons—no small feat, even for a small army. Throughout the entire gathering Whill watched and listened keenly. All about him he saw a proud and noble people, listening intently to the stories of long-gone kings and heroes. History was the backbone of the dwarf culture, and their faith was stronger than that of any Whill had ever known. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon—those who dedicated their lives to the greater good—gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.

Whill followed no deity, but he was a spiritual man. Abram, those many years ago, had not presented Whill with any one religion, but had shown him many, and told him it was for him to decide what he believed. He came to see that all were relatively alike: promising salvation for blind faith, and damnation to nonbelievers. He could not follow blindly; he was a student of the world: always striving to learn more. With religion, one had to believe something to be true without proof, something Whill could not do—though he sometimes wished that he could. He had therefore come to the conclusion that whichever god or gods were real, they would judge him by his deeds and not his blind faith; they would see him as a good man with good intentions. He hoped that by following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, he would find his salvation.

Roakore had learned from Fior that Whill wished to set out first thing in the morning. He said his farewells to his many wives and children, and checked over the contents of his large pack. Seeing that all his needed provisions were included, he gathered his many weapons. He brought his four hatchets and his great axe—and also a new weapon he had himself invented but not yet tried. He called it the Stone Bird. To anybody but one with the powers to move stone, it would have seemed cumbersome. The weapon consisted of two smooth round rocks, twenty pounds each and connected by two thick, steel chains, which in turn connected to a short metal handle. He gazed upon that handle with a smile. He had been working on this weapon for nearly a year and could not wait to put it to use on a Draggard skull. The handle was covered in runes, listing the names of the many dwarf gods, and the names of his father and fallen brothers. Set at the bottom of the shaft was a single diamond encircled by smaller, dark red gems.

Roakore made his way to the main gate and was greeted by Fior, Whill and Abram, and a great many dwarves. After many farewells, the three made their way through the long and winding tunnels that would take them to the surface.

“The king has granted usage o’ the railway,” Roakore told Whill and Abram, who had inquired why they had veered from the tunnel by which they had previously entered the city.

Soon, they entered a large cylindrical room with a wide stairway spiraling up along wall—so high that Whill could not see the top. “These stairs spiral up fer a thousand feet. It be a hell o’ a hike.” Roakore laughed at the frowning men. “Cheer up, lads! Usin’ the rail will save us hours an’ get us out o’ the mountain quicker.”

With that he began ascending the stairs two at a time. After less than an hour, and breathing heavily, the three companions finally came to the end of the giant stair. It ended in a small room, and before them was a large, heavily cushioned metal cart—larger than those used to haul coal and metals, but very similar otherwise. It sat upon a thin metal track that Roakore referred to as the rail. The rail led through a large hole in the wall and into the dark.

Whill eyed the contraption with worry. Without a word Roakore hopped over the side of the cart and sat down, then bid them to do the same.

“Trust me,” said Roakore. “These railways are sure an’ safe. We only have a few accidents a year.” He laughed again. “Whatever ye do, don’t put yer arms out… and hold on fer dear life.”

He pushed down on the single lever next to the cart, disengaging the blocking mechanism, and then disengaged the brake lever. They began to roll very slowly, literally at a crawl, for many moments. Whill frowned at Abram, who only shrugged. “Roakore,” he said, “are you sure this will be fas—”

The words in his mouth were replaced by his stomach as the cart suddenly shot down at such an angle that it felt more like they were falling. Roakore hooted and laughed maniacally, as did Abram, but Whill could only scream and hold on as the cart descended at breakneck speed down the pitch-black tunnel. Finally the track leveled out almost flat, and they came to an area lit every fifty feet with torches. But because of their speed, the torches passed like fence posts to a sprinting horse.

Whill had found his voice now, and hooted and hollered with the other two. The track led relatively straight, with only small changes in course. Soon they had traveled the many miles, and now the track leveled out altogether. Directly ahead Whill could see the end of the track and the stone wall beyond. He glanced nervously at Abram.

“Yer thinkin’ mayhap it’s time to slow down, eh?” Roakore said, and then pulled back hard on the brake. Sparks flew from under the cart, and the brakes gave an ear-splitting shriek in protest. They began to slow somewhat, but then to Whill’s horror, Roakore flew backwards, braking lever in hand. The brakes let up as they careened towards the end of the tunnel at high speed.

“Not to worry!” Roakore said, somewhat unconvincingly. “There is a backup.”

Whill saw what the dwarf meant, and groaned as he braced himself. Water splashed high as the track suddenly dipped low into a long shallow pool. Although it slowed the cart considerably, they did not stop completely, and all three screamed as it slammed into the barrier at the end of the track. End over end they flew through the air, slamming hard into the wall thirty feet away.

They lay at the base of the wall for a long moment, Whill and Abram groaning. Whill fought his dizziness and stood over the dwarf, who was rolling around in a fit of laughter.

“I take back what I said before, Roakore,” Whill said. “You are insane!”

Chapter XVI

Smoke and Wings

WHILL, ABRAM, AND ROAKORE WALKED out into the early morning sun. They were a few miles south of where they had entered the mountain, and closer to the shore. The railway had taken them to the base of the great mountain range, and from the small cave they exited, they could see the dense forest before them.

Whill led the way at a good pace. Having spent so many years with one as knowledgeable as Abram, he could easily determine the direction they must go to get to Sherna. After more than an hour of hiking, Roakore halted them and sat on a rock.

“If the fear o’ Draggard on our tails causes ye to walk so fast, then consider that they would catch us anyway, an’ it would be better not to be exhausted if they do!” He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pack and ripped off a large chunk with his teeth.

Whill winked at Abram. “Good dwarf, I apologize if I set a pace too fast and grueling for you. How long do you wish to rest?”

Roakore’s eyes widened in rage and he began to stand, but then noticed the smirk upon Abram’s face. Seeing the teasing for what it was, he sat back once more and bit off another large piece of the meat. “Don’t ye go being a dragon’s arse, lad, I just don’t see the point in such haste. The meetin’ in Kell-Torey ain’t fer two weeks, an’ ’twill take us no more than ten days to get there.”

Abram regarded him, his smirk gone. “We believe that a friend of ours may be in danger—Tarren, the boy we told you of. If the Draggard followed us from Sherna, then we think it possible they may have caused more than a little trouble in the town.”

Roakore nodded as he stood, still chewing the meat. “Why didn’t ye say so?”

With that he took up the lead. The hardy dwarf surpassed their earlier pace, and indeed, the three were now running through the forest. After no more than fifteen minutes, Roakore abruptly stopped and turned to Whill with a strange scowl.

“How’s it that ye can run so, with the wound ye received to yer leg just two nights ago?”

Whill had forgotten about the wound almost completely after hearing the story of his parents. He had forgotten to act as if he still carried the wound, as Abram had warned him to.

His mind raced for an answer, but Roakore’s gruff gaze told him that lies were useless. “The wound wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” he said with a shrug, and began to walk past the dwarf.

Roakore grabbed him by the arm. “Let me see it.”

Abram intervened. “Can the inspection of Whill’s wound not wait until we reach Sherna? If Tarren truly is in danger, our pause may be detrimental.”

Roakore did not let go. “No, it cannot wait. If I’m to trust the two o’ ye on this long journey afore us, then I need an answer now—an answer that suits me!”

Whill pulled free and pulled up his pant leg, showing the area of his thigh where the wound had been.

Roakore’s eyes widened and he gripped his axe all the tighter. “I should’ve known when ye made the argument about the elves with King Ky’Ell. Yer in league with ’em, in league with the Draggard! Well, Roakore will not be so easily fooled. Come on then, ye assassins, let’s have a row!”

Whill only sighed and rolled his eyes to the sky. Abram, on the other hand, held out his hands in truce. “Roakore, think about what you are saying. Whill’s parents were murdered by the Draggard. What is this lunacy that you speak?”

Roakore spat stubbornly. “Then let’s have the truth from ye! A gash that deep from a Draggard tail don’t heal in a day. Its elf magic, I’m sure. What lie do ye have fer that one, eh?”

Whill looked at Abram. “We don’t have time for this.” He drew his father’s sword. Roakore made a defensive stance and scowled. “This is the sword of my father, forged for him by the elves. My family has a unique relationship with the elven people. And through that relationship we have obtained some of the elven powers. And though I have never even met an elf, I have the power to heal. That is the truth. Take it or leave it. And if you would judge me so for such powers, then so be that as well. You see the elves as enemies though you know not one; your kind curses the Elves of the Sun for what the Dark elves created. And that, my fierce friend, is simply stupid!”

They stared at each other for many long moments. Abram did not move either, looking from one to the other.

“We will see if what ye say o’ the elves is true, young Whill,” Roakore said at last. “But know this, it’d not be wise to ever lie to me again.” And cursing under his breath he ran off again.

Whill and Abram shared a look and raced after him.

They ran on for several hours, not saying a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon, and Abram decided it was time for a break. Neither Whill nor Roakore argued the point.

They rested at the edge of a small clearing. Abram sat back against a thick oak tree and lit his long pipe, while Roakore found a suitable rock to sit on. Whill took a long and needed swig from his water skin, and then poured the cool water over his head. Though it was still spring and the temperature was mild, the run had made him quite hot.

He took a moment to look over the magnificent blade that had been his father’s. It was much different from his own, which was longer and much heavier. His father’s blade was thin and curved, and very light—though none of those attributes made it any less of a weapon. On the contrary, the blade was perfectly balanced with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.

As he looked at the way the sun shone off the powerful blade and the many small diamonds about the guard, his gaze fell to his mother’s ring. He felt a strange bond with both—a connection he could not quite place—and they seemed to help fill a long-empty part of his heart.

Whill was roused from his deep thoughts as Roakore walked over and sat next to him. “So that’s the sword o’ yer father, eh?”

Whill noted that Roakore was trying to sound impartial. “Its name is Sinomara, named after my father, Aramonis. The elves name their swords to mirror themselves out of the belief that the sword and warrior should be as one to find true harmony.”

Roakore studied the blade for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “I admit, the craftsmanship be flawless…though it looks a bit too pretty to be o’ any real use.”

Whill only grinned, amused by the stubborn dwarf’s realization and attempted cover-up of the fact that he had in essence just complimented the elves.

Just then a shadow swept past as something flew overhead. Whill realized that it had been too large for a bird, but too small for a dragon. He looked up, as did Roakore, but there was nothing but the sun high above. Abram was already on his feet and moving out into the meadow as Whill and Roakore followed.

“What’s it, then?” asked Roakore as the two came up next to Abram.

Abram only stared north, above the trees at the edge of the meadow. He scanned the tree line for many moments before his eyes quickened. “There.” He pointed.

Both Roakore and Whill squinted as they tried to make out the large creature flying low some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back when Whill realized what it was.

“A Draquon? It can’t be.”

Roakore spat on the ground and patted Whill on the back. “Ye really know how to make enemies now, don’t ye?”

The Draquon were a less common, winged version of the Draggard. They were taller, at nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. They closely resembled their dragon relatives, with thick gnarled horns on their head, and long pointed spikes running the length of their back.

The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, moving swiftly in their direction. Abram took up his bow and strung an arrow, and Whill followed suit

“A scout, no doubt,” said Whill. Abram nodded in agreement.

Roakore began a low chant then, and started spinning his stone bird.

Abram put his hand upon Roakore’s shoulder, gesturing for the dwarf to wait. “It has not yet spotted us!” he said in a hushed whisper.

Roakore shrugged Abram’s hand away. “Why wait till it spots us? The damned thing’ll be long gone before the two o’ ye get off a shot.”

Whill winced at Roakore’s loud voice. It was as if he meant to give away their position.

“It may not see us,” Abram pressed

Roakore’s face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Oh, it’ll see us, alright, and I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free regardless.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling.

“Here we are, ye stupid, dragon-spawned, demon-lovin’ beast! Come an’ taste me blade!”

Abram only rolled his eyes and, with a great sigh, sprang from the woods, bow ready. Their suspicions that this beast was only a scout were proven right when the Draquon reared and turned swiftly in the opposite direction. Whill and Abram let off a shot each but didn’t even come close as the beast rose into the air and flew away from them.

Just as Abram was about to chastise Roakore for being so stupid, the dwarf let out a guttural scream and swung the two-stoned weapon in wide arches, gaining more and more momentum as he chanted loudly. Finally he let loose the weapon in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Whill watched in amazement as the spinning stones ascended higher when they should have fallen, and turned towards the flying beast when they should have gone straight.

The stones gained speed with the help of Roakore’s innate abilities to manipulate rock. The weapon came in hard on the beast, and hit with such force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. It landed less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running with bows ready.

The Draquon rose to its feet with a roar. One wing was broken but, though it could not fly, it could still run with great speed. Whill and Abram took up a shooting stance and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiantly as the arrows deflected harmlessly off its scaly armor.

Roakore was still standing in the same spot he had been, arms extended, chanting. The Draquon charged on all fours, baring its razor-sharp teeth, meaning to devour the lone dwarf. Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird came whirling across the meadow. To Whill and Abram it was but a blur as it slammed into the Draquon’s chest and sent the beast flying back ten feet.

Instantly Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes as Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Suddenly the dazed beast was on its feet again, and clearly angry. Whill and Abram took a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in from behind with his axe, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him and brought its long tail around in a great sweep, but the dwarf hopped over it without missing a beat. At that instant, he appeared more ferocious than the Draquon itself.

Jumping again as the tail came in for a second pass, he flew straight at the monster with his axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws jerking him to a stop and increasing the momentum of the dwarf’s great axe. It came down fast, even as the monster realized its folly, but too late. With a primal scream, Roakore buried the axe into the Draquon’s head. The creature instantly fell in a dead heap, bringing Roakore along for the ride. Trapped beneath it momentarily, the dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.

Whill and Abram quickly helped free the dwarf. He emerged unscathed and, with a great tug, freed his axe. Laughing all the while, he wiped the blood from his blade with his sleeve.

“Ha! Thought he could get away didn’t he, stupid beast. Ye see me stones take him right outta the air?”

“A great weapon indeed,” Abram concurred.

Whill only nodded, his gaze wandering to the west.

“What are ye thinkin’, lad?”

“There, over the trees.” Whill pointed across the meadow.

Abram and Roakore both squinted as they looked to the west. Abram noticed it first.

“Smoke rises in the distance.”

Roakore peered harder at the spot. “That’s the direction the Draquon was headed when he spotted us.”

Whill nodded. “The beast was headed for Sherna.”

They grabbed their packs and started west at a frantic pace. As the hours passed and they neared Sherna, the smoke could be seen much more clearly. They were at least five miles from the town, and at a lower elevation, but the smoke was easily visible. It was thick and black, and even from this distance, Whill could tell that a great many large fires had caused it.

Rhunis stood at the helm of the warship Thunder as it made its way steadily eastward. His face was stern, brow bent, and his scowl was only intensified by the burn scar that covered a large portion of his face. He had been sent by King Mathus to find and aid Whill and Abram. Mathus had learned that, upon the pair’s hasty leave from Fendale, they had been tailed by none other than Captain Cirrosa. Rhunis had come across the wreckage of the Black Dragon three days after Whill and Abram’s departure and, to his amazement, found it utterly destroyed. He knew well Abram’s prowess as a fighter, and he had experienced Whill’s firsthand, but the idea of the two of them taking down the Dragon with only a fishing vessel made no sense; Cirrosa had a crew of more than fifty, and the Dragon was a warship. They’d had help in the fight, no doubt, but Rhunis could think of no logical explanation. If one of the many Eldalonian warships had helped in the battle, they would have taken the wreckage to port and been treated like heroes for such a kill. No, it hadn’t been the Eldalon navy, but if not them, then who?—or what?

The king had known Whill and Abram’s destination—a small fishing town on the southeastern coast of Eldalon, named Sherna. That was now the warship Thunder’s destination. Soon Rhunis would catch up to Whill and Abram, and find his answers. From there he was to bring them to Kell-Torey, where they were to meet with the king personally.

Rhunis was jolted from his ruminations by the lookout, who yelled down from the crow’s nest:

“Smoke ahead, smoke ahead!”

Rhunis looked eastward and saw it also. They were still five miles from Sherna.

The fires were visible through the trees as Whill, Abram, and Roakore sped through the woods. They had taken a route that would bring them out close to the beach, where they could get a good view of the town. As they reached the edge of the forest they could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle: metal striking metal, screams of both women and men, and the growls and snarls of Draggard.

They reached the edge of the forest, and what they saw took Whill’s breath away. Almost the entire town was burning, as was the navy vessel which had been docked when they arrived days before. A few hundred feet from shore loomed a great black ship Whill did not recognize. He watched in horror as some Draggard hacked away at an obviously dead man with glee, taking legs and arms and tearing huge chunks of meat from the bone. It was a scene from a nightmare brought to life in broad daylight. These were beasts of the dark, monsters of the night; to see them under the light of the sun sent a chill up Whill’s spine.

A small band of villagers and Eldalonian soldiers had taken up defensive positions around the town hall, which—being made entirely of stone—was not on fire. They were outnumbered four to one but held fast their position in front of the large doors. Around them the Draggard stalked, toying with them, waiting and laughing. These monsters were known for their great cruelty; they would drag out a siege such as this for hours, basking in the horror of their victims.

Above the town hall, twelve Draquon circled like a pack of vultures. Whill watched horrified as one descended and plucked a man from the ranks. It soared into the air once again, and the rest of the Draquon were upon the prey in an instant, tearing him to pieces and dropping them on the men below.

Roakore had seen enough. He grabbed his stone bird and his great axe, and ran out from the trees before Abram could stop him.

“So much for a plan of attack,” Abram said as he rushed out after the dwarf.

Whill unsheathed both his swords and joined his friends in their apparent suicide run. The knowledge that these monsters had killed his parents, and now likely had killed Tarren too, filled him with primal rage. He caught up to Abram as Roakore broke into a battle cry that caught the attention of the nearby Draggard.

The beach was now directly behind them as they charged up the grassy slope toward the town hall, and a host of Draggard rushed to intercept. Roakore let fly his stone bird, which sped to the nearest Draggard in a blur. The beast never knew what hit it as its head was taken clean off its shoulders by the strong chain that connected the stones. The weapon did not slow. At Roakore’s silent command, it turned left and slammed into another Draggard’s knees, the heavy stones of the bird shattering both.

Four of the others turned and bore down on Roakore, who immediately charged right at them, and Whill and Abram rushed to catch up. At twenty feet behind, however, they could only watch as the first Draggard engaged Roakore—or rather, tasted his axe.

The sturdy dwarf easily knocked aside another Draggard’s spear and spun quickly to sink his axe deep into the monster’s side, nearly chopping it in half. He pulled his axe free and spun the opposite way, connecting with another Draggard’s head. Through it all he never slowed; Even as two Draggard came at him with axes, he met them with great force, barreling into both simultaneously as they raised their axes. They fell backwards as he charged on and left them for Whill and Abram.

Whill came down hard on the one to the left as it scrambled to get up. He stabbed through the beast’s back with both swords as Abram similarly dispatched the other—and they were off again, following the mighty dwarf warrior.

Rhunis spotted the black Draggard ship anchored near Sherna’s port, and his greatest fears were realized. His ship’s captain instructed the crew to ready the twenty catapults although the other ship had not fired upon them, and appeared to be deserted. Rhunis could see that the town was ablaze, and small battles were playing out within and along the beach. The people needed help. He advised the captain to keep the catapults at the ready, and told his men to make for the town with all haste.

Whill and Abram caught up to Roakore as he paused to summon his stone bird once again. Though they had not yet caught the attention of the main force, many Draggard had taken notice and were coming their way. Whill engaged one as it barreled in, brandishing a nasty-looking spear. The beast stabbed for Whill’s belly, but he was too quick; he knocked the spear harmlessly aside with his old sword and, with his father’s, stabbed the beast through the neck. He spun to meet the next monster, ducking a spear meant for his head, and sliced into its shin. As he twisted he brought Sinomara around and finished the beast off.

Abram pulled his sword from a dead Draggard and engaged another as Roakore’s stone bird whirled past. The dwarf taunted three approaching Draggard as they bore down on them, when suddenly his stone bird came across low and fast, sweeping the monsters’ legs out from under them. The three finished them off quickly.

Roakore then guided the stone bird into another Draggard thirty feet away, and the creature went down with a thud, its head thoroughly crushed. A spear flew by, barely missing Whill, followed by another and another. The three warriors found themselves under a barrage as the Draggard that had witnessed their lethal abilities took a more practical approach.

“There are too many!” Abram yelled as he deflected another spear.

“Bah! We got ’em right where we want ’em!” roared Roakore as he ducked yet another.

They were now being attacked by more than a dozen Draggard.

“We must regroup!” cried Whill as one of the braver beasts jumped at the three, its spear leading the way. Abram blocked the spear and Roakore met the beast as it landed, greeting it with an axe to the groin. Whill quickly chopped its head off.

The rest of the Draggard now slowly advanced, having thrown all their spears. The town hall was still more than two hundred yards away, and hundreds of Draggard beyond these still stood in the way. The warriors were being slowly pushed back steadily, doing all they could do to hold off the spear-throwers. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every building around them was ablaze, and the woods held no options. The attacking Draggard had signaled to their kin, and now dozens of the monsters came rushing at the three, including several flying Draquon.

“We need a plan!” Whill shouted, frantically deflecting the steady assault of spears.

“Block me fer a sec, boys!” Roakore yelled. It sounded to Whill as if the dwarf either had a good idea brewing, or he was indeed crazy. Nonetheless, Whill and Abram stepped closer to Roakore’s sides as he closed his eyes and began to chant so fast that Whill could hardly decipher the words. The Draggard pressed on, more than twenty now. Some threw spears, others jabbed with gleeful laughter. Whill and Abram were reaching the end of their abilities. Death crouched ever closer with each passing second.

Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird whirled before them, spinning in midair right before the chanting dwarf. Around and around it went in a blur of motion. Roakore moved his right hand in circles before him, tight circles at first but steadily widening the arch. In contrast the stone bird began to spin around and around in wider circles. Faster and faster Roakore’s hand moved, and faster did the weapon spin, until Whill and Abram no longer needed to block any missiles, for none could get through the spinning shield that the flying bird had become.

Whill and Abram looked at each other wide-eyed as Roakore continued his chant. Soon the Draggard gave up on the spears and took a more straightforward approach. Two of the beasts leapt into the path of the weapon as it buzzed before the three warriors. With great howls they came, and with great screeches they were chopped to pieces, their bodies unrecognizable as they landed in bloody pieces all around the ground.

The other Draggard backed away in horror and awe. Even Whill and Abram flinched and gaped at the spectacle.

“I can’t hold it much longer!” Roakore warned as he staggered back, continuing his frantic chant.

“Be ready to rush ’em, Whill!” cried Abram.

Whill, sensing that this indeed was the end, looked at Abram and raised his two swords. “It has been an honor, Abram.”

Abram shook his head, bringing up his own sword with fire in his watering eyes. “And it will be an honor to fight beside you for years to come!”

Whill had to grin. Abram would insist on being optimistic, even in the face of obvious defeat.

Roakore let out a final frantic chant and with a heavy sigh fell to the sand. The Draggard had pushed them all the way back to the beach.

Rhunis and his two hundred soldiers rowed frantically towards the beach. As they neared the dock he could finally make out the three fighters. They were being driven towards the water by a host of seething Draggard. At once Rhunis recognized Abram and Whill, though not the third fighter, a dwarf.

“Whill and Abram need our swords, men! Shall we stain them with Draggard blood?”

Every man cheered as the ships reached the beach and the soldiers scrambled to reach the three outnumbered warriors.

Roakore and his stone bird collapsed with a thud. Whill and Abram now faced more than twenty bloodthirsty Draggard. But the monsters did not advance. Instead they backed off a step as one, doubt seeming to suddenly haunt their grotesque features. Then, in the silence after Roakore and his weapon fell, Whill heard it. From the beach behind them came their salvation in the form of hundreds of screaming Eldalonian soldiers, led by Rhunis the Dragonslayer.

As the Draggard backed up and finally broke into an all-out run, Abram and Whill joined in the charge. Swords held high they grinned at each other, and together they overtook and took down the closest beast.

The soldiers poured onto the beach and were soon killing and trampling the fleeing monsters. On they charged full-tilt towards the town hall, where the remaining Draggard and a dozen Draquon waited. But behind those Draggard stood fifty men who, at the sight of the oncoming rush of Eldalon soldiers, made a charge of their own. Soon the Draggard, found themselves in the middle of two fierce forces: the villagers of Sherna, who fought to protect their women and children with every ounce of their being; and the soldiers of Eldalon, who had sworn above all else to fight to the death against all enemies of Eldalon.

The Draggard had nowhere left to go. They were cornered, and like any cornered beast, they fought. Swords sliced and spears stabbed, and the blood of both men and Draggard alike fell to the dirt. Whill had never experienced anything like it in his life. He no longer depended on his mind to guide him but functioned on instinct and reflex alone, blocking, ducking, and killing all that stood before him. He knew no fear, only rage, and through his body that rage was transferred to his dual swords and into any unlucky beast that found his blades.

Soon Whill found himself fighting alongside Abram and Rhunis. More than 160 Draggard awaited them, hissing and growling, their spears red with human blood. But the men did not relent, did not back down. All around them was pure chaos. The Draggard fought viciously, spears, tails, and teeth. They stabbed, chopped, and bit their opponents; to the right of Whill a man was impaled and raised high, only to be taken swiftly by a Draquon. The men were hard pressed against the vicious monsters but they did not waver, did not relent.

The fighting went on for what seemed to Whill an eternity. To the left of him Abram fought valiantly, as did Rhunis to his right. Together they plowed through the Draggard forces. Abram took a spear to the shoulder, but if he felt any pain it did not show, for rather than crying out in pain he chopped hard at the attacker, cutting deep into its neck.

Whill had abandoned his own sword and now had only his father’s. Years of pain and sorrow flowed through him and into the sword he now held, the sword that had cut him from his mother’s womb, Sinomara, the sword that had saved his life once before. He thought of his mother and father with every slash, saw Tarren’s dying form with every stab, and the injustice of it sent Whill into a rage. He now fought for the memory of his parents, for the life of Tarren, and for those helpless women and children huddled within the town hall.

Roakore opened his eyes and at first did not know where he was. He lay for a moment upon the beach, blinking at the blue sky above. All around him were great fires, and in the distance were the sounds of battle.

Battle! The dwarf jumped to his feet as he became aware of his surroundings. He turned and saw a great battle playing out more than a hundred yards away. The last thing he remembered was falling to the ground as a host of Draggard had pressed on. Now it seemed help had arrived, for near to the town hall was an army of hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers, fighting hard against the Draggard.

“They’ll not have all the fun,” Roakore muttered, and with that he began his own charge up the beach, his great axe in hand, and a great smile upon his face.

Abram watched as Whill went at the Draggard with wild abandon. The sword of his father slashing, chopping, and hacking the Draggard with ease—too much ease. He watched in awe as Whill not only blocked but chopped a huge, thick spear in half, and in one fluid motion severed the legs of its wielder. Before any of the beasts nearby could react, Whill was upon them, hacking and slicing, Draggard heads and limbs alike flew away before the wild man.

Abram had taught Whill for ten years in preparation for a moment such as this. But never had he expected what he now saw. Whill took down all that stood before him, graceful in his dance of death, meeting aggression with all-out devastation. Though Abram was proud when he looked upon Whill, he was also frightened, for he knew what powers Whill was using, even if Whill himself did not. The thought was more than unsettling to the old warrior.

The men of Sherna fought for all they held dear, and the soldiers of Eldalon fought for king and country, all till the bitter end. The numbers were all but even, and that should have meant a bloody victory for the Draggard. But the creatures fought no ordinary foe this day, no mere men. When a man of Sherna received a mortal wound he fought on, blood flowing freely from his grinning lips, and when an Eldalonian soldier thought he could fight no more he cut through yet another monster. The ground was red with both human and Draggard blood as the sun began its descent from its midday perch.

The men of Sherna would not relinquish control of the town halls steps, even as they fell one after another. The Draquon swooped down time and time again, plucking hardy men from the ranks and devouring them quickly. Still they fought, even managed to take down one of the flying beasts. Finally Whill, Abram, and Rhunis met the men of Sherna as they fought through to the steps. At the apparent command of the Draquon, the Draggard came around the charging force and regrouped, leaving the entirety of the human force between themselves and the town hall.

Of the fifty men of Sherna, fewer than ten remained; of Rhunis’s two hundred soldiers, fewer than sixty stood, most bleeding from more than one nasty wound. The Draggard backed off a bit and the fighting ceased. The Draquon came down from the sky to take command of the diminished Draggard force. The remaining men stood together at the very steps of the town hall, along with Abram, Rhunis, Whill, and a very eager, blood-soaked dwarf.

The Draggard force had taken fewer casualties than the humans, but not many—less than one hundred of the beasts remained, along with eleven Draquon, each of which, to many folks of Agora, could be counted as ten Draggard. The men were outnumbered; the many dead lay about them as a sobering reminder. But they did not fall into despair, they did not give in, could not!

The cry was taken up by none other than Whill, who, despite the fact that he bled from many wounds, showed upon his face not defeat but determination.

“Good men of Sherna!” he bellowed. “Before you stands a host of beasts bent on destroying all that you hold dear! All that you live, breathe, and die for!” He strode towards the Draggard band, lips curled in a snarl, sword held high. The Draggard gnashed at the air, hissed and growled, but they did not advance.

“Shall we lie down and die from our wounds?”

“No!” the crowd answered in unison.

“Shall we leave our women and children as playthings for these wretched monsters?”

“No!” the crowd answered again, and Abram found himself to be one of those many voices. He beamed at the sight of Whill.

“Shall we let these damned creatures take what is ours without a fight?”

“NO!”

“I say then, man to man, shall we make these foul Draggard wish they had never set foot on our beaches?”

“Yes!” the men responded, weapons held high.

“Then come with me now, brothers of Eldalon, and let them know the rage of man!”

“YES!” they cried, and joined the charge taken up by Whill and a certain crazed dwarf.

Before the Draggard could begin to counter, the men pressed in, charging full tilt, death be damned, hearts bent on victory. Whill led the charge with Roakore, Abram, and Rhunis at his heels. He met the front line with devastating effect, taking down three Draggard in one mighty swipe. On he and the men charged into certain death or into victory, it did not matter. The men were focused on one thing and one thing only: the destruction of every last beast upon their beaches.

As the men began to effectively rout the Draggard, the Draquon took to the sky and again began their attack from above. Down they dove into the ranks of men, and up they came, holding their victims in their wicked claws. One such victim, one such man, though he bled from the gut profusely, managed to bring his blade to bear upon his captor. With a great heave Rhunis impaled the Draquon through the neck, and together they fell twenty feet to the sand below.

Roakore brought his axe around in a great swoop, into the torso of one unlucky beast as Abram chopped wildly at another. Before them Whill steadily cut through the Draggard ranks. Suddenly, to Abram’s horror, Whill left the ground, nabbed by a descending Draquon. The beast had Whill firmly by the shoulders, claws sinking deep, wings lifting them high into the air. With one great slash of Sinomara, Whill severed the arms of the flying beast and fell to the ground.

Abram blocked a spear and pushed aside his opponent as he tried to watch Whill’s descent. To his shock and amazement he saw Whill fall twenty feet only to fall upon a Draggard, driving his father’s sword straight through the monster’s head and body and into the sand.

Roakore hadn’t been bothered with any of the surrounding fights, for he was fully enthralled in his own. As he swung he saw the great walls of his homeland, the many chambers of his great mountain. Rage beyond reason drove the stout dwarf as he cut through the beasts before him. His great axe claimed the lives of many unfortunate beasts that day, and as they died, one after another, the last thing they heard was the battle song of the dwarves.

In the midst of the battle, in the light of certain death, few saw the arrows hit the many Draquon, few saw them fall from the sky, and few saw as the elf warrior made her way into the heart of battle.

Abram was hit hard, and to the ground he went. The Draggard came over with its spear, meaning to impale him. Abram rolled to his side as the spear tip hit the ground where he had just been. Taking no time to consider his luck, he thrust his sword up and into the groin of the monster, which had retracted its spear and drove it down hard into Abram’s hip.

Roakore planted his axe firmly into one Draggard’s head. Then he tugged hard, freeing his weapon as he spun on another beast. The axe cut halfway through the monster, but at the same time the Draggard thrust its tail at him. Through his thick clothing and chainmail the tail sunk, embedding many inches into Roakore’s side. The hardy dwarf only roared as he freed his axe and cut down another monster.

Whill knew no pain, he knew no fear. His only emotion made itself clear in the long line of dead Draggard he left in his wake. He spun and twirled, dodged and countered, and no beast could stand for more than an instant before him. All around him men were dying, but so too were the Draggard. Men were falling fast around him, and still a score of monsters remained. He did what he could, all he could do—he fought on. Then suddenly he noticed that the monsters’ attention had shifted from the thinning line of the human resistance to the beach to the south. There, upon a steed of black, sat a lone warrior, firing arrow after arrow into the sky and into the Draquon. Those that were not hit by the skilled and deadly bowman flew high and flew far, wanting nothing to do with the deadly creature.

Chapter XVII

The Maiden of Elladrindellia

THE DRAGGARD WERE HUNTED DOWN and killed within the surrounding woods of Sherna, mostly with the help of the two elven warriors. The Draggard ship was quickly destroyed by the catapult crew of the Eldalonian ship Thunder. As the doors to the town hall were opened, the many frightened women, children, and elderly looked upon their ruined town.

Whill pushed through the crowd as he ran up the steps to the town hall.

“Tarren! Tarren!” He searched the crowd frantically. For a moment he thought he saw him, but when he grabbed the boy by the shoulder and turned him around, it was not Tarren. Through the crowd he searched, yelling his name. Whill felt sick; hope began to wither as he searched but still saw no sign of him, or the healers he had been entrusted to. He reached the back of the building and turned in despair. His head spun as he grabbed child after child, asking, “Tarren! Have you seen Tarren?”

“Whill!”

The voice rose over the crowd and reached his ears like sweet music. Tarren came running, arms wide. Whill caught him in a tight embrace and then held him at arm’s length.

“I thought you were dead,” he said with a sigh of relief.

“So did I!” said Tarren, wide eyed.

Rhunis lay broken. He had been slashed viciously in the gut and dropped some twenty feet. Abram nursed a nasty spear injury to his hip. Roakore bled from his side, though he insisted it was nothing more than a flesh wound. Whill also showed signs of the great battle, with half a dozen deep cuts on his body, including several claw gashes upon his shoulders. But they had won the day—they had defeated the Draggard army and, to each of them, that was all that mattered.

Abram limped over to Whill, who was busy tending to Rhunis. “How is he?”

Whill replaced the blood-stained cloth upon Rhunis’s gut with a grimace, and spoke under his breath. “Not good, Abram. His body is broken. He has lost too much blood.”

Abram nodded, but his face showed no sign of sorrow. “It will all be over soon.” He stepped aside and bowed slightly as the elf maiden stepped past and looked upon Rhunis.

Whill moved back as the elf bent over the broken man and unsheathed her sword. Thinking she was about to put an end to his misery, he stepped forward and began to object, but Abram grabbed him. “Wait!”

She raised her sword slightly and put her other hand upon Rhunis’s chest and began to chant. Whill’s eyes widened as tendrils of blue light emanated from her extended hand and encircled Rhunis. She focused her attention upon the dying man’s stomach, and the wound began to heal before Whill’s eyes. Then she ran her hand over the entirety of his body, chanting all the while, as the blue light encircled him. She remained that way for nearly twenty minutes before finally slumping down tired.

With a flash the light was gone, and the elf maiden stood with a sweat-covered brow. She gave Whill an encouraging smile said and in Elvish, “He will be alright.”

It was the same melodic voice he remembered from his dreams. Abram bowed slightly and said, “Whill, I give to you the elf princess, the daughter of Verelas and Araveal, the lady Avriel.”

Whill could not find his voice. A part of him knew he should make some profound statement, some lasting impression. But all that came to his mind—the only word that found his lips—was “Hi.”

Avriel nodded with an amused smile and glanced at Rhunis, who had sat up and was gazing around with a quizzical expression.

Avriel laid a gentle hand upon Abram’s shoulder and said, “Once I tend to those near death, I will help with your hip, Abram,” Her gaze found Whill once more as she turned to walk away.

“That was her, Abram, the woman from my dreams!”

Abram patted him on the shoulder. “I know, Whill. I know.” He gestured to the confused-looking Rhunis. “Good thing she and her brother Zerafin found us when they did.”

Rhunis looked utterly confused. “What happened? I remember falling and then…” His face twisted as he tried to recall the events that had led to his current state.

Whill helped the man to his feet. “You have just been revived from mortal wounds by the elf lady Avriel. We have won. The Draggard have been destroyed.”

Rhunis gave Whill an odd smile. “The gods be damned! That’s the second time an elf has brought me back from death. Looks like I owe them twice over!”

The three men shared a much-needed laugh—but it was cut short by a gruff voice.

“Bah! Elves and their magic. All he really needs be some good dwarf mead an’ a big-breasted dwarf women to look after ’im,” said Roakore before passing out.

Whill and Abram rushed to his side. Rolling the dazed and mumbling dwarf over, they noticed a very deep wound on his side. His shirt was soaked with blood, and it still bled freely.

“Abram, call Lady Avriel, quickly!” said Whill.

Roakore mumbled something about “Elves and their damned magics.”

Some hours later, night fell on the ruined town. Whill walked among the many wounded within the town hall. Those with mortal wounds had been healed by the two elves, but dozens more lay on makeshift cots, bruised and bloody. Whill had been working without rest for hours, tending to the many wounded, and it frustrated him that the elves would not lend their powers of healing to these men. He had not seen Avriel or her brother in hours and assumed they must need a rest as badly as he did. They had, after all, healed more than a dozen dying men.

He exited the stuffy hall and stepped out into the cool night air. Most of the fires had burned out, but dozens of torches cut through the black night. One fire burned brighter than all the rest; it was to the east and a few hundred feet from the town. Hundreds of Draggard corpses were thrown unceremoniously into the great pyre; wagon after wagon carried the bloody beasts to be destroyed.

Abram and Roakore had been helping gather the human dead, but now the work was all but done. Whill walked over and took a seat on the grass next to Roakore.

The dwarf nodded at the hall. “How they be?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Abram looked tired, and older than his fifty years. His clothes were blood-stained and his hands dirty, but he regarded Whill with the same optimism he had always shown.

“Why is it that the elves do not heal the wounded men within the town hall? Surely it is within their abilities,” Whill said.

Abram glanced to his left. “I don’t know, Whill. Why don’t you ask them?”

He followed Abram’s gaze and saw Avriel sitting alone under the shadow of the tree line. “I will,” he said with a determined nod.

He walked at first with purpose, his steps sure, his facade stern, however, the closer he got to the seated elf, the more his determination wavered. Soon he was standing before her, silently staring. She sat cross-legged with her eyes closed and her sword in both hands, the center of the blade resting upon her brow. Whill was once again struck by her beauty. He meant to speak but could not find his voice.

Avriel’s right eye opened slowly and she peered at him with a raised brow. The two stared at each other for many moments. Finally she spoke in Elvish, letting her blade fall to the side.

“Will you join me?”

He took up the spot next to her without a word, sitting cross-legged as she did. Her eyes traveled from his sheathed sword to his eyes. She smirked. “The way you first stormed over here, I assumed you had pressing business.”

Whill was taken aback. “Um, well, yes, but...what were you doing just now?”

She eyed Whill for a moment, and the scrutiny made him slightly uncomfortable.

“I was just resting, a form of what you would call sleep. We elves have different ways of recuperating.”

“Were you using the energy within your sword?”

She seemed to ponder this. “Not in the way you would imagine. You see, I am not injured, and so I did not call upon the stored energy of my blade. Rather I was sensing how much energy I had used in the fight and the healing that followed.”

Whill frowned. “You can tell how much is left?”

She sheathed her sword and turned slightly to regard him. “There is much you do not know, and you have many questions, no doubt. But for now I need to ask you a few things, if you don’t mind.”

He shrugged, wondering what in the world an elf such as Avriel would need to ask someone like himself. “Go ahead.”

She took a much more serious demeanor. “Do you know what you were doing when you fought the Draggard today?”

“What do you mean?”

“You did not fight as a mere man—pardon the expression—but rather, you were using a technique of…certain elves?”

Whill was at a loss. He remembered the fighting vividly, but he did not know what she meant.

Avriel looked frustrated. “You are a mortal man endowed with the powers of elves. You should not have been able to use those powers until you were rightly taught. But you healed the boy on the ship, you saved the infant child from death, and you healed yourself within the dwarf mountain with your father’s sword.” She held him firm in her gaze. “Whill, did you not notice that your blade felled the Draggard a bit too easily? I watched you from afar, as did my brother. You cut through their scales as if they were cloth, does that not seem strange to you?”

Whill let his gaze fall to the ground as he contemplated her question. Now that he thought about it, he realized that he had killed the Draggard with comparative ease.

“Did I used the energy within my father’s blade, as the elves do?”

She shook her head. “No. What you did is forbidden by the Elves of the Sun. What you did today is a practice of the Dark elves.”

He regarded Avriel with disbelief. “I couldn’t have, I—”

“With your first kill you stole the life energy of the slain beast, and then so with each after; each came easier; each of your enemies’ deaths gave you more strength—or rather, gave your father’s blade more strength. You did not let that power lie idle, but used it to devastating effect. You killed well over twenty Draggard today, and still your father’s blade holds their life force within.”

Whill was at a loss. “I didn’t mean to.”

Avriel eyed him for a moment and finally smiled. “I understand, but please remember: it is the way of the Elves of the Sun to only use our own energy, or that which is rightly given. To take from another in such a way is not our practice. It is a path that can only lead to evil.”

Chapter XVIII

Unlikely Companions

THE COLLECTION OF THE DEAD continued throughout the night and into the morning. No one slept, even those who could have. For demons newly born see dreams as a playground, and with sleep comes the remembrance of screams, blood, death.

The morning sun shed light upon a village in ruin. Nearly every building had been burned to the ground, save the town hall. The ground was so red with blood in some places it looked as though the earth itself were bleeding. The bodies of men, women, and a few unlucky children littered the village, all covered with shrouds and awaiting the pyre.

So with the rising and settling of the sun upon its midday perch came the burning of the deceased. Hagus the barkeep was among them, along with more than a hundred Eldalonian soldiers, and hundreds of villagers. The survivors—hundreds of widows and children, and a few lucky men—made a wide circle around the great pyre. Some hung their heads, while others looked to the heavens proudly—but all wept. A woman took up the Eldalonian funeral song as the flames were lit, and soon the others joined in. The voices grew stronger as their words rose to the heavens.

Rest now, my love, till we meet again

Under the tree of the gods, I’ll see, my old friend

Rest now, my friend, your work here is through

When my song is sung, I shall be with you

Wait for me, love, and watch over me

Help me to remember what kind of person to be

Life may bring pain, like a cold winter rain

This sorrow will be mine, till we meet again

The song went on and was taken up by not only Whill and his friends, but also by the two elves as well. After it went for the customary seven verses, and ended with the throwing of many flowers into the great Pyre, Rhunis stepped forward and spoke for the dead.

“Today we say farewell to many good people who died defending those they loved. We say farewell to true heroes. In a time when that word is spoken too freely, we see firsthand its intended meaning all too clearly. The spirits that rise from the ashes this day are heroes by right and by deed. For none cowered before the nightmare that befell your village this day’s eve. None failed in their duty to kin and country; none ran to save themselves. No! They fought on—against all odds, and against the most terrible foe imaginable.”

He walked in a circle around the pyre as he spoke, looking every man, woman, and child in the eye.

“So when someone asks you of the one you lost, tell them they fought and died valiantly in the Battle of Sherna, and speak those words with your head held high. For they lived life as we all do, but they died heroically—which is as much as any man can ask. We all, every one of us, will die; that is inescapable. But we will not all be remembered—we will not all find immortality through deed and song. No, all of us will not. But what of these spirits that fly free this day? Will they be remembered?”

Rhunis circled faster as he spoke, his words becoming louder with each sentence. The shimmering eyes of the people stared back at him, their tears running down proud faces.

“Indeed yes!” Rhunis cried. “They will be cherished by those whom they saved and remembered in song by all throughout the ages. So this day, weep for your losses, weep for fear of an uncertain future, but do not weep for the spirits before you. They have achieved the greatest of all seats in the afterworld. Smile for them now, and be proud!”

The crowd broke into cheer. Tears fell and smiles gleamed, and an exhausted Rhunis took his leave. Whill, along with Abram and Roakore, followed suit, leaving the people to their mourning.

They came upon Rhunis shortly after, outside his tent. He sat upon the ground, taking large gulps from a bottle of dark liquid. Whill patted him on the shoulder. “I feel for your loss. No doubt you knew many of the fallen soldiers as friends.”

Rhunis looked up, raised his bottle to the heavens, and took yet another long swig. Wiping his mouth, he accepted condolences from Abram and Roakore as well, and then got to his feet. He offered his bottle to the other three, and they all took a hearty drink in turn.

Roakore took a second swig from the bottle and rounded on Rhunis. He slammed his fist into his chest and bowed slightly before the scarred knight. “Rhunis, Dragonslayer o’ Eldalon. It be an honor to meet ye. I be Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din o’ the Ebony Mountains.”

Rhunis, having dealt with the dwarves before—and being aware of Roakore’s title—replied in earnest. He slammed his fist to his chest and bowed slightly. “Well met, Roakore, son of Ro’Din of the Ebony Mountains. I knew that my friends here traveled with a dwarf. But I knew not that they kept such esteemed company.” He offered his hand in the customary human greeting and the two shook.

They were soon joined by Avriel and Zerafin. Abram, being acquainted with all, introduced everyone. Shortly after, they all retired to Rhunis’s tent, giving the villagers their peace, and emptying many bottles of wine.

The conversation went on for more than an hour, and various tales of adventure and folly were shared. Whill enjoyed the company of the others immensely, though he found himself staring at Avriel far too often. Roakore had relaxed around the elves, it seemed, and the talk turned eventually to the upcoming meeting in Kell-Torey.

“That is the reason I followed you from Fendale,” said Rhunis as he popped yet another cork. “King Mathus ordered me to follow the two of you when he learned you were being trailed by Captain Cirossa. Upon finding you, I was to see that you made safe passage to Kell-Torey. Whoever you are, Whill, King Mathus sees it prudent that you make that meeting.”

All in the room besides Rhunis shared knowing glances. But Rhunis was no fool.

“Well then, out with it. Who are you?”

Whill looked at Abram, who only offered a shrug. Whill hated these formalities, but knew they were necessary. He stood and faced Rhunis. “I am the son of Aramonis, rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”

Rhunis looked at Whill dumbfounded. He glanced at Abram and then the others. He seemed to ponder for a moment, and then went down on one knee before Whill. “It is an honor, and a great joy, to meet you, King Whill. Your mother was the beloved princess of Eldalon, and your father was the greatest king of his time. You have my blade, and my undying loyalty.”

Whill looked down at the kneeling knight. He felt uncomfortable and a bit silly, but he knew that Rhunis was serious. “Please stand, Rhunis. Though I appreciate the gesture, I am not yet king.”

Rhunis stood and refilled everyone’s glasses. “To Whill, rightful king of Uthen-Arden—may he take back the throne which is his, and bring peace to Arden!”

“Hear, hear!” cried Roakore.

“Hear, hear!” cried Abram. They all clanged glasses and took hearty drinks.

Abram and Roakore lit their pipes in the short silence followed. Whill looked to Avriel, who smiled approvingly. Rhunis shook his head in wonder.

“I never would have imagined that the child of Celestra had survived. This is indeed great news.” His brow furrowed. “But how did this come to be?”

“That tale would be better told by Abram,” Whill said.

Abram told Rhunis the entire story, with Avriel adding here and there when it turned to Elladrindellia. To Whill’s amazement, he learned that she had helped in his healing as an infant. What astounded Rhunis was that, not only had the Draggard been the attackers, but Addakon had seen to it.

“I have never liked Addakon, though I have met him only twice,” Rhunis said. “There was always something off about that one—nothing like your father, Whill, nothing at all. Your father was a great man: he helped his people, he was just and honest—but Addakon—something about the man always made me uneasy. I can’t quite place it. He always had an air about him of superiority and greatness, a condescending smile…oh, how I despise that smile. Nothing like your father, I say.”

Roakore spoke up for the first time in a while. “Aye, nothing at all, I too once met yer father, and later yer uncle. Ye be yer father’s son, an’ not o’ yer uncle’s make.”

Zerafin, to whom Whill had not yet spoken beyond introductions, then addressed him. “I met the both of them when they came to be trained many years ago, and I can say that we all felt the difference between them. The older and very wise of our people even urged our mother not to let Addakon be trained. She knew his heart, do not doubt, but she had made a pact with the late king of Arden those many years before. She could not break her vow, and both twins were trained in the ways of Orna Catorna.”

There came a slight tap upon the tent, and then another. Rhunis raised a hand for silence. “Enter.”

An Eldalonian soldier threw back the flap. Seeing the great company Rhunis was entertaining, he bowed low repeatedly and said sheepishly, “General Rhunis, sir, I apologize for the interruption, but there is pressing business within the town still.”

The knight got to his feet. “Of course.” He nodded to the surrounding group. “If you will excuse me, then.”

Abram stood. “I think I’ll join you. I’m sure the good people could use as much help as possible.”

Roakore wiped wine from his mouth with his long beard. “Aye. I think I’ll make meself useful, too.”

“I’ll be along shortly,” Whill said as the three departed.

Zerafin held up the wine bottle, gesturing to Whill. “No, thanks, I’ve had enough,” Whill said.

The elf smiled as he poured himself and Avriel a small amount. “What is on your mind? You wonder how it is that we came upon you, yes.”

“You read my mind.”

Zerafin chuckled. “Not quite. It is simply a logical deduction. We would not enter your mind without your permission—unless you were in grave danger, of course, as Avriel did when you so weakened yourself healing the boy.”

Whill had known deep down that it had been real. Nonetheless, hearing it spoken of so plainly was a comforting confirmation. Zerafin scratched his hairless chin and asked nonchalantly, “Did you realize that you would have died if Avriel had not intervened? You gave Tarren so much that you left nothing for yourself.”

Avriel shrugged shyly. Whill thought for a fleeting moment he saw her blush. Zerafin chuckled once again. “My sister has always been modest.” He smiled at her. They held their gaze for only a few seconds, but Whill had the feeling he was missing part of the conversation. Avriel raised an eyebrow at her brother and turned to Whill.

“To answer your question of how we came upon you—we left Elladrindellia shortly after the incident with Tarren. We were instructed to find you and attend the meeting in Kell-Torey.”

“We were able to locate you rather easily,” Zerafin explained. “Since my sister was one of the healers in your infancy, you have always shared a bond.”

Whill looked at Avriel with more wonder and admiration than ever, though his new feelings were accompanied by something else—a notion that his growing fondness was that of a silly young mortal. Avriel returned the gaze with a smile, and Zerafin went on.

“It is hard for a human to understand such things, I know, but in time you will learn to understand these bonds, and to use them. You will no doubt share such a bond with Tarren, though he will be oblivious to it. You will be able to decipher where he is, for instance, and what he is doing. Also, though neither I nor my sister have experienced it...”

He paused and looked at Avriel. She continued her brother’s thought. “You may share a similar bond with those you killed, since you took their life energy for your own,” she explained. Seeing Whill’s startled look, she added, “Do not worry, we can teach you to ignore them. It is not known for certain, though it is rumored, that the Dark elves are haunted by those they have taken from. Some can sever the bond or learn to ignore it. Others...”

Zerafin spoke up. “Others are driven mad by the voices, and find silence by their own blade.”

Whill pondered that statement for a moment, appalled by the prospect. Avriel continued. “Do not fret at that, Whill, we will teach you to be rid of them. We need to set our sights on Kell-Torey, where this most important meeting awaits us all; and from there, Elladrindellia, where you will be trained like your father before you.”

Whill breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled, taking in all he had heard. He had one pressing question he could not ignore: “How long will the training take?”

Zerafin furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Our mother has made a pact that states you shall be trained for the mandatory year. Is your haste so great that you would see this time as a burden?”

Whill sensed that he had angered Zerafin, and perhaps Avriel. He held out his hands defensively. “No, no, I mean no disrespect. And I am grateful for all that the elves offer.”

“But?”

“But war rages now within Isladon, the Draggard multiply as we speak within the Ebony Mountains, and Addakon becomes more powerful by the second.”

Zerafin gave a hearty laugh, which earned him a scowl from Avriel. “So you wish to forsake your training so that you might end the war within Isladon, destroy the Draggard, and defeat your uncle Addakon—not to mention the true evil behind all this, Eadon. All this you will accomplish on your own? To do these things you need not our help?”

Avriel spoke before Whill could. “Save your condescension for one more worthy, brother. You know what he means.”

Zerafin looked to Avriel with fire in his eyes, but slowly that fire was replaced by a smile. “Of course. I had forgotten how hasty humans can be, sister. I meant no offense.”

Whill sensed a silent battle between the two. “I did not mean to offend you, Zerafin, son of Verelas. Nor do I mean to offend the elves. I am hasty, I admit, but I have much on my mind and much to do.” He slumped back in his chair with his hand upon his brow, seemingly exhausted. “You must understand that I have just learned who I am. Just a few days ago I was only Whill, a ranger of Agora. Now I am the rightful ruler of a kingdom to which I have seldom ventured and care little about. I am to defeat a mighty king in league with the most powerful Dark elf in history, and yet I almost killed myself healing a child.”

Avriel turned to Zerafin with a raised brow once again. Her brother flashed her a look and addressed Whill. “I am the one who should apologize. I may have forgotten the position you have been put in. But understand, you cannot and will not do this on your own. You will need friends, and friendship we offer.”

Zerafin offered his hand and Whill took it. “Whill of Uthen-Arden, son of Aramonis, son of Celestra, descendant of the great king who took in the elves when we needed friendship most: I offer you mine—undying, unending, until time spreads thine ashes.”

Whill squeezed the elf’s hand. “And I offer you mine in return. I thank you, Zerafin, son of Verelas, prince of Elladrindellia.”

Avriel stood also. Time seemed to slow as Whill looked into her blue eyes. She too offered her hand and spoke words of promise; ever so softly, ever so beautifully, did they escape her lips.

“I offer to you, Whill of Uthen-Arden, my undying, unending, and boundless friendship, so that we may together, all of us, find peace.”

Whill thought for a moment that he would not find his words. Her voice and her gaze had more effect on him than the wine. After a moment he composed himself and responded, “And I mine, Avriel, lady of Elladrindellia, daughter of the great Verelas—until the day I die.”

Zerafin broke the silence that followed. “Then it is settled. We shall travel to Kell-Torey, and then on to Elladrindellia.”

After Whill had exited the tent to help within the town, Zerafin turned to his sister and studied her for a moment. Avriel sighed.

“What, brother?”

“What indeed? This is not a game, nor a childhood fantasy.”

She was taken aback. “What lunacy has befallen your tongue?”

“I remember an elf child who would lend an ear for hours to any storyteller recalling the prophecy of Whill of Agora.”

Avriel laughed quickly. “What of it?”

Zerafin leveled his gaze on her. “You studied the prophecy for years, every piece of every scroll that mentioned him. Your life’s work has been for this man, this human.”

“But he is the one! I have merely been preparing.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “You have been in love with his legend since you were a child. How does the real person strike you? Is he everything you wished?”

Avriel scoffed at her brother’s teasing and then puckered her lips to one side in thought. “It is very strange, don’t you think, to meet one so often spoken of as he?”

“Yes, sister, indeed it is.”

“The oddest thing is…he is exactly what I had envisioned.”

Zerafin scowled and sighed. “This could be disastrous. I fear your feelings could—”

“Could what, brother? It has been written; it will come to pass. He is Whill of Agora, the one we have waited a millennium for. Whether I love the idea of him is of no concern. It is not the same as loving the person.”

Zerafin could only shrug. “We shall see.”

Chapter XIX

The Common Road

THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY was spent salvaging what they could from the destroyed town. Riders were sent out to the nearest villages, and to Kell-Torey. Though no one thought another attack likely, they would all breathe a little easier when reinforcements arrived. Whill spent most of the day with Tarren, who asked a hundred questions about the dwarf city. Whill answered them happily. When the stars finally took to the night sky, he was more than glad to see them. He, Roakore, and Abram had been up since leaving the mountains, and all fell into a much-needed sleep.

Whill awoke the following morning to the smell of pork and eggs drifting on the still-smoky air. He turned his head from the sky to Roakore and Tarren sitting by a fire—the lad no doubt asking more questions of Dy’Kore. Roakore noticed Whill and took the opportunity to break conversation with the young human.

“Aye then, finally. Thought ye might sleep through the day, lad. The boy here’s got more questions than there be stars. Says he never seen a real dwarf, he does. I tell him, I ain’t ever seen a fake one,” he laughed and slapped his leg.

Whill chuckled and accepted a hearty share of breakfast. All around him were similar camps with similar fires. Families and groups of soldiers were all now starting their day.

Soon Abram arrived with Rhunis and the elves, each leading a horse. Rhunis helped himself to a piece of pork and ruffled Tarren’s hair. “So here we all are. This is good.”

He gestured behind him to a knight leading a black stallion and a pony. “These are for you,” he said with a smile as he addressed Whill and Roakore. “We have many miles before us, and I for one would prefer to ride.”

“I had assumed we would journey to Kell-Torey by water.”

Abram gestured towards the sea. “Old Charlotte has been destroyed. And Rhunis’s vessel must stay docked here for protection. We could wait for a royal escort, but that would take a few days.”

Whill nodded. “Days that we don’t have.”

Soon they left the still-smoldering Sherna behind. A group of soldiers from a nearby village had made station at dawn, and a small fleet was expected within the ten-day. Whill knew that the townspeople were in good hands, and he doubted they would see any more trouble. The Draggard had only attacked the town because he had been in it. The best thing he could do for Sherna was to leave.

Though he had recently learned that he was heir to the Uthen-Arden throne and fought a horrible battle, and though death and destruction seemed to follow him like a morbid shadow, Whill was in good spirits. With the ever-inquisitive Tarren, his old friend Abram, both elven and dwarven royalty, and a legendary knight of Eldalon at his side, he felt good indeed.

They headed west along the old and seldom-used road leading from Sherna to Kell-Torey. They rode for many miles, Tarren talking much of the time, until the sun crested the midday sky and it was time to stop and rest.

The riders dismounted and made camp next to a small creek. The horses and pony were left to drink and graze, and Roakore—the most hungry of the group—started a strong fire.

“Got me some good meats from one o’ them townswomen,” Roakore boasted as he took from his pack a half-dozen slabs of venison. “Said it was the least she could offer for me help.”

Avriel put her hands upon her hips and gave Roakore a look. He huffed and made as innocent a face as he could muster. “What was I to do? I may have insulted the poor human if I said nay!”

Everyone had seen the exchange, and none could help but have a good laugh at the poor dwarf’s expense. Roakore threw up his arms and tended to his cooking. The only ear he found was that of a young curious lad who had joined him to learn the secrets of dwarf cooking. Roakore put an arm over Tarren’s shoulder and looked back with a scowl at the rest of the group, which caused another small fit of laughter. “Bah. Forget them, laddie. They can think what they likes. Let ’em have their dried meats and their stinkin’ cheese.” Tarren only smiled.

Avriel and Zerafin had taken up a conversation with Rhunis as they brushed their stallions. Abram took the opportunity to talk with Whill, who was sitting on the ground, sharpening his sword.

“I’ve a riddle for you.”

Whill regarded him quizzically. “I had thought you ran out of riddles for me to solve when I was Tarren’s age.”

Abram chuckled. “Oh, this one is a stumper.”

“Alright then, let’s hear it,” said Whill—never one to turn down a riddle.

Abram cleared his throat dramatically. “How does one keep his mind on the mission at hand when he has fallen helplessly in love with an elf princess?”

Whill said nothing. For a long and silent while he and Abram simply stared at each other. Finally Whill scoffed and went back to sharpening his blade, and Abram to smoking his pipe. After a few minutes, Whill stopped and set aside his sword.

“I’m not in love with her.”

Abram tapped his pipe on a nearby rock and regarded Whill with one raised eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look,” Whill said.

“What look?”

“You know what look”

“I didn’t know I was giving a look. Perhaps I have a tick.”

Whill let his gaze wander to Avriel. He couldn’t deny what he felt. “Alright, you win, Abram. As always, you have seen into my heart and soul.” He took a deep breath and asked in a surrendered tone, “What do I do?”

Abram let his victorious smile fade and pondered for a moment. “I do not know what will become of this. History tells us nothing of human and elven romance, or the ramifications. But I know this: Your feelings will be used against you, whether she shares them or not. Your enemies will target the ones you love. It is hard to understand, but you must bury your feelings deep, Whill. She must not know. Though she may already suspect, you must not speak of it. You must not think of it.”

Whill considered this for a long moment. “And what about you, Abram?”

“Me? What of me?”

Whill laughed. “And so the wise man does not see.” He shook his head. “You old fool. What about you? I love you like a father. Should I hide that also?”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“The feelings a man has for his first love are more powerful than any he will ever know. This is written by both men and elves. I may die in the upcoming wars—you will have others to lean on.”

Whill shook his head as if he thought the notion absurd. Abram grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Whill.” His tone and demeanor demanded attention. “I may fall, Tarren may fall—any may fall, and you still will be uncompromised. You will be hurt, both in mind and soul, but you will survive. If your love is lost, however, you may become that which you strive to defeat. This I say as a warning and nothing more.”

Whill regarded him for a moment, and then looked at Avriel and the others. “I understand. But I think you put too much on me alone. You treat me as some kind of savior. I am but one man. One man! I cannot…I will not be held responsible for the fate of Agora! The elves will fight without me. The humans will fight without me. And the dwarves will fight till the end no matter what. Yes, I intend to back my father’s throne, but if I fail, it should be of no large consequence to the cause.”

Abram sighed. “I had hoped to let the revelations of your lineage set in for a bit before…” He nodded to the elves, “Those two had sought you out for reasons other than your lineage.”

“I thought you had but one riddle for me,” said Whill dryly.

“I believe the elves can better answer this one my friend.”

Whill threw up his hands, stood and began pacing. He was tired of hearing about himself so. He had barely gotten used the idea of his lineage…and now there was more? Without a word he turned and left Abram and his secrets.

Abram simply puffed on his pipe and left it all to the gods.

Roakore and Tarren were in deep discussion about dragons and dwarf gods when Whill slumped down next to them.

“Just tellin’ yer boy Tarren here ’bout the dragon gods,” Roakore explained. “Meat’s got a little while to go, still.”

Tarren piped in with his usual enthusiastic demeanor. “Aye, Roakore told me all about the dragon and dwarf gods. It’s really good stuff, Whill, you should hear it! All about the Prophet Ky’Dren and—”

Whill cut him off and recited the old tales to take his mind off of Abram’s implications: “Ky’Dren came to the dwarves at a time when they were lost. They had no religion or deeper social structure other than that of the nomad. Ky’Dren told them he had been sent by the dwarf gods to lead them; to give them a better life; to show them their purpose.”

Roakore nodded with approval at Whill’s summary. Tarren became jubilant. “Whill, I didn’t know you knew so much of the dwarves! What else do you know?”

Roakore patted the boy’s leg. “A great deal about all things, I imagine. A great deal.”

Whill spoke to no one the remainder of the break. They all ate their share of the venison, packed up, and headed out once again. Tarren asked to ride with the less-than-enthusiastic dwarf next. They travelled the remainder of the day, and briefly into the night, along the old road leading to Kell-Torey. They met a few merchants, and also a group of soldiers headed for Sherna. Rhunis informed them that he had charged the reconstruction of the town to his second-in-command. After a short briefing the soldiers were off once again, and the riders made camp for the night.

Roakore made another large fire and went about cooking the remaining venison—with the help of a tired but eager young lad. Whill took the time to speak with Avriel and her brother, and found them tending to their horses. Not being in the mood for small talk, he walked up and simply said what was on his mind.

“Abram tells me I have a larger part in all of this than I know. Though I cannot imagine how my part might become any greater, I trust you will enlighten me.”

Avriel and Zerafin stopped what they were doing and looked at the faraway silhouette of Abram, and then at each other. They seemed to share a silent communication and finally nodded, putting down their brushes.

“Sit then, and we shall tell you the tale,” said Zerafin.

Whill sat upon the ground, as did the elves. Twenty yards away the fire burned, casting faint orange light upon the two storytellers.

Avriel began. “Thousands of years ago there lived within Drindellia an elf prophet by the name of Adimorda. He was a skilled fighter and healer, but he was best known for his foresight.”

“Foresight?”

“Yes,” Zerafin said. “Adimorda is now known as the greatest elf prophet to have ever lived—which is no small feat, considering that our history dates back hundreds of thousands of years.”

Whill lit up. “Yes, now I remember reading of him. Vaguely, however; I was a child then, and the books I had of the elves spoke little of him. I remember them saying that he could see into the future.”

Avriel nodded. “He used his powers unlike any before him. When first he looked into the future—and then later events proved him right—he became obsessed. He spent years pouring his energy into his blade, and used the stored power to strengthen his mental abilities.”

Zerafin took over without missing a beat. “As more and more of Adimorda’s predictions came true, his followers increased. They would travel from hundreds of miles around to give him their stored energy in exchange for a glimpse of the future. With so much energy at his disposal, he began looking farther and farther into the future: first decades, then hundreds—even thousands—of years.”

Avriel’s eyes shone wet in the faint firelight. “Then Adimorda saw something that terrified him, something that would change him forever and drive him into a lifelong obsession—the destruction of Drindellia. He saw the rise of an evil elf lord; the creation of hideous beasts; the fall of his homeland. We know now, that elf lord was Eadon, and the beasts the Draggard. Adimorda knew he must do all he could to prevent this from happening. He devised many plans and began to carry them out, but soon found that, with every one, the results would be the same or worse.”

Whill cut in. “He looked to the future to see how he had helped?”

“Precisely,” Zerafin said. “And found that nothing he did would help. He could not alter a future so far away.”

Whill’s mind began to hurt as he thought of the possibilities. He put his hands through his hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Then what did he do?”

“He created a weapon,” said Zerafin. “He thought that if he could store enough energy within it, with the help of his followers, then the wielder would have a chance at defeating the Dark elf. But his plan backfired. He looked once again into the future, only to discover that the Dark elf himself would eventually acquire the sword, and all would be lost.”

“But that was not all,” Avriel said. “He would not give up so easily. To see to it that the Dark elf would never use the sword, he made it so that no elf could ever wield it. He created the Order of Adromida, a group of his followers who would dedicate their lives to his cause.”

Zerafin took his turn. “Adimorda disappeared shortly after that, and was never seen or heard from again.”

Whill was shocked. “Was he murdered?”

“No one knows,” Zerafin said. “Some speculate that he poured all of his life energy into the blade, leaving himself none. Within his chambers, his followers found three words written in blood.”

The intensity of their combined stares made Whill uncomfortable. “What did it say?”

“Whill of Agora,” said Avriel.

Just then Abram joined them. “You speak of Adimorda, I see.”

Avriel concurred. “The last scrolls of Adimorda spoke of one who would wield the blade Adromida, one who would rid the world of the Dark elf Eadon and his many legions. Whill of Agora.”

Whill now saw it all clearly. Though he was reluctant to believe he had such a part to play, the evidence was undeniable. “The sword Adromida cannot be wielded by an elf?”

“Correct,” said Zerafin.

“So it is up to me. I alone must wield the blade and destroy Eadon.” His voice held little enthusiasm.

Avriel looked from her brother to Abram, and finally to Whill. “There is one other who could wield the blade.”

Whill knew before she had finished. “Addakon.”

Abram nodded. “Yes.”

“Where is the sword?” asked Whill. “Was it brought from Drindellia?”

Avriel shook her head with dismay. “We do not have it, nor do we know where it is. For thousands of years the Order of Adromida did what they had been sworn to do. It was composed of hundreds of monks, and each and every elf poured their life energy into that blade. Every day, all day, there was always someone within the temple, strengthening the blade, for thousands of years.”

Avriel paused and stared at Whill, scrutinizing his reaction. When he only stared back, she let out a huff. “Whill, do you understand the great power that Adromida possesses? Having been given the energy of so many for so long?”

Whill thought on it for a moment. “No, I cannot. It is unimaginable. The wielder of such a blade would be like…like a god.”

“Yes. And can you imagine what Addakon would do with such power?”

Whill knew then that if his uncle ever got his hands on the great elven blade, all would be lost. Whether he liked it or not, he—it seemed—was truly the only hope.

Abram lit his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. “Now you begin to see. This is why I think that Eadon has come to Agora—he is in search of the blade, but also its wielder. It seems that he has found Addakon. And together they will stop at nothing to acquire Adromida. I believe that is why Addakon killed your father. With he and his unborn child dead, the only man with the power to wield the blade would be himself.”

“And now he knows that I live. The throne is but a minor issue, is it not? Addakon wants me dead so that I cannot find the sword first.”

“Indeed.”

“Then why are we heading for Kell-Torey when we could be looking for the sword? Do we have any clues to where it may be?”

Zerafin put a hand to the air, gesturing for Whill to relax. “We have been looking for the sword, of course, since we learned of your existence.”

“But what ever happened to the blade? Who took it?”

Avriel looked in Roakore’s direction, and said in a lowered tone, “The dragons.”

Whill gave out a frustrated laugh and threw his arms up. “Of course. Dragons!”

Avriel only nodded, unamused. “When the war of Drindellia began, Eadon destroyed the Temple of Adromida and took the sword as his own. Though he could not wield it, he kept it for himself. He knew that if his enemies had it, they might find a way to use it against him. We elves had a strong friendship with the dragons for thousands of years, and they viewed Eadon’s creation of the Draggard as a great insult.”

Zerafin took up the telling. “Avriel was born after the wars had begun, but I remember when it all started. I was 120 years old. Our father begged the dragons for help, but most refused. Less than twenty decided to form an alliance with us. That was near the beginning of the War of Drindellia, and though the dragons aided us greatly in the many battles, the Dark elves were too powerful. We were defeated, and all but one of the dragons who aided us were killed.”

Avriel interjected. “That dragon, the red dragon Zhola, with the help of a host of elves, managed to steal Adromida from Eadon. The elves were killed, but Zhola returned the sword to our father. Our father told him to leave, to take the blade somewhere safe, somewhere far away. And so he did, and was never seen again.”

There was a pause in the story as Whill looked at the ground, his mind racing. Abram sat likewise, puffing his pipe. Avriel went on.

“We have spoken to a few of the dragons, though they are hard to find these days. As you know, they have been mostly driven from Agora by dwarves and men. The Agoran dragons live now on Drakkar Island, but few dare venture there, not even us elves.”

“The dragons of Drakkar do not know of the old alliances between dragons and elves,” Zerafin added. “They are wild and unfriendly, to say the least. Those elves who have tried to find out anything about Zhola have either died trying or found out nothing useful.”

Whill still felt hopeful. “But if there is anything to learn of Zhola, it is to be learned on Drakkar Island, is it not?”

Avriel was hesitant. “Correct.”

“Then that is where Addakon will be looking—and that is where I must look.”

Zerafin laughed. “You will go to Drakkar Island alone, and what? Simply walk into the dragon’s lair and ask about Zhola?”

“What choice do I have? I will wait until I am stronger, of course, when I have learned the ways of the elves.”

“It sounds foolhardy, but he is right.” Abram grinned at Whill. “And I will be there next to him.”

“As will I,” said Rhunis as he walked over to the small gathering. “Who better to have with you on Drakkar Island than Rhunis the Dragonslayer?”

“What are ye all talkin’ ’bout?” Roakore called from the fireside. “Quit yer yappin’ and come get dinner while it’s hot.”

They did as the gruff dwarf told them and ate beside the fire. Fresh-cooked venison, cheese, and bread: not such a bad meal for the road—and it was only made better by Rhunis’s wine. To Roakore’s relief, Tarren had switched to pestering the elves with his hundred questions. Whill watched as the beautiful Avriel animatedly told Tarren a tale of the elves. He tried not to stare but found it difficult indeed. A few times Zerafin caught him, though he said nothing and gave no indication as to whether or not he approved.

Tarren went on to beg the elf maiden for a song, and she happily agreed. All other conversation died as Avriel sat up. To Whill she was like an angel, so beautiful did she look in the firelight. As she began her song, he heard an angel’s voice to match.

The dreaded day dawned, birthing a blood-red sun

Upon the beaches of Alshtuir stood our king

He stood proud with his men, those who would die

The finest of weapons the strongest of armor

The greatest of heroes shone in the sun

Our boats sailed away that most dreaded of days

Tears of a queen fell into the sea

Tears of a king fell into the sand

Over the hill the fell beasts they came

The elves of darkness stepped onto the sand

As the ocean took us to safety unknown

The battle began with the cry of our king

Over the waters it echoes, still to this day

To remind us what was given, so that we may live

No one spoke. Rhunis, Abram, and Whill all stared at Avriel with wonder. Roakore looked at the fire, trying to hide the moisture in his eyes. Zerafin smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. Avriel smiled at them all and wiped a tear from her eye.

“I apologize—that was not the happiest of songs, I know, but it is my favorite.”

Whill smiled back. “No, no, it was beautiful. I have never heard a voice with so much…feeling.”

Avriel wiped her eyes once again and stood. “I think I will find some rest.” She laughed as she looked at Tarren. “It seems as though the boy already has.”

Everyone laughed as they too looked at Tarren. He was sitting cross-legged with his head to the side, having fallen asleep sitting up. Avriel gently laid him down and covered him.

Zerafin stood. “We have a long road ahead and you should all get some rest. I will take first watch.”

They all shared good-nights and fell asleep one by one, Whill last of all. He lay staring up at the stars for some time, considering all he had learned. He laughed to himself at the memory of being overwhelmed in finding out he was a rightful king. Compared to hearing a five-thousand-year-old elven prophecy about himself, that news had been nothing. The stars danced and his mind raced, but eventually he found sleep.

Whill raced up the beach. The dragons had seen him, and they came—by the dozens, they came. They flew low, their wings dipping in the ocean with every beat. Only a short distance away an elf sat cross-legged, chanting quietly with his sword lifted to the heavens. Though Whill did not recognize the elf, he knew him to be Adimorda, and the blade he held—the ancient blade of legend—was Adromida. Whill raced toward him but seemed to get no closer—rather he was sinking quickly in the sand beneath his feet. Adimorda continued his chant, oblivious to Whill’s peril. Behind the elf stood his own father, sword held high, wearing a look of pure hatred, ready to strike down the elf. He realized it was not his father but Addakon. Whill screamed to Adimorda; the dragons neared; Addakon struck.

Whill’s screaming woke him and the rest of the camp. Zerafin kneeled by his side, a look of worry on his face. He extended a hand and addressed the others. “It’s alright, go back to sleep. He was having a bad dream.”

Abram came to his side as well. “What was it, Whill?”

He shook his head and laughed, embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. Just a dream, like Zerafin said.”

“Given the dreams you have had of late, I would not take any lightly if I were you.”

Worry was etched into Zerafin’s brow. “My sister was able to reach you in your dreams. Do you think maybe Addakon, or Eadon—?”

Whill cut him off. “No, no.” He shook his head. Could his dreams have been influenced by his enemies? Given recent events, he decided he really had no way of knowing. Nothing he heard would ever seem strange again. In the new world he had been thrust into, anything seemed possible.

“It is my turn to keep watch, Zerafin,” Abram said. “Get some rest, my friend.”

Zerafin nodded, never taking his eyes off Whill. Finally his serious look was replaced by a friendly smile. “Very well, then, but I shall like to hear of this dream later.”

He took his leave as Abram and Whill walked a few yards out of camp. They circled the perimeter in silence, Abram seeming to sense that Whill needed a moment to get his wits about him. There was little wind on the edge of the road to Kell-Torey, and the spring night was unusually warm. This came as a welcome change to the cold winter that had recently passed. Crickets chirped all around them, and every now and then the strange sound of bats filled the air. Whill had only slept for a few hours, but he was not tired; rather he found that his head was quite clear.

Abram ended the silence with a pat on Whill’s shoulder. “Have you forgotten that tomorrow is your twentieth birthday?”

Whill laughed. “With all that has transpired, I had forgotten completely.”

“Actually it is your birthday already—so says the moon.” Abram stared beyond the heavens to a place lost to the past. “I cannot believe it has been twenty years.”

Whill stopped and turned to Abram. “I had never realized, nor have I properly thanked you for, all you have done for me. I cannot imagine a life with you not at my side. So now, twenty years after the beginning of it all—thank you, Abram. Thank you for everything.”

Whill hugged him hard, and gave him a firm pat on the back, which Abram returned. He held Whill at arm’s length. “You have surpassed my greatest expectations in every regard, Whill. It has been an honor.”

The young king smiled, but it faded as his eyes moved to the woods. Abram understood the look instantly. “What is it?”

Whill surveyed the surrounding forest. “Listen—the insects and frogs. They have stopped.”

“So they have.”

They quickly and quietly returned to camp, where they found Rhunis and Roakore already awake and alert. Rhunis gestured them to come quietly. “Zerafin woke us a moment ago. He and Avriel have ventured into the brush.”

Roakore looked annoyed. “So what is it, eh? What’s the excitement about?”

Whill surveyed the woods once again, a chill running down his spine all the while. “The frogs and crickets have stopped singing to each other.”

Roakore huffed. “It’s about time, those little monsters kept me up half the night.”

“SHH!” the others exclaimed.

“Draggard are about,” Whill said. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Ready your axe.”

Roakore nodded, but rather than his axe he took in his hands his stone bird and began to chant quietly.

Rhunis gave the dwarf a queer look. “What is he doing?” he asked no one in particular.

“What we should all be doing—preparing,” said Abram, as he slowly unsheathed his blade.

Just then the scream of a dying Draggard ripped through the air. Three great flashes of light erupted from within the forest, and Zerafin and Avriel came dashing out of the woods.

“Prepare for battle!” yelled Zerafin. He and Avriel each reached down and gathered stones. With a spoken word, the stones began to glow brightly. They threw them into the woods in every direction illuminating the still night.

Only then did Whill realize that Tarren was still asleep, snoring even. He gently shook the boy. But to no avail. He shook harder. “Tarren, wake up!”

“Do not bother,” said Avriel as she threw a few more stones into the woods. “I have made it so he will sleep soundly. The boy does not need to see this.”

Whill nodded, grateful for Avriel’s thoughtfulness.

Zerafin looked back at the others. “They have surrounded us.”

“Twenty, maybe thirty of them,” added Avriel.

Zerafin surveyed the night sky. “And at least a dozen Draquon. Ready your bows, and guard the boy.” He strung an arrow of his own.

Roakore seemed not to hear any of it as he stood with eyes closed, chanting still.

So they waited: Abram, Whill, Rhunis, and Roakore, with their backs to the fire and Tarren lying next to it. Zerafin stood guard on one side, Avriel on the other, facing the illuminated woods.

They did not need to wait long. No longer seeing a reason for stealth, the Draggard erupted from the shadows. Just as quickly the elves stretched out their arms at the attackers, an unseen energy hit the Draggard. The beasts were lifted into the air and thrown back into the shadows.

Whill could only watch in awe. Roakore saw also, and knew that it was time. With one last loud chant, he raised his hands and the stone bird whirled to life. Up into the air it flew, and with a thud it connected with a flying Draquon. The beast fell to the ground ten feet from the fire, its head crushed.

Whill and Abram sprang into action, firing shots into the night sky as ominous shadows flew overhead.

“Duck down!” shouted Avriel, and all four warriors obliged. A split second later a Draquon’s tail whipped overhead, and Avriel shot quickly. Before her warning had even begun to echo through the forest, the Draquon fell with an arrow through its eye.

From his crouch Whill noticed that the Draggard which had been thrown backwards by the energy blast had regrouped. “Watch out!” he shouted, as the Draggard threw their many spears in unison.

The missiles came whirling in, and Whill lifted his sword to deflect the onslaught, but there were too many.

The elves each raised a hand, and the spears swiftly changed course and flew into the night sky. More than a half dozen Draquon fell from above, the weapons protruding from their many wounds. The Draggard who had thrown them hissed and growled as they charged in. Once again the elves sent a shockwave of energy to throw them back.

Whill felt helpless as he watched the elves unleash their devastating power. He and the others stood at the ready. Roakore’s stone bird whirled by and took another Draquon from the heavens. The elves turned their focus to the flying Draggard as well. They raised their arms, chanting in Elvish, and blasted multicolored spells into the sky. Burnt and broken bodies fell from above. One unfortunate beast landed directly in the fire, and embers and burning wood flew in all directions. Rhunis’s cloak caught fire, as did Tarren’s blanket. The knight stomped on the blanket as Whill and Abram slashed and stabbed at the thrashing Draquon still alive in the blaze.

Roakore settled his sights on the two closest winged beasts, who were dazed but not down. The stone bird pounded mercilessly back and forth as he guided it from one Draquon’s head to the other until they moved no more. The elves engaged the others with their devastating swords as the Draggard regrouped and charged at the warriors.

Whill again was left to watch in awe as the elves took down the beasts with graceful precision. The Draggard were no match for their power. They fell one after another as the siblings cut through blade and armor, bone and flesh. Roakore let his stone bird fall and breathed in gasps as he took up his axe.

“They’ll not have all the fun!” he huffed, and charged into the fray. Rhunis was right behind him. Whill and Abram, reluctant to leave Tarren, watched as the others made short work of the remaining Draggard.

With the last killing stroke came again the darkening of the night. Whill thought that, with the threat gone, the elves had extinguished the glowing stones. He soon realized that was not the case.

“Be ready!” said Avriel in a hushed tone.

Whill was chilled once again; there was a hint of fear in Avriel’s voice. The six formed a tight circle around the fire and Tarren.

“What is it?” asked Rhunis.

Zerafin closed his eyes for a moment. “A Dark Elf.”

“A powerful Dark elf,” Avriel added.

“Bah! Bring ’em on!” said Roakore, as he put his stone bird back in motion. “I see him hiding.”

“Roakore, don’t!” warned Avriel, but too late. Roakore released his weapon and it disappeared into the night. Just as quickly as it left, it returned—hitting Roakore square in the chest and sending him flying over the fire. He did not move.

“Damn!” exclaimed Zerafin. “All of you, hold!”

From the woods where Roakore had sent his stone bird, a figure emerged. He came boldly from the shadows and into the light, not twenty feet from the group. He was indeed a Dark elf. His long black hair was tucked behind tall, pointed ears that were adorned with many earrings, and he wore no armor—a fact Whill found more than a little unsettling. Instead he wore a flowing black robe. The hood was drawn back, revealing a shiny black, dragon-scale tunic underneath. His face was as fair as any elf’s, but for the swirling black tattoos.

Zerafin stepped forward and spoke in Elvish. “Go now and tell your master that you and your band of monsters have failed here tonight, or you will not see the dawn.”

The Dark elf did not move. Instead he laughed, a wicked, guttural laugh. “Ah, yes—the noble Zerafin. Much like your father you are, but a little less brave. As I remember, you left him to die and went sailing away with the other elf children. How valiant your words seem now.”

Avriel stood beside her brother. “Your insults have no power.”

The Dark elf took a step forward. “And the princess of the fallen Elves of the Sun, Avriel. It is such a treat to see you again. I shall enjoy every moment I spend with you henceforth, my love, do not doubt. But for now I have your coward brother to deal with!”

A flash of red light emanated from his hand and traveled toward the two elves. They raised their hands in return and from them leapt their own energy to meet the attack. The Dark elf laughed once again.

“I see you need the help of your sister to meet my challenge! How fitting. This only shows once again the greater power that is to be found within darkness.”

The elves almost seemed to be at a stalemate, but the siblings looked slightly more taxed in holding the Dark elf’s attack at bay, while he showed not a sign of effort.

Rhunis shot an arrow at the elf. It flew straight at his head and stopped dead, floating only inches from his flesh. With his free hand the elf reached out, snapped the arrow in half, and let it fall to the ground.

“Humans, I find, are the most interesting of minor creations. They are brave, I must say.” The elf’s face twisted with rage. “But none too smart!” He clutched the air with his fist and Rhunis was lifted off the ground, his hands frantically gripping his throat.

Zerafin gave a cry and charged ahead, sword in hand. Avriel was forced back many steps, having to hold back the Dark elf’s energy on her own, but not for long. Zerafin quickly engaged the elf, who had by then drawn his own sword. Avriel, now free of the energy attack, rushed forward to aid her brother. Rhunis fell to the ground.

Whill watched on in awe as the three exchanged blows. The siblings fought well together, but so fast was the fighting that it was hard for Whill to follow. He looked to Abram. “What do we do?”

“What can we do?”

Whill found himself useless.

Zerafin received a slash to the leg but fought on. Avriel scored a minor hit to the Dark elf’s shoulder. He jumped back out of reach and lowered his sword as the elves stood at the ready. The Dark elf looked at his bleeding shoulder and laughed as the wound healed in an instant.

“Fools! You cannot defeat me. You have felt my blade; you know it to be true. Why fight on when to do so is folly?”

It was Avriel’s turn to laugh. “You are the fool. We have had five hundred years to prepare our blades for the likes of you. Have you so quickly forgotten the ways of the Elves of the Sun?”

“You should have left while you had the chance,” said Zerafin.

The Dark elf soon understood. Zerafin and Avriel locked their free arms and came at him in a spinning, attack. The elf was forced back on his heels as he frantically parried blows that neither Whill, Abram, nor Rhunis could register. Zerafin struck followed by Avriel, and though both were blocked, the Dark elf had to bring his blade low to counter the second strike. When he did Zerafin was there with a thrust through the chest. As the blade sank, the Dark elf extended his free arm and there was a flash of light. Avriel’s blade flew from her hands as the Dark elf slashed her stomach. Zerafin stabbed again, this time through the neck.

The sight of Avriel’s blood maddened Whill. With a cry he charged forward with his father’s blade.

The Dark elf’s laugh became a gurgle as blood poured from his neck. He slashed again and severed Zerafin’s sword hand at the wrist. As he reeled back in pain, his sister thrust both hands forward into the open air. A shockwave of energy rushed forth and shattered the kneecaps of the Dark elf. He fell to his knees, but thrust forward once again, and impaled Avriel through the gut.

Whill watched in horror as the blade came out of Avriel’s back. He screamed and brought back his blade for a killing blow, but stopped dead as the Dark elf raised his free hand. Whill felt more pain than he had ever known as red light emanated from the wounded elf and hit Whill with steady pulses. The evil creature laughed as he looked Whill dead in the eye. “Everyone you love will die horribly, fool human—”

The Dark elf fell quiet as Zerafin pulled his sword from the Dark elf’s throat and hewed off its head. There was an explosion of magic as his blade cut through the dark elf’s spell shield. Whill fell to the ground next to Avriel as Zerafin extended his hand toward the elf’s body. It erupted in flames, and the pyre burned on as he poured forth great amounts of energy to incinerate the Dark elf—until not even ashes remained.

Chapter XX

Dwarf Pride

THE SIGHT WAS A BLOODY one. More than twenty dead Draggard littered the ground, along with nearly a dozen Draquon. Roakore was still out cold, though Whill could see his chest heave slightly as he breathed. Rhunis coughed violently, his throat having been nearly crushed. Zerafin bled from his severed hand, and Avriel lay upon the ground, close to death.

Whill’s pain had subsided as soon as the Dark elf died. Now he looked upon the elf maiden whom he had grown to love in such a short time. Abram was already tending to Roakore, who had awakened and was trying to stand.

Whill took Avriel in his arms and looked into her blue eyes. She coughed and blood trickled from her lips. He felt something inside him tear at the sight of the dying elf. Rage welled within him as he watched her slowly slipping away. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Give me….” Her voice was so soft that Whill hardly heard her.

“What?” he asked. “Give you what?”

“My sword,” she whispered.

Whill moved to find it, but then he saw Zerafin standing next to them, Avriel’s sword in hand. Whill took it from him and placed it in Avriel’s bloody hand. Zerafin placed his hand on his shoulder.

“You should step back.”

Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.

“The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”

Whill looked at his bloody stump. “And you—can you heal such a wound?”

Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”

Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he watched the elf press the severed hand to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.

He left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from getting up.

“Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”

Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”

Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”

Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”

The three walked back to the fire and found Zerafin and Avriel waking a sleepy-eyed Tarren. Roakore addressed Abram out of the side of his mouth. “I thought ye said they was both badly wounded.”

Abram looked down at the dwarf’s left side. “They are excellent healers, as you know.”

“I’ll ready the damned horses,” Roakore huffed, and stormed off.

Abram looked on, worried, as Whill watched Avriel’s every move. His visual scrutiny was cut short as Tarren woke and gave a shout upon seeing the many dead Draggard.

“Shh, it’s alright, Tarren. They are all dead.” Avriel stroked his head.

Tarren pushed her hand aside and made a disappointed face. “Aw, you let me sleep through it! I wish I could have seen it—what happened? Did they breathe fire like dragons, did those other ones really fly, did—?”

“There will be time for questions on the road,” said Whill. “We still have a long ride, and we must leave now.”

“Not until we have destroyed the remains,” Zerafin said. The elves went to work incinerating the corpses with a word and a raised hand.

The others broke down camp quickly and doused the fire. As they walked the horses to the road, Avriel came up next to Whill, who was ahead of the others.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

“I did nothing.”

Avriel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you not care?”

“Yes, of course I did! I—”

“You did care—you cared enough to cry, and for that I thank you. You are a good friend, Whill of Agora.”

He was at a loss for words. He was not embarrassed that she had seen him cry, but rather overjoyed that she had called him friend.

“As are you, Avriel of Elladrindellia.”

She smiled brightly and slowed to walk alongside her brother, who now had the overexcited Tarren as a passenger. Whill guided the group the rest of the way to the road with the widest smile he had ever known.

Soon the sun began to rise in the east, sending red, orange, and purple light dancing through the thin clouds. The group had many more days to Kell-Torey, but they traveled now at a much faster pace than previously. They knew now that they were being followed, and an attack could come from behind at any time—or by ambush up ahead. That being so, Zerafin rode a quarter-mile in front of them, and Rhunis a quarter-mile behind.

They traveled in this manner for hours, keeping the horses at a steady trot. Finally Zerafin stopped and let the others catch up to him.

“The horses need a rest, as do we all, short though it will be.”

Abram dismounted with a groan and walked over to Roakore’s pony. The dwarf was taking slow, labored breaths and sat slumped against his pony’s mane.

“How is he?” asked Whill.

Abram gave Roakore a small shove, but the dwarf did not move. “He is asleep.”

“He is badly hurt.”

“Yes, but the fool would not ask for help if he were on his deathbed—not from the elves.”

Whill lit up. “Not from the elves, aye.” He walked over to Zerafin but found him busy answering Tarren’s many questions about the battle. He searched for Avriel and found her not far away, kneeling by a small brook and filling her water skin. He kneeled down next to her and dipped his own empty pouch in the cold water.

“I ask a favor.”

“What is it?”

Roakore is badly hurt. But he is very stubborn. For whatever reason, he will not ask—or consciously accept—you or your brother’s help. Stupid, I know,” he added, worried that she might take offense.

Avriel laughed. “No, no, not stupid. The dwarves are a stubborn bunch that much is true. But it serves them well. Without such will, they could not have achieved all that they have. They are tough as stone, as they say.” She leaned in closer, as if divulging a secret. Whill’s throat went dry. “But deep, deep inside, they are like any of us. They feel love, pain, and fear.”

They stood. “So,” Avriel said. “You want me to help you heal Roakore?”

“Yes. I mean, I healed Tarren on my own, but of course in my own healing I needed your help. I think that I can do this. I need to do this.”

Avriel raised a hand. “I understand, Whill.” She paused in thought. “I will give you my sword. Beware, for it holds great power. Before my brother and I went on this journey to Kell-Torey, we were given gifts by many elves, gifts in the form of energy offerings. You must focus on Roakore, much as you did on Tarren. But you must not let your emotions get the better of you. Clear your mind. Think only of Roakore’s injuries. Do not let him take more than you intend to give.”

“I understand.”

She locked eyes with him for a silent moment. “Do you? Do you understand that if you give him too much, he will drain the blade and die? If you are not in control the entire time, you may kill the both of you.”

If Avriel intended on scaring him, she had succeeded. He gazed back at her, now unsure.

“Remember, Whill, give him only what he needs. Do not take from the blade for yourself, and focus on his injuries. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

That was all Whill needed to hear. Together they walked the game trail back to the road. Rhunis had gathered everyone else’s water pouches. Upon seeing Whill and Avriel’s were full, he said, “That way, then.”

Zerafin was dueling with Tarren, each with a wooden stick for a sword. Tarren waved happily. “Look, Whill, Zerafin is teaching me how to fight!”

Just then the elf smacked Tarren atop the head with his mock sword.

“Ouch!” the boy said with a scowl.

“That is your first lesson, young one: let nothing distract you from the enemy at hand.”

Roakore sat with Abram in the short grass at the side of the old road. They each sported a smoking pipe. The dwarf took his puffs with great care and tried to act as if nothing bothered him.

Avriel handed Whill her blade with a nod. He could feel the power within it. He took long, slow, calming breaths and went over to them. He sat facing Roakore, the sword concealed behind him.

“How do you feel?” Whill asked nonchalantly.

Roakore puffed on his pipe and began coughing uncontrollably. Whill noted that he had bloodied the ground before him.

“Do ye ask fer the elves or fer yerself?”

“I ask as a friend, and I hope you would do the same.”

“Bah, the pain ain’t nothin, just a few busted ribs is all. I ain’t gonna die from it, if that’s what yer thinkin. I know the elves are dyin’ to practice on me, but I ain’t asked fer help and I ain’t needin’ none.” He finished with a violent cough that produced more blood than before.

Whill thought for a moment. “I was raised partially by Abram, as you know, but I lived the first years of my life with a great healer. She taught me many things.” Roakore eyed him suspiciously, but Whill only smiled. “Listen. You practically saved Abram and me atop that mountain against the Draggard. Let a man pay his debts the only way he can—let me help you. I know that you do not ask for help, but please accept that which I offer.”

Roakore eyed Whill for a moment and then went into another violent coughing fit. When he was done, and had painted the grass with more red, he nodded. “Alright then,” he said, swooning. “What did ye have in mind?”

“Lie on your back, if you will. And close your eyes.”

Roakore wearily obeyed. Abram gave Whill a suspicious look. In his left hand Whill clenched Avriel’s blade. He let his right hand fall upon Roakore’s chest. At first he did not take from the sword, but rather he used his right hand and grazed Roakore’s chest in circular motions. He cleared his mind, focusing his entire being on his friend. Very slowly he tapped the energy within Avriel’s sword. He jolted slightly as he felt the first waves of power flow from the sword and into his body. He had the sudden urge to take from the sword for himself, but he closed his eyes and fought it back. He guided the energy through his body and into Roakore’s chest.

Zerafin walked over to his sister, who was watching Whill from afar, and spoke to her with his mind.

Tell me you didn’t give him your sword to heal the dwarf.

Avriel smiled mischievously. You think he is not ready?

Of course he is not ready! He has had no training in the ways of healing. Yet you give him your own blade!

She kept watch over Whill, and did not turn to look at her brother. He has healed before. Yes, I know what you will say—he almost killed himself. But I believe he can do this. I believe in Adimorda, and so I must believe in Whill of Agora. He is our only hope, dear brother. You know this as well as I. And so we must let him do as he will.

Zerafin did not take his eyes from his sister. He knew her heart better than any.

“You love him.” He spoke aloud now.

Slowly she met her brother’s gaze. Avriel could not lie to him, even if she wanted to. She smiled to herself and pondered his statement.

“It seems I do.”

Her brother breathed heavily. “You know what is said about such matters.”

“But do I care?” she snapped back. “Nay. Many elves have forsaken love for law, but to what end? We have hid away for centuries in Elladrindellia, venturing from our given lands only to help in the wars. We—you and I, all of us—have met humans whom we liked, even loved.” She took his arm. “Yes, brother, remember even you have fancied a human woman.”

Zerafin turned on his sister. “And now she is dead! Centuries lie in the wake of her last breath.”

Avriel made her tone soft toward her anguished brother. “That she is, but had you been allowed to teach her, to show her our ways, would she not be here today? I fear we have erred in not allowing such unions. Elves and humans both would be better off now if we had shared more in the past.”

“You forget, this is a law laid down by the elders, our mother among them.”

“Laws change like the seasons. I will one day be an elder. Or you, Zerafin. You have only to take it and the throne of Elladrindellia is yours. Mother wishes it. ”

“You know that I will not! Father may yet be alive, somewhere.”

Avriel looked mournfully upon her brother. “Drindellia fell. Why do you hold on to this…?”

“This what, fantasy? Has Whill not been your fantasy since childhood, a fantasy now come true? So allow me this: I know it may not seem logical, but I feel that our father is alive.”

Whill dared not open his eyes. Behind his lids he could see the faint blue light. The power surged through him now; it came like a rushing river. The mental dam he had built had been overrun. Roakore’s damaged body was taking all that it could, more than it needed. The dwarf’s chest heaved and his body stiffened. Whill tried with all his might to let go, but he could not. He was but a vessel now, no more in control than a man in an avalanche. He gathered all his mental strength, summoned all his willpower, and with everything in him he screamed to the sword, STOP!

To his amazement, it subsided. He opened his eyes to find Roakore lying still before him. Abram, Rhunis, and an amazed-looking Tarren stared down at him. Whill lifted the sword of Avriel and stared in wonder. Leirva, the sword of the elf maiden of Elladrindellia—he had wielded it. Avriel and Zerafin came over to him.

Avriel offered Whill a smile. “I knew you could do it.” She extended her arm to take the sword.

“You did well,” said Zerafin.

Whill handed over the powerful blade. “What of Roakore?”

Avriel and Zerafin both regarded the dwarf. Avriel laughed. “Well he seems to be fully healed, and then some.”

“Yes, our gruff friend should be awake any moment and full of dragon piss.”

Roakore’s eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet. He jerked his head in all directions, eyeing each of them. He frantically felt his chest and his ribs.

“What in dragon’s hellfire happened here, eh?” He snorted and spat. “No blood, me side don’t hurt, and why do I feel I might explode from within?”

Whill waved off the others, who were starting to giggle. He put an arm around the dwarf and walked him away.

“Roakore, do you remember nothing?”

Roakore eyed the others over his shoulder with a scowl. “I remember—I don’t know. I remember stopping fer a rest and then—”

Whill stopped him. “I offered to help you and you accepted. You did not ask for help, and probably didn’t need it. But I felt obliged to do what I could and I tended to your wounds, minor as they were.”

Roakore felt his ribs again. “I agreed?” He looked back at the others. “Is this the work o’ those two damned elves? They think they need to look over me—aye, me!”

Whill shook his head. “No! No! They did nothing, I swear to you on the blood of my father. I alone tended to you, I alone.”

“That damned Dark elf sent me own weapon back at me. Took a good hit, I did.”

“A hit that would have killed a dragon,” Whill agreed.

Roakore’s scowl slowly left his face. “Yer a good healer,” he said, and went to join the others.

Whill knew that in his own stubborn way, Roakore had just said thank you. A smile spread across his face as he followed the dwarf.

Rhunis and Zerafin were leading the horses back from their drink at the brook. Abram and Rhunis had started a small fire and were preparing what was left of the venison. Whill walked over to Tarren and took the boy by the shoulder.

“Listen, Tarren, I ask a favor of you.”

“Anything.”

Tarren’s tone was so serious, it almost made Whill laugh out loud. He composed a serious face to match. “Do not tell Roakore what you saw. You may not understand, but trust me and give me your word.”

To Whill’s surprise, Tarren winked. “Oh, I understand. If Roakore knew he was healed by elven ways, we wouldn’t hear the end of it. Don’t worry, Whill, your secret’s safe.”

He laughed out loud and rustled Tarren’s hair. “Good lad.”

After a quick meal, the companions were off again. They were many miles from Kell-Torey and had days ahead of them. But the mood was light, the talk merry.

They had passed a few roads branching off from the main road, leading to other villages, but they did not venture down any. Trouble had followed Whill since Fendale, and he did not intend on endangering anyone else. Danger was a shadow that wrapped itself like a cloak around Whill of Agora. He did not know how he could possibly live up to the prophecy. He had barely wrapped his mind around being the son of a king. At moments it was all too much, and he found himself having to mentally stomp out the fires of fear and doubt. It was in those moments that he thought of his new-found friends. If any good at all had come out of the last few days’ revelations, it was the company he now kept. Never had he met dwarf nor elf; never had he seen such fierce warriors.

“You are not such a bad warrior yourself,” said Avriel as she rode by.

Whill smiled at the compliment but quickly realized that Avriel had read his mind. He quickened to ride beside her. “I thought you would not read my mind without permission.”

“And I have not.”

“But what you said—it was along close lines to what I was thinking.”

“I did not read your mind as much as you did the telling.” She smiled. “You were projecting your thoughts of us. Unintentionally, it seems.”

Whill blanched. “You can hear my thoughts if they’re…about you personally?”

Avriel slowly moved her horse closer to Whill’s. “If you are thinking intensely enough about me, or someone, it is sometimes hard for that person to ignore.”

Whill looked away. Great! He thought. She probably already knows. This is so unfair. Dammit, she’ll hear you. Right, relax, Whill. Don’t project, don’t think it. Not that word. Choose another. Dragons! Yes, dragons—big ones, small ones. A dragon flying through the midnight sky against a full moonscape….Avriel astride the dragon upon a velvet saddle, as naked as—damn it, man, shut up!

Whill fell back, thinking of nothing but witch’s warts as he came to ride next to Zerafin.

“You have to teach me how to not project,” he said.

Zerafin smiled. “If you wish. Why? Are you afraid of offending naked dragons?”

Whill gulped and slowly fell back again. It was safest it seemed, to ride beside Abram.

They rode on for the remainder of the day. As night fell, they stopped and made camp once again. They had eaten the remaining venison, to Roakore’s dismay. He had not had it in quite some time and had a keen liking for it. He strode up to Whill and patted him on the back. Whill was almost knocked over by the strong hand.

“C’mon then, lad, let’s get us all some dinner.”

Whill tied off his horse and retrieved his bow. “Night hunting?”

Roakore scoffed. “Is it night? I see fine no matter the light. I was raised within a mountain, ye remember.”

They ventured into the dense forest under faint, cloud-covered moonlight for more than ten minutes. Roakore was, Whill discovered, following a game trail. He came to a stop, lifted his broad nose in the air, and took a long slow sniff.

“Hmm. Somethin’s about.” He went left and Whill followed. After a minute they came to a clearing where a small herd of deer sat in the grass. Roakore crouched and cursed the wind under his breath.

“No time fer stealth, lad. The wind’ll give us away soon, don’t ye doubt.”

Whill strung his bow and took aim at the closest deer. Roakore grabbed his arm gently.

“Let me, laddie,” said Roakore, and he started his stone bird a-whirling.

The deer became aware of the hunters as the soft whoop of the weapon resonated through the night air. The stone bird came in with a blur as the deer got to their feet and began to leap into the woods. The stones caught one round the neck, a buck with a magnificent set of antlers, it fell to the ground and moved no more.

“Bahaha! Now that’s how it’s done, laddie!”

They returned to camp to find that a fire had been started. Roakore found a suitable stone to work on and washed it off before spreading salt upon it. He hung the deer from a tree and skinned and butchered it with the help of Tarren, who was more than eager to use one of the dwarf’s hatchets.

From the woods Avriel had gathered handfuls of leeks, herbs, roots, and a few wild potatoes. She laid them out next to the fire and began washing them.

Roakore nodded in approval. “If only we had a pot we could get a bit o’ warm stew a-brewin’.”

Avriel rose purposefully and went looking around at the surrounding stones. Roakore and the others watched with interest as she found one she liked, a large one the size of Roakore’s head. She lifted it with ease and brought it near the fire. Avriel stood before the rock with the firelight catching her raven hair. She put a hand to the hilt of her blade and extended a hand to the stone. Suddenly the rock began to indent in the center until it was almost flat. Then the edges of the flat stone rose while the center remained upon the ground. Avriel took measure of her work. Roakore stared in awe at the large stone bowl she had just created.

“Will that do?” she asked.

Roakore only nodded with an approving smile.

Water was gathered and soon a hot venison stew was brewing. Around the fire everyone sat, except for Zerafin, who was walking the perimeter on guard duty.

“’Bout an hour the food’ll be done,” said Roakore as he found a suitable rock to sit on.

“Sure smells good,” Tarren piped up. “Say, Roakore, why didn’t you make a bowl like Avriel did? You have powers over stone, don’t you? Or so I’ve overheard.”

“Bah, I coulda. I can do more than that with stone, boy. Why, half me chambers are covered in me own creations!”

“Really! What can you do?”

Roakore stood and pointed to the rock he had just been sitting on. “Sit there, lad, if ye dare.”

Tarren sat. Roakore lifted his hands in the boy’s direction and began to chant softly. Tarren yelped and held tightly to the stone as it began to rise into the air. Around the fire and over everyone’s heads the stone circled slowly. He began to giggle. Faster and faster he circled on the stone until he was laughing hysterically. Roakore made the stone go so fast that eventually Tarren could not hold on. With a yelp the boy went flying through the air over their heads, end over end, and slammed into the ground with a thud.

If he was hurt he didn’t show it, for he ran back to the group, cheering, “That was great! Oh, boy, wait till I tell my sister I met a dwarf who can make people fly on stones!”

“Bahaha,” Roakore laughed as he slowed the stone and brought it to its place.

Avriel looked at the dwarf, intrigued. “It is amazing, the skill you have with the manipulation of stone, good dwarf. I have heard rumors that you dwarves have powers akin to our own. I see perhaps they are true.”

Roakore’s eyes lit up. “Akin to yours? That I doubt. ’Twas a gift given to Ky’Dren and his line by the gods. Do your powers come from the gods?”

“Our powers come from ourselves. But Roakore, you must be able to manipulate more than just stone.”

Roakore scoffed at that. “Bah, what else is there fer a dwarf, lady elf, but stone? Why would I want to be manipulatin’ anythin’ else?”

“You may be right; the manipulation of stone would be the most prudent power for a dwarf to possess. But I wonder, can you move…this tree limb, for instance?”

Just then a small limb from the wood pile floated into the air and rested at Roakore’s feet. He scowled at her.

“Now listen, elf, I ain’t needin’ to prove nothin’ to ye.”

Avriel put up her hands defensively. “I do not mean to insult you, good dwarf. I simply believe that the powers you exhibit over stone can be used on anything.”

Roakore settled a bit. “Well I simply don’t. I believe I can move stone, and so I can.”

“Ah, but if you believed you could move that limb, could you not do it?”

“But I don’t.”

“But what if you did?”

“I don’t be knowing ’cause I don’t be believing!”

Suddenly Tarren spoke up. “I believe I can move the branch, Avriel. But see?” He scrunched up his face and concentrated on the wood. Finally he gave up with a puff of breath. “I believe, but I can’t.”

Roakore kicked the branch. “Well, lad, that’s ’cause no gods gave ye or yer kin the powers.”

“It is because that part of your mind has not been awakened, Tarren,” said Avriel.

Tarren gasped. “So I could be taught? Could you teach me?”

Just then Zerafin approached from the shadows. “No, we cannot teach you. It is forbidden.” Avriel scoffed and leaned back on the grass. “Though many of us, including my sister, do not agree with the law, it has been laid down by the elders.”

Tarren sulked. “It sounds like a stupid law.”

Zerafin found a seat next to the boy. “It may sound stupid, but there is reason behind it. The elders fear teaching humans our ways. Such power in the wrong hands can lead to disaster, as is the case of Eadon. Many pure of heart have been corrupted by the power that our ways bring. It must never be abused, and it can never be used for personal gain, lest corruption and greed overwhelm the soul.”

“That’s the last thing we be needin’—a bunch o’ human Eadons walkin’ around,” Roakore said.

“The elders’ sentiments exactly.”

Whill had been listening keenly and something occurred to him. “What do the elders think of me, of my training in the elven ways?”

“Many are against it, but it is part of our debt to the kings of Uthen-Arden,” answered Avriel.

“What about the prophecy?”

“Many do not believe it,” Zerafin said.

“Really.”

There was a long silence, which was finally broken by Abram.

“Well, I believe it.”

“So do I,” said Tarren

“I always have,” Avriel agreed.

Rhunis gave Tarren a little shake. “I think with friends like these, anything is possible.”

Everyone laughed, Whill included, though he noticed that Zerafin had not concurred.

You were projecting again. Whill’s eyes moved to Zerafin. Yes, I also believe the prophecy.

Whill nodded, feeling foolish. I really need to learn how to stop doing that.

Roakore announced that the stew was done, and everyone filled a traveling cup and enjoyed the hot meal. After many helpings Abram sat back against a tree stump and lit his pipe. He looked up at the stars as he patted his belly.

“Ah, Mallekell is bright tonight.”

Both elves looked to the heavens at the elven constellation of Mallekell.

“Where’s Mallekell?” Tarren asked.

Avriel pointed. “There. You see those three stars? They are the center. From there you can make out the arms and sword, and that one there, the brightest one, is the eye of Mallekell.”

Roakore scoffed. “That there, those three an’ that one? That be the stars o’ Ky’Dren, ain’t no elf.”

“For you, good dwarf, it is of Ky’Dren,” Zerafin said. “But to us elves, it is of Mallekell.”

Roakore only scowled and shook his head. “That brightest star there, it’s the gateway to the Mountain o’ the Gods, it is, an’ nothing else.”

Whill knew nothing could be said to the dwarf about his belief, and no more was said on the subject by the elves. Tarren, however, cared not. He had learned already the history of Ky’Dren.

“So who is Mallekell?”

Avriel looked to the boy and smiled at his innocence. “He was the first elf to become enlightened since the ancient years, our first teacher in the ways of Orna Catorna. He gained enlightenment exactly 10,091 years ago. That is when the age of enlightenment began, and the reckoning of years that we use today.”

Roakore seemed jealous of the lad’s attention. “Our reckonin o’ years began with the settlin o’ the Ky’Dren Mountains. ’Tis why it’s the dwarf year 5170. That’s also the human reckonin’, ye know, since ye humans never bothered with the reckonin o’ years till ye met us dwarves.”

Tarren ignored him, so interested was he about the first enlightened elf. “So—ten thousand years ago, eh, Avriel? What is enlightenment, anyway?”

“Enlightenment is a human word for a state of mind seldom reached. The Elvish translation is Orna Catorna. Our written history dates back hundreds of thousands of years, through many ages. Mallekell ushered in the age of enlightenment, though it is said that we elves had such powers tens of thousands of years before.”

Zerafin took up the telling. “Of the many ages of the elves, there is one called the God Wars. It is written that elves had gained power as had never been seen upon Keye—Keye being the elven name for our world. The ancient elves had grown into two factions, and war had begun, much like what we have seen with the Dark elves and the Elves of the Sun.”

Avriel scoffed. “Exactly alike they are. We are repeating the past as we speak; the struggle of good and evil wages on. While some use the power to help others and advance our people’s quality of life, others only use the power for themselves. But once one goes down the path to personal power, he shall seldom return. The ego is a ravenous beast, and will stop at nothing to gain more.”

Tarren was enthralled. “So who won? Who won the War of the Gods?”

Zerafin bowed his head, a great sorrow showed in his stoic face. “No one. Both sides lost.”

Tarren looked disappointed. “But how can both sides lose? Didn’t good defeat evil? Didn’t the heroes win?”

Avriel shook her head. “No one won. Hundreds of thousands died, cities burned. The age of the Wars of the Gods went on for nearly one thousand years, until there was nothing left to fight for, until all had been destroyed. At the end of the wars less than a thousand elves remained. The most powerful of all elves was Kellallea. She had finally defeated the armies of her enemies. After the final battle she stood before her followers and gave her last order.”

Firelight shone upon her face as she spun her ancient tale. She seemed to Whill like a goddess among men, so beautiful was she. Every mannerism was a compliment to her being, every gesture intoxicating. In a panic he did not show, he wondered if he were projecting. It did not relieve his fears when Avriel looked his way as she told her story.

“Kellallea ordered her followers to never again practice the ways of Orna Catorna, to abandon all memory of enlightenment. It was argued that only greed and evil had destroyed so many lives, that goodness and love could now thrive. But Kellallea would hear none of it. She had decided what she must do.”

She paused and listened keenly to the night air. The others, who had been so enthralled in the tale, did the same. Tarren looked around behind him, to the dark woods beyond their clearing by the road. “And then what did she do? What did she know she had to do?”

Zerafin took up the telling. “She used her great power to steal from her followers all of the energy that remained within their blades. She stripped them of all power.”

Avriel gazed into the firelight. “She made them dumb to all knowledge of Orna Catorna. They would remember what had been, but not how it was achieved. She said that we were not ready for such power, and maybe never would be.”

“So that’s it?” Tarren asked. “She got rid of magic?”

“That she did, for a time,” answered Avriel.

“She viewed it as a curse, and at the time indeed it was,” Zerafin said. “She and all the others had lost their lands, their loved ones, everything they held dear.”

Avriel continued. “She ordered the survivors to rebuild, to remember, and to find peace with the land and each other once again. She promised to watch over all, and to help the pure of heart, and then…”

“And then what? What happened to her? Is she still alive?”

“Yes, she is,” Zerafin said. “She is the oldest living elf.”

Tarren’s eyes widened. “Where is she?”

There was a tear upon Avriel’s cheek. “She was within Drindellia. Those thousands of years ago she used all of the power she had taken and took the form of a great tree. By the time of my father she had grown to the height of a mountain—her branches stretched for miles. She was the most beautiful being under the heavens.”

“She became a tree!” Tarren exclaimed.

Whill smiled. “She became a tree.”

“As big as a mountain!” Roakore boomed.

“She became a tree,” Zerafin concurred. “It was under her great branches one autumn day, within the city of Kell, that Mallekell gained Orna Catorna, or enlightenment, for the first time. He said he had achieved through meditation a state of mind that allowed him to reach the mind of Kellallea within the great tree. He had done what the first of the elves had done, what Kellallea herself had done in that ancient and lost time—he had reached a state of mind in which understanding of the universe came to him in a rush of clarity.

“Kellallea had two choices: destroy him, or teach him what she knew, and revive the knowledge and power that had nearly destroyed the elves.”

“What did she do?” Tarren asked, at the edge of his rock.

Roakore threw his arms in the air. “The elves got powers, don’t they, silly boy? What are ye thinking she did? The lady just told us ’bout the age o’ enlightenment.” Avriel smiled at him, appreciating the fact that he took interest in her people as she did his. “Yes, she trained him, and he others, and here we are once again, fighting against that which caused the taking of powers, the fight between good and evil rages on.”

“As it will eternally, as it must,” added Zerafin.

Whill sat up. “Eternally, as it must?”

Zerafin looked at Whill. In the firelight his sharp features seemed, for the first time, alien. “Yes, as it must, eternally.”

“Then this fight—these times, me, us—none of it matters?”

“Yes, and no. We are simply forces of nature blessed with thought. The war that wages in your heart, in my heart, upon the beaches of the world, within the clouds, the storms, the disaster, the growth—it is all the same. It is all a small part of the great being.”

Tarren scrunched up his face once again. “Huh?”

Avriel chuckled. “My brother’s spiritual beliefs are hard for many to grasp, though they are not new to my people. What he is saying, Tarren, and Whill, is that we are but a part of a larger being, the one being.”

Tarren still looked confused. Roakore patted him on the shoulder. “I’m with ye, lad. They lost me at ‘she turned into a tree.’”

The night seemed to rush back in, the air, sounds, and sights beyond the firelight. A quiet had fallen over the camp during the telling, as if the world hushed to hear the tale of itself.

In that moment Avriel gave Whill a look of utter serenity and profound joy.

You felt it, Whill, just now, didn’t you? That is what my brother speaks of, that is what you felt. It is our true self seeing itself. I am a part of you, you are a part of me.

Whill stared back at Avriel. The connection he felt that night, to his friends and to the world around him, within him, became his own enlightenment.

With the meal done and clean-up finished, everyone settled into their respective bedrolls for the night. There was still a chance of ambush, and Rhunis wanted all up before the dawn to begin a long day of hard travel. He took the first guard, disappearing into the brush without a sound. The fire now burned to coals, and the stars above shone bright. Avriel and Zerafin had laid enchantments around the camp, or so they said, for Whill knew nothing of such things. Talk had shifted to the many different factions of elves, which enthralled Tarren and Whill alike.

“So you mean there are a buncha different elves? With different powers?” Tarren asked from his bedroll. He lay on his belly, propped up on his elbows and face cradled in his hands.

“Yes, there are many different schools of study for us elves. But not all of us achieve mastery over even one.”

“Not all are like you and Avriel?” Whill asked.

“No, not at all, we have many among us who have not yet excelled in any study of Orna Catorna. Those who have never mastered Orna Catorna number five times the number who have. A course of study in one faction alone can require more than one hundred years.”

Tarren yawned. “So not all elves even have any powers.”

“They do, but not all are masters. Basic teachings are a part of any elf’s childhood education: levitation, psionics—the art of what you call telepathy and the like—healing, and many more.”

Whill was enthralled. He had read nothing about these things in the books he had read. “What are the different schools of study?”

“Hmm. Well, there are healers, the greatest of which can heal dozens of others at once, from great distances. To attain such abilities takes hundreds of years of intense study.”

Whill thought of Avriel and must have projected. “Yes, like my sister, who healed you from hundreds of miles away. She is most proficient in healing. As well she might be, with over three hundred years of study.

“There are also the Ralliad, or druids, I suppose you would call them. They are lovers of nature, worshippers of Keye. Once called upon by the ways of the druid, many take the form of animals. They are guardians of nature, and as such they live within it, seldom seen, some never.”

“Gosh,” Tarren said dreamily.

“Then there are the Morenka, or monks. These elves study and worship existence alone, and care not for the petty dealings or wars of the rest of us. They believe in no enemy, for they see everything as one.

“The Krundar are masters of the elements, and of them there are four factions: wind, keye, fire, and water. With the rise of the Dark elves there came a need for a warrior faction, masters in the arts of battle. The monks argue that warriors only add to the problem of violence, even in self-defense. But we warriors remind them that they would no longer have a life to ponder lest we kept them from harm.”

Tarren rubbed his eyes, fighting to stay awake. “So what are you and Avriel? What have you mastered?”

Roakore piped up from his stone pillow. “Sounds like he’s a mix o’ everythin’, don’t it, lad? A mutt, ye call it, don’t ye? No offense, good elf. I should call it as the humans do, a jack o’ all trades. Though I ain’t seen no druid in ye yet.”

Zerafin laughed. “A little, though Ralliad is not my most proficient of skills. If I may, good dwarf, you seem to be a Krundar, an elemental, with a proficiency in the power over Keye, or earth. That is what my sister was getting at earlier.”

Roakore scoffed and rolled over. “Bah. I be a master of me dwarf ways, call ’em what ye want.”

Tarren had fallen asleep at last, and nothing more was said that night. Whill lay back, his mind racing, thinking of the different factions and arts to study. How would he really learn anything but the basics in just a year with the elves?

Chapter XXI

Kell-Torey

THE COOL NIGHT AIR BLEW softly, the scents of spring lingered. The sky was black, but for the soft orange light emanating from the city and faintly illuminating the clouds above. From their perch on the hill, the companions took in the extraordinary sight.

Kell-Torey was a city built during war times, when borders and boundaries were uncertain. Thus it boasted a fifty-foot wall, thick and strong, which circled its entirety, more than four miles from end to end. Every five hundred feet along the wall there stood a watchtower, which loomed more than twenty feet above the wall. Though the wall stood fifty feet high, it did not obscure the view of the surrounding world completely. Not being within a flat valley, the city enjoyed many views of the wider world. Thus, from their viewpoint, the companions could see many buildings beyond the city walls, including the immense, breathtaking Castle of Kell-Torey, which sat higher than all others. Though Whill was still many miles away, he could guess its enormity. Its size was not due to the royal family’s greed but rather to the fact that the castle acted as a fortress in times of war. It could easily house thousands of citizens, and sustain them comfortably for months.

“There it is,” said Abram. “Here, Tarren, we can find you safe passage back to Fendale.”

Whill gestured toward the city. “Shall we?”

They made their way down the hill and to the city gates at a slow trot. They were tired, one and all, but they were away from danger for now. As they approached the open gates, four soldiers advanced to block the way. Rhunis went to the front of the group as they halted, pulling back his cloak and hood to reveal both his face and his armor.

“General Rhunis!” said the closest guard with a bow, which the other three copied.

“Stand tall, soldiers,” Rhunis ordered. “Put this to ledger and quickly. We have traveled many miles and seek hot food and warm beds.”

“Of course, sir, we will not hold you up.” The soldier nodded to the ledger-keeper, who sat on the right side of the gates, quill in hand.

“I, Rhunis, High Knight and General of the Eldalon Army, arrive with six guests to Kell-Torey: Abram and Whill, who should be known to you by now, the Prince and Princess of Elladrindellia, Zerafin and Avriel. The dwarf Roakore, soon to be king of the Ebony Mountains, and the boy Tarren.”

The ledger-keeper quickly wrote down names and titles. Rhunis said no more and led the companions into the city.

At this late hour the city was asleep but for the patrolling guards and the occasional group of drunkards. The part of the city they traveled much resembled Fendale; its houses and buildings were built mostly of wood and brick and clay, and being closest to the gates, they were the newest expanse of growth. Here those new to the city made their homes. People of all trades—blacksmiths, healers, mystics, shopkeepers, traders, and even thieves, gamblers, and other shady elements—would first have to make their names known in this part of the city, the Outer Rim. To come to a city as great as Kell-Torey and not start out within the ever-changing and often-dangerous Outer Rim, one needed to have a good connection to someone on the inside. The Rim swallowed more dreams than it nurtured, often sending men down dark paths of self-destruction. Thus taverns and opium lounges were plenty along the Rim’s many lonely miles.

Given the common failure of the many would-be entrepreneurs, many found themselves joining one of the thieving guilds of the Rim. Within Kell-Torey, as in most large cities of Agora, thieving guilds were commonplace. Though their locations were usually unknown, their presence was undeniable. One could make a very comfortable living within the guilds, assuming one was fast with the blade and quick with the tongue. Guild-masters themselves seldom kept residence within the Outer Rim, but rather lived lavishly near the center of the city.

The companions, led by Rhunis, made their way down the winding main street toward the Castle of Kell-Torey. Tarren, who now rode with Whill, asked candid questions about the city. Rhunis answered many of them, being the most knowledgeable on the subject.

As they rode deeper into the city, the surrounding structures changed noticeably. Gone were the clay and wooden homes and huts, replaced by large stone buildings. The buildings grew taller, the streets cleaner. Taverns there were, as loud and smoky as any, but in fewer numbers. The shops and stores boasted well-crafted signs and woodwork, unlike their shabby Outer Rim counterparts.

The Kell-Torey guards became more prevalent here as well. They patrolled almost every corner in pairs, each with a shining whistle around their necks and sword at the ready. They did not don the elaborate armor of the Knights of Eldalon, but rather a less cumbersome breastplate, shin guard, and forearm guard. An open-faced helmet sat upon their heads, and around them flowed a long blue cloak with the Kell-Torey standard upon the back.

To the right Rhunis pointed out two, twenty-foot-high statues. They were of men similar in appearance, one only slightly taller than the other. They stood side by side each with an arm around the other. In their free hands they each held a sword to the heavens.

“They were the founders of our great city and the first kings of Eldalon. The brothers Kell and Torey,” Rhunis stated as they passed by the statues.

More than halfway to the castle, the city’s architecture became ever grander. Great pillars rose up out of the cobblestones on every corner of every building. Whill knew that this was the most ancient part of the city. Here the heroes of old were depicted in the form of statues—kings of days past, queens, famous knights, and scholars. The famous poet Corindia’s statue stood tall and proud upon the steps of the Kell-Torey School of Knowledge, his head bent in thought as he looked down at the scroll in hand.

Rhunis pointed out the grand coliseum a block away and to their left, looming over the neighboring buildings. It was well over four times the size of the one in which Whill and Rhunis had battled within during Fendale’s Winter’s End Celebration. The Kell-Torey coliseum hosted many events, from circuses to gladiator battles and public executions.

A few more blocks and to the right stood the immense Eldora Library; founded by the renowned scholar Arious Eldora. The library boasted the largest collection of books, scrolls, and writings in all of Agora, and poets and scholars from all reaches of Agora came to study here.

The companions passed the Kell-Torey School of Healing, the great Alamora School of Law, and the First Bank of Kell-Torey. Finally they came to the castle gates. In the moonless night, with only the orange glow of the many torches, the castle wall looked even more immense. Before them stood only iron gates, but they knew that beyond the gate, great metal doors sat ready to be engaged at a moment’s notice.

Rhunis was again easily recognized by the castle guards, who unlike the others were Knights of Eldalon. He dismounted and approached one of the guards with open arms.

“Theolus Klemus, what Knight of Eldalon did you steal this armor from?” laughed Rhunis as he embraced the knight and gave him a heavy pat on the back.

“I was promoted from city guard last week,” said Theolus, beaming.

“Long overdue, I say, long overdue indeed.”

“I’ve been on this post for five days, you know, ordered to wait for you and your friends. Damn glad I am to see you finally arrive unharmed.”

Rhunis raised his unscarred eyebrow. “Ordered to wait for us, eh? Then that means you can show us to warm beds. We’ve had a long journey and wish nothing more than sleep on a soft bed.”

“Considering the companions you travel with, I imagine your stories will be worth more than a dwarf’s hoard—forgive the analogy, good sir,” Theolus added hastily to Roakore. “But word has it, Rhunis, that you left Fendale chasing the pirate Captain Cirrosa. And news came just hours ago about a battle within the port town of Sherna.”

Rhunis chuckled. “Amazing how word can travel faster than horses. You’ll hear those stories and more, my friend, but not this night. We are weary and wish to be led to our boarding.”

Theolus gave a disappointed sigh but smiled. “Of course. Follow me.” He led them beyond the castle gates and then past seven more.

“The eight castle gates of the Castle of Kell-Torey,” Whill mumbled under his breath. Seeing the immense gates, he understood how the castle and city had survived hundreds of years of war. Whole armies could try for weeks to get through to no avail, losing thousands in the process. More than a thousand years before during the War of Eztule, the Eztulian army had advanced as far as the fourth gate. But early one morning, two weeks into the siege, the horns of the Ky’Dren dwarves had rung out and the fourth gate opened. Side by side the dwarves and humans fought, as they had countless times before, and by nightfall Eztule had been defeated. The losses for both sides had been great. Much of Kell-Torey had been destroyed, along with half its army. Of the ten thousand dwarves who marched to defend their neighbors, only three thousand returned, without their beloved King Korzonn. Both dwarf and human songs spoke of the dwarf king, and both say he took more than one hundred of the Eztule with him before he fell.

Whill recited the story to Tarren as Roakore bowed to the fifteen-foot statue of Korzonn, which stood tall and proud atop the fourth gate. It had been made of steel and encrusted in gold leaf from the axe tip to the boots. Korzonn stood defiantly, his axe at the ready and fire in his eyes. Whill guessed that many foes had fallen to the crazed dwarf, frozen with fear. Roakore slammed his fist to his chest and bent low. Tarren mimicked the action with a serious expression.

Beyond the gates lay the courtyard, which was huge even by the standards of a castle, for the Castle of Kell-Torey more resembled a small village than anything else. The courtyard held hundreds of buildings—housing for soldiers, weapon storehouses, training rooms, and the like. To his right Whill noticed an immense archery range, which he made a mental note to visit; to the left stood one of many stables. The companions dismounted as Theolus instructed the stable boy and called for servants to take the baggage.

They were led into the foyer, which opened into the Great Room. The ceiling was more than fifty feet high, from which hung a brilliant chandelier holding dozens of torches. Before them was a staircase wide enough to accommodate ten men abreast. It went up twenty feet and split into three separate stairs, one going straight and the others veering off to the left and right. Upon the walls hung many portraits of kings and queens past, along with the banner of Kell-Torey and Eldalon’s other major cities.

Theolus led them up the middle stair. “You will be staying in the royal guest suites, of course,” he said, leading them down a hallway off the stair. After a few minutes they turned right once again and finally came to a large wooden door. Theolus led the companions through it and to their rooms before bidding them all good night.

Whill entered his room with Tarren in tow. Without even a look around, he fell upon the bed and quickly went to sleep, exhausted by the long journey.

Roakore lay upon his bed, which was too big and too soft. He could not sleep and found that he was not tired in the least. Since Whill had “helped” him with his wounds, he had found himself full of energy. He mumbled to himself as he tossed and turned. He had been healed by elf ways, he knew. He cursed under his breath at the thought of it. What would his people think, what would his father think? Here he was, lone heir to the throne of the Ebony Mountains, and he had gotten himself wounded in a battle aiding humans.

Roakore was sure his wounds had not been grave, but then there was Whill’s aid. Deep down Roakore knew that Whill had used his elf-like powers to heal his broken ribs. That made it twice that he had been healed. That would not do. Roakore promised himself that he would save the lives of Avriel and Whill and even the score before this cursed business was through.

Five days they had until the meeting. What in Ky’Dren’s name was a dwarf to do in a human city for five days? Roakore huffed, threw back his covers, and got up from his too-soft bed.

Whill awoke abruptly and looked around at his surroundings. He did not recognize where he was, but then remembered he was in Kell-Torey. Next to him, sleeping soundly, was Tarren. There came a knock at the door and Whill got up and answered it. He opened the door to find an older-looking man wearing purple robes. He was bald but for short white hair about his temples and the back of his head. He looked to be in his sixties. He wore no facial hair but for his bushy eyebrows, and his face had seen too many winters. But his eyes were kind, his smile bright, and Whill knew that the man before him did not feel as old as half his years.

“Good day, Whill,” the man said with a bow. “My name is Johanah, and I have been appointed as your servant for the entirety of your stay here.” Before Whill could argue that he did not need a servant, Johanah continued, “And may I say that it is a great honor to serve one such as you.”

Whill could only offer a thank you and a nod. “I am available all hours of the day or night for anything you might need,” Johanah said. “So please do not hesitate to call upon me, I will answer swiftly.” Whill then noticed the chair that sat outside his door on the right. He realized that his servant literally sat waiting instruction.

“Have you been waiting here all night?”

“Of course I have, sir.”

“And this is where you will wait until I call.”

“Of course, sir, unless I require bodily relief, for which of course I will ask permission.”

“You don’t have to do that. I mean, I will get along fine. You need not spend your days and nights waiting on me.”

Johanah looked puzzled, even hurt. “But I must, sir. I have been ordered to serve you and the lad Tarren as long as you sleep within these walls.” He bowed his head sadly and took a deep breath. “I can assure you, my age in no way inhibits my duties. My family has served the kings for seven generations, sir. We are the best at what we do, renowned even. Please do not send me away, good sir. I will serve you well, I promise.”

Whill put up a defensive hand. “No, no, it’s not that. I am sure you are excellent at what you do. It is just…I am not used to such treatment.”

Johanah’s head was bowed in shame, his eyes on the floor. Whill knew he had upset the old man. He put a hand upon Johanah’s shoulder and said what he knew he must to give the man his dignity once again.

“I am sure you will serve me well, Johanah. I am glad to have one such as you in my service. Forgive my ignorance in such matters.”

Johanah lit up once again. “Thank you, good sir, but it is not my place to forgive you for anything, only to thank you.”

Whill nodded with a half-hearted smile. This would take some getting used to.

“Do you or the lad require anything at this time, good sir?”

Whill thought for a moment. What would someone of his apparent stature ask of a servant? “We could use fresh bath water, and our clothes need to be washed. Some fruit and eggs and bread would do also, please.”

Johanah visibly cringed at the word please, and Whill made the connection. One did not say please to a servant.

“It is now seven in the morning. The king asks that you and your friends join him for breakfast at nine. Shall I send confirmation?”

“You shall.”

Johanah smiled and bowed again. “Very well, good sir, I shall send confirmation and return to start your bath water.” With that he turned on his heel and swiftly made his way down the hall.

Whill sighed and returned to his room and a sleeping Tarren. He had not taken the time the night before to look around his room, so now he did.

The room before him was immense. It boasted white marble floors and walls, with a twenty-foot-high ceiling. The bed in which he had slept and Tarren now slept in was huge. It looked as though it could sleep ten, with its numerous blue and purple silk pillows and thick blankets. The headboard was wooden, as were the posts, which held a thin blue fabric that hung down on all sides and matched the bed decor. The banners of both Eldalon and Kell-Torey hung upon the wall to the right. Next to the bed was a wardrobe that boasted numerous dressers and shelves. Whill found that his traveling pack and weapons lay within, untouched. To the right of the bed and closet, adjacent the wall from which the banners hung, was an opening to another room. This room, like the other, was crafted with marble floors and walls. To the right was a large bathtub built up from the floor.

Whill returned to the bedroom and walked out onto the balcony and gazed at the courtyard below. The morning sun had risen and its bright light now fell upon a marvelous garden of early-blooming flowers of every color.

Beautiful, is it not? Said a voice within his mind, the voice of Avriel. Whill turned right, then left, and saw her twenty feet away, standing on her own identical balcony. Gone were her traveling clothes, replaced by a thin white silken robe opened slightly in the front, revealing more than Avriel may have intended. Whill was left speechless, mind and mouth alike, at the sight of her. He felt his face flush and a strange heat overcame him as he looked upon the elf maiden. The sun’s light pierced the robe, making it all but translucent. Whill was paralyzed in the midst of Avriel’s well-proportioned beauty.

I spoke of the garden, came Avriel’s voice with a laugh. Embarrassed, he turned his head quickly to regard the flowers. When he looked once again to Avriel’s balcony, she was gone.

After a bath and change of clothes, Whill was led by Johanah to the king’s dining room. The room was no less than Whill would expect from the dining hall of the king. Massive chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling, and the floor was highly polished. The walls were of wood—detailed and masterfully carved; swirling patterns bordered intricate artwork. The table was no less beautiful, long and thin, with large, well-crafted chairs. It could seat more than twenty comfortably, though only two were seated there this morning: King Mathus and Abram.

Johanah bowed to the king. “I give you Whill of Agora, my good king.”

With that he turned and left, closing the large oak door behind him. King Mathus rose from his seat and walked towards Whill. Abram remained seated to the left of the king, pipe held between grinning lips

“Whill. How eager I have been to meet you.”

“And I you, King Mathus.”

The king shook Whill’s hand firmly for a moment and looked over his features. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said. Then he released Whill’s hand and gestured to the seat at his right.

“Please, you must be famished. Have a seat and we shall dine and talk. A grand adventure you have had since your stay in Fendale, I hear.”

Whill took his seat, as did Mathus. With a snap of the king’s fingers, a door opposite the one Whill had entered through opened. Two female servants entered. One pushed a wheeled cart of many covered dishes, while the other one brought a variety of beverages. The servant with the food removed the lid of each serving plate before putting it on the table. Whill’s mouth watered as he realized how hungry he really was. Upon the table was laid fruit, boiled eggs, thick red steak, pork belly, bread, and white cheese. The servant with the beverages then added pitchers of milk, cider, water, and wine. The servants gave a low bow.

“That will be all,” said the king with a nod and a smile, and the servants exited. He poured himself a glass of milk. “Please help yourselves. I would have them serve us our plates, but I would rather be alone just now.”

Whill took a little of everything, and was relieved when Abram and King Mathus did the same.

“Rhunis tells me that you had a run-in with a Dark elf, of all things. Can you imagine, in Eldalon?”

Whill swallowed his food and cleared his throat. “That among other things.”

The king nodded. “Yes, among others. Rumor has it the two of you defeated Captain Cirrosa. I must hear that story.”

Whill raised an eyebrow at Abram, who was enjoying a bit of steak. “Abram is the storyteller, I’m afraid.”

“That he is indeed,” Mathus agreed.

Over the next hour Abram, with Whill’s help, recounted the many days since they had so hastily left Fendale; the fight with Captain Cirrosa, the journey to the mountains, the meeting of Roakore, and the battle with the Draggard. Then had come the battle of Sherna and the meeting of the elves, and finally the fight on the road to Kell-Torey. The king listened intently, asking few questions. He seemed angered by the battle of Sherna, and joyous to hear of the Draggard defeat. Finally the tale was over. Abram sat back and lit his pipe.

The king sat in contemplation for a moment. “It is a miracle that you all made it through unharmed, especially the boy Tarren. Not many ever see a Dark elf and live to tell about it—nor the Black Dragon, for that matter. Your deeds these last few weeks alone ensure that your names will live on in song for generations. Yet you are not even twenty years old!” He leaned forward, elbows upon the table. “The question is, what do the two of you plan to do next?”

Abram shrugged. “I will follow Whill’s lead, wherever it may take us.”

“Good king,” Whill said, “I had thought such talk would be better suited for the meeting, but I may tell you now—I intend to aid Isladon in whatever way I can. And if I may—I understand I have been invited to the meeting, and I am honored, but I don’t understand what place I have there.”

King Mathus laughed. “What place, you ask? You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my boy, as I am sure you know. You have as much right as I to attend.”

“I understand. But I have no army, no followers. My own kingdom does not even know I exist.”

Abram spoke up. “But you do have followers, and you will have an army. You rallied those men at Sherna and led them to victory. You have a strength that you underestimate, my friend. And do not forget the power of the spoken word—news of the Battle of Sherna beat us to Kell-Torey. Your people know of you, do not doubt. Those whispers have been floating on the breeze for a long time now. Your people want you to be real. They need you to be. You seem but a myth to many, a legend. But soon you will show them that the legend is flesh and blood, that the myth is true.”

Mathus spoke, his voice serious. “You plan to learn the ways of the elves, do you not?”

Whill was shocked. “Yes—yes I do, in time—”

“And do you think it wise to risk your life in the inevitable battle within Isladon?”

“How did you know?”

King Mathus finally smiled. “Do not forget, I am your grandfather. There were no secrets between my daughter and I. Do not fret, your family’s secret is safe with me, grandson.”

Whill felt a lump build in his throat. Grandson. All his life he had yearned to know his true lineage and now before him sat his grandfather.

“Thank you” was all that he could say.

King Mathus sensed Whill’s emotional state, for he simply smiled and turned to Abram. “Do you think Whill should fight?”

Abram stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Let us see what comes of the meeting. It may be that the elves will elect to go also. Either way, Whill is now a man and must decide what is best for himself.”

Roakore stood at his door, scowling at the young man before him. “What do ye want, anyway, wakin’ me at this hour?”

The young man bowed low. “I apologize, good dwarf, but it is three hours after sunrise and I thought you might want your breakfast.”

“Me breakfast, eh? What if I do?”

The young man nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I will bring you whatever you desire, sir. If I may. My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than two centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”

Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”

“Offer?”

“Fer breakfast, lad! What do ye offer fer food?”

“Ah. Anything you desire.”

“Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a half dozen eggs sloppy, and a good fresh loaf o’ bread. And don’t be skimpin’ on the butter.”

The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”

Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts and hand pumps. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.

Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.

Zerafin looked at the man. So you have one also.

Yes. I find them quite handy, actually. Are you still not used to the idea of human servants? You have visited human royalty many times in the past.

Have you seen into him?

Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”

“Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.

The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”

“Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”

The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”

Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them.”

“An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.

Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”

“I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”

Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”

Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.

“I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone—Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”

Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”

“If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed—the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida—would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil.”

Zerafin thought for a long moment. “If I were Eadon I would try to bring Whill to my side, and somehow gain the power of the blade.”

“You believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”

“Yes, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”

Avriel rolled her eyes. “That again.”

“What? I do not try to mock you. I only speak the truth.”

“What is it?”

“I know you feel for Whill deeply. I am glad for it, believe me. I have not seen you smile so many times in so few days since you were a child, since Drindellia. He makes you happy. I understand. He has awakened a dead place in your heart that not time, nor elven love interests, have been able to. He is mortal, a mere human, yet you see him as a legend. Not an equal, but as a superior. You see in his eyes the last hope for our people, the redemption of our father, our homeland. Is this why you love him?”

Avriel turned from his gaze. After a moment she looked up into her brother’s eyes, her own wet with tears that had not fallen. “He looks at me in a way that no one else does. I see lust, yes, and the recognition of beauty that I am aware I possess. I have seen this in other men, human and elf—even dwarf, for that matter. But there is something more, something that poets of old could only hint at. When he looks at me I am a little girl again. I, an elf warrior of 650 years, a princess to her people, am reduced to childhood in his eyes. He disarms my heart with but a glance, and lights a fire within me that the oceans could not quench. I do not know why; I do not care. I feel more alive than I have in centuries. Is it due to his title, the prophecy, I think not. I am not infatuated with him, as you might hint. Infatuation and love branch the same tree, but they bear two very different fruit. I love him for who he is inside.”

Zerafin embraced his sister. “Then you have my blessing.”

Avriel hugged her brother and finally let her tears fall onto his shoulder, though they were now tears of joy.

Abram sat smoking his pipe; rings still lingered in place many feet above. They had long ago finished their meals and were now simply chatting. The king was telling Whill one of the many stories of Abram’s heroism during the Draggard battles that had taken place since he was but a lad. Whill was enthralled but also slightly sickened by the many stories of near death. He wasn’t sure whether he was more impressed or angered by the tales, realizing just how close he had come to losing the only father he had ever known.

The king finished his latest tale, sat back, and enjoyed a large gulp of wine. Then he put down his drink and set his gaze upon Whill—who got the impression that the king’s next words would not be light-hearted, for his face had become grave, as if he had finally decided upon something most unpleasant.

“I have news of Tarren’s father, and family.”

Whill let out a breath and held a faint hope that it was good news.

“It seems that when Tarren was kidnapped by Cirrosa, his family was murdered.”

Whill put his head in his hands. He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder. Abram began to curse. “By the gods! That wretched scum of a man! Never have I wished I could kill a man twice!”

The king’s arm fell from Whill’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Whill, but it seems the boy cannot return to Fendale. Nothing awaits him. I have had my men look into his family line, and it appears those who perished were all that was left. The inn also is gone, burned to the ground.”

Whill fought back tears, rage, shame, and sorrow. Again it had been his fault; again good people had died because of him; his parents, the slave men of Eldon, the people of Sherna, and now this. He felt something shift within him. He felt he might explode, and began to tremble.

Whill ground his teeth in anger; his hands had become fists that pulled at his hair. Abram rose quickly and moved around the table to Whill. Into the prone young man’s ear he spoke, calmly and soothingly.

“Control yourself, Whill. Do not let it build, do not let it consume you. Fight it.”

Whill barely heard the plea, so consumed was he with pent up-rage. He had caused the deaths of too many, had learned too much in the last few days. The pressure proved too much. He saw behind his closed eyes the great pyre upon the beaches of Sherna, the hundreds of smoldering bodies. He saw the slave men he himself had cut down in battle, the face of Tarren streaked with tears. He stood and clutched his stomach as if some demonic beast was trying to claw its way out. He screamed.

Abram’s voice managed to break through Whill’s consuming rage. “The table, Whill, focus it all on the table! All of it! Let it go!”

Mathus backed away as Whill focused all his rage, all his shame, everything, sending it from his mind and into his fists, slamming the large oak table before him.

There was a deafening boom as the table exploded into a million pieces. King Mathus and Abram were blown backwards by the shockwave that followed the release. Whill looked down upon his bloodied hands in awe. Hundreds of splinters had sunk deep in his hands, body, and face. He felt his knees buckle and he slumped to the floor, thoroughly spent. He heard Abram and King Mathus yell his name in unison and saw Zerafin and Avriel rush into the room.

Then his eyes closed.

Chapter XXII

The Orphan

WHILL FOUND HIMSELF FLOATING HIGH above a battle. The land was charred and smoldering, the sky above choked with smoke, and the ground itself seemed to bleed. Below, a great battle surged. Whill was horrified as he looked upon the warring masses. Draggard swarmed upon the field, greatly outnumbering their enemies. The scene was a slaughter; men, elves, and dwarves alike lay dead or dying. The remaining armies of Agora were being devoured as the deep and menacing horns of the Draggard sounded, rising into the smoke-filled sky like the evil moan of a demon of death.

“Dohr la skello hento!”

Whill was jolted conscious as a surge of energy coursed through his body. Zerafin spoke again in the elven language, and the hundreds of splinters were pulled from his body by an unseen force. Then came the blue light, enveloping him and healing his many wounds.

Avriel was at Whill’s side in an instant. “Are you alright?”

He looked into her eyes but could not speak. The memory of his dream was like a phantom hand upon his throat. He looked around wildly, wondering where he was. Before him what had been the table was now nothing but kindling. The chairs had all been blown back, and the many banners upon the walls were riddled with holes. Zerafin went to the king and Abram in turn and extracted the splinters and healed their wounds.

Whill saw the blood of both and was sickened. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I—”

“We know, Whill,” said Mathus. “It is no matter.” He got to his feet with Zerafin’s help.

“I’m afraid it is. And a dire matter at that,” Zerafin said. “Once again you have nearly killed yourself, Whill. Your training cannot wait until we reach Elladrindellia. For your sake, and for the sake of those around you. Your training starts today. You must learn to control the energy.” He looked towards Avriel. “And the emotions within you.”

Whill sat in the garden across from Zerafin. The sun had descended beyond the castle walls, but not the unseen horizon. The sky was dark blue, with hues of red and orange announcing the oncoming dusk. No breeze stirred within the garden; it was as silent as a tomb. Zerafin sat looking at Whill for a moment. He was seated on the grass, legs crossed one over the other in a meditative stance. Whill mimicked Zerafin’s posture and stance and awaited his command.

“All creatures possess emotion,” the elf began. “Some more than others and some more intensely than others. You, my friend, seem to possess a great passion, which is neither good nor bad. But if you cannot control those emotions, and you continue to let them manifest into uncontrolled energy, then you will become a danger to everyone around you. Do not despair, Whill. You are human, after all, and we have come to learn that humans not only let their emotions run wild, but thrive on them as well. You could say that you humans are addicted to your emotions.”

Whill listened intently, though he did not quite understand what Zerafin meant.

“Close your eyes, Whill, and think of nothing. Focus on your breath and nothing more. You see how shallow and quick it is. I would like you to breathe as deeply as you can, slowly, ever so slowly. Now hold your breath there for a moment before letting it go, slowly, ever so slowly. That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Straighten your back, raise your chest, and lower your shoulders. Relax the mind and body. Let yourself be at peace.”

Whill did as he was told, and a feeling of great peace overcame him, freedom from his troubles, emotions, and responsibilities.

“This is called earth pose,” Zerafin said. “We elves use this pose for reflection, to calm the mind and body and create unity throughout.”

Zerafin said nothing more for some time as Whill continued to relax. After a time he spoke again. “Now slowly open your eyes, and come back to the garden.”

Whill reluctantly obeyed. He opened his eyes to find Zerafin smiling at him.

“How do you feel?”

Whill thought for a moment. “I feel…refreshed, calm, and relaxed.”

“Good. We will delve deeper into the many stances and meditation techniques of the elves in the future. For now I would like you to practice this stance daily, for as long as suits you. Now. Close your eyes again.”

Whill did so and waited further instruction. Moments passed, and then suddenly Zerafin slapped him across the face hard enough to make it hurt. Whill opened his eyes suddenly and broke his stance. “Why did you do that?”

Zerafin laughed. “Why, indeed? Focus on your emotions now, Whill. How do you feel?”

Whill put a hand to his cheek. “Angry, of course.”

“But why are you angry? Did you decide to be angry?”

“No, I did not decide to be angry. You slapped me and that made me angry!”

“Ah. So I have the power over you to make you feel as I wish. By my actions, I can determine how you feel. Is that what you mean?”

Whill knew Zerafin was getting at something, but did not quite know where he was going. Moments passed as they stared at one another. At last Whill proved the more impatient. “No, you do not have that power over me. I feel the way I wish to feel.”

“Really?” asked Zerafin, and slapped Whill hard again. “So I did not just change your attitude, your emotions? Do you feel no different now?”

Whill was fuming, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched. He could not deny what Zerafin implied. “Alright, yes, you made me mad. So what? Anyone would be angry after being slapped.”

“Would they, now?” He leaned back onto one elbow. “Now I ask you, did I make you upset, or did you decide to be upset when I struck you?”

Whill thought for a moment. “You made me upset.”

“Wrong, my friend, wrong. You, or the world around you, have taught your brain through your life experience that you must become angry when someone slaps you. You are reacting to the world around you through a set list of responses you have chosen for yourself. You are no more in control than a sailor in a storm. And with the power you now possess, and the power you will soon gain, that simply will not do.”

Whill realized Zerafin made perfect sense, and he could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He decided to test the elf’s theory. He pretended to be pondering, then quickly brought his hand up to slap Zerafin. But the elf proved the quicker and stopped Whill’s hand inches short of its destination.

Zerafin laughed. “When you can do that, I will have no more to teach you.”

Roakore sat in his room upon a couch that was too soft, answering the questions of a boy who was too curious. He was glad to hear a knock upon the door. “Come in, me friend, please do!”

Whill peered in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, no, do come in an’ sit down a bit. We were just chattin’ is all.”

“Roakore was just telling me how the dwarves use the dirt and stone from the tunnels they dig. I always wondered where it went.”

“A good question indeed,” Whill agreed. “Roakore, would you mind if Tarren and I had a word?”

Roakore stood. “No, not a bit. Was ’bout to get a breath o’ fresh air, anyhow, need to stretch the legs a bit. I ain’t used to being cooped up like this.”

Tarren gave Roakore a confused look. “But haven’t you lived most of your life in caves?”

Roakore could only give a weak laugh at being caught in his contradiction. “Right, then, ye two talk. I’ll be about.” With relief, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Tarren began to speak but Whill silenced him with a raised hand. Whill got control of his emotions before facing the boy, and then took a deep, long breath. Before he could speak, Tarren asked, “What is it, Whill?” His demeanor had changed. His face was flushed, his eyes haunted. “Is it my family? Please, what is it?”

“Yes, Tarren, it is. It seems that when the pirates took you, a fight must have broken out, you see. Word has come from Eldalon…”

Tarren shook his head. “No, no, no, please say it’s not true, please, no. I saw the smoke, I saw the fire—when they were rushing me off to the docks, I knew something bad had happened, but I thought—I hoped—”

His shoulders shuddered as silent sobs racked his body. Tears began to slowly fall from his nose. Whill leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cirrosa’s men killed your family, Tarren. None survived the fire. I’m sorry. Oh, dear boy, I’m so sorry.”

Tarren looked up at Whill with eyes that pierced his heart. “You can save them. You can use your powers. Bring them back, Whill, please, bring them back!”

Whill pulled Tarren to himself and held the sobbing boy as his own tears fell. He rocked Tarren as his muffled voice pleaded, “Bring them back, bring them back.”

Whill pulled away and held him firm. “I cannot, Tarren, no one can. My powers are limited to the living, not the dead.”

“But that baby! You brought the baby back! You did!”

Whill shook his head. “The baby had only just begun to pass. Her spirit still held to this earth. That is why I could help her.”

Tarren was left unable to speak.

Avriel sat in her room in a meditative stance. She had extended her consciousness outside of herself, and had witnessed the exchange between Whill and Tarren. She withdrew to give them privacy during this moment and slowly opened her teary eyes and returned her attention to herself. She had been witness for more than six hundred years to the cruelty and pain life so often dealt, yet it had not hardened her to the point of apathy. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “The poor boy.”

The morning sun slowly rose, its rays spreading across the world and finding their way to Whill’s closed eyes. He awoke to find Tarren leaning against the thick stone balcony rail, silently overlooking the courtyard. Whill sat up but did not stand. He didn’t know how to approach the lad. Tarren sat like a statue, unmoving, seemingly lifeless, and Whill knew only too well the pain the boy felt, if not as deeply.

Whill found his words at last and went out onto the balcony. Despite the early hour, the courtyard below was bustling with activity. Soldiers marched past in groups of four, while others sparred or practiced at the archery range. Though there were countless things to see below, Whill could see that Tarren focused on nothing before him. He simply stared forward, unmoving, distant.

Whill spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Tarren. I’m sorry about your family. I could say that I feel somewhat responsible for it all, for merely coming into your life. But Abram, I am afraid, would prove one way or another that I am not. These things happen, he would say. They cannot be changed, and they cannot be altered. I do beg to differ.” He looked into Tarren’s distant eyes. When he did not look back, Whill gently grabbed his shoulders. “Tarren I was not strong enough to see. I did not know. If I had, I would have stopped it all from happening—know that I would. But believe me when I say—no, I vow—that no ill fate shall befall you again. So long as I am here and able to stop it, nothing will happen to you. I swear on my life.”

At last Tarren met his gaze. “I miss them.”

Whill fought a lump in his throat. “I know you do, lad. Of course you do. But take heart in the time you had together. Honor and remember them always, and you will have gained their approval forevermore.”

Tarren hugged Whill but this time did not sob. “What will become of me now? Now that my family is gone?”

How ironic life was, Whill thought. How often the parts we play are changed, whether we are ready or not. Seldom could one pinpoint when and how one’s life changed, when one had to step up and take on the unknown. But Whill knew at that moment that this was one of those times.

“I shall claim you as my own, Tarren, as my ward. You have no family aside from those who perished, and therefore I have the right, as your recent guardian, to do so. You shall be named my ward, and shall be recognized by my remaining family who, I have just recently found out, is the royalty of Uthen-Arden and Eldalon.”

Whill smiled as Tarren gave him the most puzzled look he had ever seen.

Whill took the opportunity to speak with Abram and the king over breakfast. As planned, the meal was not served in the king’s grand dining room, which was under repair, but rather in Whill’s own room. The food was set on a small table on the balcony overlooking the bustling courtyard. Whill entered the room to find Abram and King Mathus already seated and waiting.

“I am sorry for my tardiness, but I had pressing...issues to deal with,” said Whill as he took a seat at the circular table.

“No need for apologies, Whill,” said Mathus. “How is the lad?”

Whill shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I imagine.”

“It is a tragedy indeed,” the king said. “His entire family…unspeakable.”

Whill sat up and breathed deeply, trying to appear confident. “I have claimed him officially, to him and now to you, as my ward. It is my right as his last caregiver and I have taken it. I expect him to be welcomed into the Eldalon royal family, and that he will be treated as such.”

Whill dared not meet Abram’s eyes and so instead he watched the king’s reaction. He was silent for a while. Finally he lifted his glass of orange juice, drank, put it down, and said, “So be it. I will have it seen to immediately. The boy Tarren is now your ward.”

He took Whill’s hand. “I sincerely and openly welcome Tarren into our family, as I have you.”

Whill finally looked at Abram, who only smiled and drank his milk. “And let it be known to your sons and whomever else holds stock in my claim: I want only the Uthen-Arden throne as my own, and look forward to the bond we shall share as nations.”

Mathus raised his glass. “To the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my grandson, Whill of Agora.”

Since only ashes remained of Tarren’s family, and they were hundreds of miles away, oak ashes were provided for Tarren in their stead. Once the ashes were recovered from the destroyed inn, placed in an urn, and sent from Fendale, they would be given to Tarren. The funeral ceremony was held some miles outside of Kell-Torey, upon a hill of Tarren’s choosing. The king attended, as did Whill and the rest of the companions. It was a symbolic ritual in which Tarren could say goodbye, spread the ashes, and honor his fallen family.

The spring had only just conquered this stretch of land, but the air was mild. Tarren opened the urn and spoke bravely.

“Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Mother. Farewell, Grandpa, Gram, sisters. I will honor and remember you always.” Tears welled in his eyes, but he went on. “I will be a man soon, and although you have already been avenged, I offer the promise that I will be a good man and fight for those who cannot. I will be just and true, that you may forever look down upon me with pride.”

He fell to his knees as he opened the lid. The faint spring wind carried the ashes high into the air, though it should have been too weak to do so.

Whill stepped forward and put a hand upon Tarren’s shoulder. “I say farewell also, and promise to hold Tarren to his oath. I swear upon the name of my father that I will do all I can to raise this boy to become a man you would be proud of. I hope I do not fail where you have succeeded.”

His words rose up with the ashes into the noonday sun, and there disappeared.

As the door closed behind King Mathus, Whill finally let out a sigh of relief. Abram sat down and lit his pipe.

“You never fail to surprise and impress me, Whill.”

“Trust me. I thought it out, and I know what it entails. It was the only honorable thing to do. And I like the lad.”

“You did right. I am proud of your decision and the way you handled yourself this morning. And I may be a fool, but I feel as though I have gained a grandson myself.”

Whill smiled. “You have, my friend.”

Dinner that night was a solemn affair. Tarren stayed behind in his room, wanting to be alone. The remainder of the group ate with King Mathus and discussed the coming meeting, which was but a week away.

Abram sat back in his usual after-dinner posture, pipe in hand, head back, and hand in his pocket. “What numbers do you think we can expect from our neighbors to the north, King Mathus?”

Mathus took a small sip of wine. “Hmm. Maybe five thousand.”

“Five thousand!” Whill cried. “I’m sorry, Sire, but five thousand! Against the numbers we will face, that is but a small band.”

The king frowned. “What do you know of the numbers we will face, Whill?”

Whill glanced at Zerafin and Avriel. “I had a vision after the incident the other night.”

King Mathus sat up in his chair and put his hands together. “Go on.”

“I saw a great battle, possibly a hundred thousand Draggard, and thousands of Addakon’s soldiers. We were greatly outnumbered, good king, greatly. It was…it was a slaughter.”

Mathus thought for a moment, then addressed Zerafin. “How well can such a vision be trusted?”

“Such visions can be very reliable, depending upon the source,” the elf replied. Whill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We elves have many seers of the future, some vaguely correct, and others known to be right on all accounts down to the last detail. Given what I know about Whill, the fact that he has not been trained but exhibits many elven abilities already, I would not dismiss his vision lightly. But I would not embrace it, either.”

Whill let out a sigh and sank back slightly. Zerafin noticed this small objection. “Whill is going through a change that few can fully understand, not even we elves. Our powers come to us at an early age and grow with us. Whill, on the other hand, has been thrown into this new world with little knowledge of what is happening to him and even less control. He is already dangerously powerful, and will only get stronger. With the right training he will flourish, but for now we can only speculate on whether these visions are real.”

Abram addressed the king. “I, for one, give heed to Whill’s warning, if nothing else for the fact that it makes sense. A Draggard queen has these many long years festered within the mountains, laying her thousands of eggs.” Roakore spit on the floor at the mention of the queen Draggard. Abram went on. “I believe that if we do not bring a force to meet the army that awaits us, we will lose this battle.”

The king raised his hands. “We shall talk of this no more. Save it for the meeting. I will take all that has been said and consider it over the next few days. When we meet with the king of Shierdon, we shall chose a path.” He stood, and the others followed suit. “And Whill, I want to be informed immediately if you have any more...visions.”

“Yes, sir,” Whill said with a bow, and he and Abram headed towards their rooms.

“He doesn’t believe me,” Whill said.

“You must understand that this is all very new to Mathus. Yes, he knows of the elves and their many powers, but he is a practical thinker, not easily given to whims of fancy.”

“I know, I know. But we don’t have time for speculation! The wrong decision at the meeting will mean the deaths of all who venture forth in this war.”

Abram stopped. “The vision was that bad, eh?”

Whill nodded solemnly. Just then Roakore caught up. “Eh there. Rhunis has invited us all to see the many pubs within the city, an’ I fer one could use a few pints o’ Kell-Torey’s finest. What say ye meet us in an hour’s time in the courtyard?”

Abram grinned. “I’ll be there, good dwarf.”

“I could use a night out myself,” Whill concurred.

Chapter XXIII

Thugs, Brew, and Goodbye

THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN beyond the walls of Kell-Torey. Whill, Abram, Zerafin, Avriel, Roakore, and Rhunis walked along the cobblestone streets of the great city. The streets were fairly quiet this time of night, as most of the shops were closed for the day. The few who did wonder the streets were the occasional beggar, soldiers, and the drunkards. Rhunis led the group to a small pub five minutes’ walk from the castle. Music spilled from the open doors, as did the sounds of many people talking. The Crooked Arrow, as it was named, was Whill’s kind of pub—small and not too crowded, with a long bar and pretty barmaids.

Rhunis motioned for the group to enter before him. “This, my friends, was always my favorite pub when I was stationed within the city.”

The Crooked Arrow looked like dozens of other pubs, with a long bar at the adjacent wall and many tables and chairs throughout. To the left was a small stage and dance floor where two fiddlers, a flute player, a man with many different-sized drums and other percussion instruments, and two female singers played an upbeat version of the old drinking song, “The Night I Gained a Cross-eyed Wife and Lost My Shoes.” Half the bar patrons sang, stomped, or clapped along with the tune. The atmosphere was pleasant, and laughter and song filled the air.

Most of the many tables were occupied, so the companions made their way to the bar area. Surprisingly enough, the pair of elves did not get as many looks or stares as Whill had expected, nor hushed whispers, though he did notice one gruff-looking man nudge his buddy at the sight of Avriel. Whill was surprised when a rush of resentment welled in him as he saw the way the man eyed her.

The bartender was a tall and lanky fellow with short, pitch-black hair and a thin mustache. He had a proud nose and eyes like a starless night. But the smile he wore put one at ease instantly—that is, until he spoke. The man had a loud voice, even for the noisy bar, and something in the tone made it sound as if he were talking down to everyone, whether or not that was his intention. Rhunis beat on the bar a few times and the bartender walked over, smiling wide with every step.

Rhunis gave the man a nod. “Is old Harlod not working tonight?”

“No, not tonight, nor any night, for that matter. The old bird retired, said he had enough of the bar life. Bought a boat, he did, said he was gonna spend the rest of his days lazin’ away at sea. Used to be in the navy, I guess. Anyway, Parpous Hellious bought him out ’bout a month ago. I just tend bar. Name’s Dirk, by the way, Dirk Magirk.” He extended his hand. “An’ you must be Rhunis the Dragonslayer, hard to mistake the nasty scar there. You’re quite a legend in this city.”

Rhunis didn’t shake the man’s hand, but instead he motioned to his five seated friends. “I’ll have a pint of Torey brown ale. Give my friends whatever they want, on me.”

Dirk looked down the row at the seated companions, past Whill and Abram, briefly at Zerafin and Avriel, and finally set his gaze on Roakore, whose chin barely cleared the bar. Dirk swaggered down to the dwarf. “And what can I get ya, master dwarf? A few thick books to sit on, perhaps?”

Abram shook his head at Whill. “Here we go.”

Roakore leaned in closer to the bar. “I’ll take a pint o’ whatever Rhunis ordered, an’ a shot o’ black rum.”

Dirk chuckled and began to ask the others for their orders when Roakore interrupted. “And know this, ye gangly dragon turd. Make a joke about me height again an’ ye’ll be lookin’ me face to face as I beat ye with yer own legs.” He laid one of his four hatchets on the bar.

Dirk gulped so hard his prominent Adam’s apple seemed to jump. The rest of the group gave a hearty laugh. Whill and Abram both ordered the same brew as Rhunis. Whill recognized the barrel of Dragon’s Brew by the insignia, but he dared not bring it to Roakore’s attention. The elves both ordered water, which earned them both a queer look from Dirk. Before the barkeep could get the water, Roakore stopped him.

“Hold on, Dragon Turd!” Roakore set his gaze on the elves. “Now, ye two have healed me scratches without me permission. The least ye could do is share a pint o’ ale against your will.” Avriel began to speak but Roakore interrupted. “Eh, eh, before ye go tellin’ me some tree-huggin’ tale ’bout keepin the body clean, consider it yer duty as an ambassador. Ye wouldn’t want to be pissin’ off dwarf royalty, would ye?”

Zerafin chuckled, and Avriel pulled a straight face. “Very well, then. Mr. Magirk, We shall have whatever our friend here is having.”

Rhunis turned to Abram and Whill as he took a drink. “Something here ain’t quite right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Abram.

Rhunis shifted closer. “I’ve known old Harlod since I was old enough to order a beer, and this story of Dragon Turd’s just don’t make sense. Harlod loved this bar. He used to be a slave, and when his master died some thirty years ago, he freed Harlod and left him this bar. I can’t see him selling this place to no one for nothing. I think I’m gonna need to have a talk with Parpous Hellious.”

“You think maybe it was a gambling debt?” Whill asked. “Was Harlod that kind of man?”

“No, he was not, and he had no vices to mention, either. No, knowing who Parpous is, I’d say that Harlod gave over this place quite against his will.”

Abram took a drink and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “Who is Parpous Hellious?”

Rhunis scowled. “He is guild master of the largest thieving guild in the city, the Black Hand. And here he is now.”

Parpous entered the pub with a swagger, followed by an entourage of thugs, twelve in all. They made their way to the largest table in the place and with a look cleared the seats. The tables’ former residents, along with all others in the bar, obviously knew who he was, and moved accordingly.

Parpous was a large man, at least six-foot-five, with a barrel chest and a scarred face he no doubt was proud of. He was a creature of the streets, a cutthroat who had not only survived more than forty years among the scum of the city, Rhunis said, but had risen to the top of the heap. The two men seated to his direct left were his second and third in command, Torell and Malthious. Both of their lives had been saved more than once by Parpous, and as many times spared. They were loyal to the death.

The band finished a song and instantly broke into the ever-popular “Kiss My Eldalonian Arse.” The bar erupted as all in attendance sang along. Roakore slammed down his beer, belched loudly, wiped his beard, tossed back his shot, ordered another, and stated with wild eyes, “Now this is me kind o’ music, ha ha!”

“And this will be a wild night,” Abram muttered. To that Whill could only smile and hold his glass up in a cheers.

Whill took a drink of his ale and eyed Rhunis, who rarely took his eyes off of Parpous. Parpous’s cronies had no doubt noticed the attention and had surely informed their captain. Whill could only imagine what this might escalate into, but rather than being apprehensive about the confrontation, he welcomed it with excitement. He laughed to himself as he imagined what Zerafin might say about that. Then as if by magic, Zerafin, who was to his left, spoke.

“You cannot stand the thought of injustice, especially towards this former slave, and have been all day long fostering great anger about Tarren’s family’s fate. You want nothing more than a reason to release your inner rage.”

Zerafin proceeded to take a drink casually, as if he hadn’t just read Whill’s mind.

“I thought you said you never invade someone’s mind without permission. I wasn’t projecting to you.”

“One does not have to be a mind reader to know your thoughts at this moment, Whill. They must simply pay attention.”

A barmaid came over with a tray full of drinks. “These are from the generous Parpous.”

Everyone waited to see what Rhunis would do, even the ever-thirsty and seemingly carefree Roakore, for all had heard Rhunis’s story, and all stood by their friend. Rhunis accepted the drink with a nod, so the others did the same. Parpous nodded also and drank from his own glass. The motion caused his sleeve to fall back, exposing many jeweled bracelets to match his many rings. Rhunis slammed down his empty drink and rose from his seat. Before he could take a step, Whill stood. “Should we join you?”

Rhunis eyed the companions one and all and simply nodded. Avriel looked at her brother for a moment and grabbed Rhunis’s hand before he stepped forward. “I must inform you, Rhunis, I sense a being below us, in the basement. He is old, frail, and in much despair. Possibly it is your friend.”

Rhunis’s eyes flashed. “Will you trust me on this and do as I ask?”

“Yes, of course.”

The band had finished their latest song and told the energetic crowd they would be taking a break. More likely, Whill thought, they could tell what was coming and decided it wise to take their valuable instruments somewhere safe.

Parpous watched Rhunis come toward him, and the man opposite him gave up his seat. Parpous stood and extended a hand to Rhunis. “Ah, Rhunis the Dragonslayer in my pub—what an event, eh, boys? It is an honor, friend.”

Rhunis shook Parpous’s hand but did not smile or say anything. He simply let the air go stale.

“Yes, well, then, please do have a seat.” Parpous motioned with his hand while his eyes scanned the companions. Rhunis sat, and Parpous went on. “What brings you, great Rhunis, to my pub—to my table, for that matter? What is the honor?”

“Your pub? As I remember, this is and has been for many decades Harlod’s pub. Or have I been away so long?”

Parpous gave a crooked, gold-toothed smile. “Indeed, my friend, you may have been away too long. I now own this here pub. Bought it from the old man not a month ago. He said he wanted to spend the rest of his days sailing the wide ocean. Said he’d had enough of the bar life.”

Rhunis leaned closer. “That’s odd, because I’ve known the old man for many, many years, and I know that he despises the sea. No wonder, being that he spent three months on a slave ship after being taken from his murdered mother’s arms and brought here from the outer lands. I also know that he loved this place more than any other on earth. So answer me this, Parpous, why do you lie to my face, and why do your men tense their sword arms at the sound of the truth?”

Parpous chuckled, and his cronies followed suit. The big man clapped his hands together. “Rhunis, my friend, you are a clever one, but I assure you, the old man gave over this bar to me and I am now the owner. And I intend on keeping it that way.” He leaned closer also and his smile faded. “What do you say to that, friend?”

Rhunis breathed deep as he leaned his head back. “I say you let the old man loose from the basement, give him back his pub, and never bother him again.”

Parpous flinched at the mention of the basement. “May I remind you that I have dealings with the king?”

“And need I remind you that I do as well? Dealings with the king! You are talking to one of his commanders. And by the king I order you to do as I’ve said, or you will pay dearly.”

Parpous’s nostrils flared. “Is that a threat?”

“Not really, but how does this suit you?” Rhunis stood and planted his white knuckles on the table. “If you do not do as I say, I will cut your arm off and beat you with it!”

Roakore chuckled. An instant later the room erupted. Parpous thrust a dagger at Rhunis, but before the blade connected Rhunis grabbed his arm and twisted it violently. Roakore took hold of the table with his powerful hands and sent it crashing into the seated entourage. Though Parpous had only shown up with twelve, it seemed that many of his men were in the bar as well. They attacked the companions from all sides, some with fists, others with a blade. Whether they were ignorant of a dwarf’s strength or simply stupid, they soon discovered the truth. Roakore sent man after man flying as he laid into them with his powerful punches. Those that attacked him did not soon get up, if they got up at all.

The elves too made short work of those before them with their strange dance of kicks, dodges, and punches. Whill and Abram fought side by side and tried to keep up with the three. All the while Rhunis and Parpous exchanged blows until finally Rhunis bested the man and sent him crashing to the floor, his nose and jaw apparently broken. The crowd hardly noticed until a howl split the room and everyone stopped.

Rhunis, true to his word, had chopped off Parpous’s arm with his sword, and was now beating the man mercilessly. Parpous’s men froze.

“Call off your cronies or I’ll kill you where you lie!”

Parpous spoke through broken teeth. “Do as he says!”

Everyone watched as Rhunis raised the man off the floor and shoved the severed arm back into the socket. He motioned to Avriel. Parpous whimpered with pain. “Now listen closely friend,” Rhunis said. “You have a choice: keep this bar for your own and I shall feed your arm to the dogs, or you keep your arm and give the pub back to Harlod. Which will it be?”

“My arm,” Parpous said, almost inaudibly.

“What was that?”

“My damned arm!”

“Very well.” Rhunis turned to Avriel. “Heal it, my lady.”

Avriel took hold of the bloody arm, paused to ensure that it was set right, and then closed her eyes. Blue tendrils of healing energy burst forth from her hands and wrapped themselves around the wound. After a moment it was over, and both Avriel and Rhunis let go of the man.

Parpous eyed his arm with wonder, as did all in attendance. The crowd gasped and cursed in awe. Rhunis pointed at Parpous. “On your honor, if you have any left in you, and on that of your men, you must now swear to leave Harlod alone, to never bother him again as long as you live, nor any of us, for that matter. You will go about your days happy you did not die here tonight, and if you seek any form of revenge, you will pay with your souls.” He looked at Avriel. “Curse them with rotting disease should they break their oath.”

Avriel suppressed a smile and raised her arms to the heavens. “Olda thenn hendo drelancer hilgo dor!”

Parpous and his men all stared wide-eyed at Avriel. Rhunis broke the spell. “Now swear it on your lives!”

“I swear, I swear!” Said the fearful men.

“Now get out of here!” Rhunis ordered.

As the men scurried for their lives, Roakore burst into laughter. “Heh! This man knows how to party! What pub we goin’ to next?”

Just as Avriel and Zerafin had sensed, Harlod was found bound and gagged in the basement. Rhunis released him and brought the weakened man upstairs. His grey hair was caked with blood, his clothes tattered, and his body too thin. Rhunis called to the barmaid. “Fetch some hot tea, please. And heat up some stew.”

Avriel was already tending to the old man. Blue tendrils of energy mended his many wounds and gave the old man the strength he would need. His eyes cleared and his grimace turned into an amazed smile. “Tell me I have died and gone to the heavens. An elf maiden here, in my pub!” His eyes fell upon the companions and Rhunis. “Rhunis, my old friend! Such company you keep. Elves, dwarves—tell me I am dreaming,”

“No, my friend, this is no dream. How do you feel?”

“Twenty years younger.” He looked around the trashed pub. “Now what in the blazes happened here?”

Whill woke from a dreamless sleep, the morning breeze from the open balcony door caressing his cheek. The air was cool but welcome, for it soothed his slight headache. Tarren stood within the balcony archway, staring out onto the courtyard. Whill watched him for a few minutes and decided that the boy probably had been there for some time and would not move any time soon. Whill rose from bed and pulled on his pants. He tried to make a bit of noise as not to startle Tarren when he approached him.

“Beautiful morning, it is not? Good day for sailing.”

He hoped that Tarren had not folded himself into an inner shell of despair and self-pity. If his spirit had been broken, he would no longer laugh, no longer speak so jubilantly, would no longer see any good in the world. Whill had seen it before, in men and in women, and in children. But his fears were put to rest when Tarren looked up and nodded. He did not speak, he did not smile, but this small acknowledgment was enough to tell Whill that he would be alright. He would cry, he would lose himself to despair time and again, he would curse the heavens. But he would not let the cruelty of the world defeat him.

Whill smiled to himself and put a hand upon Tarren’s shoulder. For a long time they watched from their perch as the courtyard bustled with activity. To the west were many soldiers, marching, sparring, and practicing archery. At last Tarren spoke.

“I want to learn how to fight.”

“And you will, Tarren. You are now officially part of the royal family of Eldalon, be it as it may, you will be taught a great many things. You will become both a scholar and a fighter. But all in good time.

Tarren looked up into Whill’s eyes. “I want to start my training today.”

Whill met his gaze. He understood, and he nodded.

Whill honored Tarren’s wishes and let him begin his training. He then met Zerafin in the garden once more for his own training. He found the elf in the meditative pose he’d used the day before. Whill copied his pose and let himself fall into a state of relaxation. For more than fifteen minutes he meditated, awaiting Zerafin’s instruction.

Open your eyes, Whill.

Whill looked around but saw no one, only the lush, empty garden. Zerafin was gone.

All living things are made of energy ,from the frog to the squirrel, from the flower to you and I. Today your training is to pinpoint my location.

“How do I…?” But Zerafin did not answer. Five minutes came and went. “How do I…?” he said louder.

You start by keeping quiet. I am addressing you through your mind. If you wish, I can hear you as well. Simply think what you wish to say, and focus on me…project.

Whill closed his eyes and thought of Zerafin. How do I…?

Much better. To find me you must first decipher the beings around you. Close your eyes and focus on the energy that flows within and around yourself. See with your mind.

Whill did as he was told and imagined that he could see the energy around him. For more than ten minutes he could decipher no more than the blackness beyond his eyelids. Then he saw something.

I see swirling light, Zerafin. It has no color I can place, but rather it is all colors, swirling into itself all around me.

Good, Whill, very good. What you see is your own life force. In essence, it is you. Now focus your attention outside of your own life energy. Look beyond it. But do so slowly, and do not be startled.

Whill focused on his own life energy and then slowly peered past it, through the clouds of swirling light to the world beyond. He gasped as the energy of the garden hit him all at once. An ocean of swirling colors and light met his mental gaze and blinded him. In the confusion he opened his eyes.

I warned you not to be startled, Whill. But take heart in knowing that all elves open their eyes at first sight. This we call Aquilla Tel. You have done that which takes many elves hours to achieve. Do you require a break?

Whill shook his head and closed his eyes once more. No.

Very well. See your own life energy again, and once more go beyond it. See what is before you, the life energy of the garden.

All around him was light, light in the form of life energy. He saw plants and flowers, trees and insects, all with their own distinct auras. At first it seemed like a blinding ocean of color, with no distinct shapes or features. But the longer he viewed the garden in this manner, the more clearly it all became. Unlike normal sight, mental sight had far fewer boundaries. Nothing was solid; rather, all things appeared to be translucent light. This being so, Whill could see beyond the large akella plant before him, and the rose bush beyond that. Then he gasped as he saw Zerafin, seated in the meditative position about twenty yards away. His aura was bright white at the center and gradually turned to yellow and then orange as it dissipated.

I see you.

“Very good,” said Zerafin aloud, as he rose and came toward Whill. “Now come back and see with your eyes. Mental viewing takes more energy than you think, especially from one such as yourself.”

Whill reluctantly pulled back with his mind and found blackness once more. He slowly blinked and rubbed his forehead as he became dizzy. “Yes, I guess it does. I am a bit worn out, and have a slight headache.”

“As well you might. I would suggest you get some rest, but there is another lesson I want to teach today. Here, this will help.”

Zerafin lifted his hand. Within his palm, a small ball of pale blue light formed as if from mist. He pulled back his hand slightly and then pushed the ball forward. It floated quickly through the air and hit Whill in the chest. Instantly Whill was revitalized. His headache vanished, and all weakness left his body.

“That was amazing. But…didn’t it weaken you? Giving me your own energy?”

Zerafin shook his head and raised his hand, pointing out the ring on his index finger. It was silver with a small blue gem the size of a cranberry at the center.

“The energy came from this.”

Whill reached out and touched the ring. “You can store energy in things other than your swords?”

“Of course we can. The energy from our swords is stored in the gems within them. Long ago we discovered that gems like this one could be used to store energy. When a sword is made for an elf warrior, a gemstone much larger than this one is stored within the hilt of the weapon. The stone within can hold an untold amount of energy, and so almost anything can be a host for the energy stones—swords, knives, axes, rings, bracelets, and so on. In fact, many elf warriors have gemstones imbedded within their own flesh, in case they are stripped of their weapons.”

“Have you done this?”

“Do I look like a fool?”

Of course, Whill thought. A warrior would be a fool not to do such a thing. “So…where is yours?”

Zerafin only smiled. “When you have practiced mind-sight a bit more, you will be able to find it yourself. For now I would like you to try something else.” He looked around the garden for a moment as if seeking something he had lost. “Ah, this will do.” He picked up a rock that was about the size of a child’s fist and set it between him and Whill.

“You have exhibited a vast amount of abilities and powers that most elves do not begin to acquire until they have practiced the ways of Orna Catorna for years, sometimes decades,” Zerafin said. “Now I would like you to try something else that I do not doubt you have the ability to do. I want you to move this stone without touching it.”

Whill awaited further instruction but none came. He shook his head. “But how do I…?”

“How did you heal Tarren? How did you heal the infant? Tell me, how did you use the energy within your father’s blade?”

Whill thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I just…wanted things to happen. I wanted Tarren to be alive, I wanted the child to live, I…I wanted the Draggard to die.”

“Well, then, there you have it. You must want to move the rock.”

Whill focused on the rock and envisioned it moving. Nothing happened. He asked it to lift. Nothing happened. He tried to rock it back and forth. Nothing, Zerafin only gave him a blank stare and lowered his gaze to the stone.

For more than twenty minutes Whill tried to move the stone, but to no avail. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he gave up. “I can’t do it. I—”

“Stop right there, before you say something foolish and ridiculous. You can do anything you believe you can. That is not some inspirational babble meant to give you confidence, it is the absolute truth. You, me, we—all beings possess the ability to do incredible things, but not many have the belief that allows it to happen. You humans are taught at a very young age by your elders the so-called laws of nature. All you have learned is what they have been able to do or not do. The possibilities are never practiced because a wall of doubt lies before your imagination. But what does it take for a possibility to become a reality? It takes one person doing it—and then, then, my friend, it is a law. It is real.”

Zerafin focused on the stone and instantly it rose into the air. It hovered above their heads, less than four feet off the ground, then slowly floated above Whill.

“Look at me, Whill.” As Whill did so, the rock fell and hit him on top of the head.

“Ow!” Whill protested as he rubbed the bump.

Zerafin laughed. “Now you know it is possible, else your head would not hurt.”

Chapter XXIV

The Meeting of the Kings

THE FOLLOWING DAY THE SOUND of trumpets assaulted the morning tranquility of the courtyard. Whill arose to discover what the noise was about. From his window he could see that someone had just arrived, someone of great importance.

“Tarren, come quickly, you must see this!”

The lad hurried to the window. “Is it the king of Shierdon? Has he arrived for the meeting?”

“I believe so.”

A small army of soldiers entered the castle gates, marching in a line five abreast and ten deep. They wore full armor, silver with a flowing purple cape that stopped at the knee. At each man’s side hung a great sword, with a purple-fabric-laced hilt and a purple gem set at the base. At the head of the troop walked two soldiers carrying the flag of Shierdon. The flag was also purple with a silver hawk at the center. The hawk, Whill remembered, was a beloved pet of the Shierdonians. They had taken the creatures as pets and hunting companions over six hundred years before. The hawks were used to send correspondence in times of war and peace. They could deliver a message in one quarter the time a horseman could; they could silently find prey miles away, and catch a fish twice its size at their master’s command. The great hawks could go unseen in the daytime as well as at night, for their feathers changed color to match their surroundings, much like a chameleon. They were named silver hawks because of all the colors, silver was the one they donned naturally when not trying to hide. One of Shierdon’s greatest strengths was its command of these great birds, which had been bred to reach the size of ponies, with wingspans of over ten feet.

The people of Shierdon had even trained a great number of these birds to carry the smallest of men, who were called the Hawk Knights of Shierdon. They were an elite army of specially trained soldiers, small but very strong and fiercely quick. In combat they carried a crossbow and a pair of long, thin daggers. Their armor was thick leather, three layers thick, with mail between each. Every inch of the knight’s armor was adorned with hawk feathers, and in this way the rider would change color along with his hawk, if the hawk permitted it. The knights were sometimes called the ghost assassins because of their ability to drop down on their enemies unnoticed and strike them dead in an instant. They could infiltrate enemy camps without so much as a sound. In battle they could rain hell from above.

The Shierdonians had such control over the great hawks because they had control over that which the hawks craved most, hawks bane. A purple flower that grows only in the northernmost regions of Shierdon, hawks bane is the favored treat of the great silver hawk. For that reason it had been made illegal many centuries past to export even the smallest amount of the plant to any other country. With an abundance of hawks bane, the Shierdonians had trained the birds to do a great many things. The most impressive by far was the ability of the master trainers and hawk knights to communicate with the birds through an intricate form of code tapped out on wooden blocks, the human with the knuckle, the birds its beak. A trainer needed hawks bane at his disposal to tame the beasts, but over time, once the bird learned the code and could virtually speak to its master, a great bond was forged, and the hawk served out of love and loyalty rather than simply for the flower it so desired.

Whill saw, as if out of thin air, and as silent as a mute’s cry, five Hawk Knights swoop down to the courtyard. He stared in awe at the legendary sight and was not at all disappointed. They had arrived virtually unseen because they had been as blue as the sky, hawk and rider. Four of the birds had landed on the grass and instantly changed to dark green, as did their riders. The other bird had landed on the cobblestone path, however, and had turned many shades of grey and brown. Being done with the mission, they now all in turn changed to their natural color, a most brilliant silver. Their feathers shone in the morning sun with the brilliance of a cloud’s lining. The great hawks folded their wings and settled to the ground as their riders dismounted.

Most of the hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers lining the courtyard took up clapping and cheering, only to receive a stern look from their respective generals.

Next in the entourage came a man on a brown steed, unmistakably adorned. This rider, at seventy-nine one of the oldest of his stature in the kingdoms, but riding like a man half his age, came King Ainamaf of Shierdon. Behind him followed his first general, three advisors, and fifty more soldiers.

“What’s all the ruckus about, anyway?” came a familiar voice from the guest room door. Roakore strode towards Whill and Tarren with all seriousness. But as he reached the window and his eyes caught the shining hawks of Shierdon, his voice failed him.

“King Ainamaf of Shierdon has arrived. The meeting will be this day at noon, as you know.”

“Why, yes, yes, o’ course, but—it’s just, do ye reckon—ye think them birds would become gold in me people’s halls—an’ like that o’ a diamond? I’ve heard o’ them plenty from me people. They can change color, ye know—never seen it, but it’s true, ye know. They been known to take on the ways of water if needed.”

Tarren was quick to concur. “Right, they can! They changed all kinds of colors they did, blue and green and grey and brown, it was amazing, and the knights too.” But Roakore seemed to not hear a word.

“I tell ye what lad, an’ mark me words—before my days are through, I aim to get me one o’ them hawks.” He suddenly lifted Tarren off his feet and began flying him across the room in his strong hands. “Can you imagine it, boy? Aside from a hell o’ a lot more muscle, I’m ’bout the same size as one o’ them riders. Them beasts’d carry me, no worries. Roakore the Silver Hawk Rider is what they’d call me, among other things.” He flew Tarren in circles and finally landed him upon the floor once again.

Whill smiled to hear Tarren laughing jubilantly, like he had before, like he would again. The lad can still find joy in this world, Whill thought. He will be alright after all. He would find despair in life, he would know grief again, but he had passed life’s cruelest of tests already, and he would be ready. He would survive.

The meeting of the kings commenced as scheduled at noon. It began with formal greetings and a feast fit for, well, kings. Whill was introduced to King Ainamaf by King Mathus. Ainamaf looked younger than his years, which rumors said was due to his dabbling in dark magic, but Whill knew better than to believe such things. A firm hand he had also, the grip of a swordsman, and a certain look about him when he met your eye, as if he knew something that remained a mystery to you. Whill was lost for a moment as he tried to discover just what that mystery might be, and was met with a laugh from Ainamaf.

“I have been told I have a knowing face, a…warlock’s grin, if you will.” He shook Whill’s hand. “I find it is quite handy in knowing what I wish. There are a numbered few who can lie to my face.”

Representatives from each of the ruling kingdoms of Agora were in attendance, aside from the war-stricken Isladon. With the feast and pleasantries over, King Mathus bid each in attendance to follow him to the meeting hall, a short distance from the dining room. The meeting hall was grand in scale and adorned with nothing but high ceilings and bare stone walls, so as not to distract anyone. At its center was a grand circular oak table, able to seat more than fifty. Mathus’ servants seated the many in attendance and then left the room immediately, closing behind them the great wooden doors.

King Mathus stood before his audience and spoke, his voice echoing loudly in the great room. “First I must thank you all for attending. I know the road was long, the notice short. I know you all have been introduced, but for the records, let me name one and all out who are here today. I myself, King Mathus of Eldalon. My most trusted advisor and general, Rhunis the Dragonslayer. King Ainamaf of Shierdon and his three advisors, General Sudden, the Fireblade, and the scholars Hellious and Bernoran. The Prince Zerafin and Princess Avriel of Elladrindellia. Roakore, soon-to-be king of the Ebony Mountains. Abram, former general, knight, and personal friend of the late king of Uthen-Arden.”

Mathus looked at Whill for a moment, sharing the knowledge that this was the first official declaration of Whill’s position. “And I give you Whill of Agora, son of the late king of Uthen-Arden, and rightful king of the Arden empire.”

Ainamaf eyed Whill as his advisors whispered at his side, He only raised an eyebrow and smiled that knowing smile.

Mathus spoke once again. “Now that we have all been introduced, I expect you all have taken notice of the absence of the kings of both Shierdon and Uthen-Arden, which is why we are here today. As you also know, war has broken out between these two nations. This meeting has been called to decide what, if any, action we shall take in this matter. “King Ainamaf, we have all had time to discuss what we know about this war. Would you please tell us what words have reached the north?”

Ainamaf looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “There are many rumors, of course. Word from Arden is that Isladon is in league with the Draggard, that King Addakon is at this moment fighting to ensure the freedom of all the good peoples of Agora. Strangely enough, there is no word from Isladon either to defend or deny this rumor. But the faint argument among the people is that Addakon is the one in league with the Draggard, and has begun his campaign to overtake this continent.”

Whill was disturbed briefly by Ainamaf’s complacency, his matter-of-fact speech. He could have been talking about the weather.

“Abram,” King Mathus said, “would you please tell us what you believe to be the truth is in this matter?”

Abram rose to his feet and nodded to King Mathus. “My idea of the truth is this: Addakon is indeed in league with the Draggard. He made the first strike against all nations of this continent in his siege of the Ebony Mountains, and now he has invaded Isladon. I believe if he is not stopped now, or at least met with strong resistance, he will succeed in his conquest.”

“What proof do you have of these accusations, Abram?” Ainamaf asked.

“Only a fair knowledge of Addakon’s personality. And the fact that upon journeying here, my party was attacked by a horde of Draggard led by a Dark elf. And that Whill, son of Aramonis, has been on the run with me for twenty years because Addakon killed his father. And that twenty years ago the Ebony Mountains were overrun by Draggard, who still grow in numbers within the great dwarf halls.”

Ainamaf sat as if waiting for more, his face emotionless. “A horde of Draggard led by an elf, you say?” Abram only nodded. Ainamaf chuckled. “I, for one, have never seen a Dark elf. As far as I know they are a strange tale told by a strange people. The fact that the elves led the horde of Draggard only suggests to me that you may wish to be more cautious in the company you keep. And as for young Whill here—well, how many stories are there of a fallen king, or betrayal for the sake of power? Addakon very well may have killed his brother for the throne, but that does not indicate that he wants domination of Agora.”

“I was there, good sir,” Abram said. “I was there when Addakon betrayed his brother, and I saw with my own eyes the Draggard army at his command.”

“Is that so? I had not heard of this before. Let me ask you this, Abram. If, as you say, Addakon has command of the Draggard, why would he not station them in the dwarf mountains within his own Kingdom?” He looked at Roakore. “Perhaps he saw the Ebony Mountains a weaker target.”

Roakore said nothing, but his nostrils flared and he shifted in his chair.

Ainamaf let the slightest smirk find his face. “Perhaps the reason the Draggard took the Ebony Mountains is because they are within Isladon, and the attack was ordered by the King of Isladon.”

Abram held out his hands. “I suspect you have more to say on the subject. By all means, go ahead.”

“To be blunt, sir, all of your so-called facts have no merit. Was this meeting called so that we may all assume the facts, that we may take the advice of a long-retired ex–personal guard who happened to become so only weeks before his king was slain? Should we be up in arms because Dark elves whom no one has ever seen are running amuck in Agora?

“I have a few ideas of the truth myself, if I may. The elves of Elladrindellia arrived here and took refuge. Then came the Draggard, whom the elves themselves admit to having created. The Draggard have inhabited the Ebony Mountains for twenty long years and Isladon has done nothing. Addakon has taken the first step in eradicating this unholy scourge, and we debate sides? Gentlemen, this is painfully simple. The elves brought the Draggard to this land; the elves control the Draggard, you said it yourself, Abram. The elves, it appears, are in league with Isladon and the Draggard.”

Neither Zerafin nor Avriel said a word. Whill felt his blood boil, but Abram did not look surprised. Roakore, however, snapped. He rose to his feet and slammed his fist upon the table. “Lunacy! Ridiculous! Dragonshyte!”

Ainamaf did not rise, but his voice did, drowning out that of the furious dwarf. “Is that so, good dwarf, is that so? You, of all in attendance here, I would think, would listen to reason. You! Who have lost everything because of what the elves created, because of what they brought to your doors. The halls of your fathers stink with the putrid stench of dwarf corpses and Draggard slime! Yet you defend the elves. It is unbelievable, an outrage. May I ask you, Roakore, do your people know of your alliances, your allegiance?”

Roakore’s voice was calm now. “What me people know, Ainamaf, is that I am a dwarf who knows right from wrong, good from evil, and truth from lies. And you, my friend, have the eyes of a liar.”

Ainamaf glared back, ever with a smile. “Is that so?”

“Aye.”

Ainamaf waved his advisors away. “Leave us.”

With a confused look but no words, they did as they were told. Once the doors had closed, Zerafin spoke. “I must give them my condolences for the death of King Ainamaf.”

Whill suddenly understood.

Ainamaf rose to his feet. “If I am killed here today, you will have waged war with Isladon, good King Mathus. You wouldn’t want that, now would you? And as for you, Zerafin, I should have killed you upon the temple steps of Orkalendor.”

“Travvikonis. I am glad to see you still live, so that I may do as I should have done long ago.”

Travvikonis only smiled. “Addakon has but one order: forgo this futile effort and surrender at once, to me, now! For if you do not, you shall all die, your cities shall burn and your kingdoms shall crumble. There is no hope. Give up and spare many lives.”

King Mathus stood. “This is our response to your king, the betrayer. We will do as we have always done: we will fight till the death, and we will do it smiling. You my friend and your sad little band of reptiles have come to the wrong country. Now leave my halls before—”

“Before what?”

Rhunis rose beside his king. “Before your limp lifeless body is wheeled out of this city in a manure wagon.”

Travvikonis’s wicked guttural laugh turned into a snarl. He jerked his right hand forward, letting loose a red glowing sphere of flame. Rhunis whirled out of the way as the fireball hit the wall with a bang and shower of sparks. As he came around Rhunis had already produced a dagger and let it fly across the room. The dagger was passed by another ball of fire. Then the dagger and the fireball stopped inches short of their targets. Travvikonis had mentally stalled the dagger, and Zerafin had stopped the fireball. Everyone in the room waited.

“Do you wish to wage war on Isladon, Mathus?” said Travvikonis with a smirk.

King Mathus looked at Zerafin, whose outstretched hand held the fireball in place. The fireball disappeared with a poof, and the dagger fell to the table with a clank.

Zerafin turned to Travvikonis. “Leave this castle now!”

“Then I have your answers. I look forward to seeing you again, on the battlefield.” With that, he left the room.

The great doors shut and everyone inside said not a word for a long time. Finally Mathus broke the spell. “Rhunis. See to it that Dark elf posing as Ainamaf and all his people leave these castle walls. I want all of them accounted for.”

Without a word Rhunis exited the room. Then Roakore spoke up. “Damnit, ye two!” he bellowed at the elves. “Couldn’t you have used yer damned magic to see through his disguise?”

“No, good dwarf, we could not,” said Avriel. “It was a very powerful spell. It seems Travvikonis transformed his entire body—not only his outward appearance, but his aura as well, for when I looked upon him with my mind’s eye, he appeared to be Ainamaf.”

Roakore responded with only a “Bah!”

Abram spoke up, addressing the entire room. “One other thing disturbs me.”

“Ha! Only one?” said Roakore.

Abram ignored him. “Travvikonis did not attempt to kill Whill, though he knew who he was. Surely he would be greatly rewarded for such a deed. Unless…”

Zerafin finished the thought. “Unless he knew that Eadon would not approve.”

“Surely Addakon wants me dead?” Whill asked.

“Surely,” Avriel agreed.

“Aye,” said Roakore. “But Eadon may have different plans for ye than does his friend Addakon.”

“Precisely,” said Abram.

“Then soon Eadon will know where I am.”

“This is true,” Zerafin said.

“All the more reason to get you to Elladrindellia where you will be safe, and your training can commence,” said Avriel.

“She is right Whill,” said Abram. “There is too much at stake here. I suggest we leave for the elf kingdom as soon as possible. You are no help to Agora dead.”

Whill looked to everyone in the room in turn. “But I am no help to Agora if I hide either. I—we—have been on the run my whole life.”

“Whill.” Avriel’s voice was firm. “This is but one of many battles that shall befall this land in the coming months, perhaps years. The best way you can help now is to travel with us to Elladrindellia, learn the ways of the elves, and find the sword.”

“It is good counsel you keep, Whill,” Mathus said. “You would be wise to heed their words.”

Whill knew they were right, but his vision of battle from the previous night showed all too clearly in his mind. He wanted to be there, to help in some way. But he realized the truth in their words. He would most help by following the elves to their land and training as his father had done before him.

“Though it is not what my heart tells me, I see the wisdom in your advice and will heed your council.”

“Very well,” Zerafin said.

“Indeed it is the wisest choice,” agreed Mathus. “Now we have a choice before us. The truth of Ainamaf’s fate changes the issue at hand greatly.”

He went to the wall behind him. Upon it sat a single lever made of metal. The king pushed the lever down and a great many clanks and gears could be heard within the table. What had appeared to be a solid table was not so, for suddenly a square piece lifted from the middle only a few inches before it began to turn 180 degrees. The piece finished its rotation to reveal a huge map of Agora, elaborately detailed. The piece then lowered back in place.

Mathus opened a hidden compartment before his seat and began extracting small models of horseman and soldiers, which looked like a child’s army toys. He placed a set of red figures within the borders of Elladrindellia, of the dwarf kingdoms (aside from the Ebony Mountains), and of Eldalon and Isladon. He placed a set of black figures atop the Ebony Mountains, within the Uthen-Arden borders, alongside the red forces within Isladon, and within Shierdon. He then addressed the room.

“As bleak as the battle before us seemed before, it appears that it is worse than we had thought.” He pointed at the black forces in Shierdon. “It appears we have lost an ally and gained an enemy. For as we speak, the lies that will lead Shierdon to wage war on my kingdom are already being spun, I assume. Eadon has successfully separated us from our allies. Zerafin, you are akin to Eadon; you said you have known him a great many years. What, in your opinion, will be his battle plan?”

Zerafin pondered the map before him a moment. “It seems that Eadon is one step ahead of us. Long he has had to plan this attack, and so far it is going exactly as he had hoped. I suspect that Shierdon will indeed wage war on Eldalon, by sea and through the Ky’Dren Pass. Eadon will send forces from Arden to bolster the force that will come through the pass. By sea he will attack the many coast towns within your country, cutting off trade and supplies. At the same time he will send a force to attack the Elladrindellia borders, once again by land and by sea. Also the Elgar mountain kingdom of the dwarves will become a target, though Eadon will assume the dwarves will dig in and defend. He will most likely attempt an invasion like the one you saw, Roakore, within your mountain. He will send in a host of Draggard. Not enough to take the mountain, I suspect, but enough to keep them busy for a long while.”

Everyone took in what had been said. Whill suddenly saw the scope of their dilemma. The scale of battle would be huge, with Eadon having all the advantages. Eadon had successfully cut off the allies and would bring war to each of their lands, making a collective effort virtually impossible.

Mathus gazed at the map as if in a trance. Finally he said, “Then what are we to do? We cannot send our troops to Isladon if invasion of our own lands is imminent.”

Avriel rose. “That is just what Eadon hopes we will think. He hopes that now that we see the grand scheme, we will lose heart and hunker down in a defensive stand, one that will not hold. Perhaps his grip on Isladon is not so strong.”

“I doubt that it is,” Mathus agreed. “Isladon has been under siege for not three weeks. They will not be taken so easily.”

“Then we send a force to help Isladon, to take up the fight and try to gain back those lands. Roakore, I suggest sending word to Elgar Mountain to fortify their doors and ready their army, the greatest army ever to gather within those great halls. Together, Elladrindellia and the Elgar should take and secure the eastern shore of Uthen-Arden. We will take Fendora Island and its Arden navy ships there.”

“Aye!” said Roakore. “An’ the Ky’Dren forces, along with the Eldalon army, will gather a great force at the Ky’Dren Pass, as we’ve done many times before. Never before has an enemy taken the pass, not when dwarves and men stood side by side.”

Mathus smiled wide. “Very true, friend. At the same time, I will unleash the Eldalon navy and send reinforcements to Eldon Island.”

Avriel pointed to Elladrindellia. “From here we can send a force of at least two thousand by sea to aid in the battle for Isladon. We would send more, but we must secure our borders as well.”

“Aye, and Ky’Dren can send a land force of at least two thousand to meet with yer people in Isladon.”

“I will send fifty warships, and a force of five thousand soldiers to Isladon,” Mathus said.

Zerafin rose. “Then it is agreed. We have our plan. All of this must happen at the same time, and as soon as possible.”

Chapter XXV

Preparations Begin

THAT NIGHT THE COMPANIONS SHARED a dinner with the king, it was the last time they would all be together. It was decided that Tarren would remain in Eldalon and begin the training he sought within the academy. Roakore was to leave the next day upon a naval vessel that would bring him to Sherna, and from there he would travel to Ky’Dren. It was determined that the road was too unsafe for Whill, Abram, and the elves to travel, so the discussion began on the safest way to get to Elladrindellia.

“I do not doubt that Travvikonis is watching the roads leading from Kell-Torey,” said Abram. “It is certain the Hawk Riders are keeping an unseen eye upon them.” The meal was done, and Abram’s ever-present after-dinner pipe hung lazily from his mouth. If he was concerned with the events about to unfold, it was not evident. Roakore, on the other hand, appeared as tense as a bowstring.

“Gimme a pint o’ Eldalonian brew, lass,” he said to one of the many servants clearing the table. “Now, as ye all be knowing, I got over two thousand dwarves o’ me own within Ky’Dren. Tougher than stone they are, an’ eager as all hell to take back our mountain. I think that meself and me boys should lead the charge. With my two thousand, and the two thousand Ky’Dren, we should be able to rout the beasts from the tunnels.”

“Hold, good dwarf!” said Mathus. “I admire your bravery, and that of your kin….”

“But?” asked Roakore.

“But we have discussed the liberation of Isladon. We cannot split our forces between the mountain and the battleground.”

“Aye, but you have forgotten Whill’s vision. He saw a vast black army o’ Draggard emptying from within the mountain, a slaughter o’ the forces we be set to gather. Whatever our strategy be, it cannot be one that allows that vision to become reality.” He looked around the room. “Be I alone in me reckoning?”

“That is true,” Avriel said, “but neither can we hope to rout a hundred thousand Draggard from within the mountain.”

“Bah!” spat Roakore. “Speak fer yerself.”

“One thing we can count on,” Zerafin said, “is that the battle will take place at the foot of the mountain. Whill has seen it. Also, it makes strategic sense for Addakon and Eadon to make it so. Therefore we must devise a way to storm the beaches east of the mountain, perhaps Sentary. We should group up there within that coast town and make the march to Drindale, where I do not doubt the mass of Arden forces are stationed.”

Abram blew a smoke-ring and nodded. “But the problem still remains: how to avoid the imminent slaughter that will come from the very mountain we march on?”

Roakore slammed the table, startling Whill. “I got it! Ha-ha, we’ll blast the main entrance outta the tunnel! The eastern door is the route they will likely be takin—there ain’t another one for fifteen miles north er south. They’ll have to make a roundabout trip to get to the battle; that’ll take ’em hours. All we’ll need is ’bout two thousand pounds o’ blastin’ powder. The eastern door has a huge overhang above it, a slab o’ rock big as one o’ these castle towers. If we can drop that on ’em, they won’t be fer comin’ out too soon.”

Whill spoke up excitedly. “Yes, and if Eadon and Addakon have been waiting to unleash the Draggard during the battle, they will not have bolstered the Arden forces stationed at the foot of the mountain. They will be weaker than we may have thought.”

“Or,” Avriel said, and waited a moment for the excitement to pass. “They have prepared for such a thing and have built other exit tunnels.”

“Bah!” Roakore spat once again. “I seen the tunnel I speak o’, me lady. That pass is tunneled through a mile and a half o’ hard rock. It took me ancestors two years to build it.”

“Yes, good dwarf, but the Draggard have had twenty years.”

“Aye, but they ain’t dwarves, is they, good elf?”

“It is no matter,” Mathus said. “They would have had to plan the creation of another exit tunnel years ago, and you are correct, Roakore, they are not dwarves. The Draggard are animals and nothing more. They could not accomplish such a task.”

“No, they could not,” Zerafin agreed. “But a very powerful Dark elf could create such a tunnel in a short amount of time.”

Roakore scoffed at that. “Yer saying that elves are better diggers then me kin—that such a task is but a small thing to accomplish?”

“No, no, that is not it at all. I speak only the truth. The Dark elves have power beyond reckoning, and they have no morals to stop them from attaining their power. To them, all is there for the taking. Nothing is safe; nothing is sacred. Imagine, if you will, a Dark elf with no respect for any other living thing. His only purpose in life is to gain power beyond comprehension. Now imagine that he has a vessel to store that gained power, and a hundred years to collect it. He has the power to melt the very stone you speak of with only a thought, and the resources to see it through. I do not boast of the Dark elves’ power, Roakore. I only speak the truth so we may all realize what we face.”

Roakore looked as though he would speak but then lowered his head, eyes fixed up his calloused hands.

“But if they have not built another tunnel, then Roakore’s plan would work, would it not?” Whill asked.

Avriel smiled at him. “It would.”

“So are we to assume that they have not built a second tunnel?” asked Abram.

Rhunis began to pace around the table. “Whether they have or not, we are set to storm the beaches in what?—One week?” King Mathus nodded. “Then we must go with Roakore’s plan. If we are wrong, then we are back where we were at the beginning. So we will leave it to Roakore and his men to destroy the tunnel. We will engage the Arden forces at the foot of the mountain and do our best to push them back to their borders. If any of the Isladon forces remain there, they will welcome our arrival and bolster our numbers.

“I have sent five different spies to infiltrate Isladon and learn what they may. They shall return within three days. Until then we must go with what we know of the situation and prepare out troops.”

“True enough,” said Mathus. “Then let us put the gears of war in motion, and may the gods smile upon us.”

The following morning Whill and Tarren met Roakore at the docks, where a warship awaited the dwarf for departure to Sherna.

“Aye there!” Roakore called to them. Tarren ran up and gave him a hug. “Alright, alright then, lad.” He patted the boy’s back. “Ye work hard in yer studies o’ the blade, boy. If ye learn fast enough, there may be a Draggard left for ye to kill. An’ take care o’ Whill,” he added with a wink.

Tarren laughed. “I will, Roakore. Good luck getting your mountain back, too.”

“Bah! Luck be havin’ nothin’ to do with it, lad.”

Whill shook his hand. “It has been a pleasure fighting alongside you, friend.”

“And with you. An’ if this war is anything like them elves think it’ll be, there’ll be much more fighting to take pleasure in, me boy.”

“I wish I could be there with you when you retake the mountain. It will be a glorious day.”

“Aye, that it will, lad, that it will.” And with that, Roakore turned and walked the ramp to the ship.

In the following days, the castle was alive with activity in preparation for the battle. Hundreds of warships had arrived in great numbers and could be seen on the horizon. Whill wondered if Freston was among them. He had sent word to Whill that the ship was complete, and would be delivered personally by him and his sons. When the great armada shipped out for war, Whill, Abram, and the elves would leave with it on Whill’s ship. They would sail south with the armada until they reached the coast of Isladon. There they would break off from the pack and continue south one hundred miles clear of the coast of Uthen-Arden, then head east, and then finally north to the shores of Elladrindellia.

Recruitment had already begun for more soldiers into the Eldalon army. Property and gold were promised to any man who agreed to serve four years. This, Whill knew, was a precautionary and perhaps necessary measure taken by the king. Thousands signed up within the first day alone. Rumors had begun to spread like wildfire about the coming war—fragmented tales, mostly ill-informed. But the king and his council knew well enough the dangers of the misinformed masses, and so, one week after Roakore had set sail for Sherna, and two days after word had come that the dwarf armies were already moving out, the king made public the truth of the situation.

Whill stood with Abram at the gates of the castle, where it had been announced that the king himself would be speaking at high noon. Thousands crowded the streets, sat upon rooftops, and hung out of nearby windows to hear. A podium had been erected near the entrance, and all fell silent as King Mathus ascended the steps. Standing five feet above the heads of his people, with the spring sun shining down upon him and a quiet breeze crawling in from the ocean, he addressed the crowd.

“My good people of Eldalon, it is with stubbornly open eyes and a quickened heart that I have pondered the gravity of what I say to you now. Not a day of peaceful sleep have I seen in the last week, and I expect not to know one for some weeks to come. As you all know, or have heard through whispered rumors, King Addakon of Uthen-Arden has waged war upon Isladon. Perhaps not officially, but through his actions he has done so. Word has come from our neighbors in Isladon, over many miles and by the blood of many brave men, of the fate of the kingdom. My friends, the king of Isladon has been killed in battle.”

A gasp swept through the crowd. People cursed Addakon and Uthen-Arden, fists pumped the air, and men spat upon the ground.

“That is not the worst of it. It seems that King Ainamaf has declared allegiance with Uthen-Arden. I have heard it from his own lips.”

Abram turned to Whill and whispered, “He is wise to not mention that Ainamaf is also dead or imprisoned, and is being impersonated by a Dark elf.”

“You think so?” Whill asked dryly.

“With the drums of war beating to the south; with a centuries-old ally being invaded on false grounds and twisted reasoning; with a king who, so out of character, has made allegiance with a tyrant—What, my good people, are we to do?”

Already the crowd was yelling words of war. King Mathus let his voice ring out once again, with even more passion than before.

“The terrible truth of it is that we are now cornered. We are the only human kingdom left within Agora that stands between its certain destruction and liberation! I hereby declare and rectify that which already has come to pass. As in the days of old, when barbarians thought to overtake this land—and before that, when the kingdoms were young and Eldalon fought countless enemies to become the beacon of freedom and prosperity that it is now—I have renewed our alliance with not only the dwarves of Ky’Dren, but all the dwarf kingdoms of Agora. Like us, they have been swept up in this mad pursuit of power by King Addakon and the Dark elves of Drindellia.”

The crowd hushed slightly at the mention of the Dark elves.

“Yes, my friends, the legends are true. The Dark elves wish to do to all of Agora that which they have done to the good elves of Drindellia. For years they have been attacking our shores, using the Draggard abominations as their puppets. And now it seems they have a new puppet, seduced with the promise of great power: King Addakon. It was he, along with the Dark elves and their Draggard horde, who invaded the Ebony Mountains twenty years ago. And it is he who now, with that same horde and an army of misguided soldiers, that has waged war upon Isladon. And he has all the while named Isladon in league with the Draggard.”

The people were speechless in the face of so many revelations. The king allowed a moment for it all to sink in. In the faces of those nearby, Whill saw many reactions— anger, fear, sorrow—but not doubt.

“I regret now dearly our inaction those years ago when the Ebony Mountains were invaded. I will bring this regret to the grave, I assure you. What kind of nation are we if we stand idly by while our neighbors—human, dwarf, or elf—are slaughtered by the thousands—their homes taken, their lives destroyed, their freedom stripped? What kind of neighbors, indeed. With these thoughts in mind, I have taken the following actions: I have renewed our allegiances with the dwarves and elves, and welcome any human in Agora who believes and acts for our cause. But I leave the final choice to you, the people, for I cannot and should not make such decisions for you.

“So what shall it be? Shall we do nothing and hope that we can ride out this storm of tyranny in the comfort of our homes and daily lives? Shall we wish, like children, that the monsters will just go away? Should we simply give in to Addakon without a fight, and save much blood from being spilled? Or shall we stand united with the great armies of the dwarves and Elladrindellia? Shall we speak as one united voice against the powers of darkness that have made nest upon our doorstep?” The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. “Shall we fight against all odds—against all hope, against all reason—outnumbered and surrounded by monsters and murderous Dark elves? Or shall we do what we have always done when faced with such decisions—wage war against those who would see us dead?”

The crowd erupted once again in an ocean of fists, with swords, knives, pitchforks, and clubs held high.

Whill and Abram walked the streets alone. The excitement was palpable. Songs of Eldalon rang out, and all talk was of the king’s proclamation.

“You would do well to watch closely and learn the ways of your grandfather, King Mathus,” Abram said to Whill. “I have met many a man of great power in my years, but none have had the natural mind for what is right and just like King Mathus. Aside from your father, of course.”

“Yes, King Mathus is a great public speaker. And you are correct, it is his passion that gives his words power. Not to mention he says that which is most closely in the hearts of his audience.”

Abram chuckled slightly. “That, my friend, is one thing that has been passed down from Mathus’s blood into yours.”

Whill stopped mid-stride. “Am I vain to have the same sentiment?”

“No, sir! It is not vanity to recognize that you have a talent for leading men. It is only vanity to lead men to their deaths for your own gain, and not their own. That, thankfully, is something you did not inherit from your uncle.”

“I know exactly what the elders and the monks will say, sister,” said Zerafin as he gently polished his blade Nifarez. “They will say what they have always said and what needs saying: peace is the way of the free mind; harmony is the very essence that unites all life.”

“But what they do not consider is that the Draggard are not natural manifestations of the earth. Nor do the Dark elves abide by or hold sacred any of nature’s laws.” Avriel was buttoning Tarren into his newly issued uniform. “I know and support your position in the matter, brother. Was it not I who produced such an argument with the Elders not a year ago? But I suppose you are simply honing your argument for soldiers, and will address it to the Elders hence.”

Zerafin sheathed the finely polished blade. “I think they will agree with me.”

Tarren, in his new hat and uniform, turned to him for approval.

“I must say, young man, you do look as though you are ready for the vigorous duties before you in the Eldalon army. What is your opinion of that of which we have been speaking?”

Tarren’s mouth twisted up in thought. “I know that the Elders you speak of are older than dirt—well, so Roakore said—and they must be very smart, being so old. So if they are so smart, they can only agree with what you say about the need for war.”

Zerafin laughed. “You see, sister? The purest of truths can be found in the young.”

Roakore climbed the mountain pass he had traversed so many times before. The memory of his many weeks alone, patrolling this very face, flashed through his mind. He had time alone to ponder, to relive that last battle over and over again—the fall of his brothers, of his father; the words upon his father’s bloody lips sang to him now in the spring wind. Finally, after twenty long years, the time had come for him and his dwarves to take back what was rightfully theirs. The spirit of his father would be released and take its place within the Hall of Kings.

He came to the same door he had entered with Whill and Abram not a month ago—now to bring word to his people that the time had come. The time for redemption was upon them. The time for war was near.

Zerafin sat opposite Whill in the garden, in silence for a time unknown. Whill used the time to do as he’d been instructed, to meditate. But he also used his new mind-sight to look for the gem that lay within the elf. He saw the many rings teeming with energy upon the elf—the bracelets of power, the belt with its many gemstones of energy, the very studs upon his ears—but he could not detect any gemstone embedded beneath the flesh.

“I know what you seek,” said Zerafin. Whill opened his eyes to find the elf staring at him, and feared he had been offended.

“Relax,” said Zerafin. “I would be more insulted if you hadn’t been using your new abilities. The truth is that you cannot find my gem because of the enchantments I have put upon it. You will learn such enchantments when it is time. Each elf, upon coming of age, has his gemstone embedded in a place of his choosing, a place that only he or she knows of. But first a month must be spent enchanting the object with an energy command to hide it from prying eyes. It should weaken your opponent to the brink of exhaustion to find your inner gemstone, therefore ensuring your own victory.”

He rose. “As is the way of our Elders, so is our way. One should not have a single teacher but many. Avriel will continue where I have left off while we are in Eldalon.” He gave a small bow and quietly left the gardens.

Whill did not know what to do or what Zerafin meant. Was Avriel coming now to continue his teachings? He did not move, but meditated as he had been taught. He let his mind be at ease and his body still as he focused upon himself and all around him.

Some time had passed when he came back to the world, revitalized and alert. He could sense something—a presence. He recognized it at once, though he knew not how. It was Avriel. He stood and surveyed the garden but saw nothing.

Suddenly a stone came hurtling out of nowhere and struck him in the forehead, drawing blood. Then came a voice he knew, but not in any form he had thus heard. She laughed like a child playing a prank, and then another stone stuck him in the hand. Whill looked wildly from one end of the garden to the other, rubbing his forehead. Another stone came, too fast to duck, and struck him in the shoulder, then another in the chest, and yet another in the back of his head. Whill drew his sword, fuming. This time five stones stuck him hard enough to break his arm. He dropped his sword and spun about. “What is the meaning of this?”

Avriel chuckled. “Do you wish for the rocks not to strike you?”

Another stone hit Whill right between the eyes and he fell to the ground. “Of course I wish the bloody stones not to hit me!”

“Then use what you have learned from my brother and stop them, Whill of Agora!”

Two more rocks came hurtling at Whill as he stood. Instantly he used his mind-sight. The world before him fell like a curtain as the world of energy rushed forth. He saw the stones coming at him clearly, shimmering like diamonds with the residual energy of that which Avriel used to propel them. Whill lifted his hand and produced a globe of energy that—to his astonishment—surrounded him. He did not know how nor why, but he did not care; he simply wanted the rocks to stop striking him. The stones struck the energy wall and fell to the ground. Two more followed, then four more, and finally a volley of more than a dozen stones. Each one weakened his feeble shield slightly. Then the barrage stopped and Avriel appeared.

Whill had never before seen her with his mind-sight. She came forward slowly from behind a magnificent rose bush. Her energy form was similar to Zerafin’s, yet still very different. As soon as his mind’s eye fell upon her, his own energy shield faltered and diminished. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Radiant pulses of pristine white and silver light pulsed and danced about and from her. She glowed from within like a sun, at her center was the purest and most radiant light Whill had ever witnessed.

A rock stuck his forehead.

He was knocked unconscious for a moment. The next thing he knew, Avriel’s sweet breath was lightly teasing his neck. A blue light surrounded him and healed his many minor wounds. Her breath moved to his ear as his vision came into focus. “You have just seen me as no one ever has. What you have witnessed is reserved solely for the one who is loved by the observer.”

They locked eyes, their lips as close as could be without touching, and there she lingered. Whill was paralyzed. His heart screamed for action yet his mind bade him wait, for he had a feeling that what was being shared at this moment could not be enhanced by anything, not even a kiss.

Avriel retreated and sat across from Whill as Zerafin had done. He shook his head and breathed deeply. What spell had come over him? He took up the meditation pose. For many minutes they did not speak, but simply stared at each other—unblinking, unyielding. Finally that sweet melodic voice, so much like a symphony, spoke within his mind.

You have learned well the ways of Orna Catorna. You have shown an aptitude for not only that which you have learned, but that which you have yet to learn. This, I must say, is unheard of within the world of my people. My brother suspects that this alone is the reason for my love for you. But I do not know and do not care for the reasons, for when it comes to love it seems there are none.

Whill listened intently and exuberantly, exhilarated by the sudden admission of Avriel’s love.

You must understand, Whill, that the feelings I have for you, and those which I know you hold for me, are dangerous ones. I have been so warned; history teaches about such matters. We have a pressing duty before us, one that eclipses what we feel and want and need. We have a duty to do what we can for this cause—first and foremost, and to the death. We must not be hasty in our pursuit of love, but mindful and steady in pursuit of the cause we serve.

A smile crept onto her face, and a single tear hung from her eye. Blessed will be the day when we can rightfully declare our love aloud. Until that day, when the curses of the Dark elves are but a distant memory, we shall remain silent in our hearts’ desire and strong in our resolve.

Then until that day, Whill told her, know what I feel now. That since the first time I saw you in that feverish dream, since the first hint of your scent left my mind, since the first sounds of your beautiful voice filled my ears, I have loved you.

Avriel smiled in such a girlish way that Whill, for a moment, doubted her centuries of life.

And I you, Whill. And I you.

She held her head high and looked to the heavens. Whatever mental bond there had been was broken.

“It is for those reasons, my duty included, that I present you with this. I know you will object, but it must be done for the good of the cause. This I foresee.”

Avriel then untied her blouse and let it fall upon her arms. Her naked breasts heaved with her every breath as they shone in the sunlight. Whill watched in dumbfounded awe as the skin above her right breast swelled until it finally split open, and a radiant red gem floated from the wound. This, he knew to his sudden horror, was her inner gem. The gem floated between them as her wound healed and she fastened her blouse. A bubble of water floated from the nearby garden stream and encapsulated the gem, washing it of her blood. Before Whill could protest, Avriel spoke.

“This gem was presented to me by my seventh-great-grandmother, who was a member of Elladrindellia’s Elder Council before the fall. She and my other grandmothers stored their energy in it for twenty years after my birth. Such a gift is bestowed upon all elf children when they come of age. And I now present it to you.”

Whill was about to protest once again, but was silenced by Avriel’s mind. If you love me—if what you feel is true—then do not argue this. It would be seen as the greatest insult.

He nodded his reluctant agreement. Then she produced a dagger. “Choose the placement,” she said.

Whill pondered the situation for a moment and, realizing he would not win the fight, obliged. He opened his shirt to expose his chest and pointed above his heart.

Avriel raised the dagger to his skin. Deep the blade went, but it was followed by a constant blue light that swallowed any pain Whill would have felt. The gem floated to the wound and found its new home within his chest.

“The same enchantments I once put on it will keep it hidden from your enemies,” she explained. “I only ask that you never use it but in the most dire of situations, and be wary of its power.”

“I promise.”

High above, Zerafin turned from the window where he watched.

Avriel, my dear sister, what have you done?

Whill was surprised to enter his room and find Tarren and Abram there. The boy wore his blue and purple cadet uniform, which was clean and well pressed.

“Well!” said Whill. “You look as ready as I imagine any new recruit has ever been.”

Tarren beamed. “I am, sir.”

“I do not doubt that you will make a fine soldier when your time comes. Though I hope you will never be needed in the war we face this day.” Tarren’s shoulders drooped and he scowled. “Do not misunderstand me, son. I only hope that this terrible business is done by the time you are ready for combat.”

“I am ready now!” he said, puffing out his chest.

Whill knelt and said, “Tarren, do not hasten into battle with revenge in your heart, for it has been shown through the ages that this is surely the way to one’s own defeat. Be ready, be prepared, train hard, but do so with the intention of protecting the innocent, not exacting your own vengeance. Those who did you wrong are dead. That business is done.”

The young lad managed a half-smile. “Yes, sir.”

Tarren had already gone to his first day of training, and though that was a brutal and dangerous affair within the Eldalon Army, Whill was glad nonetheless.

“I have informed the king that I wish Tarren to be schooled intensively throughout his years in the academy. His thirst for knowledge will go beyond the sword, I do not doubt, as will his compulsion to right the wrongs of this world.”

“Hmm. I wish him good luck in that endeavor.” Abram lit his pipe and looked out onto the sunset upon the horizon. “I wonder, Whill, did your own words spark any familiarity with you this day?”

“What words?”

“Your words to Tarren.”

Whill sat upon a heavily cushioned chair. “Ah, that. Well, Abram, my father’s killer remains at large at the moment and, being that he is the one who must be slain to ensure victory, it seems that I am left with a most monumental situation. For that which my sense of vengeance deems necessary, is that which the cause requires as well.”

Abram chuckled at Whill’s cleverness. “Yes, my friend.” Smoke from his pipe encircled his body, causing a strange effect in the light of the sunset. “You know well the difference between the compulsion of emotions and that of duty. I beg you forget them not in this matter, nor, I must say, in that of Avriel.”

“I shall not soon forget, sir,” Whill said.

Roakore burst into his soldiers’ training room, sweat dripping from his brow and a wild look in his eye. At his entrance the shout went out: “Roakore has returned!”

The proclamation echoed throughout the hall, and the more than two thousand sparring soldiers all came to a sudden halt. Roakore gasped and put his hand upon the nearest dwarf for support as he caught his breath. After a moment passed he spoke.

“Me friends, me sons, me brothers, me great warriors: the time has come. I travel from Eldalon with the word o’ King Mathus. We and the humans—and even the elves—shall fall upon the shores o’ Isladon. There we shall liberate the people and fight the Draggard scourge. We’ll be takin back the mountains o’ our fathers. We shall finally be knowin’ redemption!”

The hall erupted into a frenzy of cheers that seemed to test the very structural integrity of the mountain itself. Roakore raised his arms for silence.

“Yer training is done. Go home, love yer wives, spend time with yer children—do what ye will—fer the next time ye raise yer weapons in combat, it’ll be against the hell-born Draggard bastards. We leave for battle within the week!”

Chapter XXVI

The Drums of War

THE TIME HAD COME. WORD had arrived from Ky’Dren: the dwarf armies of both Ky’Dren and Elgar would be poised to strike at sunrise two days hence. The army of Elladrindellia had set sail a week prior and were already among those ships that waited within the Eldalon harbor.

As promised, Freston and his sons were at the docks at sunrise with Whill’s ship. He greeted Whill and gestured to the vessel with pride. “It is my pleasure to give to you Celestra,” he said.

Whill was in awe, as many men who looked upon the ship that morning had been. She was beautiful. Abram patted Whill on the shoulder and simply laughed, at a loss for words.

The day was mild, the sun shone through thin clouds, and on the air floated the Eldalon farewell song. The elves had arrived, as had Rhunis. It was time to depart.

With goodbyes said, and Whill’s great ship turning from the harbor to face the endless ocean, he finally got a look at the full scope of the fleet that would carry the army to foreign shores. Though the sight of his allied ships should have given him solace, there had been a foreboding in his heart since his vision of the coming battle. So vivid had it been that he could still remember the smell of burnt earth and flesh. He knew logic dictated that he should have no part of such a war, so important was he to the grand scheme. But another part of his mind urged him to go.

He looked at Avriel. The sight of her, with the sunlight upon her beautiful face, for a moment made his stomach fall like the first time he had ever sailed. Then she came into his mind. He had noticed a difference in sensation when Avriel, as opposed to Zerafin, spoke to him in this way. His stomach fell again as he seemed to fly like smoke through an open window into her mind. For a brief moment he could access every memory, explore every feeling and fantasy, and hear every thought—and the thoughts behind every thought as well. He might have plumbed the depths forever, but did not have time to—so brief was the experience—for as soon as his mind had gone to hers, it became filled with fear.

He blinked and was himself again—the sea breeze on his face, the sun at the bow, and everyone staring at him.

“What’d you do this time, Whill?” asked Abram with a smirk.

“It seems Whill has just had his first attempt at mind-sharing,” said Avriel.

“It was an accident, I wasn’t trying to. It just happened...”

“We find that these things first happen when one is not trying,” Zerafin said. “Which is why much of the training can have disastrous results.”

Avriel chuckled. “You mean like when you were first training, brother, and you were first learning to move things with your mind?”

Zerafin looked to the heavens with a laugh. “Not that story.”

Rhunis egged her on. “Ha! Tell it m’lady, what did he do?”

“When Zerafin was first learning to move objects with his mind, he couldn’t get the image of tomatoes pelting monks out of his head. No monk within my brother’s sight was safe for a month. One would come walking through the village pondering the song of the birds and splat, out of the nearest home or garden would come a tomato.”

The men bent over with laughter. “I had to have a trainer near me at all times for a month to counter my skills,” he admitted.

Whill was relieved that the subject had been diverted. Even as he laughed with the others, he enjoyed a private happiness, for he had seen what he could never otherwise have known for certain or fully. He knew how Avriel really felt about him.

Roakore couldn’t help but smile. Before him, though still many miles away, lay his mountain home —and his father’s spirit as well. Behind him marched two thousand of the finest dwarf soldiers this land had ever seen, their sole purpose for living these last twenty years had been preparation for this moment. And their sole purpose in dying would be victory. Each and every one was a master of his weapon. Muscles bulged from years of mining; hands were strong on their hilts from years of training; minds were bent, and eyes set, on one thing.

And behind them marched the forces of the Ky’Dren and Elgar mountains—thousands of loyal dwarves, every one honored by the chance to avenge such a travesty, and willing to die fighting for the greatest good. In dwarf society, one could only hope to die such a death. Not a dwarf lived who would turn down such a chance at glory as this, Roakore knew.

“We will stay with the fleet until we are near the coast of Isladon, then we head south,” Whill confirmed to Abram.

“Yes. We should have no troubles. No ship can outrun this one, I would bank on it.”

The fleet had been sailing all morning and into the afternoon. They would reach the beaches of Isladon by the next morning, after the dwarves had closed the great doors of the Ebony Mountains. From there, Whill and his comrades would separate from the fleet, and start their journey to Elladrindellia.

Roakore stopped and grunted low in his throat, and those immediately behind him did the same—and so on until every dwarf had stopped. It was a few hours past midnight; they were right on time. Roakore crouched at the foot of a small hill and then crawled to the top with two of his generals. By the faint light of the moon he could make out every detail of the world around him—a few minutes in the dark and a dwarf could see as well as any cat. Before him was the northern entrance to the Ebony Mountains. He turned and signaled behind. At once, two dwarves broke rank and went about infiltrating the entrance. They had seen no scouts, but if they were any good at what they did, Roakore counted on not seeing them. No word had come from the dozens of their own scouts.

Within minutes the two dwarves returned. They had seen no sentries on duty but the entrance remained closed. Roakore silently selected six stout dwarves, brought his fist into the air, and proceeded with them to the entrance. Slow and quiet they crept, and he was alert to every movement in the world around. The light wind carried only the scent of spring foliage and earth, and a faint scent of deer urine. There was no sound but the wind in the grass.

Once confident that no one was on guard, he settled on the door. Like many others of dwarven make, it was mostly concealed to look like its surroundings. It was not adorned with writing or runes, or any of the like. It was simply a giant slab of rock, made to appear no more conspicuous than the rest of the mountainside. Roakore did not like the idea that they had not seen any Draggard about. But they had a schedule to keep, and he had thousands of dwarves at his back. The time was now.

The wind had picked up, blowing in from the west with force. It had been clear sailing all day, but now, with the sun down, the clouds came and masked the stars in their heavenly lair. Whill thought of Eadon and the Dark elves as he watched Zerafin study the sky.

The elf turned and read the concern on his face. “I doubt this is the work of the Dark elves. They would not expend so much energy on weather. No, they would save it for the battlefield.”

Whill was about to visit Abram at the wheel when the elf spoke again. “But we do have visitors.”

He looked up at the sky and listened, but found nothing. Zerafin’s voice came to him. Use your mind-sight, Whill, and ready your blade.

As his hand found the hilt, he relaxed to achieve the meditative state. At first he could not, due to his inexperience and the suddenness of the command. But within a minute he was there, and gasped at the sight of the ocean. The ship, which was faint due to its lifelessness, seemed to float on a cloud of greenish blue light. It pulsed and throbbed—colors and life-energy patterns teeming and swirling in a strange and hypnotic dance. When he finally looked away and to the deck, he saw for the first time the life-energy patterns of Abram and Rhunis. He could not see the elves’, however. They were, he assumed, hiding it somehow.

With that thought, he snapped out of his amazement and remembered Zerafin’s warning. He looked at the sky. Though it was overcast, he could clearly see the stars, which were now more brilliant than ever they had been before. Again came Zerafin’s voice: Just below the Star of the Kings.

Whill looked, and there he could make out faintly the life energy of something. At first it appeared to be a bird, but then he saw it for what is was. Glowing like hot lava and moving among the stars was a dragon.

With the power bestowed upon his bloodline by the gods, Roakore moved the large slab of rock from its place in the mountain. The dwarves with him might have helped by pulling on the ropes disguised as tree roots along the seam, but they were in awe of their king’s great power. It taxed Roakore more than he showed, but he hardly cared; he had twenty years of vengeance fueling his muscles as well. Once the door was opened fully, he again threw his fist in the air and, with his comrades, entered their mountain home for the first time in too many years.

They carefully stalked the tunnel, alert to any noise. It had been used in his father’s day mostly for trade, and therefore the floor was flat and wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast. The ceiling was high, and its stone walls embedded with millions of shining minerals.

On they walked until Roakore signaled to one of the dwarves, who nodded and turned back to get the others. They walked for another five minutes, and again Roakore sent a soldier back to advance the troops thus far. Soon they neared what he knew was the first big chamber. It had been used as a loading place for dwarf traders. More than twenty tunnels led to it, which meant they would have to be careful of an ambush. He signaled a third dwarf to go back and return with forty more, which he intended to have search the many tunnels in pairs.

Just as the dwarf was heading on his way, the draft in the tunnel shifted. It had been blowing into the mountain since Roakore had opened the door, but now reversed direction and blew faintly on his beard—with the scent of a dragon.

An hour had passed and Whill had long ago become weary using mind-sight. He looked again every few minutes but nothing had changed. The dragon still flew directly above them, thousands of feet in the air. Abram and the others, learning of the dragon’s presence, had discussed the implications and relayed the information to the other ships. At least this would not be a surprise attack, but it seemed there was no way of stopping it. The elves where powerful, but even an arrow shot with perfection and elven power behind it would not be able to take down the beast.

Roakore’s blood began to boil. The thought of a dragon slumbering within the mountain of his people—the mountain of his father—was too much to bear. His breathing became heavy, and his axe was in his hand without his realizing he’d gone for it. He was no longer aware of the three dwarves remaining with him. He knew only that he was running into the chamber of the dragon.

A sound that at first had been faint now grew into a primal scream. The guttural war cry, he knew, would carry to the many thousands of dwarves still outside the tunnel. It was a sound, he also knew, that would be recalled by all the surviving dwarves when they sat and told the story of this great day. If there were any survivors.

Whill continued to watch the night, as the elves did, with his mind’s eye. He was no longer tired from it, for he had begun calling upon the stored energy of his father’s blade. He was so intent on the dragon above that he was startled when Avriel suddenly pushed him to the ground with a mental energy blast. As he hit, Zerafin was already firing his bow at a phantom that swooped down where he had stood. Whill looked desperately in the direction the elf’s arrows flew, but saw nothing. The sudden drop to the floor had broken his mind-sight. He slowly regained it, but in his panic it was not easy to maintain. Then he saw more clearly as Avriel came to his side and whispered, “Stay down.”

It was a Hawk Rider.

Roakore barreled down the tunnel and into the trading chamber. He was met by a wall of heat and flame as the dragon belched fire from its maw. He dove to the left behind a pile of treasures, at the same time releasing his stone bird. It whirled through the air, directed with all his mental might to where he thought the dragon to be. The weapon hit with a loud thud, followed by an angry groan. Again the beast groaned in pain as three hatchets thrown by Roakore’s comrades, found their marks. Only the dwarves’ strength and excellent craftsmanship could have gotten the blades through the thick scales. Roakore fired his own hatchet at the beast as it reared its head to strike yet again with its deadly breath.

As the weapon flew, he got a good look at the monster. It was the biggest he had ever seen, and he had seen a few in his day. It had no front legs, like some did, but rather two huge outstretched wings and huge, powerful hind legs. Its scales shone green in the firelight; its eyes dead black. Upon its head like a crown were a series of small horns, starting above its eyes and growing bigger as they ascended toward the main horn. Like a knight’s lance it was, but not as long as the many sharp horns upon its back. Roakore knew this species: it was a spear-horn.

He ducked again behind his makeshift shelter as another wall of searing flame spewed across the chamber. Two of his men dove for cover among similar piles of gold and jewels, but one was not so lucky—a young soldier named Ro’Quon, who was consumed by the fire as Roakore screamed his name. The dwarf did not fall; he did not stumble. Engulfed in flames and his armor glowing red, he charged forth crazed. Blinded but for the tears of rage that quenched the fire in his eyes, he took ten running steps up a pile of gold and leapt at the dragon with his axe pulled back high over his head,, his entire body arched in the great strike. His huge axe found its mark, breaking through scales and muscle and bone, as both blade, and dwarf disappeared into the beast’s fiery mouth. To Roakore’s amazement, the dragon reared its head and let out an earthshaking scream. Fire sprayed forth onto the ceiling and descended upon the chamber. Roakore’s cloak was consumed and half his beard burned off. It was not until the dragon suddenly lurched forward that he saw the wound. The dragon’s snout had been split from mouth to forehead by Ro’Quon’s great axe. The spear-horn lurched again and finally fell dead, black smoke issuing from its split head. Roakore and his men stood from their cover and looked on in awe until finally Roakore spoke.

“Now that, me boys, is how it’s done.”

Zerafin’s initial shots had missed, and now the Hawk Rider swooped low beyond view over the deck. Because of the ocean’s great aura, it was impossible to see it against the water.

“What’s going on?” Rhunis yelled as he hurried up from below deck.

“A Hawk Rider,” Zerafin answered as he scoured the night.

“There is more than one,” Avriel added

“This is no good; they know where you are, Whill,” Abram said. “We will never get to Elladrindellia this way.”

“We must,” Rhunis argued. “This is exactly what they would want, for Whill to be present at the battle. Or perhaps they simply have orders to kill us all.”

Avriel shook her head. “No, Eadon knows well enough that the Hawk Riders stand no chance against us, not with the power we possess. He was likely a scout. The others will be attacking shortly; they mean to capture Whill alive.”

Whill had been watching the dragon during the conversation. It had changed course and suddenly swooped down with great speed, parting the clouds as it came, revealing the moon behind it. He readied his bow.

“The dragon is attacking!”

Zerafin had already seen it. He shot one two three arrows in procession, each one glowing with a strange red hue. Avriel let loose three more such arrows, and though Whill felt quite foolish without their power, he fired two of his own. His disappeared into the nothingness of night, but the elves’ could be seen ascending higher and higher, headed straight for the dragon. The beast changed course and twirled in the air with astonishing speed and agility, easily dodging the arrows. But it did come close to a few, and Whill saw with amazement that when the arrows suddenly exploded, the dragon was blown to the side and lost in the fiery show.

It gave a great growl as it emerged from the green fire and changed course again. With a splash big enough to douse the companions with a wave of seawater, it hit the ocean and disappeared. Suddenly Zerafin turned and shot an arrow directly over Whill’s head. They watched its flight and saw it disappear into the night twenty feet behind him. Before Whill could ponder where it had gone, there was another explosion. From the blast fell a dead hawk and its rider into the cold sea below.

The ship was rocked once again as the dragon emerged, with great power, from the ocean off the starboard side of the ship. Avriel was ready to let her arrow fly when they saw yet another hawk and rider. These, however, were suddenly in the clutches of the dragon’s mouth.

Roakore and his men stood with bowed heads, praying over the body of Ro’Quon, as backup came pouring into the chamber. He turned to the dwarves with tears of in his eyes.

“Our friend be gone from this world. Let it be known that on this day, the great Ro’Quon, engulfed in flames and nearing death, charged a green spear-horned dragon and killed it with one blow from the great axe o’ his father. He now dines in the Mountain o’ the Kings.” He slammed his fist to his chest. “Ro’Quon!”

“Ro’Quon!” answered the others.

The body was lifted from the chamber floor and carried on the hands of every dwarf in the tunnel, and with his body went the telling of his great feat.

Roakore then sent scouts into the other twenty tunnels to give warning. The battle with the dragon had surely been heard, and they would be coming, in numbers.

“The dragon fights for us!” said Abram in amazement as the group watched it violently shake its head, tearing the flesh of its prey before dropping it to the ocean.

Rhunis looked doubtful. “Or it wants us for itself.”

A great commotion had erupted from a nearby ship of the Eldalon navy. They too had seen the dragon, but they knew not that it might be friendly. Volleys of flaming arrows poured out from it and four others. Most of them missed, and those that found their mark bounced harmlessly off the dragon’s scaly armor. The creature ignored the arrows and blew fire at the ocean off the starboard side. There was a screech as a hawk and rider suddenly appeared consumed in flames. Zerafin hit the rider in the neck, sending him falling from his winged steed, but it was Whill’s arrow that put down the flaming hawk.

“Everyone to Abram, bows ready, circular formation!” Rhunis shouted. Everyone did as he had commanded, and the four took kneeling stances at the wheel.

The dragon had not attacked the ship, and Whill felt sure it wouldn’t. To the other ships he yelled as loud as he could, “Do not fight the dragon! Fire upon the Hawk Riders!”

If there was any question about whether they understood, it was answered as the dragon again sent fire toward the ocean and a rider appeared—only to be riddled with twenty arrows from the surrounding ships.

The tunnel was like a tomb. The faint breeze had shifted, to Roakore’s dislike. The scouts had returned with nothing; at least twenty minutes had passed. They must have been heard, but no one came. Roakore puzzled for a moment then called back the scouts. He motioned the generals of the many armies to attention.

“They’ve laid a trap fer us, no doubt, but we don’t have time to play their game. We are gonna walk into the tunnel like we own the place, ’cause by the damned gods, we do!”

He unfolded a map of the mountain kingdom. Their location was easily discernable on the map, though the many tunnels spread out like an intricate spider’s web. There were tunnels and sub tunnels, chambers and halls, vaults and living quarters mapped out here. The map was of Roakore’s own design, one with which many dwarves had helped to create an almost perfect representation. There were more than fifty X’s marked in red. Each of them represented the exact spot where explosives would be placed. The explosives were made from dragon’s breath—taken from the glands of dragons, and therefore very rare. An ample supply had been provided for the mission at great cost. One of the most profitable professions in Agora was a dragon’s-breath harvester; it was also the most dangerous. Roakore thought it ironic that dragon’s breath would be fundamental in the elimination of the half-breed Draggard.

The X’s were strategically placed within tunnels or chambers that would cut off the enemy troops most effectively from each other. The result would be thousands of trapped Draggard that could be dealt with later, and a main group that, with the grace of the dwarf gods, would be dealt with tonight.

Though the moon gave its light to the battle below, it was overwhelmed by the fire. The dragon, which Whill knew now to be the same that had aided in the fight with Cirrosa, circled his ship and set aflame any Hawk Rider that dared come into view. How the dragon could see them, he could only guess, but the fact that the beast stayed near to the ship instead of attacking them told Whill that many, many more were about. The ship was under full-out attack.

Using his mind-sight once again, his deduction of the situation was confirmed when he saw dozens of Hawk Riders above and all around the surrounding ships.

“There are at least fifty,” Zerafin said.

Abram and Rhunis did not wonder how he knew this. “What can I do?” Rhunis asked. “I cannot see them as you can.”

Avriel shot an arrow into the night and turned to him. “We cannot see them against the great aura of the ocean, Rhunis; those we can see are far off, out of the reach of an arrow.”

“Surely not the arrows of the elves.”

“Surely not, no, but we will not expend that kind of energy. We will wait them out. If they wish to try and overpower the dragon, it is their funeral.”

“Heh, the dragon, indeed. Why is he helping, anyway? Never in our history has a man ever befriended a dragon. Whill, do you know him?”

“Yes… I have seen him before.”

“Why did you never tell us of this before?” asked Zerafin.

Whill was surprised. “I don’t know. It was when I had first used my powers. It didn’t seem important.”

“Not important! And when we told you that the sword had been given to a dragon to be kept safe—did it seem important then?”

Whill was dumbstruck. “Do you think he could be the one?”

Avriel put her hand to Whill’s cheek. “Either this dragon is the first in history to meddle with the affairs of men, or this is the dragon of elven bedtime tales.”

It had been an hour since the battle in the chamber of trading, and Roakore and his unit were making good time. Over fifty such units, most of them a hundredth of this size, now waited for the appointed minute to blow the many tunnels. That minute would soon be at hand, thought the dwarf as he stopped at the tunnel to the exit chamber—the one that needed to be destroyed if they were to ensure that Whill’s dream did not come to be. He motioned for the five explosives carriers, and together they started down the tunnel. Scouts had reported it deserted, and Roakore believed them. There was not a dwarf in the unit who could not hear the snarls, pounding feet, and shouts of the Draggard. Murmured and inaudible the sounds might be to men, but a dwarf with his ear to a rock could hear the heartbeat of a nearby rat. The Draggard were in the main chamber, the cavern that had first been settled by Ro’Sar. It acted as the kingdom’s largest city, housing over twenty thousand dwarves in Roakore’s youth. It was the biggest natural cavern of all the mountain kingdoms. Menacing stalactites hung from the ceiling, so mammoth that it would take fifty dwarves to reach around it. The massive stalagmites had been incorporated into the city, hollowed and polished, adding to the unique dwarven architecture.

Within that cavern, Roakore knew, Draggard awaited the order to charge out from the mountain and destroy every form of life that opposed them. Their mouths drooled in anticipation of flesh; their claws ached with the want to tear, to gouge, to crush. They lived for one purpose: destruction. And for that reason, Roakore knew, they would never win—never be victorious. Life and love and light would always hold death and hate and darkness at a stalemate. The battle would rage on forever, but neither could ever dominate, for they were one. That was what Roakore’s father had told him at an early age, and that is what he had told all of his children since before they could understand. The idea of good and evil was a stone in their religious foundation. They believed that—like love and hate—the world, the moon, the animals, and even they themselves possessed two battling spirits.

Roakore came to the exit chamber, and as he had been told, not a Draggard could be seen. He thought of Ro’Quon’s heroic flight and how the kings of old were cheering him now.

The small battle raged on for almost an hour, but the ship did not stop nor change course. Relentlessly the riders came, swooping down out of the night, trying to capture their prize. Then suddenly, and to Whill’s surprise, they stopped, and every hawk he could see with his mind-sight turned and headed east. As they flew out of view, the dragon circled and sent rings of smoke from its nose every so often as if scoffing.

“What do you make of their retreat?” Whill asked.

“The dragon does not follow,” Rhunis said.

“And it is focused on the west. The opposite direction of the Hawk Riders,” Avriel said through closed eyes.

“Whatever it is, I doubt it is an ally,” added Abram from the wheel.

The Celestra was literally at the center of the great fleet of many hundreds of ships. Looking west with his mind-sight, Whill began to see something, not an object, but a disturbance along the water. He began to relay this information when Avriel spoke.

“I see it also. What do you make of it, brother?”

Zerafin moved closer to the side of the ship and put his hand to the hilt of his sword. After a moment he spoke, unsheathing it. “Whatever it is, it is big, and moving with great speed.”

Like the elves, Whill could see through the surrounding ships, and looked on as the ones far off were bombarded with great waves; the disturbance in the ocean’s aura was moving closer. Arrows were strung and feet planted as it came closer and closer still. When it was within two hundred yards, it disappeared. The silence that followed was disturbed only by the faint shouting of the crew on nearby ships. Suddenly off the starboard side came a huge wave as something of great size came out of the ocean. There was an ear-piercing shriek, and Whill could make out the water-covered silhouette of another huge dragon and, to his surprise, a rider. Instantly he, Avriel, and Zerafin each shot an arrow almost in unison. The circling red dragon also had attacked at that very moment, sending a huge sheet of flame at its fellow. The arrows flew true, as did the flame, but instead of hitting their target, each turned in flight and rocketed back towards them. Before Whill could take in what had happened, his arrow came at him with blinding speed, only to be stopped by the elves. It and the others were diverted to the ocean, but the flame found its mark even as the red dragon breathed it, turning on the creature and, enveloping its face in flames.

It immediately dove into the ocean, the fires going out with a hiss. The attacking dragon was invisible to the naked eye, but with mind-sight Whill could still see its steadily fading outline as the seawater receded and fell from it.

“There has never been a dragon in the known history of this world that can become camouflaged as this one does,” Zerafin said.

“What!” Rhunis cried. “Another dragon—is that what that thing was? How in the name of the gods did it send back your arrows and the fire?”

“It was not the dragon who did it,” said Abram, turning the wheel into a wave. “Its rider is a Dark elf.”

Roakore looked to his timepiece: less than five minutes until the explosives would go off. The explosives carriers had set the bombs in place and given the signal that they were ready. He motioned for the remaining force to enter the cavern. The troops filed in with a silent stealth one wouldn’t expect from thousands of dwarves.

Two minutes later his army was still filing into the room. Mostly young dwarves they were, under a hundred years. They were hardly old enough to be parents; though it might seem that dwarves who could live to see a thousand years would have a hundred children by their middle age, in dwarf society one did not reproduce until he has proven that he has contributed his share to the kingdom—lest overpopulation plague the mountains. The dwarves could not have a child without the blessing of a dwarven monk. This was where the epic dwarven folk song “Leranna’s Curse” came from. It told the story of a young dwarf wife who went to a monk with her husband and asked to be blessed with a birth. As the monk gazed on her radiantly beautiful face, he was stricken on the spot. If he lived to be two thousand years old, he knew he would not see such beauty again. He was a good dwarf, but he could not bring himself to allow the birth, and turned them away. A year passed and they returned with the same request. Again his heart stopped as he looked upon her; again he could not allow it. As long as he refused the birth, she would have to come back, and then he could gaze on her again. For one hundred years this went on, until finally, when all the male dwarves in her husband’s family had died, he was faced the end of his line. So in love with Leranna was he, that he refused the advice to take another wife. That year, on the day when the couple always visited the monk, only Leranna arrived. Without a word she stabbed him through the heart. The last thing he saw was her golden face, not weeping but smiling the most beautiful smile. It was then put into law that if a birth was repeatedly denied by the monks, the couple could go to the king, and if the king also denied it, they would ask the dwarves in a gathering of at least a hundred. The one day a year when they voted on this affair was called Leranna’s Day.

Though most dwarves Roakore’s age would not have had any children yet, he had two hundred. His clan having been diminished so, the monks, the king, and the people had ordained that any couple could have as many children as they wished until the clans were strong again. This included allowing every male dwarf of the clan to take as many wives as would have him from the other two clans. All marriages were blessed by the monks, of course—and even the other wives—for every dwarf, male and female, lived by the same code: live for love, family, kingdom, and self, and die for them as well.

Roakore and each of his soldiers were ready for victory, and if that meant that death would be required, so be it.

At the appointed time there came a great rumble as the hundreds of explosives went off within the mountain. Behind him, the team had just imploded the door of the mountain. They had succeeded in the first mission. Each now rose and faced the second task: the thousands of hissing Draggard just beyond the great door.

From the port side of the ship, the red dragon exploded from the sea. Fire belched from its maw as it collided with the other dragon and its rider, both of whom now became visible.

“By the gods!” shouted Rhunis as he saw them for the first time. “My eyes behold black elf witchcraft!”

The red dragon’s fire circled the other and its Dark elf rider. Protected by some invisible force, they both were untouched by the flames. The red dragon tried in vain to bite and claw the other, a four-legged, thick-winged species that was covered in scales and feathers of the most radiant silver. The elf rider drew his sword, and in one fell swoop, sliced the red dragon across the chest. Blood fell like rain on the deck below. The red dragon recoiled in howling pain and once again belched flames that did not harm its opponents. The rider, to everyone’s surprise, leaped from his dragon and fell more than one hundred feet to land on the deck of Celestra.

Whill, Abram, Rhunis, and the elves all shot arrows in unison as the Dark elf landed. Falling to one knee on impact, he lifted an arm and, with outstretched fingers, stopped the arrows in midair.

Even as he let loose his first arrow, Whill knew they were all doomed, for as the Dark elf landed, Avriel gasped, and Zerafin uttered one word before firing:

“Eadon!”

All of the arrows flew true but then burst into flame, and only ashes blew into the wind. Eadon was an imposing figure. He stood over six feet—not a giant—but possessed an air that made him seem like a god. His armor was as black as the starless sky but reflected like ice. Upon his shoulders he wore a long cloak of long thick dragon feathers with look of polished silver. His long hair was a brilliant silver grey, turning black at the temples. Two elven blades hung at his sides, but he did not draw them. He leered at Whill.

“When the day comes that I have to draw my blades, Whill, you will then be strong indeed.”

Everyone knew they could not defeat Eadon; no one seemed to care. As he finished speaking, Zerafin flung an arm in Whill’s direction. He was instantly thrown through the air, high and fast, and suddenly stopped as Eadon lifted his own hand. He floated, frozen, two hundred feet above the ship, helpless as he watched the battle below. He could feel a strong pressure on his entire body and feared he would be crushed. Zerafin pushed while Eadon pulled as they battled over him.

Whill was on the verge of passing out when finally he felt a release. One of them had ceased. Zerafin lunged forward in a flash, his sword cutting through the air as Avriel screamed a spell. White light jumped from her hand and was absorbed by Zerafin’s passing blade. The glowing Nifarez came straight down at Eadon’s head, but in an instant he produced his twin blades in a crossed block. They glowed black against Zerafin’s white-hot sword. Then Rhunis foolishly lunged forward with his blade. Eadon did not make a move, but yelled so loudly that it was deafening to Whill, who remained in the invisible grasp. The power of that yell was like an explosion in the air around him. Rhunis was blown off his feet and over the side of the ship, as was Abram. Avriel held strong the white energy that flowed into her brother’s blade, Zerafin held fast his sword, and Eadon held Whill in place while still keeping the two elves at bay.

Avriel’s and Zerafin’s faces were twisted in concentration, but Eadon wore a grin. He closed his eyes and began to shudder. Avriel screamed. The white light that emanated from her grew brighter and more intense. Zerafin growled as he tried to pull his blade away from Eadon. Whill did not want to believe what he was seeing, but he knew that Eadon was somehow absorbing all of their power.

I love you, Whill. The words came into his mind as tears came to his eyes.

The deafening spell that ripped through the night, and through Whill’s very being, was the same spell his father had used to save him twenty years before. Avriel had brought down her blade into Whill’s ship, and the resounding explosion was blinding. A flash of the purest white light was followed by a fireball of flame that had been the Celestra.

Throughout the destruction, Whill felt a shift in the energy that gripped him. As the flames receded and the waters took their place, whatever had held him let go. He fell through the air, screaming in despair—not at his own fate, but Avriel’s.

Suddenly he was caught by a huge claw.

The rumbling that shook the mountain subsided and every dwarf stood at attention. A horn blew from within the old ghost city of the dwarves, and the great doors opened. Before them waited a group of no more than ten thousand; they had expected ten times that many. No one waited for an explanation. As one they charged into the ranks of the Draggard army. Axes met spears, hammers met scales. The two armies came together, but the dwarves would not be slowed. The front line did not falter. A dwarf force the likes of which no army had ever fought plowed through the Draggard like a scythe through wheat. The Draggard lost their momentum altogether as their forces began to unravel. Those close to the back caves tried to run in retreat, while those unfortunate beasts at the front fell one after another. Hatchets rained down into the ranks, four for every dwarf not in direct battle. Draggard groans and screams of anguish echoed sickeningly throughout the cavern. Within a half an hour the army had been routed, and dwarf troops had already begun flushing the tunnels.

Roakore raised his arm and, with a triumphant roar, shouted the name of his father. The victory cry was taken up by the thousands of dwarves around him. He yelled the name again, his arm pumping the air.

“Hail, King Roakore!” shouted someone from the crowd, and the cry was taken up by all.

He waited until the cheering had subsided, and then lifted his hands. “My good dwarves, the fight has just begun. He who brings me the head of the Draggard queen will be a dwarf of legend.”

A cheer rose up in response. But it died and all heads turned as a slow but powerful clapping echoed throughout the chamber. Roakore turned with the others toward the destroyed mountain door. There, sitting upon a boulder, was a smiling, armor-clad Dark elf.

Whill let out a scream of anguish as he was carried into the dawn sky. The red dragon’s grip was firm, but not crushing. He looked down upon the sight of his destroyed ship, and the dark waters now home to his dead friends.

“Let me down, damn you, I have to go back! They need me!” Whill beat pointlessly upon the thick scales. “Goddamn you, beast, let me go!”

The dragon responded with a growl, low and guttural, and continued to fly higher.

Below him he could see that both the human and elven armies had begun storming the beaches, and beyond them, shadowed by the Ebony Mountains, burned the town of Drindale. The landscape was that of his dream—in vivid, terrifying clarity. What remained of the Isladon army fought hopelessly against the tides of Draggard that had emptied from the mountain. Thousands upon thousands stormed the beaches, but thousands more Draggard waited.

“Roakore, is it not?” the Dark elf inquired as his clapping ended and finished echoing throughout the great chamber. “This is the part where I tell you to surrender peacefully, you spit in my face and say something valiant, and then we fight. Am I right?”

Roakore remembered the Dark elf they had encountered in the forest, how he had sent his own weapon flying back at him with only a thought.

Many o’ me dwarves’ll fall to this one.

“I am Roakore, son o’ the fallen king o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains. I reclaim these halls, as is my birthright. And you, Dark elf, are trespassing.”

“Ha! You do not—”

“I ain’t done speaking, boy! Yer people have brought this scourge upon me doors, murdered our families, and taken our home. I wage war this day, and I speak fer every dwarf who ever lived when I say that from this time forth, ye shall be hunted, and ye shall be exterminated from this world. The Dark elves have wronged the wrong people. And it starts with yer death!”

With these last words a dwarf broke from the ranks and charged the Dark elf. Raising his war hammer with a great howl, he charged in only to be lifted by an invisible force and slammed into the ceiling with a loud thud. As he fell, many more charged at once. The elf did not flinch, he did not move. Still they came, barreling at him, weapons held high: more than thirty dwarves. They were not more than ten feet away, and still the Dark elf did not move—not until the last second. Then Roakore watched in horror as the elf brought back his hand and then thrust it out before him with an open palm. A wave of energy blasted from him, engulfing the charging dwarves and sending them flying backwards. Roakore’s army watched in awestruck horror as the bodies of the dwarves disintegrated into dust before their eyes, their very life force ripped from their bodies and mingling with that of the force field. The Dark elf dropped his hand and the energy field retracted into it. He bent in ecstasy, his eyes rolled back, and his body shuddered as he gave out the kind of moan usually only heard by a lover. The armor and weapons of thirty dwarves fell to the floor.

Whill was overcome with grief. He pounded the dragon’s leg in a rage. Then behind him he glimpsed a flash of silver. It was Eadon and his dragon. His mind filled with rage; he saw the faces of the many who had fallen because of this Dark elf—his parents, the dwarves of the Ebony Mountain, the people of Sherna, men, women, children, Abram, Rhunis, Zerafin…and Avriel. He thought his head might explode from the pressure, the agony and torment. Pain wracked his mind and body; his very soul was aflame. All sense left his mind, and only one thought remained within that ocean of misery it had become. Revenge.

The red dragon had noticed Eadon and dove swiftly as a ball of fire flew past, barely missing them. Eadon’s mount easily maneuvered to keep up and even gain on them. There was a terrible shout that cracked the sky like thunder, and the red dragon was hit with a shockwave of energy that blew it with great force to the side. It rolled and tumbled through the air, and dropped Whill. As he fell, he did not feel fear—only rage that he would die this way without a chance to exact his revenge. But then his chance came. Eadon’s mount dove after his, its great silver wings tucked in tightly. It ripped through the air unnaturally fast—or was Whill being pulled up towards it? He reached for his father’s sword. The red dragon, apparently forgotten, slammed into the other. The two great beasts tumbled through the air, claws ripping, teeth biting, as they each tried to get a hold of the other’s neck.

A sudden blast of fire separated the two. The ground was almost upon him as Whill watched the battle above. The red dragon dove like a rock, smoke and blood trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as he descended. As Whill rocketed toward the ground, he knew he had only seconds to live. In his mind burned the faces of the dead, and he gave in to the darkness, sweet, silent, endless darkness.

The red dragon dove fast and was soon slightly below him, coming in with great speed. Below him the ground rose quickly as the red dragon snatched him up with its claws and pulled him in tight. It spun over and crashed to the ground. Dust flew up into the morning sky as it hit like a rock and tumbled for more than three hundred yards before coming to rest in the shadow of the Ebony Mountains.

“I see you have none powerful enough to defeat me. Shall we try the blade, then? It is so much more satisfying.” The Dark elf unsheathed his sword. “And when you reach your beloved halls, tell your gods that your army was laid waste by Farandelizon.”

“Charge!” roared Roakore. The entire army descended upon the Dark elf. In a blur of motion Farandelizon cut through their weapons, armor, and bodies. Dozens fell in seconds. Roakore’s face hardened. The roar of his army filled his ears, accompanied by the screams of the dying. How could they fight such unnatural power? They were so close; they had reclaimed the halls, and for what? To be done in by a single Dark elf.

No! Thought Roakore. He stopped in his charge and raised his hands above him. Drawing strength from those around him—how, he did not know or care—he focused his mind on a stalagmite above. So large was it that forty dwarves could have circled it. With a great scream he watched as it broke from its base and fell. Those closest to Roakore felt their strength drained from them for a moment as he guided the missile towards the elf.

Farandelizon saw it coming as he fought the oncoming tide of dwarves, but he did not believe it. Unable to stop in his fight he could only watch as the great rock came hurtling at him, one word filling his mind as it crashed into him: How?

Whill struggled out from under the dragon’s great claws. As the dust settled he looked around, trying to spot the damned Dark elf. He saw thousands of Draggard and knew Roakore and his dwarves had been too late—the mountain had emptied already. From the coast came the blaring of the war horn of Eldalon. It was followed by the trumpets of the elves. Both were answered by the hisses and growls of the thousands of Draggard.

The red dragon’s huge chest heaved as it choked on the dust. Blood stained the ground as it coughed. It had broken a wing and had many bloody injuries upon its body, including a bone that had broken through the scales of its right front leg.

“Eadon comes,” the red dragon growled. “He will kill us both. I have failed.”

Whill unsheathed his father’s sword. “Let him come.”

The red dragon lifted himself to his hind legs, breathed heavily and roared, belching flame above Whill’s head. “Fool! You face your death and care not. You, the great Whill spoken of in Adimorda’s prophecy! You are a sniveling weakling. Already your emotions consume you; already you walk in the darkness. You are not worthy of the knowledge of the sword of Adromida. Better it never be found.”

“The sword!” Whill exclaimed. “You know where it is?”

“I know, and no other ever will. The knowledge will go with my death.”

“Tell me where it is! You must, it is the only way I might stop Eadon!”

A puff of smoke issued from the great dragon. “Stop Eadon, you? You cannot even stop yourself! You are but a child, a mortal child wrapped up too much in your own ego. You think you have seen pain? You think you know suffering? No, child, you know nothing. I had hope for you. I had dreamed.” The dragon lifted its head as Eadon landed less than a hundred yards away. Swarms of Draggard had come to join their master and now circled them.

“I see now my own folly,” the dragon went on. “Adimorda was mistaken. You are not worthy. And now I face my death. I will not live to see the darkness that will spread across this land, but you…”

Eadon approached without sword drawn, a victorious smirk upon his face. Whill did not even bother to take up a battle stance.

“Let us end this,” he said in a resigned voice.

The Dark elf stopped ten feet away, and the red dragon rose proudly to his full height behind Whill.

Eadon smiled brightly. “End? Now why on earth would I want to kill you, Whill? I have waited so very long to meet you. No, I think not, my apprentice. This is but the beginning.”

Chapter XXVII

The Dark Master

WHILL’S BLOOD WENT COLD. EVERYTHING had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be on his way to Elladrindellia to train with the elves. Now his friends were all dead and he was cornered. Apprentice, Eadon had said. Apprentice… Death seemed a sweet refuge to what would await him at the hands of this maniac. How could this be happening? He had to think of something, but there was nothing he could do. No one was coming to his rescue this time. No elf warriors, no burly dwarves, no mysterious dragon. He was alone.

“You are speechless,” Eadon mused. “I understand. It is a great honor I offer you. I will forgive your rude behavior.”

“Honor? You know nothing of honor!” The red dragon let out a roar as he descended upon Whill, huge teeth meant to engulf him. With a quick thrust of his arm Eadon sent a shockwave of energy at the beast, sending them both flying backwards more than twenty feet. Before Whill realized what had happened, Eadon stood before them once again.

“No, my old friend, I will not let you kill my young apprentice. He has many great things to do before his life is through.”

The red dragon tried to kill me, Whill realized as he looked into the ancient dragon’s eyes. They were filled with fear, pain, and pity, but not for itself. The dragon had tried to end his life in an attempt to spare him. Now Whill knew fear; now he truly knew despair.

“I will heal you, dragon, and you will accompany me and our young friend here,” said Eadon.

Now the dragon’s look of fear and pity were for himself. Flames erupted from its maw and deflected harmlessly to each side of Eadon, who looked truly amused. “Kill me and be done with it!” The dragon roared in Elvish

“No, old friend, I know your secret. I know who you are. You alone have knowledge of a certain artifact that I have waited many, many years to acquire. You will come with us.” Eadon raised his palm to the dragon and blue tendrils of healing energy shot out and engulfed it.

The dragon roared as its bone snapped back into place and its wing healed. Just as quickly as it had started, the healing was through, and Eadon showed no sign that it had taxed his power. The dragon roared and thrashed, and flames shot forth from its mouth. They were harmlessly deflected from Whill and Eadon’s path.

“Enough from you, beast! You have lost! You will only achieve greater pain should you choose to defy me!”

Rhunis drifted into darkness—sweet, silent, engulfing darkness. His pain and worry were no more; he could rest now. He had been here before, in the cold embrace of this lover, death. From the distance came the sounds of battle, the ocean waves and screams of the dying. No more were these things his concern. No more...

Something slammed into his chest, and again, and he heard a voice. Why couldn’t they leave him in peace? “Rhunis!” Again there came a slam to his chest; the bliss was replaced by pain, the silence with screams. “Rhunis!”

Rhunis coughed up seawater as someone turned him onto his side and patted his back. The sights and sounds came rushing back to assault his senses.

“Rhunis!”

He swatted at his rescuer and struggled to sit up. A strong hand helped him. “Rhunis, my friend, I thought you for dead.”

He caught his breath and spat. Shaking his head he looked toward Abram’s voice. They were on the beach. Water lapped up at their feet as an army of both elf and human soldiers stormed the beaches around them.

“You woke me from the most wonderful dream,” grumbled Rhunis as he strove to stand. Abram helped him to his feet.

“You will find it again someday, but perhaps not this day.” Abram did not smile as he looked out at the ocean. And then Rhunis remembered.

“Whill, Avriel, Zerafin—where are they? I remember being blasted into the ocean and then…and then a great explosion.”

“Yes, an explosion,” Abram repeated solemnly. “And the end of the maiden of Elladrindellia. She did what she had to do—the only thing she could to give Whill a chance at escape.

“What of Whill, of Zerafin?”

Just then a figure emerged from the sea, his armor blackened, and his cloak in pieces. Yet he walked with strength and purpose. Abram had never seen such pain, such sorrow etched into the face of any elf in all of his days. Zerafin’s usual stoic expression had been replaced by one of misery and rage. In his strong arms lay the limp and lifeless body of his sister.

He did not speak, he did not even regard the two. He simply stopped upon the sand, dropped to his knees, and laid her down. A cry of anguish and tortured anger erupted from him, and anyone nearby would have stopped cold at the sound. One name escaped his lips and rang out into the heavens, a name embedded in the memory of every man and elf who lived to recall that dark day upon the beaches of Isladon: Avriel.

As the dust cleared and the cheers of the many dwarves transformed into a battle charge, a lone figure stood among the rubble. Farandelizon raised his arms, and with them dozens of boulders and broken rock rose into the air. With a flick he sent it all flying into the charging mob of dwarves. Roakore was at the head of the charge. Seeing the stone flying towards him and his men, he raised his hands and summoned the strength of his fellows. The boulders stopped in their flight, suspended in midair.

Beyond the Dark elf, the dwarves saw the great red dragon and the Eadon’s Dragon-hawk. Rage filled every last one of the battle-crazed dwarves. Here at the door of their mountain home stood not one but two dragons, and between the mighty warriors and their quarry stood one obstacle, the Dark elf. With a renewed battle cry they charged. A seat among the gods was the reward, they knew; to die even fighting a dragon without killing it meant the gods’ favor.

Eadon saw the charge and knew the minds of the dwarves; he turned to his Draggard army. “Kill them all!”

Farandelizon could not understand the strength of this mere dwarf. He could not move the stone. It hung midair even as the crazed dwarves charged his way. He had spent a large amount of stored energy shielding himself from the giant rock that had crashed him through the mountain wall. He had steadily applied pressure to the boulders he sent flying, but the dwarf had met that strength. Indeed, even as the dwarves, the stubborn dwarf king began to win the contest of wills. Farandelizon released a massive surge of energy, and still the rock did not move. Unable to withstand the great force, it exploded into a million pieces in all directions. The Dark elf released his hold on them as he drew his sword to face the onslaught of furious dwarves. Roakore, however, did not release the stones. They changed course, bent by his will alone. As Farandelizon cut through the charging dwarves, he set his sights on the blasted dwarf King. Summoning the energy stored within his heart stone, he began to charge straight at him. Suddenly a shadow covered him. Fighting through the dwarf army, he had not the time to stop the millions of descending stone fragments as they ripped through his body.

Abram saw Zerafin come to his feet shuddering in grief, face twisted in rage. Then he looked at the too-still figure of Avriel—saw her take breath. He rushed to her and lifted her head. “She lives, she breathes! Zerafin!”

The elf did not act as he should have at such news. He simply nodded. “Yes, she breathes, her body is alive, but she is not whole.” He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Abram feared what he meant. “Eadon, somehow, the monster...”

Rhunis looked on, horrified. “What is wrong with her? What has he done?”

Zerafin looked to his beloved youngest sister through tear-blurred eyes. “He has taken her soul.”

He stood before a group of mounted elves that had just come off their boat. “I am taking this regimen under my command,” Zerafin announced. “I will need three horses.” He grabbed a hold of a nearby elf commander’s armor and pulled him close. “Take my sister to the nearest boat. Keep her safe until I return.”

The two seemed to communicate for a moment silently. Then the commander scooped Avriel up and turned back to the waters.

“What’s your plan?” Abram asked.

He pointed toward the mountain. “Eadon has caught up with Whill.”

Abram could hardly make out movement in the sky. Horses were brought, and they mounted. With more than four dozen mounted elf warriors and twice as many humans following, they headed in the direction of the mountain door.

Roakore’s men poured out of the mountain to meet the charge of the Draggard. Whill watched helplessly, knowing that the dwarf army would cut through the nearby Draggard with ease. They would try to kill the red dragon; they would not understand that he was not an enemy, nor would they ever accept it as truth. He knew also that Eadon would kill every last one of them, of this fact he was sure. The Dark elf’s power was far too great.

He could not let this happen. He thought about the greater good, and realized that the best way to help in this battle would be to get Eadon out of it. And that meant full surrender.

Zerafin led the charge with Abram, Rhunis, and the might of the Eldalonian and elven armies at his back. They rode in a V-formation, creating a wedge that sliced through the Draggard army like a hot blade through butter.

A few miles away, at the door of the reclaimed mountain, Roakore’s army clashed with the Draggard. The war for Isladon had begun.

The red dragon Zhola saw the two armies meet, and he knew that he would die. If Eadon did not kill him, the dwarves certainly would. Because of their insane religious beliefs, dwarves were the only opponents dragons truly feared. The crazy little killers would fight viciously till the death, laughing all the while.

He thought of Adimorda, his old friend, and the many years he had spent with the elf. Adimorda had been a true seer; he had never been wrong. This meant, Zhola knew, that his last prediction would come to pass. Whill would use the sword to defeat the Dark elves and extinguish the Draggard from the face of the world. He believed it; he had to believe. He had lived the last five thousand of his six thousand years waiting to pass on the location of the blade to this mysterious Whill.

No, he thought. I will not die today, not until I have passed on the information to Whill. Zhola shuddered at the thought of the many ways the evil elf would try to get the information. He knew that he would soon know pain beyond what he thought possible. He also knew that aside from death, he was equipped to survive such torture. He must surrender and let destiny run its course. He truly had no choice.

Roakore’s men crashed into the Draggard army, which consisted of legions stretching all the way back to the beaches. The mountain had been emptied. They had been too late, Roakore realized. Hundreds of thousands of Draggard had spread out into the world. Many stayed and fought, but many more had gone off in all directions—a dark plague let loose into the world.

My grandchildren may not see the end of this war, Roakore thought.

Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram led the charge through the thousands of Draggard. They were less than two miles from the mountain. The elf held his sword high, and from it emanated the purest, brightest light in all directions. The Draggard cringed and yelped as the beams fell upon them. None could withstand the awesome, piercing light.

Eadon strode up to Whill and looked him dead in the eye. Whill saw that around the black pools of his eyes was a brilliant green, as if they were emerald specks. Within those orbs he also saw many millennia of life, knowledge, and power. If Whill could have made a sound he would have whimpered, so humbled was he in the presence of the ancient Dark elf. He felt a searing pain shoot through his head, as if ice-cold fingernails were scratching at his very brain. Depression, despair, and darkness filled his soul. Eadon leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“The battle you wage with me, child, will not be fought with muscle nor blade. You see, your mind is the battlefield. I can take your very sanity if I choose—if you choose. Resist me and I will show you pain beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond sanity. Follow me and you may find enlightenment.”

With the last word, the pain vanished and was replaced with a mental pleasure just as intense. His body shook with spasms as it jolted in rapture. His mind was filled with pleasure, hope, and willpower. Then Eadon released him. Whill caught his breath and raised his head. The elf lifted his hand, and in his palm sat a beautiful, swirling ball of light. Whill was mesmerized as he watched.

“Did you think her dead?”

Her? Whom does he speak of, what riddle was this? Then his breath shuddered. “What have you done?”

Eadon pocketed the swirling ball. “I have simply evened the scales. You have something I want, and now I have something—or should I say… someone—you want.”

“Avriel? It isn’t possible! What have you done?”

“Her body is alive, though it is but an empty shell. You really should thank me, Whill. She meant to die with that spell. A waste, really. She did have such a way about her walk, did she not?”

Whill seethed, He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of his enemy. His helplessness only fueled his rage. “I don’t believe you!”

Eadon laughed. “You will soon enough—that is, if I allow you to see within the orb. But if you defy me you will see firsthand as I transfer your beloved’s soul into a Draggard, or better yet, a Draggard queen. Tell me, how do you think Avriel would like that existence? She, an elf princess, birthing my army.”

What the Dark elf said was repulsive—unimaginable—but, Whill knew, possible for this sick being to accomplish. Knowing he had to do what he must to save Avriel’s soul, he hung his head in defeat.

“I will do what you ask of me.”

“Fret not, my friend, I repay loyalty and service. I am not such a monster as you think. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die this day.”

Looking through his elf sight, Zerafin told Abram and Rhunis of the battle at the mouth of the mountain. Whill and Eadon had mounted the dragons and flew into the sky, but the dwarves were still fighting through the mass of Draggard.

“The boy cannot resist one such as he—few can. He is lost to us.”

Abram’s heart stopped cold as he registered the elf’s words. This was all wrong—this was not part of the plan. Surely, this hadn’t been foreseen by Adimorda.

“I’m sorry” was all he could say and think.

As they came to the mountain they spotted Roakore’s ranks fighting the mass of Draggard. Zerafin steered them towards the dwarves. Whill was gone, Avriel was lost to them, but a war still needed warriors. It was time to fight.

Roakore saw too as Eadon and Whill mounted the dragons and flew off into the morning sky. The old dwarf knew better than to think him a traitor; he knew all too well the great power of the Dark elves, and he knew Whill’s peril.

“May the gods be with you lad,” he said with a tear in his eye.

His heart quickened as he saw the approach of his friends and the many skilled elf warriors. “Allies arrive, elves and men. Treat them as brethren, me boys! They fight with us against the Draggard.”

A cheer erupted around Roakore. This would be a day to remember, he thought.

Whill flew on the back of the red dragon as it followed Eadon and the Dragon-hawk through the sky, to what destination he did not know. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die by your sword this day. Eadon’s words echoed in Whill’s mind. He was doomed and he knew it. The journey to Elladrindellia had turned into a nightmare. Rather than traveling to the elven land with Avriel and the others, he had been caught, and they killed. He lost a bit of sanity when he thought about it. One good thing would come of this: he would kill his uncle the traitor. That was all that Whill let himself think about, for the other thoughts haunting the dark corners of his mind were much too painful.

They flew well into the afternoon. Whill knew now their destination: they were headed in the direction of his family’s castle, the center of the Uthen-Arden Kingdom. The home he had never seen. Home—that word had little meaning for Whill. His home had been taken from him, his family, his kingdom—all of it taken. Addakon would pay.

The Dragon-hawk led them to the northern tower of a great castle. So immense was it that the dragons themselves were dwarfed in its presence. They landed in the tower with ample room. Eadon dismounted as two robed figures approached.

“See to it that the red dragon—Zhola, is it not?—see to it that Zhola is given proper lodging befitting a guest. Great dragon, I trust that you will find everything as comfortable as can be managed. You shall have a bull to eat; you must be famished after such a long flight.” Zhola growled and Eadon smirked. “I trust that was your stomach, my friend, because you would be ill-advised to refuse my will.”

Whill dismounted, and Zhola and the Dragon-hawk were led down a great winding ramp. Without a word Eadon turned and exited down a hall to his right. Whill followed.

The Dark elf stopped to face him. “You seek the blood of your parents’ murderer, do you not? What have you imagined doing to him?” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Your rage is that which even one as old as I rarely see. It pulses from you. To my mind-sight it is a supernova of energy. Dark energy.” They went on to a torch-lit room.

Whill had barely heard him, so focused was he on the face of his uncle—the face of his father. But he did register the words “dark energy,” and the context thereof.

Into the room he went, as if floating upon a dream cloud. Time slowed as Eadon stepped aside to reveal the figure before them.

Roakore’s dwarves roared triumphantly as the elves’ flaming arrows cut into the backs of the retreating Draggard. To be a Draggard upon that shore that day meant doom. The battle had raged into the afternoon and evening, and the casualties for all armies had been devastating. Of the thousands of dwarves, fewer than five hundred remained, and those were mostly Roakore’s hardiest. Of the Eldalonian army, only five battalions of fifty still breathed. The elves had lost many to the Dark elf force of only seven. Many dwarves wondered at what they had witnessed of the elves, and most shuddered at the memory of the awesome power. Lightning had been pulled from the sky, tornadoes had tossed hundreds of Draggard miles into the air, and the ground itself had pulsed and fought as a mammoth monster of dirt and stone. Trees had been torn from their roots and rained down on the battle. Living flames had devoured hundreds. The dwarves had witnessed the true power of gods that day.

In the end it was Zerafin who had claimed the final Dark elf kill with a stone monster from the very side of the mountain. It pounded the kneeling Dark elf into the ground, its boulder fists hammering the elf’s protective energy shield. With a final ground-shaking blast, the stone behemoth punched through the earth, burying its arm up to the shoulder, and froze. There it stayed, and all knew that the Dark elf was dead.

At the end of it all Roakore stood with Abram, Rhunis, and Zerafin, staring out over the bloody battlefield. They awaited reports from their respective commanders. One such commander, a dwarf, ran up to them and slammed his chest.

“Me king. Our scouts hear tell the beasts that retreated south be hunted down an’ slain.” He paused. “The Draggard queen…”

Roakore and the others looked on expectantly. “Well? Out with it, laddie!”

The dwarf straightened. “We have found her, Sire, in the lowest reaches o’ the mountain.”

“Alive?” The dwarf nodded. “Then together let us end this bloody battle and call the day a victory. If you will, I would have ye accompany us in this last fight. Ye have all earned it.”

Zerafin looked to the mountain. “A Draggard queen is not to be underestimated. They are not the mindless beasts you might think. They are highly intelligent, they speak, and they are skilled in the ways of the Dark arts. You must allow the elves to deal with her, my good dwarf.”

Roakore stumbled over his words. “Let the elves handle it—the elves! If you had a chance to take back yer home land, would ye let the dwarves take care of it? No, my good elf, you would not! Am I to rob me fellows o’ the chance to take back their own mountain with their own might?” He slammed his axe hilt onto a large stone at his feet. It shattered into pieces.

Zerafin did not speak, he simply sighed. Abram, for once, did not offer his thoughts, for they were with Whill. It was Rhunis who spoke.

“Let us fight together in this venture as you said, Roakore. The mountain has been taken back, your father’s soul freed.” Roakore’s eyes lit up at the recognition of the fate of his father’s soul. “Let our three races come together as one, as we done on this battlefield. Together we must stand.”

“Whill would want it that way,” Abram said, head still bent as he stood apart from them.

Zerafin nodded. “As would Avriel.”

Roakore sighed and smiled. “As do I, then, as do I.”

The four clasped shoulders.

“But,” said Roakore. “The killing blows will be dealt by us dwarves.”

“Why? Why did you kill your own brother for this…this...” Whill motioned to Eadon with a weak hand. “This madman!”

Addakon stepped forward into the torchlight, a long red cloak dragging behind him. His face—the face of his twin brother—was revealed. Whill sucked in his breath. This face, those eyes, that brown hair—Whill had seen it all before. He had seen it in a dream when he had been but seven, one of the many dreams of his parents. But his first dream of them had been real. It seemed that his powers had revealed themselves as early as that.

Addakon spoke. “Why do we do anything, ultimately?”

Whill waited. He was not about to participate in some lesson with this man, and Addakon saw it in his face.

“For power!” he said, making a fist. “Everything we do is for power. I have learned that the quest for control—be it over nature, each other, death, or anything else—is always fueled by a need for power.”

Whill shook his head. “No, not everything. We do not love for power.”

His uncle smiled, but his voice revealed his malice. “Do we not? Do we not feel power over those we love? Do we not love the powerful?”

“Was it worth it, Addakon? Your betrayal? Your tainted soul? Have you attained the great power you sought?”

“I have attained more power than any human before me.”

“You both know the prophecy, I assume,” Whill said.

Addakon lowered his eyes and quickly raised them again. Whill saw a spark of doubt on his smug face.

“It is written that I will find the sword and destroy you, Eadon. This is written by the greatest seer that ever lived. This you cannot change.” Whill dared to say.

The Dark elf shrugged lazily. “I could kill you with a thought.”

“But you have not, and I know you will not, because you didn’t in Adimorda’s vision.” Whill’s mind raced. He believed he was right; he believed all of it. Somehow in this, his darkest hour, his moment of revenge, he believed for the first time that he really was the chosen one. That meant he would not die here tonight.

Addakon began to pace. “The blade of Adimorda cannot be wielded by an elf. But we can wield it, Whill, and so could your father. And after I kill you, only I will be able to wield the great power within the blade.”

“But you will not kill me. You cannot. For it has been written.”

He unsheathed his sword but did not strike. “You believe it, don’t you?”

Whill only smiled. “So do you.” He eyed him up and down. “You fear me.” His uncle said nothing. Then he looked into Eadon’s unchanging eyes. “But you do not.”

Addakon erupted. “I do not fear you, boy! I will finish this night what I started twenty years ago. You are not the chosen one.”

Eadon smiled. “Yes, he is.”

Whill unsheathed his sword but did not attack. He could feel the power within, and the energy radiating from Avriel’s heart stone. It coursed through his body faster than his blood. He believed it all. He had been named by Adimorda—he alone. He would kill Addakon this night, and later—with the great sword—Eadon.

The evil king raised his hand and a red tendril shot towards Whill. He raised his own hand, and blue tendrils of healing energy shot forth to meet the red. Sparks lit the room like lightning as the two powers collided. Whill did not know how he was doing it, somehow he just knew what to do. Something had been awakened in him, something that had been slumbering for quite some time. Addakon screamed and sent a huge blast through the red tendrils. The blue ones were devoured and Whill was hit with a gut-wracking blow of pure pain. He hit the floor but extended his hand once again. From it came a blast of energy. Addakon redirected it to a bookshelf, which exploded as if hit by a tornado.

Whill had risen even as the blast left him, and brought his sword down on Addakon.

It took the army nearly two hours to reach the deep lair of the Draggard queen. They entered the ancient caverns of Baz’klon. At the bottom of a stair they encountered dozens of crudely built stables filled with livestock, no doubt food for the great queen. Many wounded dwarves and more than a few dead ones littered the wide hall leading to the chamber.

An elf maiden bent to see to one. Lunara, young even by human standards, was not as seasoned as the other elves, and had less tolerance for the suffering of others. She was still Ullestranna—innocent—in the eyes of her people. It was an unspoken fact that over many years, even centuries of life, elves had to harden themselves to the pains of the world. Many elves did not reach an age of thousands of years, though they had the means. They did not take their own lives, but stopped prolonging them. Many also went into the unknown without fear, for they achieved wisdom beyond the grasp of any human—or dwarf, for that matter.

“What is your name, good dwarf?” she asked.

The dwarf, choking on blood and with closed eyes, answered, “I be Holdagozz, son o’ Holdagar. Who asks, good lady…?” He stopped mid-sentence and looked wide-eyed at Lunara. “I be dead then, and you be me godly escort to the Mountain o’ the Gods, for never in Agora have I seen anythin’ so beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “That is—have I made it into the Hall o’ the Gods?”

She smiled. “No, you have not, Holdagozz, but nor are you dead.” Holdagozz frowned as she continued. “But I’m afraid you soon will be.” She looked at his chest, where two Draggard tails protruded from his armor.

“Bah this? This ain’t nothing.” Holdagozz burst into a coughing fit. His gloved hand came away soaked in blood, and he wiped it on his short cloak. “This is it, then. I go to me gods. Soon my deeds will be read.” He coughed again briefly and looked at his war hammer, Zlynock, forged by his great-great-grandfather seven hundred years before.

“Have I done enough?” he asked Lunara, grasping frantically at her sleeve.

“That is for your gods to answer, friend.” She looked around slyly. “Would you like to do more?”

Holdagozz ignored the blood on his lips. “I would. But I cannot.”

She knelt beside him. “I am young, even for an elf. But we all have special gifts, things we are naturally better at than most. For some it is listening to the wind or talking with birds; for others it is forging weapons or divining the universe. My gift is in healing. If you would allow me…”

“Witchery! Black crafts!” yelled Holdagozz.

Roakore pushed his way over to them and addressed Lunara. “Is he demented? What is it?”

“No, his wits are with him—well, some. I simply offered to heal his wounds.”

An elf commander stepped forward. “You cannot heal every dying person you meet in war, Lunara. Your energy is priceless in times such as these.”

Roakore turned to the tall Elf. “An’ what?” Roakore demanded. “Yer thinking dirty dwarves ain’t for healin’—waste o’ energy, eh?” He stepped so close that his belly bumped the elf’s thighs.

Zerafin put a hand on each of their chests. “Stop this, please. I apologize for Shief, he must not know to whom he speaks. The dwarves in Roakore’s army are the most skilled warriors to ever come out of the stone. It would be a valuable investment into the future of this war to save any of them. I give my blessing on any healing.”

“He is right, warrior,” Roakore said to Holdagozz. “If ye can be saved, ye should be. An’ ye wouldn’t be the first. I…I too have been healed by elven powers.” The army of dwarves around him sucked in their breath. “An that’s all they be…powers, ye buncha old ladies! Like any power, it can be used fer good or ill. These elves use ’em fer good, so quit bein a dragon’s arse, take what’s offered ye. An’ be glad ye can live to fight again.”

Roakore started off down the cavern hall. Zerafin followed close. “Well said, my good friend. I think you may have just brought our two peoples closer than anyone ever has.”

“Bah, to hell with politics,” Roakore huffed.

Holdagozz coughed more blood onto his armor. Lunara smiled weakly, a tear tracing her cheek.

“If ye can make me strong like I was, then ye can do it. But I ain’t gonna live the life o’ no cripple, waiting to stand before the gods.”

Lunara wept with joy. “Thank you, Holdagozz, thank you. You will indeed be strong.”

She did not draw her sword but rather held out before her the staff of Aorentia. The knotted and curving wood shone in the torchlight. She tapped into the energy within and transferred it into Holdagozz, first to numb the coming pain.

“Pull them out,” she said to Shief, and nodded toward the Draggard tails. Shief complied and pulled them out together, one in each hand. Holdagozz did not cry out; indeed he felt nothing. He seemed to be in the midst of the most pleasant dream.

Next Lunara began to heal him and, when the injuries were repaired, delved deeper into his energy fibers. She permanently thickened his bones, strengthened his ligaments and tendons, and wove new muscle into place. Then she retracted the blue tendrils of healing energy, and lantern light replaced the radiant blue. She helped Holdagozz to his feet. He looked down at his body in awe and flexed and clenched his fists. He sniffed at the air and then began to run his hand over the smooth cavern wall as if looking for a marking, sniffing all the while. Then he stopped. Lunara looked at Shief, who shrugged. Holdagozz stepped back and slammed his fist into the stone wall. Rock exploded from the impact and he struck again, this time up to his elbow. Out of the hole he fished a chunk of rock. He turned to her and crushed the stone in his hands. Pieces tumbled to the floor, but something remained. He crushed more stone and brushed it away, and then with his cloak he polished the object. Extending his hand, he presented Lunara a sapphire the size of an apple.

Whill’s sword met Addakon’s high above their heads. Their eyes met. Addakon did not see fear in his opponent’s, but Whill did. His uncle attacked, spinning the blades and unlocking their clutch. Addakon slashed low at Whill’s feet but Whill hopped the blades and came across the middle while in the air. With amazing speed Addakon came out of his attack and blocked the blow, holding his sword in one hand. With the other he threw a pulsing red ball of energy. Whill spun with the attack and instinctively caught the energy in a blue ball of light in his palm. He had somehow known what Addakon would do, as easily as if it had been Abram. Twirling, he sent it back, but it was redirected. There was a great explosion as stone rained down from the tower, and a ten-foot hole appeared in the wall.

“How is this possible?” Addakon screamed as he raised his sword to block. Eadon only laughed, thoroughly amused.

Roakore entered the chamber of the Draggard queen behind his men. Abram and Zerafin followed. Before them was an immense cavern, more than six hundred yards wide, with thousands of hatched and decaying eggs littering the floor. At the center of the room lay the Draggard queen. The body of a wingless dragon, with a beautiful pattern of purple scales, wound its way up into the naked torso of a dark-purple-skinned Dark elf woman. She rose as the small army entered. All in her presence were stunned by what they saw, though none would show it. Zerafin addressed them with an upraised hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his hand coming to rest on Roakore’s breastplate. The dwarves grunted and looked on with suspicious eyes. Zerafin lowered his hand and pointed at the queen. “A Draggard queen must not to be underestimated, good dwarf. We must plan our attack well.”

Suddenly two dwarf brothers broke rank and charged the queen. “Hold!” cried Roakore, but the dwarves ran on, flinging their many hatchets before them. The queen raised a clawed fist and opened her outstretched hand. The hatchets went whirling into a bright white ball of light within her palm and disappeared. The lead dwarf was hurled into the ceiling by an unseen force. The second dwarf came barreling in with his war hammer held high as his brother’s body hit the ground. He was impaled by three of the Queen’s seven twenty-foot, barbed tails. Then she sneered at the group as she sent the tails in opposite directions, ripping the brave dwarf apart.

Whill was completely absorbed in the sword and heart stone’s powers. He could feel more than the energy; it was the source of the power that emanated from the sword of his father. He soon realized that he was not in control of his actions, for he was fighting and performing far beyond his skill level. The sword moved of its own accord. Words he had never spoken came to his lips, spells he had never heard uttered.

Addakon’s eyes went wide with fear as he frantically tried to parry the lightning-fast blows that rained down on him. Whill’s voice was his own but the words were not. He did not intend to speak, just as he did not now wield his father’s sword.

“Addakon. Brother. Repent now and our soul may yet find rest.” His uncle’s look of fear only intensified. Whill stepped back. “Many years I have waited in darkened slumber within the heart of the dwarf mountain. For two decades I have counted the days until I would feel the energy of my son’s strong hand. Now comes your judgment, brother.”

Whill felt like he was in a dream, watching and listening from within as his father’s spirit spoke. He was a vessel; his father’s spirit flowed forth from the sword and filled him with warmth.

Eadon looked on in amusement. “We elves have known for many millennia the curios relationship that twins share. Did you never come across these teachings in your studies, Addakon?”

Addakon looked, horrified, at the sword in Whill’s hand—Sinomara, the sword of his betrayed brother.

“Aramonis?” he whispered as he bent in shame. The sweat upon his brow glistened in the torchlight. “What trick is this?”

“If it is a trick, it is one of the gods’,” Whill’s voice said coolly.

Eadon explained, “Human love stories speak of soul mates, a blissfully romantic and ridiculous notion when attributed to a lover, but twins are the true soul mates, two bodies with one soul.”

“Which is why I was able, on that dark day of your ultimate sin, to cling to this world,” Aramonis said through Whill. “As my body fell away I poured myself into my blade, to forever wait, to free you from your terrible crimes.”

Addakon fell to his knees. Tears poured from his bloodshot eyes. Facing the brother whom he had wronged so, he fell apart. The years of denial and fear, the haunting dreams and guilt that had gnawed at his resolve for two decades, left him shattered. There was no fight left in him.

“Forgive me, Aramonis!” He pointed a shaking finger at Eadon. “It was him, his lies, his promises—he turned me against you! He said that you plotted to do the very same to me. You must believe me!”

“Yes, brother, it was him. He spoke only lies. I would have never wielded Adromida, nor shall you. Eadon knows this, for it has been foreseen. Only Whill shall wield the blade and destroy him.”

Eadon said nothing. He did not seem angered to hear this. Rather, it left him at peace.

Whill moved to a large silver-trimmed mirror upon the wall, and looked into his own eyes. His mouth spoke, but he did not form the words himself. “I learned of Adimorda as a young man, Whill. I, like the elves, believe the prophecy to be true. Forgive me. It is why I named you as I did. I have placed this great burden on your shoulders. Forgive me, son, as I do my brother.”

Whill turned and saw Addakon smiling through his tears. In that smile, he finally saw the face of his father. “It is time to come with me,” Whill’s voice said softly as tears fell.

Addakon dropped his sword and, with both hands, ripped open his clothing to expose his bare chest. “Take me from this place.”

Whill’s body lunged forward and stabbed Addakon through the heart. A blinding white light engulfed the room for many moments as the sword’s energy poured forth, and two souls became one again.

Just as quickly as it started, it ended. Addakon was dead, his father’s spirit gone. Whill was left holding the empty sword of his father, and Eadon laughed with delight.

“Hold!” Roakore screamed again as the many groups rustled and tensed, ready to charge. “Keep yer bloody heads, ye crazy sons o’ rock moss! Next one that breaks rank I kill meself!”

Roakore turned to his council. “So what ye thinking, Z?”

Zerafin looked oddly at Roakore, then to the Draggard Queen.

He began to lay out the plan for attack when the Draggard queen spoke. Her great voice filled the cavern, and though no one would have admitted it, the voice was like soft music.

“Ah, the great and powerful Roakore, son of the fallen king of the Ebony Mountains, heir to a tomb.”

Roakore’s lip curled in a snarl as he turned to face her. She took three graceful strides closer, but was still more than two hundred paces away.

“I met your father once, briefly.” She sucked the tips of each of her clawed fingers in turn. “He gave me much nourishment for my first litter of Ebony Mountain–born children.” Four large fangs flashed behind midnight-black lips.

Groaning, Zerafin closed his eyes and shook his head. “That did it,” Rhunis muttered.

For a moment Roakore looked stunned. The blasphemy that had befallen his ears shocked his sensibilities to such an extent that he was dumbfounded. For the first and last time in his life, he was speechless.

Roakore did not storm off in a rage. He turned to his friends with tears welling in his eyes, and tightened his grip on his axe. “Help me if ye want, but do not stop me!”

Zerafin grabbed his shoulder as he turned to engage the queen. “I will not stop you, but please accept my strength.” He sent a jolting blast of energy from his hand into Roakore’s body and weapons. Feeling electrified, as though lightning pulsed through his body, Roakore turned and began a steady charge at the queen—to the cheers of his men.

He sent his stone bird whirling and called the names of his father and the gods. He charged on as the weapon reached its target in less than two seconds; it was a blur and it came in hard. The queen caught the whirling stones in a ball of light and the weapon twirled, suspended. Roakore was now less than fifty feet from her as he barreled in. She sent her seven tails at him from the right; barbed and pointed spears of death came at him fast. He did not stop, but extended his hand down towards the stone floor, and hollered the dwarf word for stone. Two slabs of rock blasted out from the ground and caught the tails in a vise-like grip, completely crushing them. The queen howled in pain. Roakore veered right and jumped high into the air. He flipped over his axe as if it were a vaulting pole, and his feet never slowed when they hit the floor.

“A distraction!” ordered Zerafin, and the soldiers complied. The elves sent a glowing, multicolored volley of arrows at the queen as the dwarves launched their many hatchets. She lifted her hands, and every missile stopped in its course and flew back at the attacker. The elves pushed back with mental energy of their own in a stalemate.

She screamed at her attackers and knew her doom. She could not stop the crazed dwarf without letting up on the missiles, but she could take this little bastard with her. She would wait until the last second to let down her guard, and then she would tear him apart.

Roakore barreled in. The queen’s greedy teeth awaited him, but he came to a sudden sliding stop, not ten feet away, and slammed his fists into the floor. She was slammed with a stone tide as the floor erupted before her. Pebbles and chunks of rock alike riddled her flying body. Her attention shifted to her own pain, and the arrows and hatchets rained into her. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“Hail, King Roakore!” Zerafin cried.

All took up the cry. “Hail, King Roakore!”

Roakore went to the fallen queen and, with his great axe, hewed off her head—just in case—and raised it to the crowd. The cheers swelled.

“I have seen a great many amazing things in all my centuries. That was simply beautiful. You should be proud of your father,” Eadon said.

Whill held his father’s empty sword and looked at him with disgust. “I need not be told that by one such as you.” He wiped the blood from Sinomara’s blade and sheathed it. “I will not be used by you. I will not help you find Adromida. I do not know what your plans are, or how you intend to stop the prophecy, but I will not be your puppet.”

Eadon laughed, but when the laughing ceased there was no smile. He began to circle Whill. “Don’t you see? You have defeated your uncle; you are now king of all of Uthen-Arden. You need not fight me, for I am not your enemy. Never again will you have enemies if you follow me. You can have the world, Whill.”

“I am the rightful king, that is true,” Whill said softly. The Dark elf smiled.

“And as king I shall make you pay for all you have done. I do not want the world, Eadon, I simply want a world without you or the damned Draggard. I want a world of peace.”

Eadon’s smile turned to a sneer in the blink of an eye. “I will teach you pain beyond human endurance. Should you defy me, I will make you beg for death before I am through with you. Every day you will be brought within an inch of it, only to be healed. You will bend to my will—me, your master.”

“Never!”

Before the word could leave his lips he was slammed into the wall with a flick of Eadon’s wrist. He got to his feet and unsheathed his father’s sword. It was ripped from his grasp by the Dark elf’s mind, and slammed against the wall. Whill lunged forward, but Eadon raised a hand and his body froze. The Dark elf lunged forward and dealt a double-fisted blow to his ribs. He was thrown backwards into the wall and landed with a thud, his ribs shattered. He could not draw breath; many of the bones had penetrated his lungs. He coughed blood, and Eadon was on him in a flash. Whill was lifted into the air only to be slammed against the wall once more. Then he was pulled through the air and caught by the throat in Eadon’s powerful grip. He brought his face close to Whill’s as he choked the life from him.

“Yes, my friend. You know it to be true. You cannot win; you cannot defy me. The outcome can only mean loss for you.”

Whill blacked out. Finally the pain ceased, and there was nothing—sweet, beautiful, warm nothing. He had been delivered by death from the clutches of the murderous Dark elf. But then—

Sound, smell. He opened his eyes in time to see the blue tendrils of healing dissipate. His ribs and lungs were healed, and Eadon stood over him.

“Thus begins your training, apprentice,” he said as he stepped aside. Another Dark elf approached, followed by two Draggard. Whill got to his feet and stood before them boldly.

“This is Thazak,” Eadon said. “He will be your first teacher.”

He was taller than Whill and slightly shorter than Eadon, with black hair and dark eyes. His face was adorned with intricate black tattoos. Whill’s body froze as Thazak grabbed his face by the jaw and inspected him. “I have practiced the art of torture for many years in anticipation of your arrival. Your pain will be legendary.” He smiled. “I promise.”

Thazak proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life, and Whill thought that if he could somehow survive this, he could survive anything. His limp body was dragged down many stairs by the Draggard. They took him to the special dungeons far below the castle, from which no screams would be heard. The young man Whill had been would never return from those depths, even if his body did.

Roakore entered the throne room, and there upon the throne he saw it, the skeleton of his father. The enemy had propped him up in the chair, crown and all. This had been meant as an insult, but to Roakore it now seemed proper. He raised his hands and tried as hard as he could to picture his father. With the image in mind, he commanded the stone and it obeyed. It rose up from all sides and encased the dead king and his throne. It fused together, but then the outer stone fell away revealing a sculpture of Roakore’s father. It was so perfect, it could not have been made by hand. When the clan had amassed its wealth once again, Roakore intended to encrust it with diamonds.

He went down on one knee. “Father. I have done as ye asked. I have taken back our mountain. Let yer soul be free.”

For a moment there was only silence, but then a draft picked up and blew through his hair. From the statue rose a silver mist. It lingered for a moment, and then spiraled up and disappeared into the ceiling. Roakore burst into tears of joy.

He joined his new friends and looked out over the battlefield in the fading sunlight. They had all—elf, dwarf, and human—lost many lives this day. Abram looked to the sky and thought of Whill. Roakore knew his mind.

“What has become of him?” Abram asked the faint wind.

Zerafin looked at the ground. “He has been taken by Eadon. Our greatest fears have been realized. We have won today’s battle, but at a great expense. Without Whill, we cannot win the war. We have no other option but to try and free him from the Dark elf’s grasp.”

“How do we free him from one so powerful?” Abram asked.

Zerafin shook his head. “How indeed?”

The Story Continues In… A Quest of Kings: Book #2

Afterword

MICHAEL JAMES PLOOF IS A bestselling author of epic and urban fantasy.

His epic fantasy series—Legends of Agora—currently consists of six books set in Agora, a land inhabited by humans, elves, dragons, and dwarves. He has recently branched out to urban fantasy with his post-apocalyptic series: The Orion Rezner Chronicles. Michael lives in Northern NY (as far north as you can get) with his wife and two teenage children.

Join the mailing list for updates on new releases, special promotions, book giveaways, author blog and much more: www.whillofagora.com/Contact-Us.html

Like our Facebook page: www.facebook.com/WhillofAgora

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Other Books by Michael James Ploof

Whill of Agora Series

Book 1: Whill of Agora

Book 2: A Quest of Kings

Book 3: A Song of Swords

Book 4: A Crown of War

The Windwalker Archive

Book 1: Talon

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REQUIEM'S SONG - DAWN OF DRAGONS, BOOK #1

Daniel Arenson

LAIRA

ON LAIRA’S TENTH BIRTHDAY, THE crone dragged her outside to see her mother burned at the stake.

Laira blinked in the weak morning sun. She had not seen daylight in so long. For five days they had kept her in her tent, alone in shadows, alone in fear, the sounds of the trial—shouting, pleading, weeping—rising outside. Now silence filled the camp. Now, finally in daylight, Laira only wanted to return to the darkness.

Other tents rose across the yellow grass, similar to hers, their animal-skin covers stretched across cedar poles. In the distance rolled a red forest, a place of berries and the whispers of secret men, and beyond the trees rose the faded blue mountains where the elk roamed. A murder of crows circled above, cawing, and Laira felt her head spin and she nearly fell. She clutched her doll, a wooden little thing she had named Mustardseed. The crone’s talon-like hand tightened around Laira’s arm, dragging her forward; Laira felt like a doll herself, helpless and small.

“Keep walking and don’t close your eyes,” said the crone, a shaman named Shedah. Her arms were knobby like old carob branches, and her fingers ended with sharp, yellow nails that nicked Laira’s flesh. Other fingers—torn off the hands of dead men—hung around Shedah’s neck in a lurid necklace of bone and dried flesh, charms to ward off evil spirits. The crone was ancient beyond measure—some claimed her two hundred winters old—and so wizened her eyes all but disappeared into nests of wrinkles. Her gums were toothless, her nose beaked, her body withered, and yet she was still so strong, strong enough that Laira thought the crone could snap her arm in two. All Laira could do was keep walking, guided by the old woman.

“I won’t close my eyes,” Laira whispered.

Shedah cackled. “If you do, I’ll rip off your eyelids and make you watch. So be a good little maggot.”

They kept moving through the camp. The tribe’s totem pole rose ahead—the great bole of an ancient cedar, carved with images of bison, eagles, and leaping fish. Near its crest flared a gilded mammoth tusk, long as a boat, attached to the pole with rawhide thongs. The cross of wood and ivory towered above the tents—the god Ka’altei, a deity of meat and fire. Wherever they set down this pole marked their territory, a beacon for all other tribes to fear.

Around the pillar brooded its guardians—the rocs, fetid birds the size of mammoths. Oil dripped down their black feathers, and their long, naked necks turned as Laira approached. Their cruel beaks—large enough to swallow men—clacked open and shut, and their talons, which were longer than human arms, dug into the soil. Their eyes watched Laira, gleaming orbs like circles of bronze. Were they not tethered to the totem, Laira thought they’d leap toward her, tear out her entrails, and feast.

The tribesmen stood everywhere, dour, staring, clad in fur and leather and holding spears. Some stared at Laira balefully. One hunter, a burly man with a scraggly red beard, spat at her. Others gazed in pity. Clad in a robe of patches, a druid woman whispered ancient prayers, reaching toward Laira but daring not approach. In Laira’s old home across the sea, men now wove wool and cotton, built houses of stone, and shaved their beards, yet here in the north—in the Goldtusk tribe—lived an older, prouder, rougher people, warriors of fur and stone and hair. War paint covered their leathery skin, and tattoos of totem animals coiled around their arms.

The crone kept tugging her forward, and Laira wanted to use her curse—the secret disease of her family, the power that would let her escape this tribe, let her free her mother, let her kill them all. Yet she dared not. Mother had used the dark magic; now the woman would burn.

Past campfires, the totem pole, and a mammoth carcass buzzing with flies it rose—the pyre.

Upon the pile of wood and kindling she stood tied to the stake—Laira’s mother.

For five days in her tent, Laira had shed many tears, yet none would now flow. The crone who dragged her forward paused, and Laira stood in the dead grass, staring, feeling dead herself, feeling empty.

Mother wept.

Her face was so beaten Laira barely recognized her. It looked less like a face and more like a slab of bloodied meat. Tears poured from bruised, bloodshot eyes to flow down lacerated cheeks. When Mother spoke, her voice was slurred, thick with blood and shattered teeth.

“Don’t make her watch. Turn her aside. Please . . . Laira, my sweetness, please, close your eyes.”

Laira bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She wanted to run away, but how could she? She wanted to close her eyes, but Shedah had promised to rip off her eyelids. The crone gripped both her arms now, fingers digging, hard as bronze, and Laira wondered if those fingers could shatter her bones, rip off her limbs, kill her right here with the pain. Mother wept upon the pyre and Laira wanted to do something—to use her curse, to scream, even to weep, some act of defiance or emotion . . . but she only watched.

“Behold the reptile!”

The voice, high-pitched and raspy, tore through the camp like a blade through flesh. Goose bumps rose on Laira’s skin. Wincing, she turned to see him—the man who ruled the Goldtusk tribe, the man who would sentence Mother to death, the man who filled Laira’s nightmares.

“Zerra,” she whispered.

The chieftain limped toward them, tall and swaying like a wicker effigy in the wind. He wore patches of fur, leather boots, and necklaces of bone beads. His prized possession, a bronze apa sword, hung upon his belt. The blade was leaf-shaped, double-edged, and as long as a man’s forearm, sprouting from a semicircular crossguard. In some of the villages across the river, men now forged metal, plowed fields, and raised huts, but Zerra had always scorned them. His were the old ways, the ways of hunting and gathering, of tents and campfires, of blades taken from corpses rather than forged in smithies.

More than his towering height, his sword, or his mane of grizzled hair, it was Zerra’s face that frightened Laira. Half that face was gone, burned into something wet, raw, and dripping. Mother had given him that wound—or at least, the creature Mother had become, a monster of scales, fangs, and fire.

The disease, Laira thought and shivered. The curse that had us banished from Eteer, our old home across the sea. The curse that lets my family turn into reptiles. Into monsters. Into . . . dragons.

“Zerra, listen to me!” Mother cried from the pyre. “Banish us. Banish us to the escarpment. We will not hurt you. We—“

“You will burn and scream for me,” Zerra said, his left eye blazing from his melted flesh. “You are lower than one who lies with pigs. You will squeal.”

You screamed, Laira thought. You squealed.

She had seen it five days ago. She had dreamed it every night since. She knew those nightmares would fill her forever. The memory pounded through her, shaking her bones.

While the men had hunted upon their rocs, Mother had taken Laira into the woods to gather berries, nuts, and mushrooms. Mother’s amulet gleamed around her neck, a silver talisman bearing the sigil of Taal, a god of their old home across the sea, a god unknown to any others in this northern hinterland. Past a grove of birches they had found a pond, a place of water lilies, golden leaves, and mist. It was a secret place, a perfect place. A place for dark magic.

The curse always itched within Laira and her mother. The disease forever cried for release. They stepped into the pool, submerged themselves in the water . . . and shifted.

Hidden underwater, Laira opened her eyes, and between algae and the roots of lilies, she saw Mother change. White scales flowed across her body, the color of moonlight, and wings unfurled from her back. Her body grew, becoming almost as large as a roc, slick and graceful and thin. Laira changed too, letting the curse raise golden scales across her. Her wings stirred the water, and she blasted sparks from her mouth.

Their claws rested on the pool’s floor. Their tails braided together. Their heads—long, scaled, and horned—rose to the surface. Nostrils and eyes emerged into the air. Men called it a curse, but to Laira it felt so good. This felt more like her natural form than the scrawny, raven-haired girl she was at their camp. Scaled and winged, a golden dragon, Laira felt whole. She felt true. Looking around the forest, she tried to imagine flapping her wings and flying, seeing mountains, forests, and rivers from high above, so high nobody could hurt her.

“Why must we hide?” she asked, sticking her snout over the water. Lilies tangled around her teeth. “They say that other cursed ones live at the escarpment in the north. They say it’s safe. They say Zerra’s own twin brother hides there, cursed with the same disease.”

Mother blasted smoke from her nostrils. Her eyes narrowed. As a dragon, her voice sounded deeper, stronger, almost musical. “There are no others, Laira. That’s only a myth. The world is cold and large and empty. The lone wolf perishes. The pack survives. The tribe of Goldtusk is our home, and Zerra is a kind master.”

“A master who would slay us if he knew our secret!” Laira said. “I hate hiding. I hate this curse. Why did you have to give me this disease? You infected me.” Tears burned in her eyes. “If I must be a dragon, let me fly. Let me be free. I won’t cower in the water.”

Anger flowed through Laira, rattling her scales, and flames filled her maw. With a cry, she beat her wings. She rose from the pool, water and algae dripping off her scales, claws scratching at the air. Mother gasped and stared from below. Laira knew the rule—only become a dragon underwater, in darkness of night, or in deep caves, never in the open. They had been caught shifting in their last home, a place Laira could hardly remember, and they had barely escaped. But Laira didn’t care. Laira was done caring. She hated hiding and she would fly.

She beat her wings, rising higher, soaring between the trees until she crashed through the forest canopy with a shower of orange leaves. The cold wind streamed around her and Laira laughed. This was freedom. This was who she was. They called it a disease but she felt healthier than ever, not a monster but a noble spirit of fire.

“Laira!”

She looked down to see Mother rising from the forest—a slim white dragon with blue eyes.

“I can fly!” Laira shouted and laughed. “I can fly to the escarpment. I can find the others. I know they’re real. I—“

“Laira, come back here!” Mother shouted, flying toward her.

The white dragon reached out her claws, grabbed Laira’s leg, and tugged. Laira screamed and tried to free herself, and her wings beat, and—

Shrieks pierced the air.

Laira fell silent.

Mother spun around in the sky, stared east, and cried out in fear.

“Rocs,” Laira whispered.

The great birds, larger even than dragons, covered the sky, fetid things like oversized vultures. Their heads were bald, their necks gangly, their black feathers damp with the oil they secreted. Their talons reached out, and upon their backs rode the hunters of the Goldtusk tribe.

At their lead, riding upon a massive roc that dwarfed the others, rode Zerra.

“The curse of the reptile rises!” cried the chieftain, his hair billowing. He raised a flint-tipped spear in his hand; feathers and scrimshawed raven skulls adorned its shaft. “Behold the weredragon.”

Mother hovered and snarled, hiding Laira behind her. She faced the advancing horde. Dozens of rocs flew toward them.

“Fly down into the forest,” Mother said softly, still facing the foul birds; it took Laira a few heartbeats to realize Mother was talking to her. “They haven’t seen you yet. Land among the trees, become human again, and return to the camp.”

“We have to flee!” Laira said.

“They’re too fast,” Mother replied. “They will catch us if we flee. Into the forest, go! I’ll hold them off.”

The rocs shrieked, drawing nearer. Their stench filled the air, thick as fog, and their cries split the sky, slamming against Laira’s eardrums.

Laira shook, hesitating, wanting to fight too, wanting to drag Mother to safety, wanting to fly north and find the other dragons fabled to exist . . . but she simply obeyed.

She flew down past the leafy canopy. Before she hit the ground, she heard screams above. Fire blazed overhead and blood rained. Laira landed by the pool, shifted back into human form, and gazed up at the sky.

She trembled. She wanted to cry out but dared not. Past the branches, she caught only glimpses of the violence. She saw Mother blowing fire, a blaze greater than any pyre, tinged blue and white with horrible heat. She saw Zerra ignite, scream, and burn upon his roc. And then only smoke, talons cutting into scales, and pattering blood on fallen leaves.

A human again—ten years old, scrawny as a twig, and clad only in her buffalo pelt—Laira ran.

She ran through the forest, across the meadow, and into their camp. She ran until Shedah—wizened, cackling, covered in moles—grabbed her. She screamed in the crone’s grasp as the hunters returned with their catch. Mother was now in human form, beaten and bloodied, tied with ropes. She was trying to shift into a dragon again; scales appeared and disappeared upon her body, but whenever she began to grow, the ropes dug into her flesh, shoving her back into human form. Men tossed Mother onto the ground, kicking, striking with sticks, and Laira wanted to run to her, she wanted to shift into a dragon and save her, but she only raced into her tent, and she only trembled.

For five days she cowered as Shedah guarded the tent, sealing Laira in the shadows.

And now she stood here, staring, all her tears spent, watching her mother upon the pyre, watching Zerra lift a torch and bring it toward the pile of wood and kindling.

“Please,” Laira whispered, and finally her eyes dampened. “Please, Zerra, please don’t kill her. Please.”

The chieftain slowly turned toward her. He stared, the ruined half of his face dripping pus and blood. Slowly a smile spread across his face, displaying crooked teeth.

“One day, little worm . . .” he said, voice like wooden chips rubbing together. “One day I will find the curse in you too, and you will scream like this.”

With that, Zerra spun back toward the pyre and tossed his torch into the kindling.

Oil soaked the straw, twigs, and dried leaves. They burst into flame with the speed and ferocity of dragonfire.

Mother screamed.

The fire spread across her, blazing skyward, licking skin off muscle, flesh off bones. And still Mother screamed, writhing in her bonds, begging, wailing.

And Laira screamed too.

She tried to close her eyes, but Shedah grabbed her eyelids with rough fingers and held them open. She tried to break free, to run to her mother, to flee into the forest, but the crone held her fast.

“Mother!” she cried. “Mother, please!”

Please, she prayed silently. Please die. Please stop screaming.

Yet she would not. The screaming and writhing continued within the inferno, the fire eating Mother’s flesh as if slowly savoring a meal. The smell of cooking meat filled the camp, as savory as spiced game. The flames tore through the ropes, and Mother fell from the stake to land in the blazing kindling. She managed to roll off the pyre, to run several steps through the camp, a living torch. She soon collapsed, rolling and whimpering. Zerra stood above the charred mockery of life and laughed.

“Yes, reptile.” The chieftain smiled thinly and the firelight blazed against his own wound. “You burned me. Now you will forever burn in the depths of the Abyss.”

When finally Mother was silent and still, Shedah spat a green glob, huffed, and released Laira.

She stood for a moment, staring at the corpse of her mother. It still burned, crumbling away into charred ashes. Laira wanted to embrace the corpse. She wanted to save her, to beg the shaman to heal her. But she knew: Mother was dead.

Men tossed rugs over the corpse, stamped out the flame, and bound the remains with ropes. They hung the charred, blackened thing from the tribe totem, a sacrifice to Ka’altei. Mother swung in the wind, banging against the carved pole, shedding ash. She barely looked human, just burnt meat upon bones. The rocs beneath the totem rose, reached up their talons, and snapped their beaks, but they dared not yet eat. The great vultures looked back at Zerra, their master, begging.

“Eat, my friends.” Zerra nodded. “Eat, hunters of the sky. She is nice and crunchy.”

With shrieks and flying feathers, the birds leaped up, grabbed the hanging corpse, and tore it apart. The beasts tossed back their beaks, guzzling down legs, arms, the head, then fought one another for the torso and its dangling, smoking entrails.

Laira turned and fled.

She ran between the tents, tears in her eyes.

She wanted to keep running—to flee the camp, to head across the open fields, to enter the forest and never emerge. Other weredragons lived in the world; she knew that they must. But Mother’s words returned to her.

There are no others. The world is cold and large and empty. The lone wolf perishes. The pack survives.

She ran back into her tent, raced toward her pile of fur blankets, and grabbed her doll. She clutched the wooden girl to her chest, and her tears flowed.

“We must never shift again,” she whispered, rocking the toy. “I promise you, Mustardseed. I promise. We’ll never become dragons again.”

She shivered, the fire still burning in her eyes, the screams still echoing in her ears. She would remain. She would keep her disease secret. And she would grow strong.

“We’ll become hunters, Mustardseed.” She knuckled tears away from her eyes. “We’ll grow big and strong and become hunters like Zerra, and he’ll never be able to hurt us. Ever. I promise.”

Outside rose the laughter of men, and the smell of burnt meat wafted into the tent. Laira lay down, held her doll close, and shivered.

RAEM

PRINCE RAEM STOOD ABOVE THE prisoner, khopesh raised, prepared to swing down the sickle-shaped sword.

“Look at me,” Raem said softly. “Look me in the eyes.”

Bound and bruised, her neck upon the block, the prisoner shivered. When she raised her eyes, they shone with tears.

“Please,” the woman whispered. “Please, my lord, I beg you.”

“Do not look away from my eyes.” Raem’s voice was still soft.

He always insisted his victims looked him in the eyes as his blade descended. Many called him a noble ruler for it. They said that Prince Raem, Son of Nir-Ur, held life so sacred he used no executioner but only condemned those truly worthy of death—those he could look in the eyes as he swung the sword himself, their guilt clear beyond doubt.

Raem had always found those claims amusing. Truth was he simply enjoyed the work, and when they stared into his eyes during the act, it felt more intimate—the ultimate connection of souls. It was better than bedding a woman, better than creating life.

Taking life, he thought, is the most intimate connection you can make with another living soul.

“Please.” The woman trembled. “I will never shift again, I promise. I am cured. I can no longer become a dragon. I—“

Raem swung down his khopesh.

The curved, bronze blade drove through her neck with a single blow and thumped against the wooden block.

Raem nodded.

“Good!” He took a cloth from a nearby bench and wiped the blood off his blade. “Single blow again.”

Around him in the courtyard, the spectators—nobles, priests, and slaves—applauded politely. A wrinkly old scribe, clad in but a loincloth, scratched the departed’s name onto a clay tablet.

Raem was pleased. The last execution had not gone as well. The man’s neck had been too thick, and Raem had slammed his sword down five times before cleaving it; the man had lived through the first three blows. Every moon now, Raem found more of the diseased creatures infesting the city—men and women with reptilian blood, able to become great, winged beasts. Every moon now, blood coated his khopesh.
“The reptiles infest our city!” he told the crowd of onlookers. They stood upon the cobblestones, shaded by fig and palm trees. “Taal, Father of All Gods, teaches that the human body is sacred and pure. Followers of Taal do not pierce or tattoo their skin. We do not go fat or frail. We preserve the body.” Raem sneered. “The curse of weredragons is the greatest abomination unto our lord. To shift into a dragon—grow scales, horns, and claws, deforming the human form—is heretical.”

The people nodded in approval, their necklaces of faience beads chinking. A merchant in purple robes, his beard curled into many ringlets, even raised his fist and cried out in his passion; the man had turned in his own wife, a filthy weredragon, only last year.

“A plague has descended upon our kingdom,” Raem said, standing above the decapitated body. “Hundreds in our city are sick with the dragon disease, able to morph at will. Hundreds more hide their curse. But I, Raem son of Nir-Ur, Heir to the Seran Dynasty, Prince of Eteer, will find them. And I will purify our kingdom.”

They cheered. They cried out Taal’s name. They raised bone, stone, and tin figurines of the god—a slender man with a lowered head and forward-facing palms. Staring at the crowd, Raem wondered how many more of his followers—from nobles to slaves—hid the diseased in their homes.

Raem clenched his fist to remember that night years ago, the night he had learned that his own wife and daughter were ill. He had caught them shifting into dragons deep in the city cisterns, hiding their shame in darkness.

I will find you someday, Anai, my dear wife, he thought, trembling with rage. I will bring you back to me, my daughter, my precious Laira. And you will suffer.

Raem slid his khopesh though his belt. He walked away from the decapitated corpse, leaving his servants to clean up the mess. His sandals whispered against the cobblestones, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of blood mingling with the aroma of fig trees, palms, and grapevines. As he moved through the courtyard, men and women bowed before him: nobles in garments of silk, silver disks, and gemstones, their feet clad in sandals; priests in flowing black robes hemmed in gold, their beards long and curled; and eunuch slaves in loincloths, metal collars around their necks. Only his soldiers did not bow; they stood between the columns that surrounded the courtyard, holding round shields and curved blades, and bronze helmets hid their faces.

Bronze, Raem thought, admiring the gleam of sunlight upon the metal. The humble, seaside tribe of Eteer had discovered the precious metal only a hundred years ago. Within a generation, their primitive tools—made of flint and wood—had vanished. Now Eteer was a great city-state, its sphere of power spreading across farmlands, the coast, and deep into the sea—the greatest civilization in the world, a light in the darkness, law in chaos, might rising in a weak world.

And soon I will rule this kingdom.

He stepped between two columns, leaving the courtyard, and craned back his neck. He stared up at his home.

The Palace of Eteer rose several stories tall. Blue bricks formed the bottom tier’s walls, inlaid with golden reliefs of winged bulls, rearing lions, and proud soldiers in chariots. Columns lined the upper floors, carved of indigo stone, their capitals gilded. Balconies thrust out, holding lush gardens of palm trees, blooming flowers, and vines that cascaded like green waterfalls. Upon the palace roof grew a forest lush with trees and birds. This palace was the greatest building in the world, a monument of life and power.

And all it would take, Raem thought, is a single dragon to burn it. And so no single dragon must live.

He approached a towering stone archway, its keystone engraved with the winged bull—the god Kur-Paz, protector of the city, a deity of plenty. Cedar doors banded with bronze stood open within the archway, their knockers shaped as phalli, symbols of fertility and fortune. Leaving the courtyard, Raem stepped through the archway and into a towering hall. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting sea serpents wrapping around ships. Columns supported a domed ceiling painted with scenes of cranes and falcons. As Raem walked, his footfalls echoed.

When he passed by a limestone statue, he paused, turned toward it, and admired the work. He had ordered this statue—a likeness of himself—carved only last year. The stone prince was an accurate depiction—tall and broad, clad in ring armor, the face stern. The jaw was as wide as the forehead, and small eyes stared from under a great shelf of a brow. The head was bald, the chin protruding. Raem was a towering man, and this statue—life-sized—towered over most who walked by it. The shoulders were wide, the arms thick—a body built for the battlefield, a body the god Taal would approve of. Though fifty years of age, Raem kept himself strong, training with his blade every day. He had seen nobles go soft in their palaces, far from battles and fields, pampered with endless feasts, plays, and other luxuries of wealth. Raem refused such decadence. He would keep himself as strong as the gruffest soldier in his kingdom’s army.

He reached a staircase and climbed through the palace, passing by many halls and chambers. Finally, five stories up, he emerged onto the roof.

He stood upon the edge and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the scent of the gardens around him, the city below, and the sea beyond. Eteer, center of the Eteerian civilization, spread along the northern coast. Home to two hundred thousand souls, here was a hive of limestone houses topped with white domes, gardens leafy with palm and fig trees, and cobbled streets lined with cypresses. Walls surrounded the city and ran along the shore, topped with battlements.

The greatest wonder of Eteer, however, was not its massive size, its fabled gardens, or its towering walls, but the city’s port. A canal drove into Eteer, ending with a ring of water large enough to surround a town. Other cities built ports that stretched into the sea; Eteer brought the sea into the city. Dozens of ships navigated this man-made canal, their sails high and bright. In hulls and upon decks they carried the treasures of distant lands: spices, copper and tin ore, exotic pets, collared slaves, and tales from across the world.

Eteer was a stronghold of might, a city none could conquer—not the southern city-states with their own bronze blades, not the rising desert tribes in the western desert of Tiranor, and certainly not the fur-clad barbarians of the north.

Nobody could harm this place, Raem knew . . . nobody but dragons.

“And so they will die,” he said, gazing upon the countless roofs and streets below.

“Do not be so quick to deal death, my son.” The voice rose behind him. “Only Taal, Father of All Gods, may doom us mere mortals to our eternal rest or damnation.”

Raem frowned, anger filling his throat like bad wine, and turned away from the view.

Gardens covered the palace roof, lush and flowering, the greatest in a city fabled for its greenery. Olive trees grew from wide clay pots, twisting and ancient, their leaves deep green and their fruit aromatic. Vines hung from terraces, their grapes deep purple. Flowers of every kind bloomed, and finches fluttered among leafy branches. Cobbled paths ran through the gardens, lined with statues, and a stream ended with a waterfall that cascaded down the palace wall to a pool below.

Nearly invisible among the plants, clad in a simple green robe, stood Raem’s father, King Nir-Ur of House Seran.

At seventy years of age, Nir-Ur still stood straight and tall, though deep creases filled his face, and his beard was long and white as milk. His eyes, glittering under bushy brows, were as blue as the sea. A headdress of golden ivy and lapis lazuli crowned his head of snowy hair. In gnarled hands, he held a small clay tablet engraved with cuneiform prayers.

Raem was a child of war, a soldier who had commanded armies in battle, a man of bronze and blood. His father was a weaker sort of ruler, a man who valued his gardens, his jewels, and the music he played upon his lyre.

A weak king, Raem thought, staring at the man. A weak father.

“The cursed ones are a threat,” Raem said, clutching the hilt of his khopesh. “A threat I will not let grow. Not in this kingdom that I love. I will not cower upon rooftop gardens while the disease spreads through our mighty city, an abomination unto Taal.” He sneered at the clay tablet the king held. “You are a man of words. I am a man of blades.”

The old king sighed. “Walk with me through the gardens, my son.”

Not waiting for a reply, the old man turned and began to head deeper into the rooftop gardens, moving down the pebbled path.

“Let us walk through the city!” Raem reached out and grabbed his father’s shoulder. “I care not for strolls through a garden. March with me house by house, door by door. We will break bones. We will cut off fingers. We will interrogate the people until we find every last cursed, diseased creature. I will behead them myself.”

The king turned back toward him. The old man’s eyes dampened. The display of weakness disgusted Raem.

Nir-Ur spoke in a soft voice. “A curse? A disease? Raem . . . why do you name it thus? Perhaps it is a gift from the stars; the dragons rose in our kingdom once the dragon constellation began to shine. Your own wife. Your own daughter, the innocent Laira. They could have stayed with you, Raem, if only you had accepted their magic, their—“

Raem struck his father.

He struck so hard the old man fell to the ground. A family of cardinals fled. The clay tablet shattered.

“A gift!” Raem shouted, standing above his fallen father. “How dare you speak thus. My wife is impure, an abomination. So is Laira. When I discovered their filth—when I saw them shifting into reptiles in the shadows—they fled me like cowards. Accept them? When I find them in the northern, barbaric hinterlands, I will drag them back in chains, and I will lock them in Aerhein Tower, and I will watch them wither. They will beg for death before the end. Still the people of this city mock me. I hear them speak behind my back, talking of the prince who married a reptile, who fathered a reptile.”

Blood trickled down the king’s chin. Lying on the path, he stared up with watery eyes. “A reptile? Laira is your daughter, she—“

Raem spat. “I have only two children. Sena is strong and pure, a proud heir to the throne. Issari is a beautiful, chaste young woman, a princess for the people to worship. Both are pure of body and spirit. They inherited my blood. But Laira? She inherited my wife’s disease. She is a creature. When I find her, she will suffer.”

The old king struggled to rise, arms shaking. When he coughed, blood dripped onto the path. He managed to raise his head, and finally some anger filled his eyes.

“You are a fool,” Nir-Ur said, no longer the kindly old man walking through his gardens but a twisted wretch.

“The only foolishness, Father, is letting our kingdom weaken.” Raem raised his sword. “I have led armies and vanquished the desert tribes of Tiranor, the southern city-states who would rival our kingdom if left to grow, and the northern barbarians across the sea. I strengthened these walls, and I placed a bronze khopesh in the hand of every soldier in our kingdom. I did this for Eteer’s glory—not to see the reptiles rise, to see this dawn of dragons undo my work. They would be the death of us all if they bred.” He trembled with rage. “I will eradicate the curse.”

Blood trickling down his chin, King Nir-Ur pointed at his son, and his eyes hardened with cold rage. “Then, my son, you are no longer my heir. Raem, I disavow you. I—“

Raem’s bronze sword sliced into his father’s chest, passing between ribs.

“And I will eradicate any who stand in my way,” said Raem, tugging the blade back with a red curtain.

His father stared at him, eyes wide. Blood dripped from his mouth and down his chest. He tried to speak but only hoarse gasps left his mouth. The old king—frail, weak, his time done—fell.

“Raem,” the old man managed to whisper, clutching his wound. “Your own son . . . your heir . . . Prince Sena has the gift.”

Raem stared down at the dying man, and rage exploded through him. “Even with your last breath, you lie.”

His father reached out and touched Raem’s leg. Tears streamed down his creased cheeks. “Accept your son. You already lost a daughter. When you learn what Sena is . . . accept him. For our family. For—“

Raem swung his sword again.

The blade sank into the king’s neck, and the old man spoke no more. Nir-Ur collapsed onto his back, fingers curled like talons, dead eyes gazing upon the birds he had loved.

“You were a traitor,” Raem whispered, and suddenly a tremble seized him. “You were a lover of weredragons. You spoke heresy.”

He looked down at his slain father. Raem had faced barbarian hordes in battle. He had slain dozens of men, maybe hundreds, and the scars of wars covered his body. He had never flinched from bloodshed before, but now he shook, and now his eyes burned, and now he felt very young—a humble boy in the courts of a rising kingdom, so afraid, so alone in a palace of shadows and echoes. A boy with a secret. A boy with a shame.

He turned away.

He all but fled the rooftop gardens.

He raced through his palace, bloody sword in hand, ignoring the startled looks of scribes, slaves, and guards.

I exiled my wife and firstborn child. I killed my father. I must see my two remaining children, the noble Sena, the beautiful Issari. His breath shook in his lungs. I must see the purity that remains.

When he found Sena, he would pull the boy into an embrace. He would tell his son: You are noble, you are strong and pure, and I will never be a weak father to you, for you make me proud.

Down several staircases and halls, he reached the tall bronze doors of his children’s chamber. Without knocking, desperate to see his son and daughter, Raem barged into the room.

He froze.

His heart seemed to fall still.

His breath died.

The chamber was large, nearly as large as a throne room. A mosaic featuring birds, beasts, and fish covered the floor, and blue columns topped with golden capitals supported a ceiling painted with suns and stars. Stone figurines—carved as hunters, cattle, boats, and chariots—stood in alcoves. The chamber’s giltwood beds, tables, and divans had been pushed against the walls. In the center of the chamber, nearly filling even this vast room, stood a dragon.

The dragon sported blue scales—blue as the sea outside, blue as the columns, blue as the god Taal’s banners. The beast’s horns were long and white, and its eyes seemed young, afraid.

Raem’s youngest child, the beautiful Princess Issari, stood before the dragon. Her raven braid hung across her shoulder, and a headdress of topaz gemstones and golden olive leaves crowned her head. Clad in a slim, white gown hemmed with golden tassels, she had her hand upon the dragon’s snout.

“Father,” the princess whispered. She withdrew her hand and stepped backward.

“Father,” said the dragon, speaking with the same fear . . . and changed.

The beast’s wings pulled into its back. Its scales, horns, and claws vanished. It stood on its rear legs and shrank, becoming a young man clad in white.

“Sena,” Raem whispered. His eyes watered. “My son . . . you are . . .”

Raem trembled. He could barely see; the world turned red with his rage. He raised his sword, and he shouted, and his children fled from him, and all the palace, and all the city, and all the kingdom seemed to collapse around him.

LAIRA

ON HER TWENTIETH AUTUMN, LAIRA knelt in the mud, scrubbing her chieftain’s feet.

“Clean them good, you maggot,” Zerra said and spat upon her. “I think I stepped on some boar dung. Fitting for a piece of shite like you.”

The chieftain—clad in furs, his face leathery, his shaggy hair wild—sat upon a fallen log peppered with holes. Mud squelched below them, and patches of yellow grass covered the surrounding hills like thinning hair on old scalps. Few trees grew here, only a few scattered oaks and elms crowned with red leaves. Mossy boulders lay strewn like the scattered teeth of a giant. It was a place of mist, of wind, of mud and rock.

The Goldtusk tribe had been traveling south for two moons now, seeking the warm coast for the coming winter. There would be fish there, herds of bison, and geese to hunt, a place of plenty for the cold moons. Zerra boasted that the weak villagers, those who built walls and plowed fields, suffered in the snow, while he—leading a proud tribe that followed ancient ways—would give his people warm air and full bellies even in the winter.

Yet Laira knew the southern coast would offer her no relief. There too Zerra would all but starve her, feeding her only scraps—fish bones, rubbery skin, sometimes the juice of berries to lick from clay bowls. No plenty for her, Laira, the daughter of a dragon. In the south too, he would allow her no tent; she would sleep outside as always in the mud, tethered and penned with the dogs, nothing but her cloak of rodent furs to shield her from the wind and rain.

So many times she had dreamed of escape! So many times she had clawed at her bonds, trying to sneak out in the night! Yet she had always stayed, fearing the wilderness—the hunger and thirst of open land, the roaming tribes that fed on human flesh, and the wild rocs and saber-toothed cats who patrolled sky and land. And so she remained, year after year, a broken thing.

She looked up at her chieftain now, and perhaps it was the filth on his feet, and perhaps the thought of southern suffering, and perhaps it was that today she was twenty—whatever the reason, today she stared into his eyes, a feat she rarely dared, and she spoke in a strained voice.

“If I’m shite, wouldn’t I just make your feet dirtier?”

For a long moment, Zerra stared down at her, silent. Ten years ago, Laira had watched her mother—a beautiful white dragon—burn the chieftain. Zerra’s wounds had never healed. Half his face still looked like melted tallow, a field of grooves and wrinkles, the ear gone, the eye drooping. The scars stretched down his neck and along his arm. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, gone to the dragonfire.

But his scars were not what frightened Laira. After all, her own face was ravaged now too. Zerra—still seeking vengeance—had seen to that. She had seen her reflection many times; Zerra insisted she stare into whatever clear pool they passed, forcing her to see her wretchedness.

A few years ago, he had beaten Laira so badly he had shattered her jaw. Today her chin and mouth were crooked, pushed to the side, and her teeth no longer aligned. It not only marred her appearance but left her voice slurred; she always sounded like she were chewing on cotton, and her breath often wheezed. One time she had tried to pull her jaw back into place, only for the pain to nearly knock her unconscious. And she so remained—crooked, mumbling, a pathetic little wretch Zerra kept alive for his amusement.

“You look like a mole rat,” he would tell her, scoffing whenever she walked by. Often he would shove her in the mud, toss game entrails onto her, or spit in her face, then mock her ugliness. “You are a small, weak maggot.”

Small and weak she was. Years of hunger had damaged her as much as his fists. The chieftain only allowed her to eat whatever bits of skin and fat remained after the hunt, and whenever anyone had tried to give her more, he had beaten them with stick and stone. The long hunger left Laira fragile, as weak as a sapling in frost. She hadn’t grown much since that day ten years ago, that day her mother had died. Though a woman now, she stood barely larger than a child, her growth stunted, her frame frail. Her head often spun when she walked too much, and her arms were thin as twigs. Zerra enjoyed mocking her weakness, shoving her down and laughing when she could not rise. He claimed she was weak because of her curse, the disease he was determined—but could not prove—she carried.

To complete her misery, the chieftain sheared her hair every moon, leaving her with ragged black strands and a nicked scalp. He clad her not in warm buffalo or bear fur like the rest of the tribe, but in a ragged patchwork of rat pelts. He had pissed on that garment once and refused to let her wash it. “That is how I mark what is mine,” he had said. “And you are mine to torment.” The tattered cloak still stank of him.

Her only redeeming feature, Laira thought, was her eyes. On their own, they were perhaps ordinary. But in her gaunt face, they seemed unusually large, a deep green tinged with blue. Whenever Zerra forced her to stare at her reflection—to see her slanted chin, her crooked mouth, her sheared hair like ragged porcupine quills—Laira would focus on those large green eyes. They are my mother’s eyes, she thought. And they are beautiful.

And so no—it was not Zerra’s scars that frightened Laira today, for she was no prettier. It was the rage in his eyes—the rage that promised another beating, that promised days of hunger, that promised he would hurt her, break her, make her regret every word and beg for mercy.

I need not fear him, Laira thought, staring up into his eyes. My father is a great prince in a distant kingdom. My mother told me. I am descended of greatness. I—

She was so weary with hunger—she had not eaten in a day—that she didn’t even see his fist moving. It slammed into her head, knocking her into the mud.

She lay for a moment, dazed. Her head spun. She wanted to get up. She wanted to fight him.

I can turn into a dragon, she thought. I did it once. I can do it again. I can burn him. I—

The vision of her mother reappeared in her mind, interrupting her thoughts—a memory of the woman burning at the stake, screaming.

I promised. I promised I would never shift again.

A weight pressed down on her wrist and Laira whimpered. Through narrow eyes, she saw Zerra stepping on her, smirking, and she thought he would snap her bone, tear off her hand. He wiped his other foot upon her face, smearing her with its filth.

“You’re right,” he said. “You are worse than shite. Your mother was no better.” He snorted. “I know what she told you. She claimed she had bedded some southern prince, that she spawned a princess. But you are filth. You are only a princess of worms. You will never leave this place. And someday . . . someday I will uncover the reptilian curse in you too, and you will burn like she did.”

He kicked her stomach and Laira doubled over. Through floating stars of pain, she saw him walk downhill toward their camp.

She lay wheezing and trembling. With her crooked jaw, she couldn’t even cough properly. She should be thankful, she knew. He had not broken her bones this time. He had not cut off her ears, which he had often vowed to do, or burned her body, another common threat. He had shown her mercy today.

“I must be strong,” she whispered. “I am the daughter of a prince.”

She closed her eyes, trying to remember that distant kingdom across the sea. Laira had been only three years old when Mother had fled with her, coming to this northern land, for the cursed ones—those who could become dragons—were hunted in Eteer too. In a haze, Laira saw faded images, perhaps memories, perhaps the stories Mother had told. Towers in sunlight. A great port that thrust into a city of countless homes. Walls topped with soldiers and lush gardens that grew atop the palace roof. Laira had seen villages here in the north; Zerra sometimes stopped at these small settlements, trading meat and fur for bronze and ale. But their old city across the sea . . . that was a place a thousand times the size, its houses not built of mud and straw but of actual stone.

“I want to go back home,” Laira had once begged her mother. “Please. I hate the cold north. I hate this tribe. I want to go home.”

Mother had only hushed her, kissed her brow, and smoothed her hair. “We cannot. We bear a secret, a magic of dragons. We had to flee Eteer, and Zerra is kind to us. Zerra gave us a new home. Hush now, Laira, my sweetness.”

Laira had blinked away tears and clung to Mother. “Is my father still there?”

Mother had rocked her. “Yes, my child. Your father is still there, a great warrior prince.” She showed Laira her amulet, the silver sigil of Taal, the god of the south. “This is the amulet he gave me, an amulet to protect us. You are descended of royalty. Never forget that, even here, even in our exile.”

Yet what was royalty worth, Laira thought, if she could not return? Cursed with reptilian blood, they had fled the distant land of Eteer. Yet how was Goldtusk any safer? Mother had died here. Laira suffered here.

“Should I flee this tribe as Mother fled her old kingdom?” Her eyes stung. “Dare I fly to that fabled, secret place . . . the escarpment? The hidden land where they say other dragons live?”

Tears streamed down Laira’s bruised face, mingling with the mud. Others like her . . . humans able to become dragons . . . cursed, outcast, afraid. Men whispered of them. They said that Zerra himself had a twin brother, a weredragon, a leader of weredragons. Could it be true? Or was the escarpment just a myth as Mother had claimed?

Laira sighed. If she fled this tribe to seek a legend, she was likely to die. The escarpment lay many marks away; a single mark was a distance too far for her to cross alone, let alone many. In this world of harsh winters and roaming beasts, even a dragon could not survive alone. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind from beyond the years.

There are no others, Laira. Only us. We are alone. And Goldtusk is our home.

“Goldtusk is my home,” Laira whispered.

She pushed herself up onto wobbling arms. Bedraggled and covered in mud, she stared downhill toward their camp. The tribe’s tents rose across the misty valley, made of animal hides stretched over branches. Their totem pole rose among them, carved with animal spirits, topped with the gilded mammoth tusk they worshiped, the god Ka’altei. Deer, hares, and fowl roasted upon campfires, and the tribesmen, clad in fur and leather, tended to the meat.

The tribe’s source of power, a flock of rocs, stood tethered outside the camp. Great vultures the size of dragons, they gathered around a mammoth carcass, tearing into the meat with sharp beaks. Those beaks were large enough to swallow Laira whole. As she watched, the tribe hunters—tall, strong, and sporting jewelry of clay, bronze, and even gold—walked toward the beasts. One by one, they mounted the rocs and took flight, brandishing bows and roaring hunting cries.

“The hunters are strong and proud,” Laira said to herself, watching as they soared. “They are the nobility of Goldtusk. They are never beaten, never spat upon, never afraid.”

She rose to her feet, hugged herself, and stared at the hunters flying into the distance, their rocs shrieking.

“My old kingdom is forbidden to me,” Laira whispered. “The escarpment is but a myth. But I am the child of a warrior prince. I am noble and I am strong.” She clenched her small fists. She would become what she had vowed the day her mother had died. “I will be a huntress.”

That evening, the hunters returned upon their rocs, singing the songs of their totems. The great birds shrieked, beating their rotted wings, holding game in their talons: deer, boar, and buffalo. With splatters of blood, they tossed the carcasses down between the tents. Soon great campfires burned, and the game roasted upon spits, filling the camp with delicious aromas.

The women returned too, placing down baskets of berries, nuts, and mushrooms collected from a nearby grove. Though not as honored as the hunters, the gatherers too were praised; tribesmen blessed their names and reached into their baskets, feasting upon their finds.

Songs rose and ale, traded in what villages they passed, flowed down throats. One tribeswoman played a lyre, and people clapped and danced. Teeth bit into the roast meat and grease dripped down chins.

Laira spent the feast serving the others. She sliced off slabs of meat and rushed to and fro with clay bowls. She collected what bones the diners tossed into the dirt, bringing them to the camp dogs in their pen. She kept scurrying to the nearby stream, returning with buckets of water, then filling cups and serving the thirsty.

Never did she eat herself. When once she only sniffed at a bone, Zerra made sure to march over, slap her cheek, and tell her that bones were for the dogs, that she was merely a maggot. She kept working, belly growling and mouth watering.

When the feast ended, she could rummage through the mud. She would always find a few discarded nuts, bones, and sometimes even animal skin. As Laira worked, slicing and serving and rushing about, she made sure to drop little morsels—when nobody was looking—into the mud. She would dig them up later, and she would give her belly some respite.

As the sun set and the stars emerged, Laira drew comfort from the sight of the new stars, the ones shaped like a dragon—the Draco constellation. Mother would tell her that these stars blessed them, gave them a magic others thought was a curse. Laira glanced up and prayed silently.

Please, stars of the dragon, look after me. Give me strength to hide your magic. Give me strength to fly.

The feast died down. Men lay patting their full bellies, women nursed their babes, the rocs fed upon carcasses, and the dogs fought over scraps. Laira still had much work to do. She would be up half the night, collecting pottery and washing it in the river. But for now, she had a more important task.

Hands clasped behind her back, she approached her chieftain.

Zerra sat upon a hill overlooking the totem pole. Several of his hunters sat around him, drinking ale, gnawing on bones, and belching. When the men saw her approach, they lowered their mugs and narrowed their eyes. Zerra grunted and shifted upon the boulder he sat on.

“Return to your work, wretch.” He spat. “Wash our pottery and clean up our scraps, then sleep among the dogs where you belong.”

Laira took a shuddering breath. She thought of her mother’s eyes. She thought of the stars above. She thought of her distant home, a mere haze of memory. She raised her crooked chin—the chin he had shattered—and tried to speak in a clear, loud voice. That voice was slurred now, another victim of Zerra’s fist, but she gave it all the gravity she could.

“I can do more than clean and serve, my chieftain.” She squared her narrow shoulders. “Allow me to serve you better. One of your hunters has fallen to the fever. One of your rocs, the female Neiva, is missing a rider. Tomorrow let me mount Neiva. Let me hunt with you.”

For a moment the men stared at her, eyes wide.

Then they burst out laughing.

Zerra tossed his empty bowl at her. It slammed into her face and shattered. She gasped and raised her fingers to her cheek; they came away bloody.

Not waiting for more abuse, Laira turned and fled.

She spent that night trembling as she worked—scrubbing dishes in the stream, cleaning fur tunics, and collecting bones for the dogs. Her blood dripped and her belly felt too sour for food. When finally her work was done, she curled up among the dogs. They licked her wounds, and she held them close, and her eyes dampened.

“I am a daughter of a prince,” she whispered into their fur, trembling in the cold. “I am blessed with forbidden magic. I will be strong. I will hunt.”

When dawn broke, the tribe moved again. They packed up their tents. They mounted their totem on wheels. Their hunters flew above upon rocs, shrieking in the wind, while the rest of the tribe shuffled below through the mud.

Laira brought up the rear as always. Sometimes, walking here at the back, she had dreamed of slinking behind a tree, running to the hills, even shifting into a dragon and flying away. But the rocs forever circled above, and if she lingered too far behind, Zerra would swoop down and lash her with his crop. And so she walked on, weak with hunger, her head spinning, following the others. She had not eaten more than morsels in days, and her belly rumbled, but there was no food to be found. When they crested a hill lush with grass and bushes, she picked a few mint leaves and chewed them, staving off the hunger for a while. When she saw worms in the dirt, she managed to grab one. She swallowed it down quickly before disgust overwhelmed her.

That evening she served the camp again, preparing food, cleaning, washing. And again she approached Zerra.

He sat upon a fallen log thick with mushrooms, gnawing on a bison rib. Laira stood before him, half his size, a weary little wisp of a thing. She raised her chin, straightened her back, and said, “Let me hunt.”

He clubbed her with the bone, then laughed as she fled.

“I will be a huntress,” she vowed that night, huddling with the dogs. Among them she found a bone with some meat still on it, and she ate the paltry meal. “I am the daughter of a prince. I am blessed with forbidden magic. I am strong and I will hunt.”

Because hunting did not only mean honor, a rise in status, and perhaps true meals and no more beatings. Lying among the dogs, Laira stared up at the dragon stars.

Hunting meant flying.

She had never forgotten the beating of her wings, the feel of open air around her. She had flown only once as a dragon, the day her mother had died, but the memory still warmed her in the cold.

“If I cannot fly as a dragon again,” she prayed to those stars, “let me fly upon a roc, a proud huntress of my tribe.”

For six nights she approached Zerra, demanding to join the hunters. For six nights he scoffed, tossed bowls or bones or stones her way, and laughed at her pain.

On the seventh night, she waited until he retired to his tent.

That night she approached that tent, the greatest one in the camp, a towering structure of tiger pelts and cedar branches topped with gilded skulls. Fingers trembling, Laira did something she knew could mean death, could mean burning at the stake.

She pulled back the leather flap and she stepped into her chieftain’s home.

He sat upon a flat stone, polishing his leaf-shaped sword with oil and rag. None in the Goldtusk tribe knew the secrets of metal; only the loftiest warriors owned jewelry of gold or knives of copper. Most still tipped their arrows with flint. A sword of pure bronze, captured from the corpse of a great champion from the northern villages, was the most valuable artifact the tribe owned aside from their gilded tusk. It signified to all that Zerra was mightiest of his tribe.

But I come from a kingdom of bronze, Laira told herself. Mother told me that thousands of warriors there wield bronze khopeshes—great swords shaped as sickles—and that my father leads them all. I will be brave. I will not fear this man.

Before he could rise to his feet and strike her, she spoke.

“Why do you hurt me?”

He froze, risen to a crouch, and stared at her. He said nothing.

Her voice trembled and her knees felt weak, but she would not look away. She stared into his eyes—one baleful and blazing, the other drooping in the ruined half of his face.

“I did not burn you,” she said, voice slurred from the wounds he had given her. “My mother had the curse. She could become the reptile. And she paid for her sins. I am not diseased.” Her eyes stung and she clenched her fists, refusing to cry before him. “You beat me. You starve me. You make me sleep with the dogs. But I am no reptile. I am not my mother. I have served you well, and whenever you beat me down, I stood up again. Whenever you hurt me, I grew stronger. My face is ruined now as yours is. And our spirits are both strong.” She took a step closer. “In the mud, in the dog pen, in puddles of my own blood, I proved my strength to you. Let me show you this strength upon a roc, a bow in my hand. I will hunt with you, and I will prove that I’m worth more than scrubbing your feet.” She took another step, raised her chin, and stared at him with all the strength she could summon. Her tears were gone. “I will kill for you.”

Slowly, his joints creaking, he rose to his feet. He loomed over her; the top of her head did not even reach his shoulders. He stank of ale, sweat, and his old injury.

“You have the curse.” His voice was low, full of danger. “You lie, maggot. Your mother had the reptile in her veins. You carry it within you too.”

“I do not!” She raised her chin, staring up at him, refusing to cower. She would show him her strength in this tent. “You lie to yourself so you may hurt me. I cannot fly as a dragon, but I will fly upon a roc.” She raised her fist. “I am small and weak; you made me so. But my spirit is as strong as bronze.”

Quick as a striking cobra, he reached out and clutched her throat.

She gasped, unable to breathe.

“Your spirit is strong?” He leaned down to bring his face close to hers. His breath assailed her. “I could just . . . tighten my grip. And your neck would just . . . snap. Like a pheasant bone. You are a woman, and all women are weak.”

She sputtered, struggling for air, forcing down the urge to strike him. His grip loosened just the slightest, and she whispered hoarse words.

“I am a woman, yes, my chieftain. And I have a woman’s strength.” Even as he held her throat, she tugged at the lacing of her cloak. The patchwork of rat furs fell to the ground. “I have a woman’s gifts to give.”

He released her throat, and she gasped and held her neck, sucking in deep breaths. He took a step back and admired her. She stood naked before him, chin still raised.

She was not comely, Laira knew. Years of hunger had left her body frail. She had not the wide hips or rich breasts the men liked to carve into their images of stone. Red marks covered her skin—the scars of the leeches Shedah, the tribe’s shaman, often placed upon her. The crone would mix the blood in potions she drank; she claimed that the blood of a princess gave her long life. Shedah lingered on in her mockery of life, and the leechcraft left Laira bruised and added to her fragility.

And yet, despite her meager size and marked body, lust filled Zerra’s eyes. Men such as him, hunters and conquerors, were easy to please. They saw every woman, even a scrawny and broken thing like her, as lands to conquer.

“I will give you this body,” she said. “But my chieftain . . . you must give me a roc.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and strangely she no longer trembled. She was no longer afraid. She did not feel exposed. She felt, for the first time in years, in control of her life.

This body, she thought, is the only power I have left.

He doffed his own cloak and removed his tunic. He stood naked before her. The scar that covered half his face—the burn of dragonfire—spread down half his body, twisting his arm, chest, and leg, and even half his manhood bore the marks.

He grabbed her arms.

He took her into his bed of animal hides.

As he thrust into her, nearly crushing her with his weight, she closed her eyes and bit her lip. He pressed against her, slick with sweat, and the pain drove through her, and she clenched her fists and thought of the sky. In her mind she was a dragon again, a beautiful animal of golden scales and long claws, too strong to hurt, too proud to tame. She flew upon the wind, free and noble and far from home.

JEID

JEID BLACKSMITH STOOD ABOVE THE grave of his daughter, head lowered and fists clenched.

A boulder marked the hilltop grave, overgrown with ivy and moss. An oak shaded it, and autumn leaves covered the soil, a crimson carpet. Below the hill rolled valleys of mist, scattered birches, and rocks engraved with the runes of ancient men. No rune, however, marked this makeshift tombstone. If the men of nearby villages knew that here, under this earth, lay a fallen weredragon, they would dig up the bones, they would smash them with stones, and they would pray to their totems to curse the soul of the creature.

“But you were no creature to me,” Jeid said, jaw tight and eyes dry. “You were my daughter, Requiem. And you were blessed.”

Weredragons, they called him and his family—cursed beings, monsters to burn. Jeid had fled their villages long ago. He had given his family a new home, a new name.

His head spun and he fell to his knees. The wind gusted, blowing dry leaves into his shaggy hair and beard. Jeid was a strong man, a blacksmith with thick arms and a barrel chest, but now, here, before his fallen daughter, he felt weaker than old tin.

“I named our new home after you.” He placed his hand between the fallen leaves, feeling the soil, feeling her soul below. “Requiem. And we are no longer weredragons. We are Vir Requis, people of Requiem.” His eyes stung. “I swear to you, your name will live on—a tribe to last for eternity.”

But you will not be here to see it.

Jeid lowered his head, his despair overwhelming. That day returned to him again—as it returned every time he came here. It had been years ago, but still the pain felt raw, still the wound bled inside him.

He had fled his smithy, his village of Oldforge, the only home he’d known. Blessed by the stars—cursed, the villagers called it—he could grow wings, breathe fire, take flight as a dragon. He had passed this gift to his children.

“You called us monsters, brother,” he whispered. “You called us cursed, Zerra.”

His twin—cruel, envious, full of venom—had railed against Jeid’s so-called illness. And so Jeid had fled, taking his children with him. Requiem had been only a toddler, barely old enough to shift into a dragon herself. For a long time, they had wandered the wilderness, finally finding a home upon the escarpment, a hidden crack in the world, a place of secrets, of exile. Jeid had thought that would appease the villagers. He’d been wrong.

On this day years ago—the autumn equinox—Jeid had taken Requiem, a sweet child with soft brown locks, on a flight. Requiem had been but a small dragon, no larger than a deer, wobbly as she flew. They glided upon the wind, laughing, counting the trees below. It was freedom. It was joy. It was the best day of Jeid’s life, and it turned into the worst.

“Look, Dada, food!” Requiem cried, pointing a claw below. The small, blue dragon laughed and dived.

“Requiem, wait!” Jeid called after her.

She ignored him, squealing with laughter as she swooped. The lamb stood upon the field below, groggy, lost from its flock and not fleeing. Before Requiem even reached it, the lamb fell over, dead before the small dragon’s mouth closed around it.

“Requiem, wait!”

But she ate the meat.

And she cried.

And she shook and vomited and begged her father for help.

She lost her magic and lay in the grass, a human girl, skin pale, clutching her swollen belly.

Shaking with rage and fear, Jeid carried her back to the escarpment. He and his father, the wise healer Eranor, spent two nights feeding her healing herbs, praying for her, holding her. And yet the poison spread. On the third night she died.

And now, years later, Jeid knelt above the grave, and that grief burned with no less intensity.

“I miss you, Requiem,” he whispered, touching her tombstone. “You’ve been gone for years, and I promise you. I will make our tribe strong—for your memory, for your name. Requiem will survive.”

A voice, soft and trembling, rose behind him.

“Are you . . . are you Jeid? Jeid the weredragon?”

He spun around, fists tight, tears in his eyes.

A young woman stood there, soot staining her face. She had long, black hair and wore cotton in the manner of villagers. A tin bracelet adorned her wrist, and she held a shepherd’s crook. Tears filled her eyes and her full, pink lips shook. She seemed vaguely familiar—perhaps a face he had seen years ago when she’d been a child, when he’d still lived among others.

Jeid growled. “You are from the village of Oldforge across the river. I recognize the cotton you wear. Leave this place. This is my territory. Leave or I burn you.”

She trembled. “Please. Please . . . I need help. I am Ciana. Are you the weredragon?”

He straightened. “I am Vir Requis. That is our name.” He took a step closer, fists still clenched. “The kind you hunt.”

Ciana blinked away tears. “My . . . my brother is a were— a Vir Requis. They’re going to burn him. Please. Please. I came to you for help. They have him tied to the stake. They say they’ll burn him at sundown.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she reached out to him. “I don’t have the magic. I came to find you. If you can become a dragon, if you are truly Jeid Blacksmith, Chieftain of Dragons . . . help him. Save him.”

Jeid stared, frozen.

Another Vir Requis.

His heart throbbed and his legs felt weak.

For years he had dreamed, prayed, flown across the world to find others. For years, he had come to this grave, vowed to his daughter to build a tribe in her name, a tribe of others like them—who could turn into dragons, who were hunted, feared, poisoned, killed.

For years, he had found no others.

“You lie!” He stepped closer, teeth bared. He raised his fist as if to strike her. “There are no others. There are no more Vir Requis in this world. Just me. Just my family. Just us that you hunt and kill.”

Ciana did not flinch. She met his gaze steadily, and some strength filled her damp eyes.

“There is another. But if you let him die, Jeid, your family will truly be the last.” Gingerly she reached out and touched his arm. “Come with me. Save him. Please.” Fire lit in her eyes. “Become the dragon again. Grow your wings, sound your roar, and take flight.”

Another Vir Requis . . .

His head spun. Could it be—another like him? Afraid? Alone?

He growled.

He stepped away from the girl.

And so I fly again.

With a deep breath, Jeid shifted.

Copper scales rose across him, clattering like a suit of armor. Wings burst out from his back with a thud. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and claws grew from his fingers. He tossed back his head and roared, and his fire blasted skyward in a pillar. Standing before him in the grass—now so small next to his larger form—Ciana took a step back and gasped.

Jeid beat his wings, rising several feet aboveground. The blast of air scattered leaves, bent the old oak’s branches, and fluttered Ciana’s hair. Snorting smoke, Jeid reached out, lifted the woman in his claws, and soared.

He caught an air current and glided, wings wide. Since Requiem had died, he had dared not fly in daylight. Too many still wished to fell dragons from the sky. Warriors of the villages bore arrows coated with poison. His twin, the cruel Zerra, now wandered the wilderness, leading a pack of a hundred rocs, oversized vultures that feared the escarpment but would gladly hunt a lone dragon in open sky. Yet now Jeid flew in the sunlight, blowing his fire, roaring for the great hope, the dream of Requiem, his most sacred prayer.

We are not alone.

Behind him rose the escarpment—the cliffs of stone and trees and hidden caves, his fortress. The misty hills and valleys rolled below. Ahead stretched the River Ranin, the border of his territory, and there beyond, nestled along the bank, was his old home. The village of Oldforge.

Fifty-odd buildings rose along the riverbank. Most were simple huts of clay, branches, and straw, humble homes with a hole in each roof to vent the smoke of cooking fires. Vegetables grew in backyard gardens, and pigs rooted in pens. Several boats floated upon the river, tethered to posts.

The largest building, and the only one built of stone, was the smithy. It rose taller than two men, topped with a dome. Jeid’s grandfather himself had built this smithy. Once Jeid had forged tin and bronze there, had raised his children there. Today those who had exiled him lived within those walls.

The villagers filled the pebbly village square, clad in fur, cotton, and canvas. Mud coated them and their hair hung long and scraggly. A great pyre rose among them, and upon it, tied to a stake, stood a young man.

Another Vir Requis.

Jeid howled, filled his maw with flames, and dived toward the village.

The villagers saw him, pointed, and shouted. They fled the square, scattering into their homes, leaping behind barrels, and grabbing what makeshift weapons they could—humble farm tools of bronze and tin, many which Jeid himself had forged before his exile.

“Flee and you will live!” Jeid bellowed, his voice louder than hammers striking anvils, and the blast of his wings tore thatch off roofs and knocked down fences. “Face me and burn.”

He blasted down flames.

The fiery pillar slammed against the square, scattering sparks and sending pebbles flying. A nearby tree caught fire. His wings pounding like drums, Jeid—large as his old smithy, a burly beast of scales like the metal he’d forge—landed before the pyre. He roared and whipped his tail, and the last villagers scattered.

Tied to the stake, the young man gazed at him, face sooty, eyes wide.

Another Vir Requis, Jeid thought, eyes stinging. His breath shook. We are not alone.

“I will free you,” Jeid said, voice a low rumble. “There is a safe place for you. A place for dragons. A tribe called Requiem.” His voice choked. “You have a home.”

He stretched out his claws, ready to severe the prisoner’s ropes.

The young man moved so quickly Jeid barely saw it. His expression changing to hatred, the prisoner brought his hands forward, letting his ropes fall. He held a bow and arrow.

Before Jeid could retreat, the arrow flew.

The bronze arrowhead drove into Jeid’s neck.

The dragon howled. He sucked in air, prepared to blow fire.

Around the square, a dozen men leaped up from behind barrels, a well, and bales of hay. They too held bows and arrows. They too fired.

The projectiles slammed into Jeid. Some shattered against his scales. Others pierced his soft underbelly.

The pain drove through him, burning through his bloodstream. He felt poison flow, dragging him down, pulling him into blackness. Ilbane covered these arrowheads, the juice of crushed leaves grown in the northern hills. Harmless to most, the sap was poisonous to dragons, stiffening muscles, blazing through veins, turning bones heavy as rocks. Jeid tried to beat his wings, but they wouldn’t move. He tried to blow fire, but only sparks left his mouth.

He turned his head, lashing his claws, trying to cut the men. And there he saw her—Ciana, the young woman who had found him on the hill. Her tears were gone. She smiled crookedly and raised a bow.

Finally Jeid recognized her.

You were friends with my son. He gazed at her with blurred eyes. Years ago. You were only a youth . . .

Her arrow drove into Jeid’s chest.

He fell, cracking stones beneath him.

“Kill the beast!” Ciana shouted, face twisted with rage. “Slay him!”

Jeid’s eyelids fluttered. His wings beat uselessly against the ground, unable to support his weight. The poison held him down like chains.

I will fly to you now, Requiem, he thought, seeing his daughter’s face. We will fly together again.

Through the mists of pain, he saw Ciana walk toward him, drawing back another arrow, this one aimed at his eye. But then she faded, and he only saw Requiem, his dear daughter, angelic and pure . . . writhing in pain. Poisoned. Dying.

No. I cannot die too.

His eyes burned.

His daughter laughed.

I must live for you, Requiem—for Requiem, the daughter I lost; for Requiem, the tribe I must build.

As Ciana laughed, nocking another arrow, Jeid managed to lift his head.

He blasted his fire.

The flames roared across Ciana, crashed past her, and slammed into the pyre where the false prisoner still stood. With a blast that pounded in Jeid’s ears, the pyre burst into flame. Men screamed and ran, burning, living torches.

The fire raced toward Jeid.

He pushed himself up.

He was weak, almost blind, maybe dying.

He beat his wings.

He rose a few feet, crashed back down, and rose again. More arrows slammed into him. He howled, soared higher, and flew. His claws banged against a house, knocking down the roof, and he crashed onto a hilltop beyond. For a moment he rolled downhill, tearing up grass and soil. With another flap of his wings, he was airborne again, flying across the river.

They screamed behind him. Arrows whistled around him, and one slammed against his back.

He kept flying, the land a haze of blue and green below, and Requiem laughed, and the mist engulfed him, but still he flew.

For you, my fallen daughter, he thought. For you, Tanin and Maev, my living children. For you I still fly.

The escarpment rose ahead from the mist, a great wall of stone draped with vines and moss. Jeid dipped. He nearly crashed. He beat his wings and rose higher, flying above the cliffs until he reached the canyon upon their crest. It gaped open below, a hidden place, a safe place, a home called Requiem.

He crashed down.

He fell into the canyon, slammed against boulders, and lay still. His wings splayed out around him like the sails of beached boats.

“This is why I must fly,” he whispered. “They hunt us. They kill us. Requiem must stand. We must find the sky.”

Through the haze, he saw them rush forth—his father, beard long and white, and his living children, shouting in muffled voices, fading . . . all fading into colors and shadows and light.

RAEM

MY SON IS CURSED. RAEM felt as if the world were crashing around him. My son, my heir, my pure prince . . . is a weredragon.

“Father, please!” the boy said, reaching out to him. “I’m sorry. I’ll never shift again. I . . .”

Nineteen years old, Prince Sena Seran had the noble looks of his family: raven hair, green eyes, a proud jaw. Slim and tall, he wore a white robe hemmed in gold, and a bronze dagger hung from his belt.

He is beautiful, Raem thought, frozen in place, torn between rage and anguish. I already lost a daughter, and now I lose a son.

Raem—taller, broader, stronger than his son—stepped forth and swung his fist, driving it into Sena’s cheek.

The boy crumpled, falling to the floor with a yelp and gush of blood.

“Father, please!” cried Issari. “He didn’t mean to do it. Please don’t kill him.”

Raem looked across the curled-up, bleeding prince and stared at his youngest child, Princess Issari. At only eighteen years of age, she was blooming into a beautiful young woman. She was everything Laira, his eldest, should have been—a proper princess. Her black hair hung across her shoulder in a braid. Her green eyes filled with tears. A white gown covered her slim body, and a headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz gemstones glimmered upon her head.

“You are my only child now, Issari,” Raem said. “You are the only pure thing our family has left.”

Before she could react, Raem knelt, grabbed his disgraced son, and pulled the prince to his feet. He twisted the boy’s arm behind his back and manhandled him out of the room.

“Father!” Issari cried, racing toward them. “Father, please. Please forgive him. He’ll never shift again.”

All traces of sadness had left Raem; rage now consumed him. Ignoring his daughter, he dragged his son along a hallway. The boy’s bleeding nose left a trail behind them. Guards stood at attention between the hallway’s columns, still and stiff, faces hidden inside their helms.

“Do you know what you did, my son?” Raem asked, voice shaking with his fury. “You spat upon Taal, the god of purity. You are an abomination.” He twisted his son’s arm so hard it nearly snapped. “You are filth.”

He dragged the boy out of the palace. He shoved him into the courtyard, past the fig and palm trees, and toward the spot where only that morning Raem had executed a woman. Ignoring the prince’s whimpers, Raem shoved the boy’s neck down onto the chopping block.

Sena tried to speak, to beg. The boy looked over his shoulder, eyes full of tears, face covered in blood.

“Father, I’m sorr—“

Raem struck him again, a blow that bloodied Sena’s mouth and chipped a tooth. The prince gurgled on blood, hiding his face, and Raem kicked him in the ribs. He shoved the boy’s head down against the wood.

“You will not call me your father.” Raem drew his khopesh from his belt. “You are no son of mine.” He raised the semicircular blade, so enraged he could barely breathe. “By the god Taal, I condemn you to—“

“Father, no!”

The cry rose behind him, and Issari leaped onto his back. The princess clutched his arm, holding back his sword. Her tears fell onto his shoulder.

“Please!” the princess begged. “Send him into exile like Laira or imprison him in Aerhein Tower. But please, Father, please . . . Don’t kill him. For me.”

Raem spun around, staring at the princess. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears. She trembled, clutching at him, whispering inaudible words. In a world of evil—his father’s treachery, his wife and eldest daughter’s exile, and now his son’s abomination—Issari was a ray of piety. The young woman was a single, pure light in a dark world. Raem felt some of his rage dissipate.

“Oh, my daughter,” he said. “Your heart is still too soft. But I will strength it. I will hammer your heart like a smith hammers bronze. You will be my heir now. Your grandfather is dead; he fell in the gardens. Your brother is diseased. Only you and I remain now, holding this fragile kingdom together.”

Fresh tears budded in Issari’s eyes. “Is Grandfather . . . ? He’s . . .” She covered her face with her palms.

Raem yanked her hands away. “Dry your tears! Today you must be strong. I will honor your wish. I will spare your filthy brother’s life. But he will not taint this kingdom again.”

He grabbed the boy, lifting him off the block. Sena seemed too dazed, too hurt, to resist. Blood filled his mouth and poured from his nose. His arm hung at a strange angle, perhaps dislocated, and his face was pale. Even if he wanted to shift now, to become a dragon and fly into exile like his mother and sister had, he was too hurt to summon his magic.

Leaving his daughter behind, Raem manhandled the prince across the courtyard, down a stone path, and toward Aerhein Tower.

The steeple rose outside the palace, towering and ancient, one of the first buildings to rise in all of Eteer. Many years ago, the first king had raised Aerhein Tower to gaze upon the city, an eye watching the coast. Today it served as Eteer’s most infamous prison, a place for its greatest enemies to languish. This place had imprisoned usurped kings, treacherous generals, and now a disgraced prince.

Blood trailed as Raem pulled his son up the winding staircase. They climbed round and round, the sunlight falling through arrowslits. Whenever Sena faltered or tried to beg, Raem struck him again, beating his face into a red, swollen mess.

When they reached the tower top, Raem shoved the door open, revealing an empty chamber. The bricks were rough and stained with old blood. Messages from previous prisoners were carved into the craggy walls. Chains hung from those walls, and only a single window, small and barred, let in light.

“You will remain here until your last day,” said Raem. “The kingdom will forget you. So will I. So will your sister. Eventually you will forget yourself, remaining but a starving, mad thing clawing at the walls, and even then you will linger. You became a creature in your chamber, and so I will turn you into a creature—a frail, mad mockery of a man. You have shamed me, Sena, and now you will suffer for your sin. Death would be a kindness to you. I give you instead damnation.”

A new burst of vigor filled Sena. He howled wordlessly, seeming unable to speak through his bloodied mouth, and tried to race toward the door. Another blow sent him sprawling.

Lying on the floor, Sena tried to shift. Scales began to rise across him. Wings began to sprout from his back, his body began to grow, and fangs lengthened in his mouth.

Raem kicked, driving his foot against his son’s scaly face.

With an anguished cry and splatter of blood, Sena lost his magic. His eyes rolled back and closed. He slumped down, unconscious.

Moving methodically, Raem grabbed chains from the walls. He bound his son’s wrists and ankles, then wrapped more chains around his torso.

“When you wake, you may try to shift again,” Raem said. “As you grow, you will find that these chains tear you apart.” He snorted. “Goodbye, reptile.”

Fists clenched at his sides, his son’s blood covering him, Raem left the tower.

He reentered the palace. He descended dark, narrow staircases, moving past wine cellars and armories, climbing down and down until he reached the deep cave under the palace, that gaping belly of water—the city cistern.

Columns rose here in many rows, supporting a vaulted ceiling. Water filled the chamber, running deep and black, enough for a city to drink. It was an old, oft-forgotten place, one of the oldest chambers in the city-state of Eteer. It was a place to be alone.

This is where I found them, Raem thought. This is where I found my wife, Anai, and my daughter, Laira. Here is where they came to shift.

That day returned to him, perhaps the worst of his days. He had secretly followed them here. He had seen them become the reptiles, swim in the water, fly to the ceiling.

He had confronted them with rage, screamed, even shed tears. He had drawn his sword, prepared to slay them, and they had fled, flying away from this city, flying to the northern lands of barbarians.

Raem trembled. “And now I’ve lost a son too.”

He could no longer contain his despair; it welled inside him, all consuming. Eyes stinging, he entered the water.

He clenched his fists, ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He releases the rage.

The curse swelled.

Scales flowed across Raem, black as the darkness. Horns grew from his head, and claws sprouted from his fingers. His wings burst from his back, banging against the columns, and his tail lashed in the water. Fire sparked between his teeth.

A dragon in the deep, he lowered his head, trembling, clanking, diseased, ashamed.

“You infected me too, Anai,” he said, voice rising from a mouth full of fire. “But I will hide it. I will end it. I will stop this disease from spreading. And I will kill anyone who stands in my way.”

He released his magic.

He became a human again, a mere man, a sick man, floating in the water.

He climbed onto a ledge of stone, trembling with his shame. He pulled off his shirt of bronze scales and the cotton tunic he wore beneath it. He unbuckled his thick leather belt.

Upon the ledge, Raem clenched his jaw and swung the belt over his back. The leather connected with his flesh, tearing into the skin.

Raem bit down on a cry.

I am filthy, he thought. I am a sinner. I will purify myself.

He lashed the belt again. Again. The blows kept landing, driving the shame away. When he was done, when the purity was restored, he curled up on the stone floor. He bit his fist. He took short, ragged breaths, and again he smelled it, that beautiful smell that could always soothe him. Blood.

TANIN

HE STOOD ON ONE FOOT, juggling his bronzed raven skulls, but the onlookers only yawned, shifted their weight, and fluttered their lips with bored snorts.

Standing on the creaky wooden stage, Tanin gulped. It was a chilly autumn day, the sky overcast and the wind biting, but Tanin felt as if he stood within the flames of the Abyss. He needed to win this crowd over—and quickly. Only the top performers in the harvest festival won the coveted prize: a purse of seashells from the distant southern coast. Seashells could be bartered for food, ale, medicine—and, Tanin thought, maybe a little dignity.

As the crowd began to wander off, Tanin cleared his throat.

“Ah, but juggling is not all I can do!” he announced. “I can sing while I juggle.”

He launched into a baritone song—a tale of a buxom lass from a wandering tribe, her hair as thick as mammoth fur, her legs as long and pale as tusks, her breasts as large as—

He dropped one skull, losing his place in the song. For a moment he wobbled on one foot, then completed his embarrassment by crashing down onto the stage. His remaining raven skulls clattered away in all directions. He quickly raced around, scooping them up, and tried to resume his performance despite jeers from the crowd. One man in the audience, a beefy brute with red cheeks, burst into laughter.

Tanin sighed. Another village, another humiliation.

This village—a little place called Blueford—lay south of the Ranin River. While most folk north of the sea still lived in nomadic tribes, hunting and gathering across the plains and forests, a few villages now grew along the river, none older than three or four generations. The recent invention of bronze, a metal Tanin himself used to forge with his father, meant plows could now till soil. Food could be grown, not merely collected from wild plants. Nails could hold together fences, and animals could be penned, not hunted. Many of the tribes, Tanin knew, mocked the villagers for abandoning the old ways, for growing soft and lazy.

Banished from his own village a decade ago, Tanin himself preferred open spaces and solitude. But villages would barter. Villages would offer seashells, food, and even precious metal in return for juggling and singing—at least on days when he didn’t end up on his backside, his skulls rolling around him. And so Tanin kept traveling along the river, juggling and singing his rude songs.

His sister, Maev, had it even worse. She traveled from town to town with him, wrestling, boxing, and earning her keep with fists and kicks. She joked that he fell on his arse for seashells while she kicked arses for them. He often countered that her face—covered with bruises and scrapes from her many fights—ended up looking like an ape’s swollen backside.

My sister and me, he thought with a sigh. Two lost souls—outcast, afraid, always only days away from starvation.

Blueford—a village like any other. Looking off the stage, Tanin saw a collection of clay huts topped with straw roofs, a few gardens, fields of rye and wheat, a smithy, and corrals of cattle.

It looks like the village Maev and I were born in, he thought. The village that banished us. This place would banish us too if they knew our secret . . . our curse.

At the thought of his shame, Tanin stumbled upon the stage, falling again with a cascade of clattering skulls. The crowd jeered.

“Get off the stage!” someone shouted. “Let the dancer on, you lout!”

Sitting on the stage, his legs splayed out before him, Tanin turned his head to see a dancer standing in the grass, awaiting her turn to perform. She met his eyes and gave him a shrug and sympathetic smile. Seeing her only amplified Tanin’s humiliation.

By the stars, she’s beautiful, he thought. The young woman—she seemed about twenty, five years younger than him—wore only thin bits of cotton over her tall, curvy figure, and tresses of red hair cascaded across her shoulders. Her eyes were green, her nose freckled, and Tanin felt his face redden.

Just the type of woman I’d want to impress, he thought. And I’m sitting here like a—

“Clumsy sack of shite!” someone shouted from the crowd. “Off the stage!”

A gob of brown, gooey mud sailed from the crowd to slam against Tanin’s face. At least he hoped it was mud and not one of the many cow pies dotting the village. Wishing he could vanish in a puff of smoke like the magician who had performed before him, Tanin all but fled the stage, slipping over a bronzed skull and crashing down into the dirt.

He moved through the crowd, any trace of lingering dignity gone, and wiped the mud off his face. The crowd cheered behind him, and Tanin turned to see the red-haired woman step onto the stage and begin her dance. She swayed like reeds in the wind, jingling bells in her hands. Tanin gulped to see the seductive movements of her near-naked body. It had been so long since he’d held a woman, even talked to one—aside from talking to his sister, that is, but Tanin often thought her more an enraged warthog than a woman. Watching the dance, he imagined holding this dancer, kissing her lips, and seeking in her arms some respite from loneliness. As she swayed, she met his eyes across the crowd and gave him a knowing, crooked smile. Tanin felt his face flush.

I’m a fool, he thought. She knew what he was thinking, yet after his travesty of a performance, surely she only mocked him. Besides, if she knew my secret, knew who I really am, knew why I was banished from my own town . . .

The shame grew too great to bear. Tanin turned and walked away.

Leaving the stage behind, he walked through the village. The harvest festival was in full swing. Farmers displayed their largest gourds, turnips, and cabbages upon tables for judges to measure. Shepherds haggled over prize bulls. Gardeners swapped wreaths of wheat and flowers for meat pies and mugs of ale. Several dogs ran underfoot, tails wagging furiously as they begged for treats.

Grunts, curses, and the thud of fists on flesh rose from within a ring of cheering men. Tanin approached, peered through the crowd, and a saw a pit of mud. In the dirt, his sister was pinning down a hairy man twice her size, pounding his face with her fists. All around, the crowd raised their own fists, cheering for her. A brusque woman, her powerful arms tattooed with coiling dragons, Maev could have been beautiful if not for the black eyes, fat lips, and cuts that always marred her face. Blood dripped down her face today, and more blood matted her long blond hair, but she smiled as she pummeled her victim.

“The Hammer!” cried the crowd, chanting the name Maev had chosen for her fights. “The Hammer!”

Tanin sighed and turned away. He hated seeing his sister fight like this in every village they passed through. Whenever he tried to sway her away from another battle, her rage turned on him.

I juggle, fall on stage, and sell my dignity to survive, Tanin thought. She sells blood.

Grimacing, he walked away. That evening he would nurse his sister’s wounds. For now, he sought distraction in the festival. Leaving the wrestling pit behind, he approached a dirt square where a puppeteer hid inside a wooden booth, putting on a show. A group of parents and children were watching the puppets, and Tanin paused among them.

One puppet, a wooden girl with long hair of golden wool, walked across the little stage, picking fabric flowers. A second puppet lurked behind her—this one was stooped, hook-nosed, and pale, its eyes beady and red, its warts hairy. Children squealed to see the ugly man, crying out to the golden-haired doll, warning her of the danger lurking behind.

The wooden girl seemed to hear the shouts from the audience. She froze, then spun around to face the lurking man behind her. With a flurry of ribbons and a puff of smoke, the twisted puppet vanished. Where it had stood now roared a wooden dragon, painted black, its eyes red.

“A weredragon!” shouted the wooden girl.

The crowd gasped and cried out. “A weredragon! Be careful!”

Tanin’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought the day could get worse, but seeing this play soured his belly more than his failed performance.

We are monsters to them, he thought, balling his fists at his sides. He shut his eyes, remembering that night—that night his old home, a village like this, had discovered his family’s secret.

His father, Jeid Blacksmith, a beefy man with a shaggy beard. His sisters, headstrong Maev and little Requiem. His grandfather, the wise druid Eranor. And him—Tanin, only a youth in those days. A family cursed. Diseased.

“Weredragons!” the people had cried to them, firing arrows, tossing stones. His own uncle, the cruel Zerra, had stood among them. “Weredragons!”

Today, ten years later, as Tanin stood here in this new village, the voices calling toward the puppet mingled with the voices in his memory.

“Weredragon, weredragon!”

He opened his eyes and took a shuddering breath. In the puppet booth, a new doll—a noble warrior clad in armor, bearing a little spear—raced across the stage and slew the carved dragon. The crowd cheered. The wooden girl rose to her little feet and kissed the hero—a happy ending, a monster vanquished.

“But we’re not monsters,” Tanin whispered. “We’re not.”

A voice rose in the crowd. “Oi! Juggle boy!”

Tanin blinked, banishing his memories, and looked to his side. He lost his breath, his heart burst into a gallop, and he felt his cheeks flush. The dancer was walking toward him, her red hair cascading like a fiery waterfall. She swayed as she moved through the crowd, her scanty outfit doing little to hide her form, and gave him that crooked smile of hers.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, dancing boy! I mean, girl. I mean—obviously you’re a girl.” He glanced down at her body, then froze and quickly raised his eyes. “I mean—not obviously. Not that I care. I mean, whether you’re a boy or a girl, or—“

She reached him and placed a finger against his lips. “Shush, juggling boy. You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole.”

Tanin sighed. “I’m as clumsy with words as I am with juggling.”

She laughed. “But I think you’re cute. I’m Feyna.” She gave a little curtsy.

“My name is Tanin.” His heart leaped. Cute indeed!

For years now, wandering from town to town, Tanin had tried to forget the girl he had loved in his youth—the girl who had broken his heart, who had turned against him after learning his secret.

She called me diseased, he remembered, wincing. She shouted for her father to kill me—the dirty weredragon, the monster she had kissed.

Tanin looked at Feyna’s green eyes, her bright smile, and her tresses of red hair, and his heart rose again. Maybe this day, this new life, wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe there was some hope for him—for acceptance, for love.

Music was playing at a stage nearby. Ask her to dance, Tanin told himself. Ask her to drink some ale. He gulped. Ask to walk together in the fields or—

As he was stumbling with his tongue, Feyna pointed at the puppet show and gasped.

“Oh, look, Tanin!” she said. “A weredragon.” Upon the stage, the heroic doll was now battling two wooden dragons, slashing them with its sword.

At once, Tanin’s heart sank again. “Anyway, how about a dance or—“

But she seemed not to hear him. Her face changed—turned bitter, disgusted. She shuddered. “Foul creatures, weredragons. Even as dolls they chill me. They say they drink the blood of babies. Thank goodness our town has arrows to shoot down those monsters.”

“They’re not monsters!” Tanin said before he could stop himself. He instantly regretted those words.

Stupid! he told himself. Do you want another village to shoot arrows at you, chase you into banishment?

Feyna turned toward him, narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. “Not . . . monsters? Have you met one? My father saw a weredragon only this moon—a great beast in the village of Oldforge. The creature burned ten men.” She sneered. “One of those men was my uncle. I hate weredragons and would slay them all myself if I could.”

That creature was my father, Tanin thought. He burned them after they tried to kill him, after they pierced him with ten arrows.

But he could say nothing. How could he? He turned away, feeling ill.

“I have to go.” He began to walk away, eyes stinging.

I have to leave this village, he thought. I have to keep going, to keep traveling, to keep looking for others like me.

His throat felt too tight and his eyes burned.

Her voice rose behind him. “The juggler! He loves weredragons!” She laughed bitterly. “A weredragon lover among us!”

Men began to grumble around Tanin. One cursed and spat at his feet. Tanin kept walking through the crowd.

“Weredragon lover!” cried one woman, pointing at him.

“Maybe he’s a weredragon himself!” shouted another man, an old farmer with white whiskers.

Tanin increased his pace, but more people began to mob him, and one man grabbed his shoulders. At his side, Feyna was pointing at him, shouting that a weredragon had killed her uncle, that the juggler knew of weredragons and was protecting them, was maybe even a weredragon himself. The faces danced around Tanin, and he tried to worm his way through the crowd, but they grabbed him, and a woman shoved him, and—

“What is the meaning of this?”

The authoritative voice pierced the air. A man yowled and fell, clutching a bloodied nose. Another man grunted as a boot flew into his belly. Shoving her way through the crowd, sneering, came Tanin’s little sister.

“Maev!” he said.

Her one eye was swollen shut, and a bruise covered her opposite cheek. Blood stained her knuckles, and mud caked her body and long, golden hair. As she balled her fists, her dragon tattoos twitched upon her arms. She was a couple of years younger than Tanin, almost as tall, and ten times as fierce.

When she reached him, Maev grabbed him and stared at the crowd, daring anyone to approach. The people stepped back, blanching. Tales of the Hammer, the traveling wrestler with the dragon tattoos, had spread to most towns across the Ranin River. Most of these folk had just seen Maev pummel her latest opponent—a burly wrestler with arms like tree trunks—in the mud pit.

“Was my dolt of a brother blabbering about weredragons again?” Maev snorted and rolled her eyes. “The fool keeps going on about them. He’s got a doll of one at home—like a little girl—and doesn’t realize the damn creatures are monsters. Soft in the head, he is.” She tugged Tanin’s collar and sneered into his ear. “Isn’t that right, brother?”

Tanin tried to shake himself free, but she wouldn’t release him. Abandoning any hope of saving his dignity today, Tanin nodded.

“Uhm, yes. Sorry about that.” He nodded. “Damn weredragons. Horrible creatures.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

The crowd dispersed slowly. Feyna gave him a disgusted glare before walking off to flirt with a tall baker’s boy.

“You almost got us killed,” Maev said. She released Tanin’s collar and shoved him several paces back.

“She . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She saw Grizzly. She called him a monster.”

Maev groaned. “I call our big lummox of a father a monster too. So what?” She punched his chest. “You can’t go around getting us into trouble like this all the time. All right? What happened in Oldforge was bad enough. You and girls. Always you and girls . . . almost getting us killed.”

Her words stabbed him.

You are diseased! his old beloved had shouted.

Father, kill him!

Still those old voices echoed, that old pain.

Tanin sighed. “Let’s leave this place. I want to go home.”

His sister sighed and mussed his hair. “Oh, you stupid clump of a brother.” She showed him the purse of seashells she had earned—the prize from her fight. “We’ll barter these in the next village over. Just keep your mouth shut there, all right? Once we get the herbs Grandpapa wants, a new belt for me, and some new fur pelts for Grizzly, we’ll go home.”

They left the village. They walked through fields of wild grass, geese honking above, until the sun began to set and the village disappeared in the distance. The stars stone above and distant mountains rose, deep black under the indigo sky.

In darkness, Tanin and Maev—outcasts and wanderers—summoned their magic.

Wings grew from their backs. Fire filled their bellies. With clanking scales, they rose into the sky, creatures, cursed ones, monsters . . . dragons. They flew in silence. They flew in darkness. Rain began to fall, and Tanin closed his eyes.

“Someday,” he whispered into the wind, “I’ll find others. Someday I’ll know that we’re not alone. Someday the world will know that we’re not beasts to hunt.”

At his side, his sister—a green dragon, her scales gleaming in the moonlight—looked at him, her eyes sad. She gave him a playful tap of her tail and blasted a little fire his way, just enough to singe his scales. He groaned and they flew onward into the shadows.

ISSARI

ISSARI SERAN, PRINCESS OF ETEER, tightened her ragged cloak around her shoulders and entered the seediest, smelliest part of her city.

Back in the palace, Issari had gazed from balconies upon the port of Eteer, the great city-state, center of her family’s civilization. From there, in safety and luxury, it had seemed a magical place. The canal thrust in from the sea, ending with a ring of water like the handle of a key. Ships sailed here every day, bringing in wares from distant lands: furs from the northern barbarians, spices from the desert tribes in the west, and even silk from the east. Issari had always imagined that walking along the port would reveal a landscape of wonder: merchants in priceless purple fabrics, jesters and buskers, and many tales and songs from distant lands.

Now, walking for the first time along this port she had seen so often from her balcony, she found a realm of grime, sweat, and stench.

Issari saw no merchants bedecked in plenty, only sailors with craggy bare chests, scowling faces, and hard eyes that seemed to undress her. She saw no jesters and musicians like those in the palace, only ratty men offering games of chance played with cups and peas, a chained bear battling rabid dogs, and topless women selling their bodies for copper coins.

My own face is engraved on some of those coins, Issari thought, shivering as she watched a sailor toss a few coppers toward a plump prostitute whose three children clutched her legs.

“How much for a trick?” one sailor called out, trundling toward Issari. He stank of cheap spirits, and yellow stains coated his breeches. He grabbed his groin. “I got me two coppers. I say you ain’t worth one.”

His smell—a miasma of urine, vomit, and fish—assailed Issari. Her head spun and she took a step back. “I . . . I’m not . . .”

. . . a prostitute, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t bring the word to her lips. She had heard of such loose women, but she had thought them only tales to stop rebellious daughters from running away.

“Come on!” The drunken sailor stumbled toward her, reaching out talon-like fingers. “Let’s see what’s under your robes.”

“Stand back, sir!” Issari said, trying to keep her voice steady, but she heard it tremble.

She took another step back, and she hit somebody. Something clattered and curses rose behind her.

Issari spun around to see a stout woman standing over a fallen tin dish. Live crabs were fleeing the vessel to run along the boardwalk.

“I’m sorry!” Issari said, kneeling to lift the animals. “Let me help—“

The woman scowled, spat out a curse so vile Issari blushed to hear it, and smacked Issari on the head.

“Watch where you’re going, princess!” the woman said and slapped her again.

Princess? Issari gulped and trembled. Was her cover blown? She had disguised herself, donning a ragged old robe, hiding her raven braid under a shawl, and even caking her face with dirt. How did this woman—

“Go on, get lost, you whore!” the woman shouted and tried to smack her again.

Some relief filled Issari to realize that “princess” here was an insult, much like the others the stocky woman was now hurling her way. Issari fled, racing away from the woman, the scurrying crabs, and the drunken sailor who was busy tugging his groin while ogling the two women.

Tears budded in Issari’s eyes as she moved through the crowd. She had never imagined any place like this could exist in her kingdom, let alone so close to her home. When she craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, she could even see that home—the blue and gold palace with its rooftop gardens—rising upon a distant hill. Issari had been away for only a couple of hours, but already she missed that home so badly she wanted to weep.

Making her way closer to the water, she steeled herself, rubbing her eyes and tightening her jaw.

I must be strong, she told herself. My brother needs me. I came here to save him, and I can’t do that by crying or whimpering at a few smacks or taunts.

She stepped toward the edge of the canal. Many boats moored here at piers, and others sailed back and forth, entering and leaving the port. Some were the simple reed boats of fishermen, their single sails barely larger than her cloak. Others were proud, oared merchant vessels, built of sturdy wood, their hulls bedecked with paintings of the winged bull—Kur-Paz, the god of plenty. Slaves sat in them, chained to the oars, their skin bronzed in the sun. Not all were Eteerian ships; Issari saw vessels of foreign lands too. The northern barbarians sailed wide, oared cogs engraved with animal totems. Issari shivered to see these foreigners—they were gruff folk, clad in fur and leather, their beards bushy.

These men will sail back north, Issari thought, looking at the foreigners. They will return to the open, cold wilderness . . . where Laira hides.

Issari’s eyes moistened.

“Laira,” she whispered.

She could not remember her older sister. Laira had been only three when she fled with Mother into exile, escaping Father’s wrath. Issari had been only a babe.

“But if you’re out there, Laira, you’re twenty now,” Issari whispered. “You’re tall and strong, and you can become a dragon, and you can save our brother. I know you can.”

Issari lowered her head to remember visiting Aerhein Tower. She had climbed the winding staircases, approached the door, and peered through the keyhole. Sena had knelt in chains, his face so bruised and swollen Issari had barely recognized him. Issari had begged the guards—towering men all in bronze—to enter the cell, to comfort her older brother, but they had shoved her back. When the guards had told her father of her visit, the king had struck her.

Issari raised her hand to her swollen cheek, still feeling the blow. “I cannot save you from the tower, brother,” she whispered as she watched the ships sail by. “But a dragon can. Mother can. Laira can.”

For the first time in her life, Issari wished she too were cursed. Why couldn’t she have inherited Mother’s disease? So many times these past few days, Issari had tried to shift, focusing all her energy on the task. She had screwed her eyes shut, leaped into the air, and willed herself to become a dragon. A dragon could fly to the tower top, smash the window’s bars, and fly away with Sena to freedom. Yet try as she might, Issari was pure of body, a blessing unto Taal, the god of beauty and the human form. She carried not the reptilian blood like her mother and siblings, and so Sena languished.

A blow hit the back of her head.

Issari winced and scurried a few paces away, half-expecting to see Father here. If he caught her in this port, he would imprison her too.

But it was only a towering, gruff sailor. The man had a leathery face, one eye, and a chest tattooed with leaping fish. Upon his shoulder, he carried a basket of squid and shrimp.

“Stop standing here, gaping like a fool,” he said and raised his hand to smack her again. “Men are working here. Get back to whatever brothel you fled from.”

As Issari stepped back, the man walked by her, moving along the boardwalk. Several other sailors walked behind him, spitting and snorting. One glob of spit landed right on Issari’s foot, and she winced and gulped down her disgust.

“I . . . I heard a tale!” she said, speaking in a high, hesitant voice. “I heard that the prince could become a dragon, that he’s imprisoned in a tower. Will you be sailing north? They like stories in the north, and—“

But the men only trundled by, carrying hooks, ropes, and baskets, ignoring her.

Issari tightened her lips. She knew her task. She had to spread the news. She had to make sure all the northern barbarians across the sea knew of Sena. She had to let Laira know.

Because you’ll come for him, Issari knew. You’ll fly back home, strong and brave, a great golden dragon. Maybe you’ll have an army of dragons with you. And you’ll save our brother.

She walked farther down the boardwalk, moving between fishermen sorting their catches, a legless child begging for coins, and a leper begging for prayers. She approached a few sailors, trying to tell them the news, but they were too busy hauling supplies, mending nets, or even drinking booze to notice. After a few more slaps, kicks, and spits, Issari’s spirits sank.

Maybe it was hopeless. She had been a fool to come here. Surely her father had noticed her absence by now. Would he beat her? Would he chain her too?

Her wandering brought her to the root of the canal. Here before her stretched the open sea. Dozens of ships sailed in the water—merchants, fishermen, and military vessels with proud banners. The smell of salt, fresh fish, and dates hanging from a nearby tree filled her nostrils. Seagulls flew overhead, their cries sounding like mocking laughter. Issari stepped onto the stone wall that separated her from the coast, leaned across the battlements, and stared at the sand, the seashells, and the water that spread into the horizon.

“You’re somewhere over that horizon, Mother and Laira,” she whispered. “How can I deliver you this news?”

Perhaps she should smuggle herself onto a ship, sail north, and walk through the wilderness, asking of her family in every village and tribe. And yet how could one girl find two souls? The north was vast, they said, its people scattered. There were no kingdoms there, no roads, no writing, no civilization—only endless, empty spaces and patches of life.

Issari turned away from the sea. She was prepared to head back home when she heard laughter to her left.

She turned her head and saw a small stone building. At first she had not noticed it; it nestled between a few olive trees, tucked away a little distance from the canal. Laughter rose from within, and she even heard a man singing. Hope kindled in Issari.

“A tavern,” she whispered.

She tightened her robe around her, fixed the shawl that hid her hair, and entered the building.

A crowded room greeted her. Sailors, merchants, and soldiers sat at a dozen wooden tables, drinking and eating. The smells of ale, fried fish and garlic, and stewed figs filled Issari’s nostrils, intoxicating and delicious. Tin engravings of fish, ships, and even a dragon hung upon the walls, and candles burned in sconces. A stone tablet stood near the bar, engraved with the slim, cuneiform characters of Eteer—a wine menu. Stone jugs of the wines—each large enough for Issari to have hidden inside—stood along the walls, painted with scenes of racing chariots, men hunting deer, and the wars of gods.

“And the sea serpent had three heads!” one sailor was saying, standing on a table. “Three—I counted them. And when I chopped one off, it grew two more.”

Other sailors roared in laughter. “You’re drunk, you are. Sea serpents with growing heads?”

Across the room, standing over a table topped with scattered mancala pieces, a merchant was patting his ample belly and telling his own tale. “And they say the Queen of Tiranor is so fair, a thousand ships sailed to fetch her the Jewel of Alari, but no jewel is as bright as her eyes.”

A dozen more stories were being told around the room. This was the place Issari had sought—a hub of songs, tall tales, and gossip of distant lands.

She approached the bar, handed over a copper coin—it showed her father on one side, the winged bull on the other—and purchased a mug of wine. She winced, expecting a foul drink, but the wine was surprisingly good, as fine as the wine Father sometimes let her drink in the palace. After a few sips to steel her resolve, she turned toward the crowd and spoke in a high, clear voice.

“I have a story!”

Nobody seemed to hear her. The sailor kept speaking of the sprouting heads, the merchant kept extolling the distant queen’s beauty, and others gossiped of King Nir-Ur’s recent death and the rise of Raem Seran to power.

“They say Raem stabbed his father right in the gut, they do,” said one soldier, his cheeks flushed and his eyes watery. “Killed the old man in the gardens, they say. They fought over how to deal with them dragons been cropping up.”

The man’s friends glowered. “Lower your voice! That’s no proper talk.” Soon the group was arguing.

Issari stood on tiptoes and raised her voice. “I have a tale of dragons! They say Prince Sena Seran, son of King Raem, is cursed with dragon blood.”

At once the tavern silenced.

All eyes turned toward her.

Issari gulped, dizzy at the sudden attention. Praying nobody recognized her—the city folk had only seen her high upon her balcony, clad in finery—she spoke again.

“Prince Sena himself turned into a dragon! King Raem imprisoned him in Aerhein Tower, they say. He’s keeping his own son in chains, so the prince can never shapeshift again.”

As quickly as the tavern had grown silent, it erupted with new sound. Men pounded on the tables and demanded to know her name, to know where she had heard the news. Others nodded vigorously, saying they had indeed heard whimpers from the tower. Some claimed they had even seen Sena as a blue dragon, flying in the night; they swore they could recognize the prince even in dragon form.

Issari smiled tremulously. The seed was planted.

When she walked along the boardwalk, heading back toward the palace, she already heard the rumor spreading. Sailors, loading their ships, laughed about the Dragon Prince in his tower, awaiting rescue like a damsel. Fisherman whispered to one another, pointing at the distant palace, speaking of the creature the king kept hidden away. Ships sailed out into the open water, carrying the news, a story too scandalous, too horrible, too dangerous not to spread like wildfire.

When Issari was back in the palace, she entered her chambers—those chambers so empty without her brother—and stepped onto her balcony. Clad again in a fine tunic hemmed with gold, her raven braid upon her shoulder, she leaned against the railing and stared across the city to the distant sea.

“If you’re out there, Mother,” she whispered, “if you hear these tales, Laira . . . come back. Come back as dragons. Come back with claws, fangs, and fire . . . and save him.”

LAIRA

IN THE COLD DAWN, LAIRA mounted a roc, dug her heels into the beast, and soared into the sky on her first hunt.

The wind whipped her face, Neiva’s wings beat like drums, and Laira laughed upon the gargantuan vulture. She shouted wordlessly and raised her bow above her head.

“Goldtusk!” she cried, soaring so fast her ears popped and her head spun. “Blessed be the gilded ivory of Ka’altei!”

Around her, the other hunters raised javelins and bows and roared their prayers, calling out the name of their tribe and gods. All were men—beefy, clad in furs, wild of hair and beard. Bone beads hung around their necks and tattoos of their totem animals adorned their arms. Some riders sported tin rings in their ears, lips, and brows, the precious material stolen from the villages that knew the secrets of metallurgy. A few of the hunters were mere boys, the youngest among them thirteen.

I am twenty, old already, and this is my first hunt, Laira thought. Yet this is not the first time I’ve flown.

Heart wrenching, she remembered the only other time she had taken flight—a cold autumn day so long ago. As she soared now upon her roc, Laira could almost see her mother again, a proud white dragon on the wind. She could almost smell Mother’s burning flesh, hear her dying screams, see the rocs feast upon—

No, Laira told herself. Do not raise that memory now. Now you must be strong. Now you must prove you are a great huntress, as great as the men.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Between her legs an ache still lived, the pain of Zerra’s thrusts, but as the roc moved below her, that pain faded into a comforting throb. It kept her alert, alive, hungry for the hunt. They left the camp far below upon the hill. Their tents, their tribesmen, their dogs, and even their totem pole seemed like toys from up here. Soon the camp vanished into the hazy distance, and Laira saw only the open wilderness: fields of swaying grass, fiery autumn forests of birches and maples, a rushing river, and distant blue mountains under white clouds. Geese and crows flew below her, and clouds streamed at her sides.

This is freedom, Laira thought. I missed this.

“Prove yourself today, and I will bed you again!” Zerra cried, flying his roc near hers.

His was a great beast, a terror named Ashoor, the largest roc in the tribe. Every flap of the animal’s oily black wings blasted out stench. Its gangly neck thrust out, ending with a bald head and cruel beak. Zerra was no prettier than his mount; his burned half faced her. Laira winced to remember his body pressing against her last night, wet and sticky.

“I will prove myself,” Laira shouted back from atop Neiva, though the thought of him invading her again made her queasy, and pain flared in her belly. She had allowed him into her once; would hunting game today not be enough? Would he demand this price before every hunt? Bile rose in Laira’s throat, but she swallowed it with a snarl.

I will prove myself the greatest hunter, and he will learn to respect me . . . to fear me.

Zerra smirked. He seemed ready to speak again when cries rose ahead from the other hunters.

“Mammoths! Mammoths upon the plains!”

Laira turned her head back forward, narrowed her eyes, and bared her teeth. She drew a stone-tipped arrow and nocked it. A herd of the great, woolly creatures raced across the plains below, making their way toward the cover of the forest. Laira spotted a dozen adults and several cubs; even the smallest was large enough to feed many men. The other hunters cried out wordlessly, nocked their own arrows, and swooped toward their prey.

“Neiva, go!” Laira shouted and dug her heels into the roc.

The dark bird, as large as a mammoth herself, shrieked, clawed the air, and began to dive.

Fur and feathers flashed.

Zerra and his roc swooped in beneath Neiva, blocking her descent.

The two rocs—a slim female and a burly male—slammed together. The beasts screeched and feathers flew.

“Zerra!” Laira shouted. In shock, she loosed her arrow. It drove down, just narrowly missing the chieftain’s head.

In the space of a heartbeat, thoughts raced through her mind. There had been an accident. She had flown her roc wrong. She had proven herself a failure. No—Zerra had meant to block her! He was sabotaging her. He—

Grinning, Zerra rose higher upon his roc, and the beast’s talons reached out.

Laira screamed as the talons closed around her. She drew another arrow from her quiver. Wielding it like a sword, she tried to stab Ashoor, but the fetid beast’s talons pinned her arms down. She screamed. Ashoor tugged, tearing Laira off her mount, and she kicked the open air.

Riding upon the beast, Zerra leaned across the saddle and spat. The glob splattered on Laira’s face. Amusement filled the chieftain’s voice as he spoke.

“We will now see, little piece of pig dung, if you can truly fly. Ashoor—release!”

As Laira screamed, Ashoor tossed her into the open air.

She tumbled through the sky.

She plummeted.

“Neiva!” she cried, flailing. “Neiva!”

She could see her roc above. The bird tried to dive and catch her, but Ashoor blocked her passage. The two rocs battled in the sky.

“Zerra!” she shouted, plunging down, the wind whipping her and stealing her voice.

She looked around, her cloak fluttering madly. She could see the other rocs; they now flew too far away, diving against the mammoths below. They did not see her fall, and Laira understood.

This had been a trap.

He invited me on this hunt not because I bedded him . . . but for this.

“Fly, weredragon!” the chieftain shouted, swooping above her. “Shift into a dragon and fly! I slew your mother for the curse. I know it fills you too.” He laughed, the wind in his hair. “Fly or hit the ground and my roc will feast upon what’s left.”

She looked down. The ground was only instants away. Heart thudding madly, Laira raised her bow and arrow.

If I die, you die with me.

She fired. The flint-tipped arrow scratched along Zerra’s roc, then vanished above, doing the chieftain no harm. The movement tossed Laira into a spin. She tumbled, earth and sky roiling around her. Her brain felt like water swirling around a shaken bowl. Whenever she faced the ground—spin after spin—it was closer. Her bow tore free from her grasp and vanished into the wind.

I will die here, she thought, eyes stinging. He killed me. Goodbye. I—

No.

Her eyes stung.

No.

She would not die here. Not like this.

If I die, I die in fire.

The ground rushed up toward her, Zerra laughed above, and for the first time in ten years, Laira—hurt, broken, grieving, a shell of a woman—summoned her magic.

Scales flowed and rattled across her, golden like the dawn. Fangs sprouted in her mouth and her body ballooned. Wings burst out of her back with a thud. Her claws grazed the grassy plains, her wings beat, and Laira soared, a dragon roaring fire.

The grass flattened under the beat of her wings, and she veered as she ascended, dodging Zerra and his roc. She burst into open sky, scattered flames, and roared—a roar that shook her body, that cut the sky, that burned in her eyes and soul—the roar of a girl exiled and cursed, of a girl who had watched her mother die, of a huntress who had given her body to her tormenter and now might give her life.

Zerra’s roc soared in pursuit. Farther away, above the fleeing herd of mammoths, the rest of the hunters shouted and flew toward her, nocking new arrows.

Attack them! cried a voice inside Laira. Blow your fire and slay them all!

A second voice shouted out, Flee! Flee into the forest, run, hide!

Flying toward her, Zerra fired an arrow. It shattered against her scales, blasting pain like one of his fists. Within another breath, he would slam into her.

Fight! Hide!

Laira roared, spewed flames, and turned to fly toward the forest.

Her flames rained down behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Zerra skirt the inferno and fly higher, unscathed. The rest of his hunters joined him. With battle cries and firing arrows, they flew in pursuit.

“Take her alive!” Zerra shouted. “Capture the reptile so she may burn before Ka’altei!”

Laira turned her eyes forward and beat her wings with all her strength.

She wobbled, dipped, and cried out.

She had not become a dragon since her mother had died; and even as a girl, she would shift only in secret caves and pools, afraid and ashamed and returning to human form within moments. She had never flown like this in the open, and every beat of her wings made her sway and nearly fall.

Arrows whistled. Several slammed into her, shattering against her scales. One arrow—tipped with flint—found its way under a scale and drove into her flesh like a splinter under a fingernail. She yowled but kept flying.

She streamed over the grassy plains. The mammoths trumpeted and ran below. She shot over them, ruffling their fur, and turned her neck back toward the chasing rocs. A hundred flew there, riders howling atop them—the men she had grown up with, the only men she knew, the men who would burn her now.

So I burn you.

She blew a curtain of fire. The inferno blazed across the sky, a storm of heat and smoke and crackling wrath, shielding her from the pursuit. She turned back toward the forest and kept flying. Behind her, she heard the rocs screech as they passed through the wall of fire.

Hoping the smoke and flame still hid her, she dived and crashed through a canopy of birches and oaks, scattering dry leaves. She slammed down onto the forest floor, her claws driving into the soil and shredding a twisting root. The rocs screamed above, and their wings bent the trees.

Laira released her magic. Her wings pulled into her body. Her scales melted into her skin. Her body shrank, leaving her a woman again.

She ran.

Behind her, she heard trees shatter and rocs shriek. She glanced over her shoulder to see the beasts barreling through the forest, slamming into boles, tearing up roots. The riders dismounted and fired arrows. The projectiles slammed into the trees around Laira, and one grazed her arm, drawing blood.

“Grab her!” Zerra shouted, his face red with rage.

I have to hide. I have to vanish between the trees.

She ran, arms pumping, breath ragged. She leaped over a fallen log, tripped, and rolled down a slope. Rocks jabbed her, cutting her skin, but she swallowed her cry. She slammed into a jutting root, leaped up, and ran again. The trees were thick here, and grass and reeds rose shoulder-high. Panting, Laira leaped into the brush. Brambles cut her. A thorn drove into her neck, and she winced and almost cried out. She crawled, feeling like a flea upon a shaggy dog’s back. The hunters’ cries rose behind her, and she kept moving, foot by foot, breath by breath.

They can’t hear you. They can’t see you. Just keep moving.

If she lived, she did not know what she would do. She could never return to her tribe; she knew that. She would have to survive alone in the wilderness, to find a new home before winter, to—

“Find the weredragon!” Zerra shouted behind.

He was close now. Laira bit her lip, banishing her thoughts. For now she had to focus only on fleeing, only on surviving every new breath. The grass, brambles, and reeds were thick and spread out for many marks. If she just kept crawling, the hunters would never find her.

Just keep moving, Laira, she told herself, bleeding and dizzy but crawling on. Her heart thrashed and her fingers trembled. Just keep breathing.

The sounds of pursuit faded behind. The hunters were still shouting, but they sounded farther away now; she could barely make out Zerra’s words. She was weak with hunger and the crone’s leeches, and her head would not stop spinning, but Laira forced herself to move onward, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat. She crawled around an oak and along a stream, moving between the reeds, and hope sprang within her. She wasn’t sure where to flee to, but right now, she just needed to find a quiet place, to nurse her wounds and think.

She heard shrieks and the batting of wings. Shadows raced above the trees, and Laira breathed out a sigh of relief.

“They’re leaving,” she whispered. She could just barely glimpse the swaying canopy past her cover of reeds and grass. “They’re flying away.”

She flipped over and lay on her back, feeling weaker than a trampled, dying worm. She gazed above between the blades of grass, seeing only shards of the sky. She only had to lie here, to wait, and they would fly away, and she would be free. Tears stung her eyes.

I will not burn like my mother.

But the wings kept beating.

The rocs were not leaving; they were circling above.

They no longer shrieked, and when the wind died, she heard it. Sniffs. Snorts. Silence and sniffs again. Fear shot through Laira.

They’re smelling for me.

She had seen rocs sniff back in the camp, raising their beaks whenever meals cooked, but she hadn’t known they hunted by smell. Their circles were growing smaller, closing in on her. Their sniffs rose louder, as discordant as stones crashing together.

“Down there!” rose a hoarse voice above—Zerra’s voice. “Grab her!”

Laira leaped up and shifted.

She rose from the forest, a golden dragon blowing fire.

Her flames spurted upward, and the rocs scattered . . . then swooped. Arrows slammed against Laira. One drove into her shoulder and she yowled. She sucked in breath, prepared to blow flames again, when the rocs crashed into her.

Laira screamed.

Talons crashed through her scales, digging at flesh. A beak drove into her shoulder, shedding blood, and an arrow shot through her wing, tearing open a hole.

Fly! cried a voice inside her. Fight through them! Fly to—

With a howl, Zerra charged upon his roc, and his spear dug into her shoulder, and Laira couldn’t even scream. Pain blasted through her. Her eyes rolled back, and all she could do was whimper.

In the agony, her magic left her.

She tumbled through the sky again, a mere human, a mere girl, afraid and alone.

Before she could hit the treetops, talons wrapped around her. Her eyelids fluttered. She thought it was Zerra’s roc that carried her. She thought she heard the chieftain marks away, voice muffled, slurred, his words impossible to grasp. She thought that countless other rocs flew around her, a sea of dank wings, scraggly necks, and cruel riders. Their blackness spread. She saw nothing but oily feathers, blazing yellow eyes, and blood.

MAEV

THE TATTOOED FIST DROVE INTO Maev’s face, and the world blazed with blood and white light.

Her back hit the ground.

“Gorn! Gorn!” The crowds spun around her, chanting her assailant’s name. Their faces were twisted with bloodlust, red in the torchlight. “Finish her!”

The fist drove down again, connecting with her temple, and blood splattered across the ground. Maev felt herself losing consciousness. She spat out a glob of saliva and blood.

Pain is strength, she told herself, repeating the mantra that had always run through her. Pain is life. Pain drives you.

She raised her arms. The fists fell left and right, blows that nearly shattered her bones. She blocked them. She screamed as her blood flew.

“Gorn! Gorn!”

Somewhere in the distance, her brother called out to her, the only voice in this crowd that wanted her to live.

“Maev! Get out of there!”

She blinked. Her one eye was swollen shut. The other peered between strands of her matted blond hair. She looked up at the man above—more a beast than a man, she thought. His face was leathery and covered with tattoos. Sweat dripped off his nose, and blood—shed by her own fist—fell from his mouth, splattering against her. He growled, pinning her down with his knees, driving his fists against her arms. A blow drove past her defenses, connecting with her cheek, and she could see no more, only white, only pain.

I can become a dragon, she thought in a haze. I am Vir Requis. I can fly, blow fire, kill him.

Through the blood in her mouth, she smiled.

But where is the fun in that?

She roared.

I am Maev Blacksmith. I am the Hammer. I will rise and triumph.

Screaming and spitting out blood, she kicked, flipped, and knocked Gorn over. The brawny man slammed into the earth. Maev was a powerful woman, but he was twice her size. She liked the sound he made falling. At once, she leaped upon him, wrapped her thighs around his neck, and twisted his head painfully downward. His spine ridge rose, ready to crack, and she rained blows upon him. Her fists drove into his kidneys, hard and fast as her old smithy’s hammers. She was raised a blacksmith’s daughter and she fought with the fury of metal hitting metal.

He screamed beneath her. Maev twisted harder, stretching her legs back, twisting his head, trying to rip it clean off. She managed to grin at the crowd. They surrounded the dirt square, pounding fists into palms, calling out.

And now they were calling her name.

“Hammer! Hammer!”

With a twist, she grabbed Gorn’s arm. She yanked him sideways, rolled across him, and landed hard in the mud. His arm gave a delightful pop as it dislocated from its socket.

Maev rose to her feet and licked the blood off her lips. She spat on him. “Had enough, little boy?”

His face was swollen and bloody, and his arm hung at an odd angle. Groaning, the man rose to his feet. Maev was tall and strong; she had inherited her father’s height and his powerful arms. She was no delicate gatherer of berries; she was a warrior, her muscles wide, her body lean and fierce. And yet Gorn towered above her, twice her width, and managed to grin. He spat out a tooth with a shower of blood and saliva.

“I’m going to rip your guts out with my own hands,” he said. “And I’m going to feed them to you.”

He swung.

Maev ducked and his fist flew over her head. She kicked, hitting his belly. As he doubled over, Maev leaped, driving her fist upward. It connected with his chin, knocking his head back. A left hook drove into his temple, splitting open skin, and for an instant his face turned to wobbly jelly.

He stood before her, teetering.

She drove her fist forward again. Her knuckles slammed into his nose, shattering it. It hurt like punching a brick wall.

It was enough to send him down like a sack of turnips.

He crashed to the ground and did not rise.

Maev placed her foot upon the fallen man, then raised her bloodied fists and shouted out hoarsely. “I am the Hammer! I pound flesh!”

She could barely see through her swollen eyes. The unconscious man’s face was a fleshy mess, all lumps and cuts. Maev knew that she looked no better, and she spat out more blood. But she could see enough. She could see the crowd of villagers cheering.

What was this village’s name? Maev didn’t even remember. Too many villages, too many fights. Gorn woke and began to moan; his friends dragged him out of the square, leaving a trail of blood. As Maev made her way through the crowd, villagers patted her on the back, offered her clay mugs of ale, and cried out her name.

She wiped back strands of her yellow hair. It was slick with blood—a mix of hers and his.

“Give me my prize,” she demanded, head spinning. She thrust out her bottom lip and raised her chin. “Give me what I earned or I’ll pound every last one of you.”

The village elder approached her, clad in canvas, his belly ample and his cheeks rosy. He held forth the silver amulet. When he tried to place it around her neck, Maev grabbed the jewel, spat onto his feet, and stuffed it into her pocket.

“I don’t wear no jewelry.” She glared at the elder through her one good eye; the other saw only blood. “I can barter this in the next village over. It would get me some good mutton—better than the shite you serve in this backwater.” She pushed her way through the crowd, following her nose. “I smell stew and ale! Feed me and give me enough booze to knock out a horse.”

Ahead rose craggy tables of logs held together with nails. Other logs served as benches, and the villagers sat here, eating steaming barley bread, gnawing on legs of lamb, and washing down the food with frothy ale. Maev stumbled toward a table, desperate for a hot meal and cold drinks—free fare for the victor, and she was in no position to turn down free meals.

Before she could reach the table, however, a familiar figure leaped forward, blocking her way.

Maev groaned. “Get out of here, Tanin, or I’m going to knock your face into the back of your skull.” She raised a fist. The knuckles were raw and bleeding.

Her brother gazed at her with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. A tall man of twenty-five years, he sported a head of shaggy brown hair. He had inherited his father’s bearlike hair, while she had the smooth, golden hair of their late mother. His eyes, like hers, were gray tinged with blue.

“By the stars,” Tanin said. “Your face is as swollen and ugly as a troll’s swollen arse.” He winked. “Getting it beaten up doesn’t help either.”

She grunted and pulled out her medallion. “A troll’s swollen arse with a silver prize.” She pushed past him. He was taller but Maev knew she was stronger. “Now don’t come between me and ale, or you’ll look the same.”

She reached the tables. Men moved aside, patting her on the back, and she thumped into a seat. Ignoring the villagers, she reached across the table, grabbed a leg of mutton, and took a huge bite. The hot meat melted in her mouth, and juices dripped down her chin, stinging her cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.

A drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.

“How much longer do you think you can do this?” he said. “This is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for sure.”

“Not counting.” She stared at the table, chewing her meat.

“And how many more fists can you take to the face?” Tanin leaned forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. “You can’t keep doing this.”

She shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her forehead into the drink. “Somebody’s got to support this family. If it’s not smith work, it’ll be fist work.” She thrust out her bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. “I was a good smith when Grizzly still had his shop. But I’m a better fighter.”

His voice softened. “There are other ways. My juggling earns us some food.”

She snorted. “Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our kind. Not for people with our curs—“

“Hush!” He paled. “Not here.”

She looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.

“Nobody’s listening. Nobody cares.” Maev reached for a turnip and chewed lustily. “This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us a living.”

The truth she kept to herself. Because fighting like this eases the pain, she thought, her eyes stinging. Because fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment, of a lost younger sister, of who I am. And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds inside her.

Tanin sighed, head lowered. “We weren’t meant to fight like this—with fists, with kicks.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and held her shoulder. “We were meant to fight as dragons.” His face lit up. “To fly. To blow fire. To bite with fangs and lash with claws.”

Maev glanced around again, but if anyone heard, they gave no notice. “Well, last I checked, dragons are hunted with arrows, rocs, and poison.” She shrugged. “Maybe I can’t fly. Not if I want to live.” She pounded the table. “But my fists are still strong. Now let me be. I’m eating. Go find some pretty shepherd’s daughter to try to charm.”

She turned her back on Tanin and tried to concentrate on her food. Yet her thoughts kept returning to the fight—to all her fights. Whenever she lay bloodied, fists raining down upon her, she wanted to shift into a dragon. Whenever she paced her canyon hideout, her brother and father and grandfather always nearby, she wanted to shift into a dragon. When she slept, she dreamed of flying. It was the magic of her family—some said the curse. All bore the dragon blood, the blood the world thought diseased.

Weredragons, they call us, Maev thought. Monsters to hunt.

She bit deep into a leg of lamb stewed in mint leaves, then chewed vigorously as if she could eat away the pain. Years ago, dragon hunters had killed her sister; they had poisoned sweet little Requiem in the fields. Everyone in the family dealt with that pain privately, desperately. Her father, Jeid Blacksmith, that huge grizzly bear of a man, had named their canyon home Requiem. He called it a new tribe, a safe haven for their kind, as if others existed in the world. Her grandfather, kindly old Eranor, dedicated himself to his gardens of herbs. Her brother cracked jokes, mocked her, mocked everyone; she knew it masked his pain.

And I, well . . . I fight. Maev looked at her torn knuckles. I hurt myself to drown the pain inside me. She sighed, looking around at the drinking villagers. If anyone here knew my true nature, they wouldn’t just fight me with fists. They’d try to kill me.

A snippet of conversation tore through her thoughts. She tensed, narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head.

“. . . a real weredragon!” somebody was saying—a villager with red cheeks and a bulbous nose. “Shapeshifter. Cursed with the reptilian disease.”

Maev growled and made ready to leap to her feet. At her side, she saw Tanin grimace and reach toward his boot where he kept a hidden dagger.

They know, Maev thought, heart pounding. They heard us talk. She rose to her feet, expecting the poisoned arrows to fly, and sucked in her magic.

“Ah, Old Wag, you’re drunk!” said another villager, an elderly man with bristly white muttonchops.

“I ain’t!” replied the bulbous-nosed man. “I heard the tales, all the way from Eteer across the sea. They say the prince of Eteer himself, a lad named Sena, is a weredragon. His father, the king, locked him up in a tower, he did.” Old Wag roared out laughter, spraying crumbs. “Like a princess from a story.”

Maev slowly sat down again, loosening her fists. At her side, she saw Tanin ease too. He slipped his dagger back into his boot.

“The Prince of Eteer?” Maev said, letting her voice carry across the table. “Eteer’s just a myth.” She snorted. “A land of stone towers, of men bedecked all in bronze, of thousands of souls living in a town the size of a forest?” She spat. “Ain’t no such place in the world.”

The villagers looked at her, scratching chins and stroking beards.

“Eteer’s real enough,” said the old man with the muttonchops. “My cousin, in the next town over, he’s been there himself. Trades there, he does. He ships in furs and brings back jewels and spices and metal tools. Aye, a land of stone towers it is, of walls taller than trees.” He gestured around at the village; a few scraggly huts rose around the muddy square. “There’s more to the world than the north. We here, we’re a mole on the arse of the world. But Eteer now—that there’s a golden crown.”

Old Wag leaped onto the tabletop, spraying mud from his boots across plates and knocking over a mug of ale. “And there’s a weredragon there! It’s true, it is. Traders talking all about it. My old nan swears she heard it from one who saw the beast. A blue dragon flying over the sea. Locked in the tower now, he is, chained in his human form. Can’t hurt no decent souls like that. His own father put him there.” Wag nodded emphatically. “If my son were a weredragon, I’d lock him up too.”

Men roared with laughter. “Your son can’t even work a grinding stone, let alone become a dragon!” one woman called out. “Head of mush, that one has.”

Maev looked at her brother. He stared back at her, eyes somber.

“Maev,” Tanin whispered. “Tell me you’re not thinking of . . .”

She grabbed his hand and tugged him up. She pulled him away from the table. Ignoring calls from the villagers, she walked around the well, between two huts, and into open fields.

The stars shone above, crickets chirped, and an owl hooted. Fireflies danced above the tall grass. After the heat and noise and smells of the village, it felt good to walk here in darkness. They moved through the grasslands, heading deeper into shadows, for they were Vir Requis, creatures of the night.

“There is another,” Maev whispered, eyes watering.

In the darkness, she heard Tanin groan.

“The drunken talk of fools,” he said. He shoved aside the tall, wild grass, moving through the darkness. “People also say dragons eat babies, drink the blood of virgins, and piss molten gold. So they say a prince in a far-off land is a dragon.” He barked a laugh. “What are you going to do, fly all the way across the sea, find this mythical land of Eteer, and look for a tower?”

Maev sighed and looked up at the stars. The Draco constellation shone there, comforting her, easing the pain of her wounds.

“Fifty years ago, these stars began to shine,” Maev said softly. “Grandfather was among the first in the world to become a dragon. The stars gave him this magic.” She smiled to remember his stories. “And he gave it to our father. And that great grizzly bear passed it on to us. If the stars blessed our family, perhaps they blessed another family too. Perhaps they blessed Prince Sena of Eteer. And if it’s true . . . if he’s imprisoned . . . we have to save him.” She clutched her brother’s hand. “We have to bring him home.”

They kept walking in silence, listening to the crickets and rustling grass. When they were far enough from the town, Maev closed her eyes and summoned her magic. It flowed through her, warmer than mulled wine, easing the pain of her wounds. She beat her wings, rising into the air, a green dragon in the night. At her side, more wings thudded, and she saw her brother soar too, a red dragon with long white horns.

Silent, keeping their fire low, they rose and caught an air current. They glided through the night, heading away from the villages that hunted their kind . . . heading toward that distant mountain, that new home, that place of safety and warmth in a cold world.

ANGEL

SHE CROUCHED IN THE DARKNESS, a queen of rock and fire, and licked the blood off her long, clawed fingers, savoring the coppery heat, shuddering as the hooks upon her tongue lapped the goodness, and she unfurled that tongue, stretching out a dripping serpent, and Angel howled in the depths in her hunger and lust.

“It is sweet, my children, my terrors,” she hissed. Saliva dripped down her maw to steam against the stone floor. The cracks upon her body widened, leaking smoke and fire. “The blood nourishes. The blood is darkness.”

Her meal writhed before her, all but drained, a gray husk of a thing. Once it had been three; she had molded them together, cutting and sewing, stitching twins like dolls, bloating the beast with embers and meat and sweet drippings of fat, letting it fester, letting it grow. Now she drank from her twisted creation, her living wineskin of meat and marrow. She drove her head down, thrusting her hollowed teeth through its skin, and sucked, sucked, lapped the sweetness, the red and black, the heat and stickiness. Its many arms twitched, and its mouths, sewn together, whimpered and begged, and its eyes blinked and wept where she had placed them, and still Angel drank, leaving it an empty shell, a shriveled thing, only skin over bones.

“Yes, my dears.” She licked the creature, her conjoined twins, her meals in the darkness. “You will live. I will fatten you again, and you will grow, and more will join you. I will sew you into a great feast.”

It begged her for death, tears pouring. She laughed. She shoved it aside, leaped, and scuttled through the depths. Her leather wings beat, wafting smoke and stench, and her four arms flailed, ending with claws, cutting into the stone. Around her they lay, the creatures she had sewn together. The largest was a hundred strong, bodies morphed into a writhing hill, sacks of blood and rot, meals to last through her long, ancient banishment.

Upon their anguished faces she ran, cutting into them, digging, spurting, scattering flesh, until she scampered up the craggy cavern wall. Her wings stretched wide, and the blood coursed through her, heating her, and flames blasted from her cracked body of stone. She let out a howl of lust, a cry that echoed through the chamber, for blood was not enough, and filling her belly could never sate her, for her loins burned with the greatest heat, crying for release, begging to feast like her maw had feasted.

She left her chamber of blood, her hall of husks, her place of feeding, and she scuttled through the tunnel, a creature of fire, until she burst into a new hall, fell, spread her wings, rose, crackled in an inferno. Her flames blasted out, and she shrieked until her voice echoed, and the fire rose from her loins to crawl across her cracked belly, her stony breasts, her four arms of rock and her claws of metal.

Before her they knelt, shuddered, sang, cowered, begged, shrieked, mocked, prayed—her soldiers of the Abyss, her endless twisted things to praise her, to worship her, to thrust into her in a vain attempt to satisfy her lust, for only human flesh could silence her craving. She gazed upon them. Creatures of oozing flesh, their skin peeled away, their muscles dripping, their bones white and wet. Creatures of stone like her, their bodies cracked and dry and leaking smoke. Creatures of fat, slithering, sliding, seeping, leaving their wet trails, stuffing their folds of fat with worms and maggots and snakes and all things that crawled and burrowed. Creatures hooded. Creatures naked. Creatures inside out, organs glistening. Creatures of smoke, of horn, of scale, of rot. All filled the chamber before her, from beasts thrice her size to rotting, clattering centipedes that crawled around her legs, their segments formed of human heads.

All praised her.

She was Angel.

She was fire and light and a beacon of darkness.

“Kneel before me!” she cried, voice slamming against the stone walls, this place far under the world, this trap, this prison. “Worship me and fill me. Send one forth.”

They rustled, clattered, squealed, and groaned beneath her feet. Angel screamed, her cry shattering flesh below, breaking bones, snapping eardrums, scattering blood. She pointed a dripping claw, selecting one, a mummified thing, its head long and topped with a disk of bone, its mouth rustling with maggots, it belly sliced open to reveal nests of snakes. It moved toward her on hooves, and Angel lowered herself on her four elbows, and she howled when the creature thrust into her with its barbed tool, and she dug into the stone, and she spewed flame from her maw as he took her. Around her in the cave, smelling her sex, the other creatures of the Abyss clawed and grabbed one another, copulating in pools of drool and rot, howling to the stone ceiling, filling the chamber with stench and whimpers and groans.

Yet it was all for naught. Even as her paramour took her, she knew no filling of her craving, and she knew no life would quicken within her, for thus was her curse. Thus was her banishment, her prison, to forever crave a child, to forever feel the emptiness in her womb, for only the seed of living men—of the flesh that moved above the rock—could fill her with life, with a rotting, pulsing spawn.

When the summons hit her, Angel hissed and raised her dripping maw.

A summons? After so long?

She screamed.

She sprayed lava from her mouth, and she pulled herself off the beast that mounted her, and she beat her wings.

“A summons! I am called!”

She flapped her wings, scattering the stench of the pit, churning smoke and fire. Flames burst across her, and the calling burned her. She shut her eyes, opened her arms, uncurled her claws.

“Speak, sack of flesh! Speak, creature overground!”

Astral arms pulled her, sucking her up into the stone, tugging her through tunnels. She laughed, wind shrieking around her, rock cracking against her. It had been so many years, so long since the creatures above had summoned her, weak and small and tempting, so beautiful, so warm.

Inferno blazed, and the world cracked, and when she opened her eyes again, Angel stood in a new place, an old chamber, the hall of the kings aboveground.

She laughed, spreading her wings wide, scattering her fire. The sparks landed upon tapestries, burning them, filling this place with her heat. Here was the Hall of Eteer, the throne room of the kings who ruled above her own rotted kingdom. Many times they had called her here in days of old, ancient lords of sunlight, and she had spoken with them, treated with them, and sometimes snatched them into the depths to sew into her sacks of blood.

A new king sat before her upon the throne, younger than the last one, tall and broad. His head was bald, his skin bronzed from sunlight, and true bronze—that metal she had taught the smiths of Eteer to forge—covered him as armor.

Angel hissed at him, sending out her tongue to taste him, licking, exploring. She cackled, drool spilling from her, burning holes into the mosaic beneath her claws.

“You are new,” she said, smoke seeping between her fangs.

The mortal stared, face grim, and she saw herself reflected in his eyes: a woman carved of volcanic rock, cracked and red and black, flames engulfing her, her leathern wings wide, her four arms long and tipped with claws, a queen, a barren thing, a goddess of lust and hunger and emptiness.

“I am Raem Seran, son of the fallen Nir-Ur, King of Eteer.” Even in her heat, and even as she hissed and spat embers upon him, he did not cower, and he did not avert his eyes. “I now sit upon the kingdom’s throne. As is my right, I summon you to my service, Queen of the Abyss.”

Angel cackled.

Her laughter blasted back his cloak, seared his skin, and splattered him with her steaming saliva. She beat her wings and rose higher, leaving a wake of fire. She stretched out her arms, letting him admire her nakedness, her loins like burning embers, her pulsing womb that ached for his seed.

“Serve you, King?” She spat out the last word as an insult. “Perhaps you would serve me in my pit. I will take you, copulate with you, and give you to my demons, so they might thrust into you, and you will feed us with your blood, and we will—“

“Silence!” he said, rising from his throne. “You are a queen of banishment, ruler of a prison cell. My forebears bound you to my dynasty. As is my right, I command you. You will rise. You will fight for me.”

Angel beat her wings, drew near, and placed her claws upon his chest. They dug grooves through his armor and into his skin, and his blood spilled, and she licked his cheek and hissed into his ear.

“Your forebears never dared free me. If I fight, King, I will burn the world.”

He reached into her flames. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back, not flinching even from her heat.

“You will burn only those I command you to. Weredragons infest my kingdom, diseased humans who can take dragon forms. They will be yours to slay. Raise your horde! Bring forth the creatures of the underworld. The demons of the Abyss will rise. You will live in the world once more, as you did in ancient days, and you will hunt weredragons.”

Angel shrieked. Her cry cracked a column to her left. The tapestries burned all around, falling to the floor.

“For ten thousand years, we lingered in the darkness. You will free us?”

Raem shook his head. “No. I grant you no freedom. I grant you servitude in sunlight. Fight for me, Angel. You will feel the sunlight upon you. You will fly in open sky, covering my kingdom. But still you will be bound to me.”

She tilted her head, snapped her teeth, and clawed at him. “I demand more! I demand . . .” She grinned, and smoke rose between her teeth to blind her. “I demand human wombs. Let my demons choose brides among your women. Let them breed with them. Let the seed of the Abyss infect mortal bellies, so that the daughters of Eteer may bear us children. Agree to this, mortal man, and I will slay your weredragons.”

Raem stared at her in silence, eyes hard, lips tight.

He nodded.

Angel laughed.

She tossed back her head, stretched out her four arms, beat her wings, spread her flame, and her laughter rang and the ceiling rained dust.

“It will be so!”

She stamped down her feet, and cracks raced across the floor. Claws rose between them, widening the gaps, and mouths gaped, and tongues explored, and eyes peered, and smoke wafted. The mosaic shattered and they emerged: crawling, flying, slithering, seeping, dragging, scuttling, creatures of ooze, of fat, of scales, of horns, of dried flesh, of weeping sores. Large and small, they emerged into the hall of Eteer’s king, freed, famished—the demons of the Abyss.

“We will hunt weredragons!” Angel shouted through her laughter, and they filled the hall around her. “We will mate with mortal flesh! Spread across the city, children of rot. Choose brides among the women. Sniff out reptiles and slay them. Kill and breed! Crush and bring forth life!”

They stormed through the hall, a geyser of rot, cracking the columns, crashing through doors, shattering windows, flowing into the city and the searing sunlight that had been forbidden for so long. Their howls shook the world, almost drowning the screams of the mortals.

They left the hall singed, globs of rot dripping from the charred tapestries, the floor shattered, the mosaic stones scattered like dragon scales. Still he stood before her, this new king, this human of hot skin and blood.

She placed her arms around him.

“I need no bride,” she whispered and licked his face, tearing his skin with the hooks of her tongue. “You will be mine.”

She tugged and they fell upon the shattered floor, limbs dangling across the open pit’s ledge, and there she copulated with him, a sticky dance of stone and skin, of blood and fire, and she screamed as they merged, and she laughed and clawed the floor.

She had found freedom. She had found release for her fire. And soon . . . soon she would find dragons to burn.

JEID

“GRIZZLY, I AM LEAVING.” MAEV crossed her arms, thrust out her bottom lip, and raised her chin. “I’m flying across the sea and into a bronze kingdom, and you can’t stop me.”

Standing in the canyon, Jeid Blacksmith stared at his daughter, rage and fear mingling inside him. He clutched his axe so tightly he thought he might snap the shaft. His arms shook. A growl rose in his throat. Finally he could not contain it; he tossed back his shaggy, bearded head and shouted wordlessly. His cry echoed within the mossy walls of the canyon, shaking the stones. This was an ancient crack in the world—boulders perched precariously atop pillars of stone, trees clinging to craggy walls, natural cairns of sharp rocks, and caves running into the depths of the earth. This natural fortress of walls, tunnels, and towers had stood here since the dawn of time. Now Jeid howled so loudly he thought the sound could shatter the old stones, burying him and his daughter forever.

Finally his wordless cry morphed into words. “No! I forbid it. You will stay here in this canyon, in safety, with me.”

Maev tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. She placed her fists on her hips and snorted, blowing back a strand of her long, dark blond hair.

“You cannot stop me. I am twenty-three years old, Grizzly. When you were my age, you were already a father.” She gestured at the canyon around her. Vines and moss covered the craggy walls, and boulders lay piled up around her. “I’m a Vir Requis. I can shift into a dragon. I’m not meant to hide among stone.” Her eyes gleamed and she hopped to another boulder, moving closer to him. “Grizzly, there is another. I know it. Let me find him.”

Jeid sighed.

She looks like her mother, but she is stubborn like me.

Jeid—tall, burly, and shaggy—sported a mane of wild brown hair, a bushy beard, and brown eyes that stared from under tufted brows. Clad in furs, he looked like something of a bear, earning him his nickname; even his own children now used the moniker.

Maev looked like her late mother. Her hair was golden, her eyes gray tinged with blue, her skin pale. But Jeid saw himself in her too—the stubborn gaze, the strong arms, the way she raised her chin, stuck out her bottom lip, and dared anyone to challenge her. He had given her those.

I never wanted this life for you, Maev, he thought. He had imagined her growing up a fair woman, perhaps a gatherer of berries or a weaver of cloth. Instead she had become a fighter, traveling from town to town to punch and kick and bite for prizes. Today a black eye marred her countenance, and her lip was still swollen, the remnants of the fights he forbade and she kept getting into. Like him, she obeyed no rules, respected no leaders, and valued stubbornness over prudence.

If she insisted on having a nap in a meadow, Jeid thought, an approaching stampede of mammoths would not convince her to move.

“The Prince of Eteer, a dragon?” Jeid said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s only a legend, daughter. The kingdom of Eteer itself is probably only a legend. A town the size of a forest? Houses built of stone and armies of thousands, each man bearing bronze? Towers taller than totem poles?” He hefted the shield that hung across his back. “No such place exists. These are only stories told around campfires.”

Maev growled and bared her teeth. She leaped onto another boulder; she now stood only a foot away from the rock he stood on. She gave his chest a shove so hard Jeid nearly toppled over.

“A legend!” Her eyes flashed. “You know what else some claim is a legend? Dragons. And look.”

With a roar, she leaped into the air and shifted.

Green scales rose across her. Her tail flailed. She flapped her wings, bending the trees that clung to the canyon walls. Rocks rolled and rearranged themselves, and even a boulder creaked upon the jutting stone pillar it perched upon. Maev ascended, rising above the canyon walls until she flew in open sky. She blasted out fire, a pillar of heat and light that filled the sky and rained down sparks.

“Maev, you fool!”

With his own roar, Jeid shifted too, becoming a burly copper dragon. He beat his wings, rose to the top of the canyon, and grabbed Maev’s tail. He tugged her down into safety like a man pulling down a flapping bird. Their wings slapped against the canyon walls. Maev was a strong, slim dragon, fast as wildfire, but Jeid was twice her size, a massive beast of horns like spears, claws like swords, and scales like shields. When he pulled her back to the canyon floor, they shifted back into human forms. She stood before him, clad in fur and leather again. She panted, her cheeks flushed.

“Did you see the legend?” She spat. “Dragons are real. I’m real. You’re real. Our family is real. And there are others. In the villages and tribes they speak of it—the kingdom of Eteer. Young Prince Sena is held captive by his cruel father, a father almost as cruel as you. He’s locked in a tower, Grizzly! Not even a canyon where you can see the sky, but a tiny cell, chained so he can’t shift.” She raised her chin. “I have to save him. I have to believe there are others, not just our family. I have to fly south and save him.” Her voice softened and she sighed. “You must learn to—just sometimes—let me go.”

But he could not let her go. He had lost one daughter already. He had lost his sweet Requiem. How could he lose Maev too?

He pulled her into his arms. Maev was a tall woman, taller than many men, and yet Jeid towered above her; she nearly disappeared into his embrace. She laid her head against his shoulder, and her tears dampened his fur tunic.

“My daughter,” he said, voice choked. “I already lost your mother to the arrows of those who hate us. I already lost your sister to their poison. I cannot bear to lose you too. What if you fly into a trap, like . . . like the trap that killed Requiem? Like the trap that almost killed me?”

“No trap can stop me.” She touched his beard, and her eyes softened. “Grizzly, I am strong, fast, a warrior. You will not lose me. I will free the prince, and I will bring him back here. You’ve always dreamed of finding others, of building a new tribe here, a tribe of Vir Requis. And yet we’ve found no others. Let me find one. Let me prove to you that we are not alone.”

A loud voice, speaking in falsetto, came from above them. “Oh Grizzly! I am a heroine from a tale. I rescue princes from towers, inspire bards with my bravery, and slay ogres with my bad breath.”

Jeid looked up and sighed again. Upon the canyon’s edge, looking down upon them, stood his son.

Two years older than his sister, Tanin sported a head of shaggy brown hair, and stubble covered his cheeks. While his father was beefy, Tanin was slender and quick. He wore leather breeches and a fur tunic, and he carried a bronze apa sword at his belt, the leaf-shaped blade as long as his thigh. A bow and quiver hung across his back, and a mocking smile tugged at his lips. A prankster, his only joy seemed to be tormenting his younger sister—stuffing frogs into her blankets, painting her face while she slept, and once even slicing off a strand of her hair, which Maev had avenged by giving him a fat lip.

Maev spun around and glared up at him. “I do not sound like that.”

Tanin smirked and gave a little pirouette, balancing on the edge of the canyon. He kept speaking in falsetto. “I’m so lonely here, Grizzly, and I’m as homely as the south side of a northbound mule. The only way I’ll ever find a mate is to travel to the edge of the world—where they haven’t heard of my foul temper—and snatch one up—“

“Tanin!” Smoke looked ready to plume from Maev’s ears. She leaped, shifted again, and flew up toward her brother. She landed atop the canyon, shifted back into human form, and barreled into him, knocking him down.

Jeid grunted and flew after them. When he reached the canyon’s edge, he resumed human form and stomped toward the wrestling siblings. Birches, oaks, and elms grew around them, hiding them from any rocs that might dare fly above. The escarpment sloped down to the south, leading to forested hills, valleys, and finally the river where they fished for bass and trout. Beyond that river lay the towns and villages of those who hunted them—a forbidden realm.

“Enough!” Jeid bellowed. He grabbed each of his children by the collar and lifted them up. They dangled in his grip, still trying to punch one another. “Stop your bickering, children, or I’ll bang your heads together like melons.”

“Ow!” said Tanin, struggling in his father’s grip. “What did I do?” The young man was twenty-five and tall and strong, yet in his father’s grip he seemed like a bear cub.

“You will stop tormenting your sister!” Jeid said. “And you will sway her away from this nonsense.”

He tossed both his children down in disgust. They fell into a pile of fallen leaves, rose to their feet, and brushed their woolen clothes and fur cloaks.

“Well . . .” Tanin stared at his feet and kicked around a pine cone. “I sort of . . . agreed to go with her.”

Jeid’s eyes widened. “You what?” he bellowed. “I expect some nonsense from Maev.” He ignored her protests. “But you, Tanin? I thought you were better than this.”

Tanin finally dared raise his eyes. “You taught me to be a smith, Grizzly. You taught me to forge copper, tin, and bronze.” He gestured at the wide, bronze sword that hung on his hip. “And then you shifted into a dragon. You let the town see you. And we had to flee here. Now I roam around from town to town, juggling raven skulls and dancing like a trained bear—a blind, clumsy bear with gammy legs.” Tanin sighed, took his bronzed raven skulls out of his pockets, and tossed them as far as they’d go. “You spoke of creating a tribe—a tribe of weredragons, a tribe called Requiem after my sister. You even gave us a fancy name—Vir Requis.” Tanin gestured around him. “Well, I don’t see a tribe. I see a gruff, hairy grizzly bear . . . and I see my father.” He winked at Maev.

With a growl, Maev leaped onto her brother again, wrestling him down and punching. This time Jeid did not try to stop them. He clenched his fists, lowered his head, and the pain cut through him.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice so soft he barely heard himself.

The siblings, however, paused from wrestling. They stared up at him, eyes wide.

Pain clutched at Jeid’s chest to remember that day, that horrible day Zerra, his own twin, had seen him shift into a dragon. Zerra had shouted the news across their town of Oldforge, raging that his brother was diseased. Jeid had fled into the wilderness that day. Zerra had left Oldforge too—he joined a roaming tribe of roc riders and dedicated himself to hunting weredragons.

To hunting me, Jeid thought.

“You’re right,” he repeated, voice soft. “This is my fault. I’m the one who was caught. I’m the one who doomed us to banishment. I’m the reason you live in a canyon, that you roam from town to town for food and supplies, when you should be smiths in Oldforge, a true roof over your head, starting your own families.” His voice choked. “I failed you. I know this, and it hurts me every day, and—“

“Grizzly!” Maev said. She leaped to her feet and embraced him. Tanin joined her a moment later, awkwardly placing an arm around them.

“But I ask you, my children.” Jeid’s eyes burned. “I ask you to stay. Stay with me.”

Tears streamed down Maev’s cheeks. She hugged him tightly . . . but then she stepped away.

“I cannot,” she whispered. “I must find others. I must. If we’re banished, let us build this new tribe.” She leaped into the air and shifted. Her wings scattered dry leaves and bent saplings. She took flight with clattering scales, crashed through the canopy, and hovered above. “Goodbye, Father! Goodbye!”

With that, she spun and flew southward, leaving only a wake of smoke.

Tanin stood before his father, arms hanging at his sides, his cheeks flushed. He cleared his throat and clasped Jeid’s shoulder.

“I’ll look after her,” he said, voice hoarse. “I won’t torment her much. I—“

His voice choked and he seemed ready to shed tears. With a silent nod, the young man shifted too. He rose into the air, a red dragon, and flew off, calling his sister’s name.

Jeid grunted and was about to shift too, to fly after them and drag them home, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Let them go, my son.” The voice was deep and soft, a voice like waves on sand, like water in the deep. “Let them be.”

Jeid spun around, fists clenched, to see his own father.

At seventy years of age, Eranor still stood straight, his shoulders squared. His long white hair and beard flowed down to his waist. His glittering blue eyes stared from under bushy, snowy eyebrows. He still wore his old druid robes, blue wool hemmed in silver, and he bore a staff made from a twisting oak root. Upon its top, clutched within wooden fingers, shone a blue crystal the size of a heart. Eranor, once a healer and sage in their town, had been banished with the rest of his family—the first among them to find the magic, to shift into a dragon . . . and to call it a gift.

“They—“ For a moment, Jeid chocked on his words. “Those scoundrels are—“

“I know.” Eranor smiled sadly and patted his son’s shoulder. “They spoke to me of leaving. I gave them my blessing.”

“You what? Father! How could you do this?” Jeid felt his face flush. He swung his axe through the air, bellowed wordlessly, and kicked leaves and rocks. “I will kill them. Why would they not come to me first, why—“

“Because they’re frightened of you.” Eranor swung his staff, knocking down the axe. “They don’t call you Grizzly only because of your shaggy hair and beard. You terrify the poor things.”

“Those poor things should be terrified. I’m flying after them now, and when I catch them, I—“

“Jeid, come with me.” Eranor clasped his son’s arm, holding him in place. “Come to the watchtower.”

Jeid tossed down his axe with a grunt; it vanished into the fallen leaves. Huffing, he followed his father. They tramped between the trees, approaching the pillar of stone. It rose narrow and tall, a shard like a tower, a remnant of the ancient calamity that had fallen upon this land. Countless years ago, the druids said, half the world plunged down like a sinking loaf of bread, creating the escarpment—a great shelf of stone that ran into the horizon. When the land had collapsed, boulders fell, the canyon gaped open, and the watchtower rose from the earth like a blade. Jeid and his father climbed the stone pillar now. The top was barely wide enough for two; they stood pressed together.

Here was the highest point of the escarpment. Standing here, Jeid could see the land slope down before him, finally reaching treed hills and valleys; beyond them flowed the River Ranin. Upon the horizon, he could just make out pillars of smoke—the cooking fires of Oldforge. To his right, a waterfall crashed down the escarpment, feeding a stream.

Eranor gestured at the scenery. The wind whipped his beard and fluttered his wide sleeves. “The world.”

“Yes, Father, I know what the world is.”

“But your children do not.” Eranor smiled sadly. “You have traveled far and wide and seen many lands. They have never gone south of the River Ranin.”

The old druid turned around and pointed down. The canyon stretched beneath them, mossy boulders piled up in its depths. Vines and roots covered its walls. Several caves gaped open, leading to a network of tunnels and caverns.

“This canyon is a safe place,” Jeid said, his voice still gruff. “I built a new home for us here. Even my brother fears this place. Here is our fortress. Here we are safe behind walls of stone, safe to blow fire from caves upon any roc that might attack.”

He gestured around him. To a random traveler, the canyon would seem like nothing but a natural collapse of nature, a sculpture all of stone, wood, and moss. But Jeid saw a fort. Pillars of stone thrust up—watchtowers. Caves lined the canyon walls—secret holes for blasting flame. Boulders rose and fell like walls, some balanced upon one another—traps to crush invaders. In the wilderness, arrows could slay them. In the skies, rocs could hunt them. Here was safety. Here was survival.

“Aye,” said Eranor, stroking his white beard. “It’s a safe place for weary travelers such as you and me. But for Tanin and Maev . . . they need to believe there is more. They need to believe there is hope, that there are others like us.”

Jeid lowered his head. The wind fluttered his hair around his face. He winced to remember flying back to Oldforge only days ago—of Ciana betraying him, of the poisoned arrows thrusting into him. His wounds still stung, but worse was the pain inside him.

“Are there more, Father?” he said softly. “I told them that other dragons fly. I told them we can build a tribe, a tribe called Requiem. I told them tales to comfort them—when they were young, afraid, banished. I told them that our family is not diseased, that we carry a gift, that others in the world are like us.” He raised his eyes and stared at his father. “I told them the stories you told me when I was young. But I lied. And you lied.”

Eranor raised his eyebrows. “Lied, did I? Look at your shield, Jeid. Look at the shield that you yourself forged.”

With a grunt, Jeid slung the shield off his back. The bronze disk was inlaid with silver stars, forming a dragon-shaped constellation. Those same stars shone in the sky every night.

“Simple stars,” Jeid said. “A coincidence.”

Eranor shook his head. “You were born seeing those stars at night. But when I was young, the Draco constellation did not shine.” Eranor’s eyes watered. “A great gift has come to the world—the gift of magic, of dragons. I do not believe that it blessed only our family. In villages and wandering tribes, they speak of others—others who were hunted, caught, killed. Zerra hunts them; so do other tribes. But some must have escaped. Some must have survived. Your children need to believe this . . . and so do I. Even their old grandfather, white-haired and frail, must cling to some hope. Requiem might be a dream, but let us live that dream.”

Jeid slung the shield across his back again. “You are many years away from being frail, Father. And I wish I could believe too. But since . . . since they died . . .” His voice choked.

Eranor nodded and lowered his head, and his white beard cascaded like a waterfall. “I miss them too. As the stars blessed us with magic, so do they harbor the souls of our departed. Your wife and daughter look down upon you. And they are proud of you.”

Another story, Jeid thought. Another comforting fairy tale.

He wanted to believe, wanted to hope too, but Jeid could not. Hope led to despair.

He climbed down the pillar of stone. He entered his small cave in the canyon. He opened his wooden chest, pulled out Requiem’s old coat, and held the soft cotton against his cheek until darkness fell.

LAIRA

IN THE COLD AUTUMN MORNING, fog cloaking the camp and crows peering from naked trees, Laira stood tied to a stake, awaiting her death in fire.

The Goldtusk tribe gathered around the pyre, watching her, five hundred souls. They wore mammoth, wolf, and deer fur, and their strings of bone and clay beads hung around their necks and arms. Mist floated between them and their breath frosted. The tribe’s totem pole rose behind upon a hillock, the gilded mammoth tusk upon its crest all but hidden in the fog. The rocs stood tethered to the pole, scratching the earth and cawing, anxious for a meal; the birds had seen enough burnings to know they would soon feast upon charred flesh.

Branches, straw, and twigs rose in a pile beneath Laira’s feet. She watched a grub crawl down a birch branch, only for a robin to land, suck it up, and fly off. Strangely, the sight almost comforted to her.

I will burn. I will scream. I will rise to my mother. But the world will go on. Birds will fly, grubs will die, the leaves will fall and bud again. Maybe I’m as small and meaningless as that grub.

Zerra came walking through the crowd, heading toward her, holding a torch. A cruel smile twisted his features, lipless on the burnt half of his face. His fur cloak billowed in the wind, revealing his bronze sword—the most precious weapon in their tribe. When he reached her, he held his torch close, and the heat and smoke stung Laira and invaded her nostrils. She grimaced.

“Aye, you were a sweet one in my bed.” Drool dripped down his chin and he grabbed his groin. “It’s almost a shame to burn you. You were as hot and smooth as your mother was. I claimed her too, did you know? Your father abandoned her for me to take.” He smirked. “Mother and daughter—both mine to bed and burn.”

Laira found rage filling her, overflowing her moment of stoicism.

“You lie!” She spat on his face. “My father is a great warrior-prince across the sea. He is stronger than you, and his sword is wider and longer. My mother was just as strong. She never submitted to you as I did. You will forever bear the mark of her strength upon your ravaged face.”

Slowly, he wiped the spit off. His hand wet with her saliva, he struck her. The blow snapped Laira’s head to the side, rattling her teeth, searing her with white light. The torch crackled only inches from her, only heartbeats away from igniting the pyre.

“Half my body is burnt,” Zerra said. “I think that, after I’ve burned all of yours, I will pull you from the flames. I will keep you half-alive, writhing and begging for death. I will heal you. For long moons, you will scream in your tent, and we will apply ointments, bandages, prayers . . . then burn you again, only to repeat the cycle. I wonder how many burnings you will survive. I will try to make it many. You will end up envying your mother.”

Laira grimaced as the torch drew nearer, singing her cheek, and her heart thrashed. She gritted her teeth.

No. I will not give up. I will fight even as the fire blazes.

She gave the ropes binding her a mighty tug. But they only chafed her wrists, keeping her arms tied behind her to the stake. She tried to kick, but the ropes dug into her ankles, and blood trickled onto her bare feet.

“Yes, struggle for me.” Zerra leaned forward and licked her cheek. He brought the ravaged half of his face near her eyes. “Look at my scars, child. Soon all your body will look like this.”

Laira sucked in breath, chest shaking.

Use your curse. Use your disease. She ground her teeth. Use your magic.

She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power. At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.

Zerra stepped back and raised his torch. “For the glory of Ka’altei!” he shouted. “We will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?”

Concentrate, Laira. Grab your magic.

Shedah, the crone, stepped forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of Laira’s fallen mother, now the crone’s prize. The wizened old thing, frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an ape grinned atop it.

“I name her a cursed thing!” cried the shaman, voice shrill.

Laira reached down deep inside her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.

The magic flowed through her.

Ahead, Shedah reached into her leather pouch, pulled out blue powder, and tossed it onto Zerra’s torch. The powder ignited, spewing orange smoke, and Zerra raised the flame high.

“The fire is blessed with the seed of Ka’altei!” he announced. “The reptile will forever blaze in his halls of retribution.”

Scales flowed across Laira’s body.

Wings emerged from her back.

Fangs grew from her gums and her fingers lengthened into claws.

Fly!

As her body ballooned, the ropes dug into her growing ankles and wrists, cutting into flesh, and Laira yowled. If she kept growing, the ropes would sever her feet and hands.

I still must shift, she thought as Zerra approached. I still must fly, even without hands and feet. I—

The ropes dug deeper, and the agony overwhelmed her, knocking the magic from her grasp.

The scales, wings, and fangs vanished. She shrank into a woman again, hanging limply from the stake.

With a thin smile, Zerra tossed the torch onto the pyre.

The kindling caught fire, and heat bathed Laira, and she screamed. The flames raced up the pile of wood, branch by branch, heading toward her feet.

What do I do? Dragon stars, what do I do?

She screamed and tugged at her bonds again. She reached for her magic but no longer found it. The fire licked her toes and she screamed. Through the haze of smoke and crackling flame, she saw the tribesmen cheer. Behind them the rocs fluttered madly, snapping their beaks, awaiting their meal. Tears filled Laira’s eyes. She could barely see through the heat, and the world swayed.

“Neiva!” she shouted and managed a high whistle. “Neiva, to me!”

The smoke blinded her and filled her mouth. The fire seared her feet.

“Neiva, please!”

She opened her eyes to slits. The smoke billowed. The flames blazed. Through the inferno, she saw wings flapping, talons reaching out, yellow eyes gleaming. She had ridden this animal only once, had bonded with Neiva for only a day, yet today she was her roc, bound to Laira with fire—and now her roc reached into the flames. Talons closed around the stake, tugging, lifting the bole out of the flaming pyre. Laira’s feet rose from the blaze.

“Fly, Neiva! Fly north. Fly!”

Laira’s eyes rolled back. She blinked, forcing herself to regain consciousness. The world spun around her. Wings beat and the oily, rancid stench of the roc filled her nostrils, and it was beautiful to her, the sweetest thing she’d ever smelled. When she looked down, she saw the pyre consumed with flame. The tribesmen were scurrying below and leaping onto their own rocs.

“To the forest, Neiva!” Laira shouted. If she still had any chance, it lay among those trees.

She was still tied to the stake, trussed up and charred and bruised, a bit of meat on a skewer. She felt so weak she could just slip into endless sleep. She ground her teeth, bit down on her cheek, and forced herself to remain awake.

“I will not die,” she hissed, fists clenched behind the stake she was tied to. “I will not give up. I will fight this until my very last drop of strength, and then I will fight some more.”

The roc flew, shrieking, holding the stake in her talons. They glided toward the forest, a hundred rocs shrieking and chasing behind them.

The grassy hills rolled below, speckled with boulders and scattered elm trees. Mist hung in the valleys, deer ran along a riverbank, and a forest of oaks, maples, and birches sprawled in the north. Neiva flew toward those woods now, descended above the canopy, and screeched.

“Through the trees!” Laira said. “Land among them.”

The roc hesitated. Clutching the stake in both talons, Neiva seemed unable to land; the canopy was too thick. With her talons free, perhaps Neiva could have parted the branches, but now she merely hovered above the trees, holding the stake. When Laira twisted her head, she saw the other rocs chasing, and their riders fired arrows.

“Drop me!” Laira cried. “Do it!”

Neiva tossed back her head, her beak opened wide, and she cried out, the sound so loud Laira thought her eardrums might snap. The roc’s talons opened and the stake—Laira tied to it—tumbled down.

Laira screamed as she crashed through the canopy, snapping branches and scattering leaves. For an instant she fell through open air. The stake hit a branch, tilted, and straightened vertically; her feet faced the ground. Then, with a thud that rattled her teeth and spine, the stake slammed into the forest floor.

Laira cried out in pain, sure that her bones had shattered. Every segment in her back seemed to knock against another. She couldn’t even breathe. She tried to gasp for breath when the stake tilted forward. She winced, tugging at her bonds . . . and slammed facedown into the dirt. The stake landed on her back, creaking against her spine, driving her deep into the mud. Soil filled her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.

For a moment, Laira only lay still. She saw nothing but stars floating across blackness. She didn’t know if she was alive or dead. The smell of soil, worms, and blood filled her nostrils. The pain throbbed, but it felt distant, dulled. She was floating away.

No.

Her fingers curled inward.

No. Fight. Get up. Move.

Somewhere above, a hundred rocs shrieked, and hunters cried out.

Get up! spoke the voice inside her. Move! Run!

She growled, pushed down her shoulders, and screamed into the mud.

Her face rose from the soil, and she sucked in breath, choking on dirt and leaves. She spat. The weight of the stake pushed down on her back. She wanted to cry for Neiva again, but dared not make a sound; the hunters would hear. Somewhere ahead, she heard trumpeting and thumping feet—mammoths running among the trees. Briefly she wondered if these were the same mammoths she had tried to hunt only days ago. Now she was the hunted.

I’m burned. I’m broken. I’m bruised. I’m bound to a wooden stake that crushes me and I cannot move. I will die here.

She gritted her teeth, gulping down the despair.

So I will die fighting.

With a growl, she pushed down her knees and tugged mightily at her bonds. The ropes dug into her again, but she found that her wrists slid a short distance up the stake.

Hope kindled inside her. She could not break her bonds, but with the stake lying flat above her, perhaps she could sling her wrists and legs above its top. She would still be tied but free of the stake; she would be able to crawl, maybe even hop, forward.

Wincing, she tugged again. Her wrists and ankles slid up the wood.

The thud of wings and cries of rocs sounded above. Hunters shouted; she could make out Zerra’s voice among them. The stench of the flock wafted down into the forest, a foul miasma. Laira clenched her jaw, winced, and tugged with all her might. The rope kept tearing into her flesh, but she kept tugging, inch by inch, until with a gasp, her wrists reached the top of the stake. With one more tug, she was free from the wood. She wriggled her legs free too, fell into the mud, and crawled.

The stake lay behind, but ropes still bound her limbs. She couldn’t even stand up. Dry leaves stuck to the mud covering her, filling her mouth, her eyes, her nostrils. Gasping for air, she wriggled into a patch of tall grass.

“Find her!” Zerra shouted somewhere above the canopy. “Rocs, pick up her scent!”

Again Laira heard the discordant sound—like air through pipes—as the rocs above sniffed for her.

They will smell me, she thought. They will find me like last time. They will take me back and torture me.

She had to mask her scent somehow. She had to move faster. She crawled over a fallen log, ignoring the agony of her wounds. When she thumped down into a patch of moss, she saw an abandoned mammoth foraging camp.

The trees were stripped bare of leaves here. Prints filled the mud, and shed mammoth fur covered brambles and boulders. The animals were gone, fled from the cries of rocs; she could see a path of trampled grass and saplings. A stench hit her nostrils, making her gag; a pile of mammoth dung steamed ahead, still fresh.

“Find her!” Zerra shouted above.

Laira winced. She took a deep breath and held it. Struggling not to gag, she crawled into the steaming mound.

Her body convulsed and she clenched her fists and jaw. She wriggled around, feeling the foul slop flow around her, coating her hair, sliding down her clothes, clinging to her skin, and even filling her nostrils and ears. When she finally crawled out—sticky and covered with the stuff—she couldn’t help it. She leaned her head down and vomited, and her body shook, and she almost passed out from the pain and disgust.

Trees shattered behind her as the rocs crashed through the canopy.

Still bound, steaming and fetid and coated with the mammoth dung, Laira crawled into the brush. Leaves and grass clung to her sticky skin.

Her scent was masked. Her body was camouflaged. She was battered and burnt and covered in dung, but she kept crawling, refusing to abandon hope. Behind her, she heard Zerra shouting at his men, insisting that his roc had smelled the maggot here. She heard the beasts caw. She heard them fly above, the hunters cursing, the flock confused.

“Just keep crawling, Laira,” she whispered to herself. The foul waste entered her mouth and she spat it out. “Keep crawling. Never stop. You can escape them.”

Through grass, under brambles that scratched her, and over stones that stabbed her, Laira kept crawling, her wrists and ankles still bound, until the sounds of the hunters grew distant behind her. And still she kept moving. She wriggled on, sticky and gagging every few feet, until she reached a declivity bumpy with stones.

She tried to crawl down to the valley below. Slick with the dung, she slipped over a slab of stone, and she rolled.

She tumbled down the slope, banging against tree roots, blinded with pain. Her elbow smashed against a rock, and she bit down on a scream. She seemed to roll forever, grass and dry leaves sticking to her, until she slammed into a mossy boulder, and her head banged against the stone.

Stars exploded across her vision. Her eyelids fluttered. She gasped, curling her fingers, struggling to cling to consciousness, but the blackness gave a mighty tug . . . and she faded.

SENA

ALONE.

MORE THAN AFRAID, HURT, or ashamed—though he was those things too—Prince Sena Seran, Son of Raem, felt alone.

He sat in the corner of his prison cell, the top of Aerhein Tower. A barred window—barely larger than a porthole—broke the opposite wall. A ray of light shone into the chamber, falling upon him. Sena liked this time of day, the brief moment when the ray hit the wall near the floor, allowing him to sit in light and warmth. Soon the ray would move, creeping up the wall, moving over his head, leaving him and slowly fading into darkness.

But for now I have you here, friend, Sena thought, blinking into the beam. Please don’t leave me again.

The beam began to rise as the sun moved, and Sena craned his neck, straightened his back, and tried to soak up some last moments of companionship, of sunlight, of safety. But then the beam was gone, hitting the wall above his head.

He supposed he could have stood up. Standing would make him taller, let him embrace the sun again. But he was too weak to stand most days. Too wounded. Too hungry. Too tired.

“Alone,” he whispered.

He rattled his chains just to hear them answer, just to hear a sound. That was how his chains talked.

How long had he been here? Sena didn’t know. At least a moon, he thought. Maybe longer.

“I’m sorry, Issari,” he whispered. His chafed lips cracked and bled, and he sucked on the coppery liquid. “I’m sorry that I’m sick. I’m sorry that I shifted into a dragon. I miss you, sister.”

He wondered where Issari was now. In her chamber in the palace, the gardens, perhaps the throne room? Was she thinking of him too? Sena had heard Issari several times since entering this prison. She had cried out behind the doors, calling his name, begging the guards to let her in. But they always turned her away. And Sena always tried to call out in return, but his throat was always too parched, his voice too weak.

Caw! Caw!

Sena raised his head. A crow had landed on the windowsill and stood between the bars. The bird glared at him and cawed again.

“Hello, friend,” Sena whispered.

He began to crawl forward, desperate to caress this bird, to feel another living soul. The crow stared at him.

Caw!

You have freedom, Sena thought. You have wings and can fly, yet you came here—to visit me.

As he crawled closer, chains rattling, Sena found his mouth watering.

I can eat you.

Suddenly it seemed that this was no crow at all but a roasted duck, fatty and delicious, not perched on a windowsill but upon a bed of mushrooms and leeks. Sena licked his lips. Since landing in this cell, he had eaten nothing but the cold gruel the guards fed him once a day—a gray paste full of hairs, ants, and sometimes—depending on the guard—a glob of bubbling spit.

“But you are delicious, crow,” Sena said, struggling to his feet. “You are a true friend—better than that damn light that keeps leaving me. Better than the rat that only bites me when I try to catch it.” He reached out pale, trembling hands toward the crow, the shackles around his wrists clanking. “I’m going to eat you—ah!”

The crow bit him.

Sena brought his finger to his lips, tasting blood.

With a caw that sounded almost like a laugh, the crow flew off into the sky—back into that forbidden world, back into freedom.

Sena shook his fists at the barren window, spraying blood. It was just like that damn rat again. It was just like that damn beam of light. They all taunted him. They all pretended to be his friends. And they all left him.

He stared out the window. So many creatures flew across the sky these days. Birds. Demons. Creatures of scales, of rot, of blood, of jelly, of stone, of fire—a host of flying nightmares that cackled, grinned, sucked, spewed, swarmed, streamed, lived. Sometimes Sena thought he was delusional. Other times he thought the Abyss had risen into the world, that the endless lurid eyes and fangs were real, not just visions of his hunger but true terrors.

He shook his head wildly and knuckled his eyes, forcing himself to look away from the demons outside his window, from those taunting, cruel, cackling apparitions. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

Alone . . . insane . . .

Sena trembled. It wasn’t fair. The crow thought itself superior to him. Those winged visions of demons thought themselves superior too. If Sena had wings of his own, he could fly farther, higher, catch the damn bird, and—

But I do have wings, he thought.

Of course. He was cursed, impure, an abomination unto Taal.

I can become a dragon.

That sin had landed him in this tower cell in the first place. Perhaps it could also free him.

Wait, whispered a voice in his head. Wait. You tried shifting into a dragon already. Don’t you remember? You tried just yesterday. It hurt you. It—

“Quiet!” Sena said, silencing that voice—that voice of the old him, of somebody who had been a prince, not a prisoner, of somebody who still clung to sanity. He hated that voice. He hated that false one, that liar.

He tightened his lips.

He summoned his magic.

Don’t! cried the voice inside him. Pain—

Scales flowed across Sena, blue as the sky. Claws began to grow from his fingernails. His body grew larger, inflating, and—

Pain.

The chains that wrapped around him dug deep. He cried out. The metal links cut into him. His ballooning body was pressing against the bonds, and his blood spilled.

With a whimper, he released his magic.

He lay on the floor, trembling, small again, safe again, chained in the shackles that kept him human. He had always been able to shift with clothes, even with a sword at his waist, taking those objects—parts of him like his skin—into his dragon form. But these chains were foreign things, cruel, hurting.

“I’m sorry, Issari,” he whispered.

The cell’s doorknob rattled behind him.

Sena cowered, sure that the guards had heard him. They would kick him again, spit upon him, bang his head against the wall. He crawled into the corner as the door creaked open, raising his hands to shield his face.

“Please,” he whispered.

But it was not the guards.

His father, King Raem Seran, stood at the doorway.

Clad in his bronze armor, the king stared down at his son in disgust. Sena blinked up at his father, and hope sprang inside him.

My father has come to free me.

“Father,” he whispered, lips bleeding. “Forgive me. Please. Forgive me. I love you.”

When Sena reached out to him, Raem grunted and kicked his hand aside.

“Forgive you?” Raem said. He sneered. “You are a weredragon, a filthy creature lower than lepers. I did not come here to forgive you.” He lifted a bloody canvas sack. “I came here to show you what could have been your fate.”

Raem upended the sack. A severed head spilled onto the floor, eyes still wide in frozen fear. Sena gasped and scampered away from the ghastly gift.

“A weredragon,” Raem said. “My demons caught this one hiding under a bakery.” He snorted a laugh. “It can be your friend. As you stare into its dead eyes, remember that you are alive, that I showed you mercy.”

With that, his father turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him.

Tears in his eyes, Sena raced toward the door. He slammed himself against the heavy oak, pounding it with his fists.

“Please, Father!” he shouted. “I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll never shift again. I . . . I’ll hunt weredragons with you! I . . .”

His strength left him.

He slumped to the floor.

The severed head stared up at him, its mouth open, the stalk of its neck red. Sena pulled his knees to his chest and stared back into the lifeless eyes.

At least, he thought as the sunlight faded, I’m no longer alone.

ISSARI

SHE STOOD UPON THE BALCONY, the wind fluttering her tunic, watching the demons swarm over her city.

Eteer, center of the sprawling Eteerian civilization, had once been a city of pale towers rising into clear skies; swaying palm and fig trees; a peaceful blue sea lapping at mossy walls; and proud people robed in white, walking along cobbled streets, welcoming the ships that sailed in. Birds would sing among the trees, and the sweet scents of fruit and spices would waft upon the wind. Once, standing here, Issari would see a great mosaic of peace and beauty.

Today she saw a hive of rot and flame.

A thousand creatures of the Abyss filled the city now—crawling upon walls, festering upon roofs, and fluttering in the sky. Each of the creatures was a unique horror. Issari saw demons of scales, demons of tentacles, demons of slime, of rot, of fire. She saw creatures turned inside out, organs glistening upon their inverted skin. She saw bloated, warty things drag themselves along cobbled streets, leaving trails of slime. The heads of children, innocent and fair, rose upon the bodies of clattering centipedes. Bloated faces of dogs sneered upon the armored bodies of crabs. Conjoined twins, ten or more stitched together with demon thread, moved upon their many legs.

Some creatures were small, no larger than dogs. Others were as large as mules. Everywhere they sniffed, snorted, sought the weredragons. Everywhere they barged through doors, rummaged through temples, pulling out families, licking, smelling, rubbing, discarding.

Issari stood above, staring upon this waking nightmare, her eyes damp. Her fingers clung to the railing.

What has happened to my home?

A voice rose behind her, answering her thoughts.

“They are seeking weredragons. They are ugly, my daughter, and they frighten you, but they are purifying our city of the disease.”

She turned to see her father step onto the balcony. He came to stand beside her, leaned over the railing, and watched the creatures swarm down the streets and across the roofs.

Issari spoke in a small voice. “But Father, aren’t we just bringing a greater evil into our kingdom?”

Raem turned toward her, and she saw the anger in his eyes. He clenched his fists, and Issari stepped back, sure he would strike her; he had struck her many times before. But his fire died as fast as it had kindled, and he caressed her cheek.

“You are pure, Issari, the only pure thing I have left. But you are young, and you are innocent. There is no evil greater than having a pure human form and betraying it. Our lord Taal forbids tattoos, piercings, obesity, or any disgrace against the form he gave us. To shift into a reptile is the greatest abomination. These demons might look strange, but they are doing Taal’s work.”

Screams rose below, and Issari spun back toward the city. On a street not far away, a host of demons—red creatures with bat wings—dragged an old man from his home. The greybeard tried to fight them, but the demons clung with clawed hands. Their snouts sniffed, pressing against the man’s skin.

“Weredragon, weredragon!” the demons cried. “We found a reptile!”

Issari sucked in her breath. At her side, Raem leaned forward, baring his teeth, seeming almost hungry.

The old man below managed to tear himself free. He burst into a run, only for the demons to leap onto his legs and knock him down. Then, as Issari watched and gasped, the man shifted.

A thin silver dragon beat his wings, rising into the air. Before he could clear the roofs, the company of demons leaped onto the dragon like wolves on a bison. They slammed the silver beast onto the cobblestones and laughed, clawed, bit. They tore off scales, scattering them across the street, and blood splashed. With a whimper, the dragon lost his magic, returning to human form.

Issari looked away, but Raem pushed her face back toward the city.

“Watch, daughter,” said the king. “You must see this.”

The demons tore the old man apart. One demon lifted a severed leg over its head, parading it as a trophy. Other demons tore out internal organs, and one began to feast upon the entrails. The demons danced with their prizes, slick with blood.

Issari winced, horror rising inside her. She closed her eyes. “This is evil, Father. This is wrong.”

He gripped her wrist and his eyes blazed. “This is dominion. One cannot rule a kingdom with compassion, only with strength. With your siblings gone, you are my heir. This land will someday be yours. I will no longer pamper you. Accustom yourself to blood. When you are Queen, you too will shed blood . . . or others will shed yours.”

Issari did not want to be Queen. She wished she could fly away too—like Laira. She closed her eyes, imagining that she too could shift. If she could become a dragon, she could fly off this balcony, soar so high even the demons could not catch her. She would head north, find her mother and sister, and flee this horrible city.

Yet as her father had said, she was pure. No reptile curse filled her veins. She remained a young woman, trapped upon this balcony.

She opened her eyes and mouth, about to plead with her father, to beg him to return the demons to the Abyss, when the crone stepped onto the balcony.

“So here they are—father and sister to the maggot.”

Issari spun around and gasped. In the balcony doorway stood the strangest woman she’d ever seen. The crone was bent over, wizened as a raisin, and clad in animal skins. Warts covered her hooked nose, and her fingernails were long and yellow. Wisps of white hair covered her scalp, and her mouth opened in a cruel, toothless grin.

Is this a demon? Issari wondered, heart racing.

“Who are you?” Raem demanded, taking a step toward the crone. “How did you pass the guards?”

The wizened old creature cackled. She reached out twig-like fingers to rap his armor. “You are a man of metal, of might, of many demons. But Old Shedah still has some tricks.” She spat right onto the balcony floor, then turned toward Issari. “Well . . . and look at this one. A fair, ripe fruit, she is.” The crone reached up to stroke Issari’s breast. “You are taller and fairer than your sister. She is a worm, but you are a rare flower. You would make a fine bride for my chieftain.”

Issari took a step backward, banging her back against the balcony railing. “Stay away, witch! How dare you speak of my sister?”

“Witch? No, I am no witch.” Shedah bared her toothless gums in a mockery of a grin. “I am Shaman of the Goldtusk tribe, once the sanctuary of Queen Anai, that diseased reptile, and Laira, the little maggot.” She stroked Issari’s cheek, her fingernails sharp. “Your mother and sister. I have traveled for long days to this land, moving down the shadowy paths unknown to those of simple minds. I bring news of them, oh princess of distant lands.”

Raem snarled and grabbed the old woman’s wrist, tugging her away from Issari. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.” He stepped back into the palace, dragging the crone with him. “Guards! Guards, where—“

When they stepped into the chamber, both king and princess gasped. The guards lay on the floor, fast asleep, lips fluttering as they snored.

Shedah cackled and spat upon one. “Weak worms. How did you folk ever build a kingdom of stone and metal? You are guarded by weak boys, their cheeks smoother than my backside.” The crone snorted. “Come north across the sea, oh king, and you will see the strength of true warriors.”

Raem’s face flushed. He slid his khopesh from his belt and raised the curved blade. Issari had to race forward and stop him.

“Father! Wait. She knows Mother. She knows Laira.”

Looking back at the shaman, Issari trembled. Could it be? Could this crone be speaking truth? Issari’s eyes stung and her knees shook.

My mother . . . my sister . . .

Issari could not remember them, for they had fled too long ago. Father had smashed all paintings, statues, and engravings depicting Queen Anai and Princess Laira, but Issari had always dreamed of seeing them again. If this shaman had news, there was hope.

“What do you know?” she said, turning toward Shedah. “Tell us. Tell us everything.”

Shedah licked her lips. “My sweet child, your mother is dead. Burned at the stake. I watched her burn and I spat upon her charred corpse.”

Issari stared, unable to breathe, and her eyes stung.

Mother . . . no . . .

Issari had been only a babe when Mother fled this city. She could not remember the woman, but she dreamed about her every night. In her dreams, Mother looked like her—her black hair braided, her eyes green and soft, her face kind. All her life that whisper, that warm vision, had comforted Issari, for she knew that even if Mother was far away, she still lived. She still cared for her daughter.

Dead. Burned.

Tears gathered in Issari’s eyes.

“You are lying!” she shouted at the crone.

Shedah reached into her pouch and produced a silver amulet. It bore an engraving of Taal—a man with his head lowered, his arms hanging at his sides, his palms facing outward—a sigil of purity and humility.

“The amulet of Eteer’s queen—Anai’s last relic of her once royal past.” The shaman tossed the talisman toward Issari. “Keep it. And whenever you look at it, remember that your mother screamed like a butchered pig when the flames licked the flesh off her bones.”

As Issari clutched the amulet, Raem grabbed the crone’s arms and leaned down, glaring at her.

“What of Laira?” the king demanded. “What of my daughter?”

Shedah licked her lips with her long, white tongue. “The maggot fled our tribe. She was heading north when we lost her scent, but I know where she was going.” Shedah pressed her withered hand against the king’s cheek. “I will reveal all to you, mighty king, in return for but one gift.”

Raem clutched the woman’s arms so tightly they seemed ready to snap. “What do you desire?”

“The same as you, my lord. The same as all who are wise. Power.” She sneered. “For years, I placed leeches upon the flesh of Laira, sucking up her blood for my potions. The blood of a princess is mighty, and my stores run low.” The shaman turned toward Issari and gave her a hungry, lustful look. “Give me your one daughter, and I will give you the other.”

JEID

HE FLEW.

SOMETIMES HE JUST needed to fly.

The night stretched around him, moonless, starless, a world without sight, a sea of wind and blackness and cold air. He did not know where he flew. Most nights he no longer cared.

Jeid Blacksmith, men used to call him—a forger of bronze.

Grizzly, his children called him—a shaggy, endearing old beast, lumbering and harmless.

Diseased, said those who lived in wilderness and towns. A creature. Cursed.

Flying here upon the wind, he no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew what to call himself.

“Who am I, Keyla?” he asked, the wind all but drowning his voice.

He saw her face in the night—his wife, her hair golden in the sun, her smile bright. A sad woman—her smile had always seemed sad to him—but one who clung to every sliver of joy, cradling and nourishing it, letting it grow even through pain.

“You are Jeid.” She spoke in his mind and touched his cheek. “You are my husband. You are a father to our children.”

He lowered his head. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell his wife that their youngest daughter was dead, that the people of the plains—perhaps Zerra’s wandering tribe, perhaps the people of Oldforge or another town—had poisoned her.

But Keyla already knew. He saw that knowledge in her eyes.

“You’re together now,” Jeid whispered. “And I want to join you.”

The pain constricted his throat. How easy it would be—to shift into human form, to plummet down through this darkness, to hit the ground and feel no pain, only a relief from pain, only the rise of his soul to the stars. And he would be with Keyla and Requiem again. He could hold his wife, kiss his daughter, nevermore feel hurt, nevermore feel alone and afraid and torn.

“You must be strong,” Keyla said, and he barely saw her now. His wife was but a wisp, a fading memory, a voice of starlight. “For the others.”

Rage filled Jeid. The fire crackled through his body. He released it with a great, showering blaze, a beacon that any roc for marks could see. But Jeid no longer cared.

“Why must this be my task?” His wings shook, and his claws dug into his soles. “Why must I lead this new tribe? I am tired. I want to sleep. I want to be with you again.”

He looked up to the sky. The clouds parted and he saw three stars—the tail of the dragon, the new constellation that shone in the skies. And there he saw a silver countenance, no longer his wife but his daughter. Young Requiem shone above, wise and sad like her mother had been.

And Jeid knew the answer.

“Because I vowed to you, Requiem.” His eyes stung. “I vowed to build a home in your name—so no others would die like you died.” He shook, scales rattling. “But I wish you were here with me. I wish you could live in this home too, my daughter.”

The clouds gathered again, the light faded, and she was gone.

Jeid blasted out more fire. He sucked in air, ground his teeth, and kept flying.

He flew in blackness.

He flew throughout the night—to remember and to forget.

A hint of dawn gilded the east, and landforms emerged below, charcoal beneath the black sky—the whisper of hills, valleys, and fields of grass. Jeid turned and flew back north until he saw it, a great shelf of stone that split the world. The escarpment spread across the horizon, the cliffs gleaming bronze as the sun rose. He flew across the river, rose above the mountainside, and saw the canyon there—a den, a hideaway, a seed of a home. He opened his wings wide, catching air, and glided down into the gorge.

As soon as he touched the ground, he saw it.

Blood on the stones.

His nostrils flared. The place stank of injury. Jeid moved his head from side to side, clinging to his dragon form.

“Father!” he called out.

His heart pounded. Had the rocs finally dared attack the escarpment, overcoming their fear of the place? Had the townsfolk invaded?

“Father!” he shouted.

Finally the old man’s voice rose in answer. “I’m here. It’s all right, Jeid. Come into the cave.”

Exhaling in relief, Jeid released his magic. He hopped between boulders in human form, entered the eastern cave, and crawled through a short tunnel and into a chamber.

He straightened and lost his breath.

“Stars above.”

His father sat on the floor, clad in his blue druid robes, blood staining his long white beard. Before him, a shivering young man lay upon a rug. The stranger’s foot was missing. The stump was raw and red, still gushing blood, the shattered bones exposed.

“Hold him down, Jeid,” Eranor said calmly. “Quickly. I need you to hold him down.”

“Who—“ Jeid began.

“Now.”

Jeid nodded, stepped forward, and knelt behind the injured man. The stranger was shivering, his skin gray, his eyes sunken. Jeid held onto his arms.

When Eranor reached into the wound, the man bucked and screamed.

“Hold him firmly!” Eranor said.

Jeid nodded and tightened his grip, pinning the young man down. Eyes grim, Eranor fished out the sputtering vein. Fingers red, he tied the vein shut.

“Keep him still.” Eranor swiped his beard across his shoulder. “This will hurt him.”

“Who is he?” Jeid asked. The young man relaxed in his grip; he shivered upon the rug, his skin the color of the cave walls.

Eranor replied calmly. “A Vir Requis.”

Jeid lost his breath. He stared down at the injured man. “You are . . . you can become a dragon.”

The young man looked up at him. He managed to nod wanly. “I’ve heard of you.” His voice was weak and hoarse. “You are Jeid Blacksmith of Oldforge. The whole north is speaking of you.” He coughed, licked his lips, and managed to keep talking, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m from the Redbone tribe. When they discovered my curse, they chained my ankle to our totem. I shifted into a dragon. When my body grew, the chain dug through me. I rose as a dragon.” He managed a wry smile. “My human foot remained behind. I—“ Coughs overcame his words, and it was a moment before he could speak again. “I heard of the escarpment. I had to find you. I had to . . .”

His eyes rolled back, his body became limp, and he fell silent.

“Keep him down,” Eranor said. He reached for a bronze saw and a bowl of boiling water. “He’s unconscious, not dead, and he might wake. It’s best if he sleeps through this part.”

When Eranor raised the saw, Jeid felt himself pale. “By the stars, what . . .”

“It’s not a clean cut.” Eranor squinted at the wound. “The bone is jagged. If I sew shut the stump, the bone would only cut through it. I must file it down.”

Jeid grimaced as his father worked, sawing through bone, filing the edges down, and cutting out infected flesh. The young man woke once and screamed, and Jeid held him pinned down. When the man fainted again, Eranor pulled skin over the wound and stitched it shut.

“Will he live?” Jeid asked, kneeling above the stranger.

Eranor wiped his hands on a rug. “I pray to our stars that he does.”

Jeid’s fingers trembled. He stared down at the pale young man, and strangely, despite the blood and horror, joy kindled in him. His eyes stung.

We are not alone.

He was about to speak again when he felt warm wetness against his knee. He looked down to see blood seeping from under the young man’s back. When he raised the man to a sitting position, he saw it there—a broken arrow beneath his shoulder blade, sunken deep into his torso.

Dawn spilled into the cave when the young man died.

Jeid held him in his arms, remembering the night Requiem had died in his embrace, and here he was a father again; all these cursed, lost souls were his children now.

“Rise, friend,” he whispered and kissed the man’s forehead. “Rise to the Draco stars. Their light will guide you home.”

That evening, Jeid buried the young man in the valley beside his daughter, and he placed a boulder above his grave. Eranor stood beside him, his beard flowing in the wind, and prayed the old prayers of druids.

Two fallen Vir Requis, Jeid thought, staring at the twin graves. Two more burdens to bear. He looked up at the sunset. The first stars emerged, and the dragon constellation glowed above. Two more souls to guide me.

“Who am I, Father?” he asked softly.

Eranor placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a son. You are a father. And you are not alone.” The old man stared south across the plains of swaying grass. “Others are blessed. Others need you. You will build them the tribe that you dream of. They will find you, or we will find them, and we—the Vir Requis—will gather here. We will have a home.”

That night Jeid did not fly again. He sat in the cave by his father, and he stared at the embers in their brazier, and he thought of Tanin and Maev who were flying south, and he thought of those who had died.

I will fly on, he thought. But I will no longer fly lost in darkness. Our lights shine across the world. I will be a beacon to them until we shine together.

LAIRA

“SO THIS IS HOW I end my first hunt,” Laira muttered to herself as she crawled through the forest. “Bruised, bound, and covered in mammoth shite.”

She sighed, then winced with pain; even sighing hurt now. She supposed it could have been worse. If those rocs caught her, it would be worse.

Laira could still hear the birds above. It had been a full day and night since she had escaped the pyre, and the sun was rising again, yet still they hunted her, scanning the skies in pairs. Every few moments, she heard the fetid vultures fly above the canopy, and the oil they secreted fell like foul rain. Thankfully the trees were thick and autumn leaves still covered the branches, shielding her from view. Even in areas where the canopy broke, Laira—covered in mud, dung, and dry leaves—appeared like nothing but a clump of dirt.

Zerra always said I was nothing but filth, she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips.

The latest roc vanished overhead, leaving his stench—like moldy meat—to waft down upon her, mingling with her own smell, which was no more appealing. Laira crawled under a tilted oak, rummaged in a pile of fallen leaves, and finally found a stone the right size. She smashed it against another stone, chipping it into a blade. She sat upright, her head dizzy, and worked for a while, rubbing the sharp stone against her bonds. Finally the rope tore, and she brought her arms back forward and examined her wrists.

They were a bloody, muddy mess, and her hands blazed as fresh blood pumped into them. She cut the ropes around her ankles next and winced. Her feet were in even worse shape. Not only had the ropes chafed her ankles, the fire had burned her soles; ugly welts now rose there. She didn’t know what was worse: her burns, bruises, cuts, or the foul paste coating her, but she thought it was the burns. She needed speed now more than anything, and with burnt feet, how could she walk or run? Even with her ropes cut, was she still bound to crawl to whatever safety she could find?

Laira sighed. Was there even safety in this world for her? Even if she did escape the Goldtusk tribe—the only home she’d ever known—would she starve in the wilderness or freeze once the snows began to fall? As a babe, she had lived in a distant land, a sunny kingdom named Eteer, but they had banished her. Eteer too hated and hunted weredragons. Even if she could find her way back, no home awaited her across the sea.

A roc’s cry sounded above, and Laira flattened herself down. When it had passed, she winced and bit her lip, spat out the foul taste, and attempted to stand.

Her soles blazed as if new fires burned them. She fell into the dry leaves, moaning and dizzy.

“Maybe I’ll just crawl for a while longer.”

She crawled until she reached a stream, the shallow water gurgling over smooth, mossy stones. She ached to wash off the dung, which had dried into a flaky paste, but dared not; the rocs could return anytime, and without the stench to mask her scent, they could sniff her out. She couldn’t resist washing her feet, however. Dipping them into the stream shot a bolt through her, but soon the cold water soothed her. They had tied her barefooted to the pyre, and so she ripped off squares from her fur cloak, washed them in the stream, then tied them around her feet with vines.

When she stood up gingerly on the riverbank, she did not fall. She took one step, wobbled, and then another. She held a tree for support and limped a few more steps. It hurt and her head still swam, but she could walk.

Probably looking like some evil spirit from a fireside tale, covered in filth and leaves, she wobbled onward. There was only one place she could go now.

“The escarpment,” she whispered.

For years, she had dreamed of traveling there. Her mother had claimed it was just a legend, yet it had to be true. The rocs dared not fly near the cliffs. Even Zerra never dared hunt in its shadow. Why else would they fear the place if not because . . .

“Dragons live there,” Laira whispered, and tears stung her eyes. “Others with my disease. Other banished, cursed souls. I can find a home there.”

Her head felt full of fog, and she struggled to remember the last movements of her tribe. Goldtusk had been traveling south throughout the fall, planning to spend the winter in the warm, southern coast. That meant the escarpment would be northwest from here—many days away.

“I can walk,” she whispered, shivering. “I can survive the journey. I can drink from streams and I can gather berries and mushrooms. I can make it.”

A roc dived overhead, and Laira pressed herself against a tree and remained still until it passed. Then she moved again, limping but trudging on. Using the rising sun’s location, she could determine north easily enough. The moss grew on only one side of the trees, another marker to guide her.

“Step by step, Laira,” she told herself. “Just keep going and you’ll find the others.”

A small voice inside her whispered that she was mad, that she could never find a humble escarpment in the endless world. In the vastness of the wilderness, even creatures as large as dragons were small. But walking—even limping—was better than curling up and dying, and so she kept going.

“I will always keep going,” she promised herself. “If I die, I die moving.”

She kept walking until the sun reached its zenith, its heat dispersing the mist. Dapples of light revealed mushrooms, berries, and fallen pine cones. Laira spent a while collecting a meal upon a flat rock. She had not eaten since . . . she couldn’t even remember the last time; it had been at least two days, maybe twice that long. She dared wash her hands and face in a nearby stream, sit down, and eat. The food tasted like the dung. She had hoped the meal would invigorate her, but it only made her belly swirl, and she gagged.

For long moments, she lay on her back, struggling to breathe. She wasn’t sure how many scrapes and cuts covered her. It felt like dozens, some mild—mere scratches from brambles—others deeper, like the cuts along her wrists and ankles. She didn’t mind the pain, but as she lay watching the rustling leaves, she began to worry about infection. The tribe warriors sometimes rubbed their arrowheads with mammoth dung; they claimed that it would spread rot through a wound. After her splash in the mammoth’s waste to conceal her scent, had she doomed herself to slow death by disease? Had she fought, fled, and gone through this pain simply for a lingering demise in the wilderness?

If no more rocs arrive by afternoon, I’ll wash myself in the nearest stream, she decided.

For now she had to keep moving. The farther she walked from the tribe, the safer she’d be. She knew Zerra. Sooner or later, he would spit, curse her name, and give up the chase. He would claim she had died in the wilderness, then keep traveling south with his tribe, not willing to abandon his journey for a mere maggot like her.

“But I won’t die in the wilderness,” she whispered, rising to her feet. “I will find others like me. I will live through this.”

She kept walking, every part of her aching, until the sun dipped into the afternoon. Only three times did she hear rocs, and they were farther away, still hunting her but confused, not sure where to look. Slowly Laira’s fear of them eased, but her fear of infection kept growing, and her dizziness would not leave her. She needed healing herbs but didn’t know the craft. Back at Goldtusk, only the crone Shedah knew healing, and she would share the art with none.

Goldtusk. The very thought of the word made her eyes sting and iciness wash her belly. The tribe had been her only home since she’d been a toddler. Laira had often dreamed of fleeing, of finding others like her, other cursed ones, able to become dragons. Yet now that she had truly fled, the fear would not leave her.

She sucked in breath and tightened her lips.

You can do this, Laira. You are ready. You are strong. You have dreamed of this all your life, and now the day is here.

“Freedom,” she whispered. “A chance for a new, better life. All I must do is live.”

When evening fell, she came upon another stream. She had not heard pursuit since the afternoon, and she deemed the filth covering her a greater danger than rocs. She had been coated in the mammoth dung for two days now; if the rocs didn’t kill her, this poison would.

Wincing, she undressed and stepped into the water. It was so cold it hurt like fire, and Laira cried out in pain. Shivering, she submerged herself and bathed as best she could. Teeth chattering, she then scrubbed her filthy furs between smooth stones to clean out the dried flakes.

She climbed onto the riverbank—trembling, naked, her skin pale blue. After hanging her wet cloak upon a branch, she examined her wounds and grimaced. Brambles had painted her with a network of raw, red scratches. The fall through the canopy had covered her with bruises; some were as large as apples, their blue centers fading into black rings. Cuts surrounded her wrists and ankles, carved by the ropes. The worst wounds were on her feet; the heat had raised welts on her soles and toes, white and swollen.

The sun was sinking rapidly and Laira yawned. It was an action so mundane, so comforting, that it filled her with a little bit of warmth even as she still shivered. Yawning was good. Yawning was healthy. Yawning was normal. Her furs wouldn’t dry until tomorrow, not in this cold weather, but she could curl up under dry leaves. She could sleep, regain some strength, wake up and search for more food, then walk some more.

Tomorrow she would hum a little tune as she walked, she told herself. She would remember all the old jokes her mother had told her. It would be a happy day—a day free from all the old pain. Zerra wouldn’t be around to beat her. Shedah wouldn’t scratch her, spit upon her, or leech her for potions. Laira would live—perhaps for the first time in her life. She would find a new home and this nightmare would be over. She wiped tears from her eyes, allowing herself a shaky smile.

“I will be all r—“

A roc cried above. Laira froze.

Stars, oh stars, I had just washed off the stench, and they’re back.

She clenched her fists.

There is only one above, she told herself. I can fight one. I can shift into a dragon and burn it. I—

More shrieks answered. Three rocs, maybe four—no more than a dozen. Laira’s head throbbed. She was too weary, too hurt to fight that many, even in dragon form.

The shrieks sounded again, and she took a shuddering breath. The rocs were still far—a mark away, maybe farther. They could not smell her from that distance. She only had to remain silent, to remain hidden, to—

A growl sounded in the shadows behind her.

Laira spun around.

Yellow eyes gleamed in the brush.

The growl rose again in the darkness.

Behind her, the sun vanished behind the trees.

A shadow slunk forward, and in the dying light, Laira saw the creature, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

The saber-toothed cat bristled, muscular and hulking, several times Laira’s size. Its fangs shone, large and sharp as swords. The beast took another step toward her and growled again.

Laira gasped and took a step back.

In the distance, the rocs cried; they were moving closer.

Shift into a dragon! Laira told herself. Become a dragon and burn it!

Yet how could she? If she flew or blew fire, the rocs would see her. Even just shifting would rattle the trees like a mammoth stampede, raise a ruckus of clattering scales, and reveal her location.

The saber-toothed cat growled louder and crouched, ready to pounce.

Never removing her eyes from its gaze, Laira knelt and grabbed a stone.

With a roar, the great cat leaped.

Laira tossed her stone, hurtling it forward with all her might. The projectile crashed into the cat’s forehead, and Laira leaped aside.

The cat stumbled backward into a tree trunk, shook its head wildly, and faced her again. It padded forward, a bleeding gash on its forehead.

Couched in the dry leaves, Laira grabbed a fallen branch. She snapped it across her knee, then waved the sharp end at the cat.

“Be gone!” She bared her own teeth—pathetically small compared to its fangs. “Go! Go!”

If she ran, it would chase. If she showed weakness, it would pounce again. She waved the stick and hopped around, trying to seem as menacing as possible. Naked, scrawny, and wounded, she doubted she appeared like much of a threat.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the cat leaped again.

Laira thrust her stick.

The cat brushed it aside with its paw and slammed into her, knocking her down.

Laira grimaced. The saber teeth shone and drove down.

I have no choice.

With a hiss, Laira summoned her magic.

Scales rose across her. The cat’s fangs slammed against them and bounced back.

As her body began to grow, Laira shoved the beast off. She swiped her own paw, lashing her sprouting claws against the animal. The saber-toothed cat whimpered and fell.

The rocs shrieked above, and her body was still growing. A tail sprouted behind her, her neck kept lengthening, and the trees shook as she banged against them. Laira growled, baring her fangs, still only half-dragon.

The saber-toothed cat growled back, then whimpered, turned tail, and fled into the shadows.

An instant before cracking the trunks around her in a ruckus, Laira released her magic.

She shrank back into human form and lay shivering.

The cries of rocs moved farther away, and the last light faded.

Laira lay, enveloped in blackness, shivering in the cold, naked and wounded. Around her in the forest, she heard things stir and move, and a growl rose somewhere to her left, and paws padded to her right.

She hugged herself, unable to stop shaking.

“Please, stars of the dragon, please,” she prayed. “Look after me. Don’t let me die this night.”

She dared not light a fire, not in case the rocs returned. So weak she could barely move, she felt around for her stick and used it to dig a little burrow. She curled up inside and pulled dry leaves over her, hugging her knees for warmth. She had never felt so cold, lost, and afraid.

“I won’t die this night, Mother,” she whispered between chattering teeth. “I will live. I will live.”

She lay trembling and awake, staring into the darkness as growls, snorts, and glowing eyes filled the forest around her.

ANGEL

THE VOICES SCREAMED INSIDE HER, shrill, deep, twisting, hoarse, rising and shattering like glass.

We don’t want to die!

Feed us entrails!

Attack, fight, bite, eat, feed, tear, rip!

Pain. Pain. Pain! This must end. Stop! Mercy!

Angel sneered, smoke rising from between her teeth, and clutched her head. The voices would forever fill her, she knew. Even here. Even risen from the Abyss. Even upon the soil of Eteer, this kingdom aboveground, the cries echoed.

They hurt.

They hurt us!

Hate! Bite! Tear! Punish!

A thousand voices, all her own. A child in shadows. A child chained, whipped, broken, deformed. A creature risen to domination, to rule upon a land of darkness, to govern minions of flayed skin, of rotted flesh, creatures twisting and begging and laughing.

“I have suffered, King Raem,” she said, staring at the mortal. “I have suffered like you cannot imagine. A thousand times I died and rose from death. A thousand hurts coil inside me. A thousand voices of my own scream inside my skull of stone.” She unfurled her wings until they banged against the walls of his bedchamber. Her flaming hair crackled, and her saliva dripped from her maw to burn holes into the rug. “Let me grow. Let me become the queen I am destined to be.”

Raem stood by the window, staring out upon the city. The towers, domes, and walls of Eteer spread below the azure sky. All over the city, the cackle of demons and screams of mortals rose in a song.

“I know what you would ask of me,” the king said. “And I refuse.”

Angel hissed, leaped toward him, and grabbed his shoulders. She spun him around until he faced her. She bared her fangs, blasting smoke against his face.

“Feed us.” She tossed back her head and roared. She dug her claws into his shoulders, and his blood seeped. “Feed us the flesh of mortals. Not weredragons.” She spat. “Weredragons taste like the piss of gods. We crave the sweeter meat.” She licked her chops, already imagining it. “Feed us the pure mortals of your kingdom, the blessed forms of Taal, untainted with the reptile disease. The silver god of purity is vain. For ten thousand years, he laughed as I screamed in my prison. I would feast upon his sons and daughters.”

Raem stared at her, and only the slightest sneer found his lips. “No. You will not feed upon my kingdom. You may eat weredragons, and you may eat the flesh of animals. But the people of Eteer are blessed with Taal’s form. I will not allow a horde of diseased, impure creatures to consume my pure people.”

Angel sneered, the hunger for human flesh twisting in her belly. She needed his blessing. She was still bound to him, still his prisoner, even here in the sunlight. Even here the ancient laws bound her.

“Feed us!” she screamed. She lashed her arm, knocked over a stone vase, and shattered it. Sparks flew from her flaming hair. “Feed us the flesh of Eteer. Feed us and we will grow. Your demons are still small, King of Mortals. We have shrunk in our prison. We have grown weak. Feed us pure man-flesh and we will become larger than dragons. How can we fight dragons unless we grow to their size?”

Raem snorted. “The weredragons cower. They hide in cellars and sewers. You are more than capable of flushing them out, even with your smaller forms. You will obey me, Angel. If I discover one drop of pure human blood consumed, I will hold you accountable.”

Angel snickered. Fast as a striking asp, she thrust a claw, scratching Raem’s cheek. Blood spilled. Angel brought the claw to her lips. She licked Raem’s blood and a shiver ran through her. The cracks on her body of stone widened, spewing droplets of lava.

“You taste of reptile.” She spat. “The weredragon disease flows in your blood. Did you think I could not smell it? I knew of your shame my first day here. You—“

He slammed his sword against her cheek.

Her stone face cracked, spilling smoke, and she laughed.

“You forget your boundaries,” Raem said, glaring at her.

Lava dripped from her shattered cheek as Angel cackled. “You do not like me speaking of your secret, do you? Perhaps I will trumpet the news from the city walls. Perhaps all shall know that Raem, King of Eteer, is a filthy were—“

“By the light of Taal!” he shouted, interrupting her. “Angel, Queen of Demons, harken to me. As King of Eteer, I hereby banish you back to the Aby—“

She shrieked.

She lashed all four arms, cracking his armor, shattering the room around her. A clay urn shattered, spilling wine across the floor. She leaped, swiped her claws, and knocked down a limestone statue of an ancient, bearded king. Her arms spun, tearing down the room, digging ruts into the walls and floor. Clay tablets bearing cuneiform writings—epic tales of ancient heroes—fell off shelves, shattering into a heap of shards. Her flames blasted out, and tapestries burned.

Raem stood as she raged, calm, staring.

“Speak your treasonous words again,” the king said, “and I will complete the banishment.”

“Then send me hunting outside your borders.” Angel panted, tongue lolling. “Send me to the deserts of Tiranor in the west. Send me to the barbarous lands north of the sea. Send me to the city-states in the south, your old enemies. I will find mortal flesh elsewhere.”

Raem shook his head. “You are not to leave this city, Angel. The walls of Eteer are your boundaries. I have given you more freedom than you’ve known in ten thousand years, but you are still my slave. You will remain here until you’ve captured all the weredragons.”

She howled. “Your weredragons do not satisfy the hunger in our bellies. Your flesh stinks of starlight.”

“Once they are all dead, I will send you hunting beyond my borders. Not until then.” Raem leaned down and lifted a small, obsidian statuette of a winged bull. He placed it back on a shelf. “More remain in this city. Still your demons unearth one every day. Your servitude will continue.” He turned back toward the window. “I have errands in the north. I seek a particular weredragon across the sea—a weredragon that betrayed me, a weredragon I will hurt. A weredragon named Laira.” He turned back toward Angel, and his fists clenched, and his eyes hardened. “While I am away, you are not to leave this city, nor are you to touch my people. My daughter Issari will sit upon the throne until I return. You are to obey her, even as the hunger eats through your belly.”

You will break!

You are broken!

You will never rise!

Help, mercy, stop, take it back!

Yes, Angel hungered. Forever hunger lived inside her. Hunger for an end to those voices. Hunger for blood, for flesh, for power, for freedom. Hunger for a child.

She placed her hand against her belly, aching for spawn, for the rustle of unholy life within her. The ravenous lust blazed through her loins with dark fire.

She grabbed Raem’s shoulders again.

“I hunger for you. Take me.”

He grabbed onto her hard, stone body that leaked smoke and flame. She sneered, turned her back to him, and dropped to her hands and knees. She howled as he took her, head tossed back, her flames blasting out from her eyes, her claws digging into the floor.

The fire consumed her.

For a precious few moments, the voices fell silent.

For now her craving was sated, but as he took her, Angel swore: I will slay all his weredragons, and I will feast upon the flesh of his people, and when he has placed a child within my womb, I will feast upon Raem too.

She welcomed his seed into her, and she smiled.

TANIN

WHENEVER TANIN SLEPT, HE REMEMBERED.

Even here in the forest, his sister sleeping beside him, he thrashed, half-awake, the memories clawing at him, dragging him down to that dark place eleven years ago.

“We have to run,” Jeid had said, bursting into the smithy with wild hair and flushed cheeks. “We have to fly.”

Tanin had stood at the forge that day, fourteen years old, an apprentice to his father. The brick walls of the smithy rose around him. Upon hooks hung hammers, tongs, pokers, and all the other tools of the trade. A cauldron of bronze bubbled beside Tanin, drenching him with heat, and sweat dampened his hair. He had the mold ready—a sickle for Farmer Gam who grew rye outside the town—and was just about the pour the liquid metal.

“What do you mean?” he asked his father.

He had never seen the old man look like this. Jeid Blacksmith—Grizzly to his children—was always a little disheveled, what with his shaggy hair, wild beard, and rough cloak of fur and leather. But today, for the first time, Tanin saw his father look scared. Tanin had seen Grizzly knock out malevolent drunkards, fight an invasion of a roaming tribe, and even battle a saber-toothed cat with only a simple dagger. But Jeid had never looked scared, and that fear now seeped into Tanin.

“They saw me fly,” Jeid said, voice low. “They know. We have to run.”

Tanin froze, unable to breathe. He grabbed his hammer.

They know.

From outside rose the townsfolk’s cries. “Weredragons! The curse has come to Oldforge. Burn the Blacksmiths!”

Tanin could remember little of what happened next, only the heat of flames, the bite of an arrow in his thigh, the mad faces dancing around him, hundreds of men come to slay him. Maev flew above, a green dragon roaring fire, pelted with arrows. Mother tried to stop the mob; Zerra clubbed her, knocking her down, and the villagers stomped her, dragged her body through the village behind a horse. And blood. Everywhere the blood of men and dragons. A burning child ran between the huts, screaming as the flames engulfed him.

“Fly, Tanin!” Jeid called.

“Tanin, where are you going?” Maev shouted. “Fly!”

But he would not fly. He ran through the village. The arrow protruded from his thigh, and behind him, he heard his own uncle—Zerra, twin to his father—shouting to kill the creatures. But Tanin kept running, limping now, until he reached her home.

“Ciana!” he cried, barging into the hut. “Ciana, where are you?”

She emerged from shadows, dressed in her white gown. A girl of fourteen, she had long, dark hair and large gray eyes that he thought very beautiful.

“Tanin,” she whispered. A haunted sound. The sound of old ghosts. A sound of old pain. Even then, Tanin knew that the sound—that soft utterance, that whisper of his name—would forever echo through his mind.

“Flee with me.” He panted and reached out to her. “I must leave now. Flee with me to the mountains. We can marry in the wilderness. We can live together far from this place.” The cries of the mob rose from the fields; they would be here soon. “I love you.”

Ciana—his beloved, the girl he had kissed upon the hill just last night, the girl he had vowed to marry someday—stared at him silently, and something filled her eyes. Not love. Not fear. Slowly Tanin recognized it.

Disgust.

“You are a weredragon.” She took a step back, and her father approached and placed an arm around her. “You . . . you are diseased.” She shuddered. “I kissed you. I let you hold me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her voice rose to a hoarse cry. “Kill him, Father! Kill the creature!”

As her father reached for a knife, Tanin fled. He too wept. They waited outside—the mob of townsfolk, waving torches, firing arrows. Beyond them he saw his family: his wise grandfather, Eranor, a white dragon; his father, Jeid, a copper dragon blowing fire; his younger sister, Maev, a slim green dragon. They flew above the fields, arrows whistling around them, calling for him.

Tanin shifted.

He too became a dragon.

Arrows slammed into his scales, and one pierced his wing, and he flew.

They fled over the forest. They raced across the wilderness until they found a hidden cave and cowered, wounded, afraid, banished. And still Ciana’s words echoed in his mind.

Tanin.

You are diseased.

Kill him, Father!

“I love you,” he whispered, reaching out to her, seeking her through shadows and light. “I’m not a creature. I love you. I—“

“Stars above, Tanin! I love you too, but stop grabbing at me like a drunkard.”

He opened his eyes.

He blinked.

His sister sat beside him, wrapped in furs—no longer the young girl from that day but a grown woman, her face a mask of fading bruises, her arms strong and her bottom lip thrust out in her permanent gesture of disdain.

Tanin looked around him, for a moment confused, but then remembered his location. Of course. They had been flying for three nights since leaving the escarpment, heading south toward the coast. Birches grew around him, their trunks dark in the sunset, their leaves deep red. The sun was only an orange sliver between the boles; soon it would be gone.

“I was dreaming.” He sat up in his bed of leaves and fur pelts.

Maev snorted. “I could tell. You kept talking about loving this and loving that.” She rolled her eyes. “What were you dreaming about—being some hero? Saving a damsel in distress?” She shoved him back down. “Quit dreaming and get ready to fly! We’re flying to save a prince, dear brother, not a damsel for you to bed.” She tapped her chin. “Unless you prefer princes. But in that case, you’ll have to fight me for him, because I’m claiming him for myself.”

He groaned and rose to his feet. The evening was cold, and he shivered and stuffed his hands under his armpits. Since leaving the escarpment, they’d been spending the days sleeping, hiding under leaf and fur, and flying only under cover of darkness. As Tanin hopped around for warmth, he watched the sun disappear below the horizon, and shadows—the best friends of a Vir Requis—fell across the forest.

“I hope you fly faster tonight,” Maev said; he could just make out her frown. “You fly slower than a dove against the wind.”

“I’m eating breakfast first. Or dinner. Or whatever meal it is now.” He reached into his pack, rummaged around, and found a salted sausage. The meat was cold and damp—the rain had wet his pack overnight—but better than an empty belly.

It was Maev’s turn to groan. She mimicked him, speaking in a deep whine. “I want breakfast. I want to sleep longer. I want to love.” She rolled her eyes. “Bloody stars, brother! I swear you’re a princess yourself.” She shoved him. “Toughen up and let’s fly.”

She snatched the rest of the sausage from him, stuffed it into her mouth, and shifted. A green dragon, she crashed through the forest canopy and rose into the sky. Already mourning the loss of his sausage, Tanin grabbed a handful of nuts from his pack.

“Tanin!” rose the dragon’s cry above. “Shift or I’m going to burn down the damn forest.”

Grumbling under his breath, Tanin stuffed the nuts into his mouth and shifted too. A red dragon, he rose through the shattered canopy to hover beside Maev.

“Try to keep up this time.” She slapped him with her tail, then darted off, wings beating. With a sigh, Tanin followed.

They flew through the night. Clouds hid the stars, and the moon was only a pale wisp behind the veil. It began to rain again, the drops pattering against Tanin’s scales, pooling atop his wings, and entering his nostrils. He could barely see Maev ahead, only brief lights when sparks fled her mouth.

In the darkness, like in sleep, it was easy to remember.

“Ciana,” he whispered.

He had not loved a woman since. He had barely seen women since, aside from his sister, whom Tanin was convinced was half warthog. That had been the day everything had changed: the day Mother died, the day they fled into exile, and the day Tanin made his vow.

I vowed to find others, he thought as the rain fell. To find people like us—exiled, afraid, alone. I vowed that they will have a home, a place to belong, a place to feel not diseased but blessed.

Jeid called that home Requiem, naming it after Tanin’s youngest sister whom the villagers had poisoned. Tanin didn’t care what their tribe was called. He only cared for that person out there—a person like him, rejected and scared.

“If you’re out there, Sena,” he said into the rain, “we’ll find you, my friend. We’ll bring you home.”

They flew for a long time in the darkness. Maev—damn her hide!—kept flying so far ahead that Tanin nearly lost sight of her. The old wound in his wing—a hole from a hunter’s arrow—ached in the cold, and air whistled through it. His breath was wheezing with a similar sound. Every time he caught up with Maev, she only flashed him a toothy grin, blasted a little fire his way, and darted off again, faster than ever.

“Maev, in the name of sanity, this isn’t a race.”

She grinned over her shoulder at him. The flames between her teeth lit her green scales. “Everything is a race, brother. We’re racing to save a prince. We’re racing to forge a tribe. We’re racing to finally find you a female companion, because I swear you’ve been looking funny at sheep this past year.”

“Very funny, Maev. Now I’m a heavier dragon than you, and you know I have a hole in my left wing, so please slow dow—“

She cut him off with a blast of smoke, turned back forward, and raced ahead again.

Tanin was grumbling and pounding his wings, trying to catch up, when the shrieks rose ahead.

His heart seemed to freeze.

He knew those sounds. He had heard them before when hunting upon the plains.

“Uncle’s rocs,” he muttered.

Tanin winced. That day he had fled into exile, his uncle too had left Oldforge. Zerra—disgusted with his twin’s disease—had since dedicate his life to hunting those he called weredragons. Wandering the wilderness with a bronze sword—a sword Jeid himself had forged for him—Zerra had finally joined a wandering tribe of roc riders. The Goldtusk tribe had been but a ragged, near-starved group of barbarians, and Zerra had slain their aging chieftain with a single blow from his blade—a blade such as these ramblers, with their stone-tipped spears, had never seen. Since then, Zerra had swelled their numbers, breeding the rocs from a humble dozen to a hundred beasts, starving and tormenting the great vultures and teaching them hatred of reptiles.

And now those rocs flew ahead—invisible in the darkness but cawing louder than thunder.

The rain intensified.

Lightning flashed and Tanin saw them: dozens of the rotted vultures, not even a mark away, hunters upon their backs.

He beat his wings, reached Maev, and tapped her with his wing. “They might not have seen us,” he whispered. “Swallow your fire. We descend. We land in the forest and hide.”

But Maev—damn warthog of a sister!—howled in rage. Instead of swallowing her fire, she blasted out a great pillar.

“Uncle!” she roared, eyes red, wings beating. “Uncle, come face me. I will burn you!”

The rocs shrieked. The hunters upon them shouted battle cries. Maev tried to fly toward them, to challenge them all, but Tanin grabbed her tail, holding her back.

“Maev, no! We can’t fight them all.”

Panting, her wings beating, she turned toward him in the sky. Her face was a mask of rage. “He killed Mother, Tanin.” Smoke blasted out of her nostrils. “He’s probably the one who poisoned Requiem. Now I kill him.”

She wrenched free from his grasp and shot toward the hundred rocs. Her fire blazed across the sky. The rocs flew nearer, eyes bright yellow, their oily wings blazing white with every bolt of lightning.

Tanin cursed as he followed his sister. He sucked in air, filled his belly with crackling fire, and blasted out a flaming jet.

The stream spun, crackling, and crashed into a roc. The beast burst into flames, stinking and blasting out smoke, but still it flew toward him. The rider upon its back screamed, a living torch, skin peeling and flesh melting. Feathers tore free and glided through the sky, still burning. The flaming bird kept flapping its wings. It crashed into Tanin, biting and clawing.

Tanin screamed as the beak drove into his shoulder, chipping his scales. Claws slashed at his belly, tearing through skin. The fire engulfed him, so hot he closed his eyes for fear of them melting. Blindly, he clawed and bit. His teeth sank into flesh, and he was horrified to find that it tasted like delicious, savory fowl. He spat out a chunk, whipped his tail, and clubbed the beast. The flaming roc tumbled down like a comet, leaving a trail of fire.

“Maev!” Tanin shouted, mouth full of the animal’s blood. His own blood dripped from his belly. “Get out of here!”

He spotted her fighting ahead, blowing fire in a ring around her. A dozen rocs surrounded her, daring not approach. Their riders shot arrows. Most shattered against her scales, but one drove into her back, and she bucked and roared.

“Hello, nephew and niece!” The cry rose above, high-pitched and raspy and thick with mirth, a banshee cry. “Fly to me. Fly to your favorite uncle.”

Tanin looked up and growled.

Zerra.

His uncle flew there upon a massive roc larger than any dragon. The chieftain wore a cloak of buffalo hide and bore a long, scrimshawed bow. Yet he no longer looked like Jeid, his twin. Years in the wilderness had weathered the chieftain, turning him into a lanky strip of a man. Half his head looked like melted wax, hairless and grooved and sagging. His left ear was gone and his eye drooped, peering out of the scars, blazing with hatred.

Dragonfire did that, Tanin thought, and hope sprang through his fear. There are other dragons.

“You die now, traitor!” Maev shouted. She blasted fire and soared, knocking past two rocs. She seemed to barely feel their talons, even as those talons tore into her legs. “You betrayed your own family. Now I will burn the rest of you.”

She blasted out a jet of flame.

Zerra kneed his roc and the bird banked, dodging the inferno. He soared and aimed his bow. His arrow flew, capped with metal, and sank into Maev’s back.

She cried out.

Suddenly she sounded very young—no longer the gruff warrior but the frightened girl fleeing her town.

“Maev!” Tanin cried out.

He flew toward her through a rain of arrows. He howled as one scraped along his head. He blasted fire, aiming at Zerra, but his uncle banked again. Tanin swung his tail, driving its spikes into Zerra’s roc. The oily bird screeched, its stench overwhelming, and fell back.

Tanin grabbed his sister. “Fly, damn you! Show me your speed.”

She panted and growled. “I will kill him.”

“Not tonight! Not like this. Tonight we flee.” More rocs flew toward them, and more arrows whistled. “I have a plan. A plan to trap him. See if you can fly faster!”

He turned and darted forward, motioning her to follow. She blasted flame, scattering rocs, and dashed after him.

A dozen of the rank birds flew toward them, eyes blazing and talons gleaming. Twin blasts of flame sent them scattering. Tanin and Maev shot forward, claws lashing, teeth biting, tails clubbing the vultures aside. Talons drove into Tanin’s flank, and he howled as his scales cracked. He torched a roc, cursed as an arrow hit his left horn, and kept flying.

They broke past the last defenders and entered open sky. They beat their wings madly, flying faster than ever. Tanin’s wounds ached and sticky, black roc blood still filled his mouth. When he looked over his shoulders, he saw the horde following. Zerra led them, sneering as he drew another arrow. Tanin ducked and the projectile whistled over his head. He answered with a blaze of fire, turned back forward, and kept fleeing.

“What is your damn plan?” Maev shouted at his side. Her fangs were bared, her eyes narrowed. Blood seeped from the wound on her back; the arrow still thrust out of her flesh.

“Save your breath and keep flying!” he shouted.

In truth, he had no plan—that is, other than hoping they were faster than rocs. Fighting these creatures meant death. Running through the forest would offer no sanctuary; the beasts’ sense of smell could pick out a hare in its burrow a mark away. All Tanin could hope for was to outfly them.

He rose higher, so high his ears ached and he could barely breathe. He entered the cover of clouds. Maev joined him and they flew through the vapor, blind. Behind him, Tanin heard shrieks and knew the rocs were following. The wind gusted and he spun, nearly lost his balance, but managed to right himself and keep flying. Lightning pierced the clouds. Behind him a roc screeched, and Tanin glanced over his shoulder to see the animal burning. It tumbled down and vanished.

Another lightning bolt flared. The stench of seared meat rose. The wind gusted again, and Maev spun and knocked into him. Tanin tried to keep flying forward, but he could barely tell left from right, up from down. He could see only several feet ahead, and more lightning blasted. Rain slammed into him, and the wind beat his wings like a man beating dusty rugs.

“Damn it!”

A roc rose ahead of him, then another, their eyes yellow, their beaks opened wide. Tanin blasted fire. He burned one, and another barreled into him, talons scratching. Lightning flashed again, searing the bird, and Tanin screamed; the energy passed through the roc into him. His scales crackled, his teeth rattled, and his ears buzzed.

He dropped from the sky.

He tried to beat his wings but they were too stiff, too hurt. He tumbled.

“Damn you Tanin!” Maev shouted above. “Fly!”

He could not. He fell. He managed to stretch out his wings, to catch an air current, to glide, but the rocs surrounded him again, and arrows flew, and somewhere his sister screamed.

Is this the end? Tanin thought. Do we die here, far from home, two more weredragons for them to hunt?

He tried to summon fire, but only sparks left his maw. He was too weak, too weary. He dipped again in the sky.

And then he saw it.

“There!” Tanin shouted, pointing his claws. “On the mountain below!”

A cave. It looked too small for rocs. Summoning the last of his strength, he narrowed his eyes and swooped.

The wind roared around him. He pulled his wings close to his body, his head pounding at the descent. Maev dived at his side, blasting out a wake of smoke. The mountain rose below, a shard of stone piercing the night sky. Tanin clenched his jaw as the wind shrieked and the plunge hammered at his skull. He leveled off and shot toward the cave. The entrance was no larger than a doorway.

An instant before he would slam into the mountainside, Tanin released his magic.

He tumbled into the cave in human form. His knees banged against the craggy stone floor, and his teeth knocked together. Behind him, Maev shouted as she shifted back into a human. She too entered the cave, slamming against his back with a curse.

“Run deeper!” Tanin said. He pushed himself up and raced down the tunnel.

He could see nothing. Somewhere in his pack he had a tinderbox and an oil lamp, but he had no time to rummage for them. He moved as fast as he could, holding the walls for support. The tunnel was just wide enough for him to walk.

Maev moved behind him, holding his shoulder. “You’re leading us to a dead end!”

Behind them, Tanin heard the rocs shriek. When he spun around, a flash of lightning illuminated the cave entrance. The great vultures were clawing at the stone, trying to enter, but were too large. A second bolt revealed the riders dismounting and climbing into the darkness.

Maev growled and drew her sword. The broad, leaf-shaped blade gleamed when lightning flashed again. “I’ll kill them one by one.”

He grabbed her arm and tugged her deeper. “Keep moving! I told you I had an idea. Come on!”

The shouts rose behind him, echoing in the chamber. An arrow whistled and slammed against the cave wall by Tanin’s head. Another sliced his hair. He winced but kept running. Torches blazed behind, filling the cave with red light. Dragging Maev with him, Tanin rounded a bend an instant before arrows clattered into the wall where he’d just stood.

The cave became so narrow he had to stoop, then crawl on hands and knees. Icy water trickled beneath him. Maev crawled before him, cursing as she went.

“I’m not a damn worm,” she said. “Let’s fight them, Tanin.”

He shoved her onward. “Keep crawling unless you want an arrow in your backside.”

The shouts rose behind them. “The weredragons are trapped. Find them. Burn them. Slay the diseased creatures!” Men cursed, grunted, and spat. One burst into a rude song about buggering dragons with his spear. His companions laughed, and another shouted that he’d grab the female and thrust into her with the spear between his legs. That incurred more laughter from the men—and a fresh stream of curses from Maev.

“That’s it!” she said, stopped crawling, and tried to turn around. “Get out of my way, Tanin, or I’ll kill you before I kill them.”

Tanin growled. “Keep moving!”

He gave her a mighty shove forward . . . and she vanished.

He blinked.

“Tanin, you sheep’s wormy bladder!” she cried, voice distant and echoing.

The torchlight grew nearer behind him. When Tanin leaned forward, he saw that the tunnel opened up into a great, round cavern. Maev slid down the smooth, bowl-like slope until she toppled over in its center. She looked no larger than a bean dropped into a goblet. A single hole, roughly the size of a heart, pierced the ceiling, letting in rain and a blast of light when lightning blazed.

“Slay them!” rose a shriek behind him—Zerra’s voice. “Slay the reptiles!”

Arrows whistled. One scratched along Tanin’s shoulder. He grunted and leaped into the sloping chamber.

“Skin them!”

“Shatter their bones!”

Arrows flew.

Tanin slid down the clammy stone slope, summoned his magic, and shifted.

He beat his wings.

He spun around, rose back toward the tunnel, and stuck his head into the opening. The corridor was so narrow his horns banged against the ceiling; he felt like a man trapped in stocks. His wings flapped behind him, keeping him afloat.

The hunters were close now, crawling forward with their torches. Another bow fired, and the arrow slammed into Tanin’s cheek, shattering against his scales. He sucked in air. He blew his fire.

The jet blazed through the tunnel, a shrieking inferno of heat and light, white-hot, spinning like a typhoon of sunfire.

The hunters screamed. A few tried to crawl back, withering, dying in the blaze. Others farther back rolled as they screamed, trying in vain to extinguish the fire, only for new waves of the inferno to crash over them.

Tanin pulled his head back long enough to look over his shoulder.

“Maev, see the opening in the ceiling?” he shouted down to her. “Claw a way out!”

She leaped, shifted into a green dragon, and flew up toward him. “Move! Let me into the tunnel. Let me kill them.”

“You claw us an exit, I’ll hold them back. Go! Widen that hole!”

She growled. “I’m not escaping. Let me through!”

She grabbed his tail, but he shoved her away. More hunters were racing down the tunnel, crawling over the remains of their burnt brethren. Tanin returned his head into the tunnel and blew more flames.

When his fire died, he heard Maev shout behind him. “All right, I carved your damn escape route. Come on!” She tugged his tail. “Hurry.”

He pulled his head free, leaving the tunnel full of corpses, and saw that Maev had widened the hole in the ceiling—it was now just wide enough for his human form. He beat his wings, scattering smoke, and flew toward the hole. He grabbed the rim with his left claw, released his magic, and dangled as a human.

“Maev!” he shouted.

The green dragon still flew by the wall below. She was now blowing her own fire into the tunnel. Smoke blasted out and heat and light bathed the chamber.

“Burn, you bastards!” Maev shouted, and her eyes were red when she pulled her head back. “Burn in the Abyss, you goat-shagging clumps of shite.” Tears gleamed on her scaly cheeks, and she blasted more fire. “I will burn you all.”

Tanin pulled himself through the makeshift opening, emerging onto the mountainside. Rain fell and wind beat his hair and tunic. When lightning struck, he saw the rocs farther below upon the mountain. Riderless, they did not yet see him.

“Maev!” he shouted down into the hole.

She sent another blast into the tunnel, beat her wings, and rose toward the opening. She too grabbed the rim, shifted back into her human form, and crawled out onto the mountainside. They stood side by side in the rain.

“There are more in the caves.” Maev balled her fists and her legs trembled. “We’ll get them from the other side. We’ll burn them all. We’ll—“

He placed a hand on her shoulder, hushing her. He spoke softly. “They still have rocs down there. We can’t fight them all tonight. We hurt them. We killed many. Now it’s time to fly south.” When she opened her mouth to object, he hushed her again. “Prince Sena needs us. Another Vir Requis. We can’t save him if we die here.”

Maev spat and cursed, and her tears mingled with the rain. “They killed Mother. They poisoned Requiem. I hate them. I hate all of them.”

Tanin closed his eyes, seeing that old memory.

Kill the creature!

Father, kill him!

Forever would his old beloved fill his mind, he knew. Forever would Ciana’s words wound him.

He spoke in a soft voice, more to himself than to his sister. “The best revenge isn’t killing your enemy. The best revenge is living well. We must live. We must build our tribe. And tonight we must fly south.”

She nodded, finally silent. They shifted together and flew into the storm. By the time they heard the rocs pursuing again, they were deep into the clouds and rain, flying south in darkness, flying to that hint of light, that shred of hope, that dream of another—another like them, hunted and hurt, needing that revenge, needing that new life.

They flew through the night, silent, leaving the Goldtusk tribe to lick its wounds far behind them. They flew until they saw it in the dawn, gleaming white and gold—the southern coast.

“The sea,” Tanin said. He glided upon the wind, his wounds still aching.

“Beyond it lies Eteer.” Maev flew with him, blood still staining her scales.

They were both hurt, weary, consumed with pain and memory. They wobbled as they descended. They landed in the sand, shifted back into human forms, and huddled together, watching the waves.

ISSARI

ISSARI WALKED THROUGH THE CITY of demons.

Once this had been a city called Eteer, the thriving, bright heart the world’s greatest civilization. Once this had been a beacon of light, of hope, of order in a world of chaos. Once this had been her home. Now as Issari walked down the cobbled street, she moved through a hive of rot, blood, pus, and evil from the depths.

The demons swarmed everywhere. They scuttled up walls like monkeys. They perched upon domed roofs. They swung from palm trees, raced through gutters, and clattered and crawled and slithered along the streets. Their stench wafted, and their leaking sores coated leaves and stones. No two were alike. Some towered on stilt-like legs, withered beings like mummified corpses, their eyes glowing blue. Others dragged themselves forward, obese balls of fat, eyes peering between folds of skin, tongues licking their warty lips. Some flew as bats, scaled and horned, cackling as their heads spun. Others lurked in shadows, conjoined twins stitched together, four or five in each clump, writhing things of many legs, eyes, and tufts of hair.

“Creatures of nightmares,” Issari whispered, clutching her robes as she walked down the street. “Terrors of the Abyss.”

She had grown up hearing tales of the Abyss, that forbidden land that festered underground. For many generations, the kings of Eteer had guarded that unholy kingdom’s doors; by ancient right, they governed the lands above and below the ground. Now her father had opened the seal. Now this terror swept across the city, and Issari—heir to the throne—did not know how this kingdom could ever light the world again.

“Weredragons, weredragons!” the demons cried. “We seek weredragons to kill. Brides, brides! We seek brides to fill with our spawn.”

Ahead, several creatures—they looked like men turned inside out, their organs dripping—moved down the street, sniffing and snorting.

“We smell for dragons, brothers! Do you smell dragons? We smell for brides too.”

The creatures approached a brick house and pounded on the door, shattering the wood. Screams rose inside. One demon raced through the doorway, then emerged dragging a woman. A few years older than Issari, her hair disheveled and her eyes wide with terror, the woman screamed and kicked.

“Dragon? Dragon?” The demons tossed the woman onto the ground and sniffed, their snouts quivering. “We smell no dragon blood. Bride! A bride!”

Issari stared in horror. Her fear froze her; she could barely even breathe. The glistening creatures, blood seeping from their skinless bodies, tore at the woman’s clothes, ripping her tunic, revealing her nakedness.

“She will be my bride!” cried one of the demons, the largest among them. His heart thudded outside his chest, and his entrails bustled with worms. He leaned down and licked the struggling woman’s cheek. “You will spawn my offspring.”

The woman screamed, pleading for aid, trying to free herself, but the other demons held her down.

As the demon began lowering himself over the woman, Issari finally snapped out of her paralysis.

“Stop!”

She marched forward, reached into her robe, and pulled out her mother’s amulet. Shedah the crone had brought the silver charm home from the north, proof of Queen Anai’s death. Upon its round surface appeared an engraving of Taal, the god of purity—a slender man, his arms held at his sides, his palms open. It was a symbol of goodness, of light and hope. To Issari, it was also a symbol of her mother. She shook in the presence of this evil, but she held the amulet out before her.

“Stand back, demons!” she cried.

In her hand, the amulet burst into light.

The demons squealed. The inverted creatures stumbled back, covering their bulging, bloodshot eyes. One’s liver burst, showering blood.

“The light burns!” they cried, shattering, organs ripping. “How can she burn us? Who is the seraph?”

Issari took a step forward, the amulet thrumming in her hand, casting its light.

“This was the amulet of Queen Anai of Eteer!” she cried out. “She ruled the throne that rises above your underground lair. From this relic shines the light of Taal, a god greater than your mistress.” She took another step, and the light intensified, bleaching the world. “By this light and blood, I banish you!”

The demons screamed. Their bones snapped. Whimpering, they fled behind several brick houses, leaving a trail of gore and a lingering stench.

Issari breathed out in relief. She lowered the amulet, and its light dimmed. Her legs trembled and sweat dripped down her back.

Her father had traveled north a few days ago, following the crone’s map, seeking Laira in the cold hinterlands. Issari had only this amulet for protection—a guard against the demons he had freed, a shard of holiness, a gift from her mother.

“I was only a babe when you left, Mother,” she whispered. “And you’re gone now. But still you watch over me.”

Fingers shaking, she tucked the amulet back under her tunic.

“All flesh is theirs to claim,” King Raem had said before leaving. He had stroked her hair. “All but yours. Stay in your chambers. Do not tempt them. They are forbidden to enter your room.”

Yet Issari had left her sanctuary. She could not remain in her palace as her city bled. The people of Eteer needed her. How could she stay in safety while they suffered?

Still trembling, she approached the fallen woman.

“Rise, friend,” Issari said, reaching down a hand to the woman. “You are safe.”

The woman rose, clutching her tattered tunic to her nakedness. Issari wore a veil of tasseled silk and a hood hid her hair; only her eyes were visible. To all, she looked like a simple priestess, not the Princess of Eteer.

“Thank you.” The woman wiped away tears. “Bless you, daughter. Bless you.”

As the woman stepped back into her home, Issari pulled her hood lower, praying the woman did not recognize her. If Raem returned and heard of Issari’s doings, he would beat her. She took a shuddering breath, raised her chin, and kept walking.

Down a street strewn with smashed pottery, the bones of an eaten dog, and puddles of blood, she saw it. The pottery shop. The safe haven.

A demon lingered on the street. It had the body of a massive centipede—as large as a python—covered in metallic plates and lined with many clawed legs. Its torso, arms, and head were those of a human child, pale and warty, its mouth full of hooked teeth and its belly swollen and bulging with kicking, living innards. When Issari pulled out her amulet, the creature fled from the light, its many feet pattering.

Issari approached the shop. Its bricks were pale white, splotched with demon drool, and a winged bull was engraved on the door—the god Kur-Paz, a sigil to ward off evil. When Issari stepped inside, she found that the sigil—unlike her amulet—had failed at its task. Three small red demons, no larger than cats, were hopping upon the shelves, smashing clay plates, bowls, and vases. The potter, a graying man with a wide mustache, was fighting them off with a broom. His daughter was flailing, trying to rip off a demon that tugged her hair. When Issari raised her amulet, the light blazed, and the scaled creatures fled out the window, leaving trails of smoke.

“I think they smelled something this time,” said the white-haired potter, visibly shaken. “We can’t keep them here any longer.”

Issari nodded. “The ship sails out today.” She handed the old man a few coins. “For your trouble.”

He shook his head, gently pushing her hand back. “I don’t do this for reward.”

“I know, kind sir.” She kissed his bristly cheek. “But keep these coins. They’re pure gold. Rebuild your shop.”

Tears dampened his eyes as he pocketed the money. “Taal bless you, Princess Iss—“

“Hush.” She placed a finger against his lips, her heart leaping. “I’m but a nameless priestess, that is all.

She tightened her shawl around her face, knelt, and pulled back the rug, scattering pieces of broken pottery. She revealed a trapdoor. Issari gave her braid a nervous tug, squared her jaw, and climbed down a ladder into the darkness.

A dark, dusty chamber awaited her. Packs of clay wrapped in cloth lay upon a dozen shelves. The only light came from a small sliding window near the ceiling. A sunbeam fell into the chamber, gleaming with dust. They huddled behind the last shelf, wrapped in cloaks, their hair dusty and their faces pale—the weredragon family.

Issari knelt by them. She spoke softly. “It is time. A ship awaits.”

They peered up at her, lost souls, thin and pale. A mason and his wife. Their five children, their eyes huge in their gaunt faces. Cursed. Diseased. Or maybe blessed.

Weredragons, we call them, Issari thought. The name of monsters. But if they are monsters, so is my family. So are my exiled sister and my dead mother. So is my brother, imprisoned in the tower. She reached down a hand to help the family rise. To me they are simply souls to save.

“We will walk quickly,” she said. “We will head straight to the port. The ship will take you north to the cold, barbarian lands. I don’t know what awaits you there. I don’t know how or where you will live. But you will be free. You will start a new life.” Her eyes stung. “Nobody will hunt you there.”

The family stood up, shivering.

“But there are demons outside!” said the youngest child, a girl with tangled brown hair. “They can smell us. They smelled my grandmother’s magic.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “They ate her.”

Issari knelt and embraced the girl. “My amulet will protect you. I will protect you.” She kissed the girl’s forehead. “You will be brave.”

The girl nodded. Issari smiled but trembled on the inside. What if the demons spared her but slew the family? What if the amulet’s power could not overcome their lust for weredragon blood? She tightened her lips and began to climb out of the cellar. She had no choice. She had to risk this. The demons had already invaded the pottery shop’s ground floor; during the next raid they might find the cellar.

I must lead these people to the sea, and they must sail north. This kingdom is death.

As they stepped outside the pottery shop, the family blinked in the sunlight, momentarily blinded after long days in the dark. The youngest child whimpered and clung to Issari.

“I will be brave,” the girl whispered. “I will be brave like you.”

They walked down the street, moving slowly, barely daring to breathe. White columns rose around them, and a palm tree grew from a ring of stones, swaying in the wind. The sun was bright, the sky azure. Trails of demon drool gleamed upon the street. Drawings covered houses’ walls—some depicted the sigils of the gods, wards against evil drawn by the city folk, while others were demon creations painted in blood, depicting demons devouring the heads of men, tearing off children’s limbs, and mating with women. Issari held the child’s hand, and the rest of the family walked behind her, their footfalls soft.

When they rounded the corner, Issari grimaced. Several beasts clustered ahead around a well. One demon, a lanky being like a strip of dried meat, was chewing on a dying dog. Two other demons, blobby creatures like dripping tallow, blinked and groaned as they copulated in the dust. A few more demons danced atop the well’s rim, skeletons draped in bits of flesh. All turned toward Issari and the family. All sniffed. All let out shrieks and leaped forward.

The family gasped. Issari winced, pulled out her amulet, and cried out, “Let me pass! Stand back, demons of the Abyss. I bear the mark of Taal. Stand back!”

They screamed. The sunlight reflected off the amulet, beaming forward in blinding rays, and the demons covered their eyes.

“Quickly!” Issari said, looking over her shoulder. “Hurry by them. Do not look at them. Stay near me.”

They walked, crossing the square. One creature tried to leap at them; the amulet’s light slammed into it, knocking it back and tearing off its legs. The other creatures cowered. Issari walked briskly, leaving the square and entering an alleyway between shops.

They kept moving through the city. They passed by a marketplace where once vendors had hawked figs, olives, dates, and freshly cooked meat from tin plates. Today demons rooted through the supplies, guzzling wine and stuffing food down their gullets. Issari and the family kept walking, passing by the old Temple of Taal, a towering building of white columns capped with gold. Priests stood outside the temple’s bronze doors, blowing ram horns and swinging incense, holding back the foul creatures who tried to leap, crawl, and slither up the stairs. Street by street, the amulet held out before them, Issari and the family made their way to the port.

The thriving boardwalk Issari had known was gone. No more jugglers, puppeteers, or buskers performed here. No more peddlers hawked dried fruits, salted nuts, or their own bodies. The booths of seers, healers, and games of chance were gone. What sailors remained moved methodically and wordlessly, loading and unloading their wares from the ships that lined the piers. Issari had once found the smell of salt, fish, and sailors unsavory. Today the place reeked of rot, and she missed the old aroma.

At every pier stood a guardian of the Abyss—some taller than three men and lanky as poles, others squat, some dripping, some dry, some hooked and bladed, some wet and soft, some hooded in rags, others naked and glistening. As every sailor walked the planks, stepping on and off the ships, the demons sniffed, groped, drooled, seeking weredragon blood.

“I will be brave,” whispered the potter’s girl, clutching Issari’s hand.

I will be brave, Issari thought, chin raised, as she walked along the wet cobblestones.

The boardwalk took them along the canal that thrust into the city. Without the usual chants of sailors, cries of peddlers, and bustle of merchants, the place seemed eerily silent. Even the gulls had fled. Issari and the family walked by a towering, tree-like creature, its many eyeballs blinking upon fleshy branches. Each of its fingers sprouted its own hand, twitching and sporting rotten claws. Issari forced herself to keep walking calmly, ignoring every demon they passed.

Finally, at the edge of the canal, the scent of open sea filled her nostrils, some relief from the stench of the Abyss. There she waited: the Silver Porpoise, a long ship of many oars, her canvas sails wide. She was a ship of traders; she had brought Eteer many fur pelts, barrels of tin ore, and salted meats from the lands across the sea. Now the Silver Porpoise sailed north again—with bronze tools, soft cotton, southern Eteerian spices . . . and hidden life.

“This ship will take you into the sea,” Issari whispered to the family around her. “She will take you to the cold north. She will take you to hope, to new life.”

A towering, demonic spider guarded the ship, human heads speared upon each of its legs, their eyes still moving, their mouths sucking in air. The creature tried to clatter toward Issari, and the severed heads opened their mouths wide, revealing metal teeth. At the sight of the amulet, the spider hissed and darted back, cowering against the ship’s hull.

“These are sailors,” Issari said. She forced herself to glare at the spiderlike demon, though her insides trembled. “You will let them pass, and you will not speak of them, or this amulet will burn you.”

The demon squirmed and hissed, and the family members began to board, walking up the plank one by one. Issari hugged the young child.

“You will be brave,” she whispered.

The girl nodded and touched Issari’s cheek. “You will be brave too. You need bravery more than I do.”

With that, the child ran onto the ship.

Issari climbed the city wall, and she stood between the battlements for a long time, watching the ship sail away. The family stood at the stern, looking at her, and the little girl raised a hand in farewell. The distance swallowed them until the ship was just a speck . . . and then was gone.

Issari lowered her head. The stench and laughter of demons wafted from below, and she wished that she too could sail away, she too could leave this kingdom behind. But she must stay. She had more to save. She must save whatever weredragons she could, whatever brides the demons wanted to claim, and whatever remained of her kingdom’s light.

She turned around and faced the city again. Across hills of homes and shops and winding streets, Issari saw it rising—Aerhein Tower. In that cell he languished—her brother.

“And I must save you too.”

Wind blew, scented of rot and blood. A distant scream rose—the demons claiming another bride or perhaps slaying another weredragon. So much death, so much pain; how could she stop this?

“My father is in the north now, hunting Laira,” she whispered to herself. “Taal . . . please. Please let Laira kill him.” She found herself clenching her fists. “Let my father, King Raem Seran, die in dragonfire.”

The thought horrified her, and she gasped and covered her mouth. She was his daughter! She was Princess Issari Seran, heiress to the throne!

She tightened her jaw. Her knees shook. She reached into her robes and clutched the hilt of her dagger. She pulled her hood low, climbed off the wall, and walked home in silence.

LAIRA

WHEN DAWN BROKE, LAIRA FELT so cold, hurt, and weak that she wasn’t sure she could rise.

She lay under the pile of leaves, her breath frosted. When she touched her hair—short, ragged strands Zerra had cut himself—she found it frosted into hard spikes. Fingers numb, she parted the blanket of dry leaves covering her and gazed up at the forest. Mist floated, and the boles of maples and birches seemed black in the dawn, rising to an orange canopy. A murder of crows sat upon the branches, staring down at her with beady eyes.

They’re waiting for me to die, she thought. But I won’t.

She rose. Naked and trembling, she approached the branch where she had hung her patchwork fur cloak to dry. It was still wet. Laira hugged herself, shivering, teeth chattering. She should never have washed the garments in the river; she should have let the dung dry, then shaken off the flecks. Now the cold would kill her just as readily as the rocs or her wounds. She examined those wounds and winced. The welts on her feet were swollen, and one seemed full of pus.

“It’s infected,” she whispered, every word sending out puffs of frost. “I need healing herbs or the rot will crawl up my leg.”

She wondered if she could find another tribe; others wandered the plains and forests, hunting and gathering and sometimes battling one another, and they had shamans of their own, perhaps less cruel than Shedah who would only scorn, strike, and spit upon Laira whenever she asked for a poultice. Yet Laira remembered the few times she had seen the other tribes, nomadic groups bearing their own totems—bronzed skulls of beasts, gilded buffalo horns, and even one tribe that bore the mummified body of a goddess child. Whenever Goldtusk would come across another tribe, arrows flew, spears thrust, and often lives were lost.

“If they find me, they’ll know I’m a stranger,” Laira said through chattering teeth. “They’ll kill me or worse—capture me to be their slave. They will not heal me.”

But . . . they could heal her.

The thought filled her with both hope and fear—hope for finding others like her, fear that others were only a myth. Perhaps in all the world, Mother had been the only other weredragon. Perhaps Laira was the last.

“But if that’s true, let me die in the wilderness.”

She shoved her frozen hands under her armpits and hopped around for warmth. She considered donning her wet cloak but decided it would only chill her further. After a moment’s hesitation, she lay down and rolled around in the mud along the riverbank, then in piles of dry leaves. When she rose again, she wore a garment of the forest. It was an ugly thing, but it would keep her warm and provide some camouflage. She lifted a fallen branch, slung her wet fur upon it, and carried the bundle over her shoulder. She kept limping through the forest, heading north, her burnt feet aching with every step. Despite the pain, she dared not fly. Here under the canopy she was hidden; in the open air, she would be seen for marks around.

Today she heard no rocs; perhaps they had abandoned the search or were searching too far away. As she walked and the sun rose, some of her chill left her, and a new discomfort arose—hunger.

“If it’s not the rocs, my wounds, or the cold, hunger can still kill me,” she said to herself and looked around, determined to find a meal.

She saw no more mushrooms, no pine cones, no berries. The canopy was thicker here than farther south, letting in less light; less grass, brambles, and reeds grew from the forest floor. That floor was a crunching carpet of dry leaves, fallen boles, and mossy boulders. Mist floated between the trunks and birds called above, too far to grab. If she still had her bow, Laira could have tried to hunt them, but now they were morsels beyond her reach.

She lifted a fallen branch and spent a while sharpening it against a shard of flint, forming a crude spear. It was noon when she finally saw a rabbit, tossed her spear, and missed. The animal fled into the distance. Her belly growled, and she thought it would soon stick to her back. Thirst dried her mouth. She had left the stream behind, for it traveled west while she moved north, seeking the fabled escarpment.

When it began to rain, she was thankful for the water—she drank some off flat leaves—but it made her colder. The downpour washed off her garment of mud and leaves, and strands of her hair hung over her eyes. At least the rain brought out some worms. She managed to catch three. She stuffed them into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before her disgust could overwhelm her.

Resigned to being wet, she dressed in her drenched tunic and cloak. The rat fur clung to her, clammy and still foul; she doubted the smell would ever leave it. The rain kept pouring, and her spirits dampened with it. She could not stop shivering, but still she walked on.

It was afternoon and her belly was rumbling when she finally saw the bush of blueberries. Her mouth watered. The rain was finally easing up and a real meal waited ahead.

“A little gift of hope,” she whispered.

Swaying with weakness, she walked toward the berries, already tasting the healing sweetness.

A growl rose.

Laira was only steps away when the bear emerged from behind the trees.

Shaggy and black, the beast placed itself between her and the berries, rose upon its back feet, and roared.

Laira froze.

She held only her pointed stick as a weapon. She was a small, scrawny thing, barely larger than a child. Before her bellowed an animal that could slay her with a single swipe of its claws.

Stand still, Laira, she thought. If you flee, he’ll see you as prey. He’ll chase. Stand your ground.

The bear fell back to all four paws, snorted, and turned toward the berries. It began to eat.

Laira found herself growling. Hunger and weakness gave her the courage she’d normally lack. That was her meal. Three worms were not enough. Without these berries, she could die.

Pointed stick raised, she took a step closer to the berries. Maw stained blue, the bear turned back toward her and growled.

“Away!” Laira waved her stick and bared her teeth. “Go, go! My berries!”

It reared again, several times her size, and lashed its claws. Laira leaped back, waving her stick.

“Go! Go!”

It swiped at her again, and she stepped backward, tripped over a root, and fell into the dry leaves.

The bear drove down to bite.

Laira winced, reached down deep inside her, and grabbed her magic.

The bear’s fangs slammed against her scales.

Wings grew from her back, pushing her up. Her own fangs sprouted. Her tail whipped, cracking a tree, and her face lengthened into a snout. With hunger and fear, she lashed her hand—only it was no longer a hand but a dragon’s foot, clawed and scaled. It slammed into the bear, knocking the small animal down; the beast now seemed smaller than a cub. Laira leaned down and bit deep, tearing through fur, ripping off flesh, tasting hot blood and sweet meat, and she knew nothing but her hunger and craving and the heat of the meal. She feasted.

She ate the bear down to the bones.

When her meal was done, she lay on her scaly back, smoke pluming from her nostrils. She was no longer hungry. She was no longer cold. Her wounds—agonizing to her human form—seemed like mere scratches now.

“I can lie like this for a while,” she said softly. She was surprised to hear that her voice, even in dragon form, was the same. “I haven’t heard rocs since this morning. I will lie a while and digest.”

She wouldn’t even consider returning to her human form with an entire bear in her belly. That could not end well.

Her furs were gone. She had taken them inside her when shifting, and yet her pointed stick lay beside her. She wondered why clothes could shift with her—they had reappeared last time she had returned to human form—and not the stick.

“If I ever do find others, maybe they’ll know how the magic works.”

She tilted her head, scales clanking. Magic? For so long, she had thought this a curse, a reptilian disease. Yet lying here, her belly full and warm, it was hard to think of shifting as a curse.

“Maybe it’s a gift,” she said to the rustling autumn leaves above. “And maybe others like me are out there, alone and afraid. I have to find them.”

As she lay digesting, she thought she heard a roc once, but it was distant, possibly only a crow. When the sun set, Laira rose to her clawed feet. Her body pressed against the trees, and fire sparked in her maw, raising smoke.

Tonight she would not sleep in a hole, small and afraid and hurt. Tonight she would fly.

She crashed through the canopy, showering autumn leaves, and into the sky. The stars spread above her, an endless carpet. The Draco constellation shone above, brightest among them, cold and distant but warming her soul. She beat her wings, bending trees and scattering leaves below. For so many years, she had felt weak, miserable, and worthless.

“But now, in this night, I am a dragon.”

She clawed the air and flew north, gliding on the wind.

ISSARI

WHEN ISSARI RETURNED TO HER bedchamber, she found the witch waiting inside with a bucket of leeches.

“Hello, princess,” said the crone, hissing out that last word like a taunt. She smiled, revealing toothless black gums, and sniffed loudly. Her bulbous nose quivered, the hairs on its moles twitching. “Yes, yes, I can smell it. Smells like ripe fruit.” She smacked her lips. “The blood of a princess—a more powerful elixir than the ichor of gods.”

Issari stood at the doorway. Instinctively, she pulled out her amulet and held it before her. “Leave this place!” Her heart pounded, and cold sweat trickled down her back. “You are not to enter my chambers again, old woman.”

The crone cackled—Shedah was her name, Issari remembered. “Your amulet cannot work on me, sweetling. I have no demon blood. Old I am, and ugly I must appear to you. Yes, you are young and fresh and delectable.” She licked her lips, reached into her bucket, and plucked out a squirming leech. “Yet I am no barbarous brute. I crave not your high breasts, your soft skin, or the warmth between your thighs. I seek a greater prize—the blood of a princess for my potions.”

Issari entered the room, shoulders squared, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. She grabbed the old woman’s arm. “I will escort you downstairs to the chamber my father gave you.”

“Oh, feisty, are we, young thing?” Shedah would not budge. Her squat form seemed as immovable as Issari’s canopy bed of carved olive wood. “Your sister was feisty too, but we broke her spirit soon enough. I am over two hundred years old, did you know? The blood of princesses feeds me, keeps me alive, keeps me fresh. Your sister fed me for years. She came to love the leech, for when she bled, I did not beat her. It was a relief for her pain.” Shedah’s eyes narrowed. “You too can choose—pain or blood.”

Though Issari trembled, she managed to raise her chin and speak clearly. “If you try to leech me, it will be your blood that spills.”

Across her bedchamber, Issari could see signs of the crone’s presence. A glob of spit bubbled on the floor. The chamber pot was full and foul. Drool covered some of Issari’s stone figurines, mostly the ones representing Nahar, the shapely goddess of fertility. The witch seemed to have slept in Issari’s bed; the sheets—soft silk embroidered with birds—were unkempt and damp. Issari had promised her father to remain in her chamber, safe from the demons that even now shrieked outside the windows. How long had the witch lingered here, and would she report Issari’s absence to the king?

Shedah stepped closer, raising the leech in one hand. Her other hand reached toward Issari, her fingernails like claws about to strike.

“Your father himself promised me your blood,” Shedah said. “That was the price of my tidings. He flies now to bring Laira home. Once the harlot is here, she can bleed too. For now . . . you will have to feed me alone.” She spat. “Your sister is a small, weak little maggot, her blood thin; I have perhaps drained her too often. But you are ripe. You are strong and fresh.”

Issari paled to think of Shedah beating her sister, draining her blood, and mixing it in her potions. She turned to leave. She would summon her guards. They were perhaps her father’s men, but they were loyal to her too.

“I will have you tossed into the dungeon for your impudence!” she said and headed toward the doorway.

Before Issari could step outside, Shedah snapped her fingers and the door slammed shut. The walls rattled. Several clay tablets engraved with letters—poems Issari had written in her childhood—fell from alcoves and shattered. Issari grabbed the knob and twisted. The door was locked.

“You cannot flee me, child.” Shedah drew closer and placed a leech on the back of Issari’s neck.

The clammy creature latched on. Issari gasped and spun back toward the witch, one hand trying to pluck off the leach. It clung hard, and she could not remove it.

“Guards!” Issari shouted.

Shedah only laughed. “They cannot hear you. I have blocked this chamber from sound. Hush. Listen. Do you hear?”

When the crone fell silent, Issari listened. She heard nothing. The trees no longer rustled below in the gardens. Though she could see demons flying outside her windows—winged, oozing creatures—she could no longer hear their shrieks.

“Guards!” she cried again, and she knew they could not hear. She reached into her cloak, drew her dagger, and held the blade before her. “Stand back.”

Ignoring the blade, Shedah drew another leech from her bucket. She tossed the squirming worm, and Issari winced and leaped back. The bloodsucker landed on her cheek, attached itself, and began to feed.

Issari cried out. Before she could reorient herself, pain flared on her wrist. Through wincing eyelids, she saw Shedah twisting her arm.

“I must whet my appetite . . .” The crone leaned in, and her rotted gums cut into Issari’s wrist.

“Release me!” Issari shouted, but Shedah kept biting, and blood gushed, and the crone’s throat bobbed.

She’s drinking my blood.

Issari’s fingers uncurled.

Her dagger fell to the floor.

Issari had never fought anyone before. All her life, she had been sheltered from the scraps so many children fought on the streets of Eteer. But today she balled her free hand into a fist. Today she was no mere princess; she was a savior of weredragons, an heiress to a crown, and she would not let this filthy creature defile her.

She drove her fist forward.

Her knuckles connected with Shedah’s head with a crack.

Shedah released her wrist and hissed, opening her mouth to reveal bloodied gums. Her moles twitched and her brittle, white hair thrust out like a halo. The crone leaped forward, claws outstretched, and barreled into Issari. The two crashed onto the floor.

“Feisty, yes indeed.” Shedah grinned above. Her gnarled knee drove into Issari’s belly. “Your blood is as hot as your temper. It is delicious.” A long, white tongue unfurled from the crone’s mouth to lick Issari’s cheek, smearing her with bloody saliva. “I will eat all of you.”

Shuddering with disgust, Issari struggled, trying to kick off the witch. But the small, frail woman seemed stronger than a warrior. Issari could barely breathe. The crone’s knee drove deeper into her belly, and Issari thought she would split in two, that her every internal organ would shatter. She reached across the floor, pawing for her dagger, but could not feel it.

Shedah raised a third leech and dropped it. It attached itself to Issari’s neck. She felt it pulse as it sucked her blood.

“With your blood, I will brew potent potions, yes.” Shedah spat. The glob landed on Issari’s cheek, sizzling like acid. “They will make me live for many years.”

Issari could barely breathe. The crone’s hand wrapped around her throat, constricting her. The second wizened hand tore at Issari’s tunic, and Shedah placed a new leech upon her; it sucked at the top of her breast. Weakness flowed through Issari, and her head spun. She felt blindly for the dagger, desperate to find it.

I have to stop her. I have to. Or she’ll do this to Laira again. Tears budded in Issari’s eyes. She did this to my sister so many times. I must stop her.

Her hand connected with something wet and soft—the toppled bucket of leeches, she surmised. Blindly, she grabbed one of the worms.

“Perhaps your father will let me keep you, princess.” Shedah grinned her bloody grin. “You will be mine—my giver of life, my toy to torment, my—“

With a choked gasp, Issari thrust up the leech she held.

She slapped it against Shedah’s eye.

The worm squirmed, latched onto the eyeball, and began to suck.

The crone screamed.

It was an inhuman sound, the buzz of a thousand insects, the cry of shattering bones and ripping souls, the cry of steam, of cracking wood in fire, or burning men. The witch stumbled back, and Issari gasped for breath and pushed herself to her elbows.

Shedah stood, grabbed the leech with her knobby fingers, and ripped it off. The leech came free with the eyeball still attached, leaving an empty socket.

No. Don’t faint. Issari sucked in breath. Fight her.

She spotted her fallen dagger near the bed; it lay among several smashed statuettes. Issari grabbed the hilt, leaped up, and pointed the blade. “Stand back!”

But Shedah, enraged, leaped forward. She rose into the air and hovered for a moment, a creature of blood and rage and drool, more demon than human. Then she plunged down, claws extended, blackened gums bared.

Issari grimaced, blade held before her.

Claws slashed her shoulder.

Issari screamed.

Her blade thrust into the crone, tearing through leathery skin and into crackling, dry flesh.

For a moment Shedah hung upon the blade, suspended in the air like some deformed, bloated sack. Then she crashed down, twisting, writhing, screaming. Smoke rose from her and worms escaped her wound.

“I . . . I’m sorry.” Horror pulsed through Issari. “I didn’t mean to stab you. I just . . .” Her heart thumped and she knelt by the witch. “I can heal you. I know some healing. I—“

She gasped when Shedah clutched her arm. The witch stared with her one good eye. Ooze dripped from where the second eye had once peered.

“I curse you, child.” The witch spat. “I curse you with the pain of a thousand deaths in fire. I curse you to become a creature like your sister. I curse you with the heat of demons and the blood of reptiles. You will forever be unclean.”

With a last spasm, Shedah retched, clawed ruts into the tiled floor, and lay still.

Issari stood, trembling, the bloody dagger still in her hand.

I killed.

She took a shuddering breath and her head spun.

I sinned. I promised to save lives. Now I’ve taken a life.

To be sure, she had taken a foul life. She had ended a creature that had tortured and betrayed and hurt many. But it was a life nonetheless. Issari had sinned. Murder was an abomination unto Taal, and when she touched her amulet, it felt so cold it hurt.

“I have to hide this.”

She looked around the room. It was a mess of blood, ooze, and spilled leeches. Some of the worms were still attached to Issari, and she winced.

First I must take them off.

Knees shaking, she rummaged around for her tinderbox and lit a candle. Eyes narrowed, she held the flame to the bloodsuckers. With hisses, they burned and fell off her skin, bloated with her blood.

Next she stared down at the dead crone.

Do I burn her too?

If anyone discovered Shedah’s corpse here, Raem would hear of it. Shedah had served the king, delivered Laira’s location to him.

He will beat me bloody if he knows I slew her.

Issari did not know what to do. A princess, she had no friends to call upon, only guards and servants—men who would report to her father. Her only friend was her brother, and he languished in his cell. She bit her lip. She could not burn the body, not without raising a pillar of smoke for all to see. She considered dragging the corpse through the streets and out the city, but how? Even if Issari wrapped up the body, the city folk would smell it; Shedah had smelled bad enough when living, and her corpse already stank of rot and human waste.

The demons can get rid of her.

The thought chilled Issari. She remembered seeing the demon by the well chewing upon a dog. She remembered hearing Angel, the fiery queen of the creatures, begging her father for human flesh.

Issari tightened her lips, swallowing down her fear. She grabbed hold of Shedah’s corpse. She tugged. The body was surprisingly heavy, and Issari grimaced as she pulled it inch by inch; it felt like dragging a sack of iron ore. She opened her sliding doors, grunted, and dragged the corpse out onto the balcony.

At once, as if attracted by the stench, three demons came flying toward her.

One of the creatures looked like a strip of dried flesh, its insect wings buzzing. Another could barely keep airborne; its bloated belly swung beneath it like a sack, and its red eyes burned in its pasty face. The third creature looked like flying entrails, warty and red and squirming as it flew, wingless. They were as large as horses, festering and reeking.

Issari took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pointed at the dead crone. “Eat.” She clenched her teeth and stepped back. “Eat until nothing is left.”

One of the demons—the bloated creature with the swinging belly—gazed at her and hissed. “King Raem has forbidden the Children of the Abyss to feast upon the flesh of mortals.”

Issari forced down the urge to gag; the stench of the creatures was overwhelming, even worse than the corpse. “King Raem has flown across the sea! I am his daughter, Princess Issari. I sit upon the throne in his absence. I give you leave to eat one mortal—this body alone! Feast upon it, then demand no further flesh.”

The demons descended like buzzards and tore into the meal. Gobbets of meat flew. Bones crunched. The thin demon tore off the crone’s jaw and gnawed.

Issari stepped back into her chamber, grimacing. As she watched one demon tear into Shedah’s entrails, she couldn’t help it. She doubled over and gagged. Her body trembled and it was a long moment before she could straighten again. Covered in blood, she stumbled back toward the balcony and gripped the doorpost for support.

All that remained of Shedah was a red stain.

The demons stood upon the balcony, necks bobbing as they swallowed their last bites. They gazed at Issari, eyes red, saliva dripping down their chins.

As she watched, they began to grow.

The living strip of meat lengthened, widened, sprouting higher and higher upon the balcony until it wavered like some malformed tree of rot. The pale creature with the swinging belly ballooned in size. Its abdomen extended so widely Issari thought it might burst, and through its translucent skin, she saw snakes coiling between its organs. The last creature, tube-like, bulged and lengthened into an obscene tapeworm the length of a boat. They could no longer fit upon the balcony but flew to hover before it.

They are as large as dragons, Issari thought, reaching under her tunic for her amulet. That’s why they craved human flesh. It makes them grow.

They hissed at her, smacked their lips, licked their teeth, and reached out their tongues.

“We want more.” Their voices were dry as old bones. “We want your flesh too.”

She pulled out her amulet and held it before her.

“Leave!” She took a step closer, letting the sun gleam against the talisman. “You may never eat more human flesh. Nor will others of your kind. Leave!”

They flew closer, almost reaching her. One’s claw caressed her cheek. Another demon’s tongue licked her neck. She refused to cower or flee.

“We want more.”

“You will have no more!” She raised her amulet as high as she could. “Here is the sigil of Taal, the god who banished your queen five thousand years ago. I banish you too! Leave this city. Fly to the sea and nevermore return to this land. Leave now or feel Taal’s light.”

The amulet shot out a beam, blinding, crackling, searing. The demons screamed, beating their wings madly, slamming against the balcony railings, ripping into stone, clawing at their faces. One demon ripped out its own eye, a horrible mimicry of Shedah’s mutilation.

“Leave!” Issari shouted.

They’re too strong, she thought. They’ve grown too large. They will not be cowed. Yet she snarled, stepped closer, and placed the amulet against one’s flesh.

“Feel this burn and flee this place.”

The demon skin sizzled, raising foul smoke. The amulet blazed red, and Issari cried out, for it burned her hand. She would not release it. She pulled the amulet back—it tore free with ripping skin—and placed it against another demon.

The creatures howled.

They wept blood.

They turned and fled the balcony.

Issari panted, her hand burning. She stared at the bloated demons; they were the size of the ships in the canal. They flew across the city, wobbling, crying out in anguish. The smaller demons watched from below, cawing up at their swollen friends. Only once did the three turn back, and when Issari held out her amulet again, they turned and kept fleeing. She stood watching from the balcony, shining her light, until they fled across the shore and vanished over the sea.

She dropped the amulet. It clanged against the floor, red-hot. When she looked at her palm, she saw the sigil of Taal branded upon her.

She stumbled back into her chamber, fell to her knees, and trembled for a long time.

TANIN

TANIN WOKE UP UPON A dragon’s back, saw only sea around him, and yawned.

“Still no sign of land?” he asked, tapping his sister’s scales.

He rubbed his eyes, yawned again, and sat up. He was in human form, but his sister flew as a dragon, her scales green, her horns white, her mouth full of fire. She looked over her shoulder at him, and her eyes narrowed.

“Are you blind? No land. No damn land. Not a sign for three days now.” Maev blasted flame over his head, nearly searing his hair. “And we’re running low on food. We turn back.”

Tanin cracked his neck and rose to his feet upon the dragon’s back. He wobbled and held out his arms for balance. Since leaving the southern coast, they had seen only water. Their packs—which rested behind him—held enough fresh water, ale, and food for perhaps another three days.

“We’ll find land.” He shielded his eyes with his palm and stared south. “According to my map, Eteer is near.”

Maev growled. “A charcoal drawing on tattered old buffalo hide isn’t a map.” She sighed. “Maybe Grizzly was right. Maybe Eteer is only a myth. Maybe—“

“Oh, be quiet and get some sleep,” Tanin said, interrupting her. With another yawn, he leaped off her back.

He fell through the sky, the wind whipping his hair and clothes. He smiled, enjoying the freedom of it. Somehow falling felt even better than flying. He was only a small seed floating in the air, trapped in a world of blue—the water below, the sky above, and his sister a mere little annoyance. Sometimes Tanin wished he could fall forever.

Yet the sea grew near, and his sister waited. Tanin sucked in his magic and shifted. Beating his wings and blasting smoke, he soared as a red dragon. The green dragon dived from above, positioned herself above him, and aligned her wings with his. She descended slowly, finally landing on his back, her limbs draped across him. The weight nearly shoved Tanin back down toward the sea.

When Maev shifted into human form, the weight vanished. As a woman, she seemed to weigh almost nothing. When Tanin looked over his shoulder, he saw her on his back, a human again.

“One more day!” she said, her hair streaming in the wind. “If evening falls and we still see no land, we turn back home. Agreed?”

He grumbled and spat out fire, knowing they had no choice. Failure was better than death.

And yet I don’t want to turn back, he thought, and a sigh rattled his scales. What did he have to return to? Life in a cave? Juggling in town squares as people booed and tossed refuse his way? Flying south was dangerous. He had already battled rocs, and who knew what other dangers awaited. Yet Tanin was willing to keep flying, to keep fighting, to drown his fear under hope.

Maybe I have no home, he thought. Not unless I find others. Not unless we build a tribe.

He looked back toward the southern horizon. “Agreed. But I still say the map was accurate. I—“ Tanin blinked. “Maev . . . what is that?”

Three creatures were flying toward them across the sea. Tanin gasped. Rocs? Other dragons? When he squinted, bringing them into focus, his breath died.

“Stars above,” he whispered.

Wings beat and scales clanked above him—Maev shifting back into a dragon. She moved to fly at his side, the sunlight bright against her green scales. She wrinkled her snout. “The stench of them. What are they?”

“They’re . . .” Tanin grimaced. “Stars, I don’t know.”

The creatures were large as dragons, maybe larger. One was a bloated thing, its belly swinging like a sack, gray and bristly with hairy moles. It wings seemed impossibly small upon its ridged back, and a dozen red eyes blinked upon its swollen, warty head. A second creature was slimmer, cadaverous, barely more than a skeleton. Black, wrinkled skin clung to its knobby bones, and it beat insect-like wings. The third creature looked like a clump of flying entrails, red and wet, coiling forward, a parasite the size of a whale.

Maev hissed, filled her maw with fire, and flew toward them. “Whatever they are, they’re in my way. They will burn.”

Tanin growled, beat his wings madly, and flew alongside his sister. He let the fire rise in his belly and crackle in his throat.

The three creatures were close now. Their stench wafted, smelling like rotted meat and mold. Their mouths opened and they shrieked, a cry like shattering metal, like snapping bones, like a world collapsing. One of them—the bloated, sagging thing with the swinging belly—emitted a gagging sound and spewed out yellow liquid. The jet flew toward the two dragons.

Maev and Tanin scattered, and the jet blasted between them. Heat and stench like vomit assailed Tanin. Droplets landed against him, and he screamed. Each drop felt like an arrow, and smoke rose upon his scales. A hole spread open in his wing.

Acid.

With a roar, Tanin soared toward the sun and swooped, blowing fire. At his side, a second flaming jet pierced the sky—Maev raining her heat.

The inferno cascaded onto the demons.

They screeched, the sound so loud Tanin thought his eardrums would shatter. Two of the demons ignited, but they kept flying, balls of flame. The cadaverous creature, mere bones and skin covered in black hooks, shook off the fire. It swooped toward Tanin, its mouth opening wider and wider, splitting the creature in two, peeling it open. Its jaw seemed to extend across its entire body, down to the tailbone, until it formed a great mouth full of teeth. Human limbs filled the obscene maw, half-chewed.

For an instant, Tanin could only stare in horror. He had faced rocs in battle, great hunters of the north. Yet here was no earthly terror; this was a creature of nightmares.

“Tanin!” Maev cried somewhere above.

He snapped out of his paralysis. As the demon charged toward him, Tanin soared and blasted flames.

The jet crashed against the creature, filling its mouth, roasting the meal within. The demon spun and soared after him, covered in smoke. Its flesh was too dry to burn, Tanin realized with a grimace.

He tried to see Maev, but smoke and fire filled the sky, and the demon jaws charged again. Tanin growled, swooped toward the creature, and lashed his claws.

He screamed as his claws banged against the creature’s flesh. He might as well have attacked a boulder. Sparks rose and the creature seemed unharmed; Tanin felt like his claws had almost torn off. The creature snapped its great jaws, and Tanin fluttered backward. The jaws managed to close around his wing.

He howled. Tears of pain filled his eyes. The jaws chomped down, grinding his wing, and Tanin screamed and leaned in to bite. His own jaws were large enough to swallow lambs whole; they seemed puny by this beast. Yet still he bit, and his teeth drove through mummified flesh and scraped against bone.

The creature released him. Tanin fell through the sky, his left wing pierced with holes; wind whistled through them.

“Maev, some help!” he shouted.

He glimpsed her battling two creatures above. Both were still smoking and crackling with fire. Blood covered Maev’s leg.

“I’m battling two already!” she shouted down to him. He could swear he saw her roll her eyes. “Grow up and fight your own battles.”

Before he could reply, the gaunt demon swooped again, mouth opening wide, splitting the beast down to the tailbone like a halved fruit.

Tanin gritted his teeth, growled, and soared.

He flattened himself into a spear, driving upward. The creature dived down, cackling, raining drool and bits of rotted flesh.

Heartbeats away from a collision, Tanin grimaced.

He roared as he soared, driving into the creature’s mouth, shoving himself into the beast.

The jaws began to close around him. Tanin kept soaring, horns pointing upward.

The force of his onslaught split the creature at the tailbone, tearing the great jaws apart.

The demon’s two halves tumbled through the sky. Each wing beat independently. The broken pieces spun wildly, shrieking their own cries, until they crashed into the sea and vanished.

Tanin spat. “Stars damn it.”

Wincing, his wounded wing a blaze of agony, he rose higher.

He found Maev spinning in a circle, scattering flames, holding the remaining two demons at bay. Cuts ran along her leg, and a gash bled upon her forehead. Still she managed to glare at him.

“Are you done playing your games, brother?” She swiped her tail, clubbing one of the beasts. “Go on, choose one and kill it, damn you!”

The two demons hissed, their flesh charred, fires still burning upon them. Their skin had peeled back and their muscles blazed; through the flames peeked black, jagged bones. Yet still they flew, cackling. The slimmer one, a creature like discarded entrails, thrust toward Maev, snapping its teeth. The obese demon, his charred belly swinging like a tumor, turned to fly toward Tanin.

The demon’s many eyes blazed like cauldrons of molten metal. Its mouth opened, lined with sword-like teeth. Its wings—so small they were almost comical—flapped mightily, propelling the creature toward Tanin like some obscene bumblebee toward a flower. It pulsed as it gagged, spewing another stream of acid.

Tanin grunted and swerved.

The jet blasted above him, its raining droplets searing his scales.

The creature dived, snapping its teeth.

In midair, Tanin flipped upside down, dipped several feet, and raised his claws. The demon shot above him, unable to stop. As it flew, Tanin’s claws drove along its swinging belly, gutting the beast.

Snakes, worms, and maggots with human heads spilled from the wound, smacking their lips and biting at Tanin like ticks. He screamed and shook himself, knocking them off, and blew his fire again.

He caught the demon as it was turning back toward him. The flames entered the gutted creature through its wound, filled its innards, and blasted outward like a collapsing pyre. With a final shriek, the creature tumbled from the sky. It crashed into the sea with hissing smoke.

Tanin looked over his shoulder, panting, to see his sister bite into the last demon’s rotted flesh. The green dragon tugged her head back, ripping out a chunk of flesh, and spat. Gurgling, the creature tumbled. It gave a pathetic whimper before crashing into the water. It vanished into the depths.

“Well, well,” Tanin said, tongue still lolling as he panted. “Looks like your older brother can still teach you a few things. I believe my count is . . .” He feigned counting on his claws. “Two demons. And you . . . well, technically one demon, though he was the smallest.”

Maev roared, flew toward him, and barreled into him. Blood dripped down her chin, and her eyes flashed.

“The smallest—“ She blustered, for a moment unable to form more words. “You only killed two because I burned them! They were already wounded.”

He nodded. “Sure, Maev. It was only because you helped.” He patted her with his wing. “You’re a real warrior.”

Suddenly he winced. Pain drove through his wing where the creatures had cut it. Maev was wounded too, several of her scales chipped.

“What were they, Tanin?” she whispered, fear replacing the anger in her eyes. “They . . . they were even worse than rocs, I think. Evil spirits. Demons.” She winced. “What kind of land are we flying to?”

Tanin looked south. There upon the horizon he saw it—a faded tan smudge.

The southern coast.

The kingdom of Eteer.

“We’re about to find out,” he said.

They flew toward that distant coast, silent. Even as they left the smoke and stench behind, the demon shrieks echoed in Tanin’s ears and he shuddered.

LAIRA

SHE FLEW UNTIL THE DAWN, letting no fire fill her maw. She was weary. Her cuts still hurt. Her forehead burned even in the cold air, the infection blazing through her. She felt lost and afraid; she had never been alone before escaping her tribe, and she did not know if she’d live much longer. It was the longest, coldest night of her life.

It was also the best night of her life.

“I am strong,” she said into the wind, and her laughter clanked her scales. “I am fast and high and I am free.”

Tears flowed down her scaly cheeks. Zerra would nevermore slap her, shove her into the mud, or spit upon her. He would nevermore shear her hair, clothe her in rags, and give her only scraps to eat. For ten years, he had mistreated her, turning her into a short, scrawny girl covered in mud and tatters, a creature he made, a pet to torment.

And he will nevermore bed me, she thought. Scales clattered as she shivered. That night returned to her—the night she had stepped into his tent, selling her body for a chance to hunt. She remembered the burnt half of him pressing against her, his tongue licking her cheek, his manhood thrusting into her.

“Nevermore,” she swore. “You will nevermore use me, hurt me, torture me. You kept me hungry for years, and perhaps I will never grow taller, and I will always be the size of a child. But I can be a dragon too. That you cannot take away.”

Her eyes stung, her wings felt stiff, and she bared her fangs. As she flew in the night, she made another vow.

“I will have revenge.” Fire filled her mouth. “You killed my mother. You hurt me. Someday we will meet again, Zerra . . . and you will feel my fire. I will finish what my mother began.”

Dawn rose in the east like dragonfire, a painting all in orange, yellow, and red. The autumn forest below blazed with the same fiery majesty, rolling into the horizon. Laira looked around, seeking pursuit. Up here in the air, she would be visible for many marks. She saw only a distant flock of birds, but she felt it safest to descend.

A silver stream cut through the forest, and she dived down toward it, the wind whistling around her. She landed on the bank, dunked her head into the icy water, then pulled back with a mouthful of salmon. She gulped down the fish for breakfast, then drank deeply. Back in the Goldtusk tribe, as the lowest ranking member, she would always eat last, and always only scraps. She could not recall the last time she had eaten a whole fish. Since her mother had died, fish had meant nibbling on bones and chewing rubbery skin. She dipped her head underwater again, caught another salmon, and swallowed it down, relishing the oily goodness.

She could not walk through the forest in dragon form, not without toppling trees, and she was not ready to become a human yet. She yawned, releasing a puff of smoke, and shook her body to hear her golden scales rattle. She squeezed between a few oaks, curled up on a bed of dry leaves, and laid her head upon her paws.

“Maybe I’m the only one left,” she whispered to herself. “If I am, I will live like this, wild and free and solitary like a saber-toothed cat. But I will never stop searching. I will seek the fabled escarpment in the north, and if more dragons fly there, I will find them.”

She yawned again, closed her eyes, and slept.

When night fell again, she flew.

For three days and nights she traveled, sleeping in the sunlight, flying the darkness, until at dawn on the fourth day she saw it ahead.

The escarpment.

It rose across the land, stretching into the horizon, a great shelf of rock and soil thick with birches, oaks, and maples. Waterfalls—thin white slivers from here—cascaded down its cliffs, disappearing into the forest before emerging as streams to feed a rushing river. It was as if half the world had sunk, dropping the height of a mountain, leaving the northern landscapes to roll on to a misty horizon, unscathed. Countless birds filled the sky, fleeing from the sight of her—a golden dragon large enough to swallow them whole. Mist floated in valleys, and boulders rose gray and thin from the forest like the fingers of dead stone giants.

“It’s real,” Laira whispered upon the wind, not even caring that she flew in daylight. Tears filled her eyes. “The place where rocs dare not fly, the place even Zerra fears. A place of dragons.”

Geese and doves fleeing before her, the golden dragon glided on the wind. Soon she flew along the escarpment. The highlands rose to her left, the cliffs plunged down beneath her, and the landscape rolled low to her right. Every movement in the sky sent her heart racing, but it was always a hawk, seagull, or other bird. The escarpment stretched into the horizon. If others lived here, others like her, did they hide as humans?

She flew for a long time.

“Dragons!” she called out and blasted fire, a beacon for her kind. “Answer my call! I seek dragons.”

Only birds answered, calling in fright and fleeing the trees.

Laira flew as the afternoon cast long shadows, as clouds gathered, and as rain fell. A few marks ahead, the escarpment sloped down into the land. She had traversed it all and found nothing.

A lump in her throat, Laira turned around and retraced her flight, moving back west, surveying the escarpment a second time.

“Dragons!” she cried out. Maybe she had missed them. Maybe they had been out hunting and were now returning home. “I seek dragons!”

The sun dipped into the forest, and orange and indigo spread across the sky. The rain intensified and soon hail pattered against Laira’s scales and wings. A gust of wind nearly knocked her into a spin. Yet still she flew, calling out, hoping, dreaming.

There.

Warmth leaped inside her. Her eyes moistened. She blasted fire.

“Another dragon.”

She trembled and smoke rose between her teeth. She could barely keep her wings steady. It was hard to see in the shadows, but when she narrowed her eyes, she saw it again—the dark form of a dragon perched upon the escarpment, all but hidden under the trees.

Smiling shakily, Laira dived.

She had still not mastered landings. The past few attempts, she had smashed through trees, shattering half their branches and often their trunks. This evening she billowed her wings, letting them capture as much air as they’d hold, slowing her descent. With a few more flaps, she steadied into a hover, pulled her legs close together, and gently lowered herself between the boles. At least it was gentle compared to her earlier landings; she still shattered a dozen branches and sent down a rain of wood and leaves, but at least the trees remained standing.

The dark dragon rose ahead, perched upon the escarpment’s ledge, staring south across the cliff. A waterfall crashed below the shadowy figure, vanishing into darkness. If the dragon noticed her—and how could it have not?—it gave no sign, only kept staring into the distance.

Laira sniffed, and her scales chinked as she trembled. Another dragon. I’m not alone.

Panting, fire sparking between her teeth, she hobbled toward the hulking shadow.

“Fellow dragon!” Joy leaped inside her, emerging from her eyes with tears. “I knew there were others. I knew it. You’re not alone, my friend. You—“

She drew closer . . . and froze.

A statue.

Her tears of joy became tears of frustration.

She reached the statue, placed her claws against it, and yowled.

“Just a statue. Just . . . just a totem long forgotten.”

Her spirits sank so low she lost control of her magic. She became a human again, slid down onto her bottom, and lowered her head.

“There are no dragons here.” She balled her hands into fists and pounded her lap. “Just a legend. Travelers saw this statue and told stories of dragons. But there are no other dragons. Only me.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks—all her unshed tears from all her troubles. They were tears for Zerra burning her mother—the tears she could not shed as the woman had burned. They were tears for years of pain, of suffering under Zerra’s heel. They were tears for her wounds, her weariness, her loss of hope—a diseased girl, lost, alone in a world that had no place for her.

“Because it is a curse.” Her voice shook. “It is a disease. This curse had me banished from Eteer. This curse had me fleeing Goldtusk. This curse dooms me to forever be an outcast.” She turned back toward the statue and pounded her fist against it, bloodying her knuckles. “A curse!”

She was panting, her head lowered and her chest shaking with sobs, when the voice rose behind her.

“Easy on the statue, stranger! I’m still working on it. Don’t scratch it.”

Laira froze.

She spun around.

Night had fallen but firelight blazed between fangs, reflecting in large dark eyes, copper scales, and white horns. Among the pines and oaks, staring down upon her, stood a living dragon.

RAEM

FLYING UPON HIS DEMONIC MOUNT, King Raem stared down at the barbarian tribe, grimaced, and brought a handkerchief to his nose. Truly this was a benighted land.

It was the tribe he sought, had been seeking for days. A wooden totem pole rose upon a hill, and upon its crest hung a gilded mammoth tusk. Tents sprawled around the pillar, dotting the hills and valleys like warts, crude things of buffalo skins stretched over cedar poles. Raem came from a land of stone towers, lush gardens that grew atop palaces, and a canal that drove into a city in a wonder of architecture. Below him festered a hive of worms.

The tribesmen themselves were no more impressive than their tents. Back home in Eteer, soldiers wore breastplates and bore bronze khopeshes, yet these northern warriors wore only animal pelts, and they bore humble spears and arrows tipped with flint. Their beards were long, and tattoos and piercings marred their forms, abominations unto Taal’s teachings. Perhaps this distant land was beyond Taal’s reach.

“Disgusting,” Raem said.

His mount—a gift from Angel, Queen of Demons—grunted beneath him. Raem stroked the creature. The beast had been a woman once, perhaps a girl, a soul who had fallen into the Abyss centuries ago, lost or exiled or snatched. The demons had broken her, reformed her, stretched her over a new frame. Her arms now extended, long as dragon wings, the skin pulled back like obscene sails. Her head stared forward, twisting in anguish, mute, her eyes leaking tears. Three spine ridges now rose down her back, for the demons had added to her, sewing and augmenting, stitching in new victims until they had created this thing—a slave of flight, a demonic bat cobbled together from shattered souls.

“For long centuries, you flew in the dark caverns of the Abyss, feeding upon the corpses of buried mortals,” Raem said, sitting in a saddle of bones. He stroked the creature’s wispy blond hair. “Now you fly for the glory of a king.”

The beast was ugly, deformed, an abomination. But she was the fastest creature to have risen from the underground, and she had brought Raem all the way here without rest.

“The creatures I seek are just as fast and many times stronger,” Raem said. He looked down, saw them between the tents, and smiled. “There they are.”

A hundred rocs stood outside the camp, tethered to pegs. Larger even than dragons, the birds clawed the earth, snapped their beaks, and cawed. Their feathers were black and oily, their necks scraggly, and even from up here, Raem could smell their stench. The birds saw him now, and they alerted the tribesmen. The hairy barbarians hopped about, pointing and nocking arrows.

Raem smiled grimly. “They are fools . . . but useful fools.”

He tugged his mount’s reins, spiraling down.

Below, the tribesmen shouted and fired arrows.

The deformed bat shrieked and banked, dodging the assault.

“Warriors of Goldtusk!” Raem shouted. He had studied their language as a child, for all children of the Seran royal family spoke the tongues of surrounding lands. “I am Raem. I come from Eteer, a distant land of plenty. I come with gifts.”

Circling above the camp, he opened the sack at his side and spilled its contents. Copper, tin, and bronze coins rained onto the tribe. The warriors below lowered their weapons and knelt. They crawled in the mud like worms, grabbing the coins, baser than hens pecking for seeds.

The deformed bat landed with a hiss, her bones creaking, her eyes weeping. When Raem dismounted, the pathetic creature—perhaps still clinging to some memories of her old, human self—curled up into a ball of skin and jutting bones.

Raem stood upon the hill below the totem pole. As pitiful as his mount was, he was glorious. He wore armor of polished bronze, and a jeweled helm covered his head. A shield bright as the sun hung upon his arm.

The tribesmen—clad in muddy furs, their jewelry mere beads of clay—gasped at Raem’s splendor. A few covered their eyes and whispered prayers. Many knelt and began to chant.

“Raem! Raem! A god of metal!”

Several rocs gathered around, still tethered to posts, and hissed and clacked their beaks. Their talons tore up soil, and their yellow eyes blazed, and wind shrieked into their nostrils. The beasts were larger than his human bat—they dwarfed any one of his demons. The malformed creature, sensing the danger, shrieked and bared her teeth. Her human face—bloated and pale—twisted in a mix of fear and hatred.

My demons are small, Raem thought, stroking the creature. Only human flesh could make demons grow as large as dragons, a price Raem was not willing to pay. He would not feed healthy humans to his demons, for all human life was a gift of Taal—even these barbarians. With his unholy swarm, Raem could perhaps root out the weredragons hiding in Eteer—frightened, weak creatures who lurked in shadows, daring not shift. But to find Laira . . . to find the escarpment where the wild, northern dragons flew . . .

Looking upon the rocs, Raem allowed himself a thin smile.

These ones will kill dragons for me.

“Who leads you?” Raem shouted, an idol of metal, standing above the kneeling tribesmen. “Bring your leader to me.”

The tribesmen below parted. A tall man came limping up the hill, clad in buffalo hides. Here was the chieftain. He wore necklaces of true gold, and a bronze sword hung at his side—not a curved sword like those in Eteer, but a wide, leaf-shaped blade the length of asuch metal man’s forearm. Half the chieftain’s head was burnt away—the ear gone, the eye peering from scars. The wound stretched down his arm and leg.

Dragonfire, Raem knew. Good.

“Are you the one they speak of?” Raem called down to him. “Zerra of Goldtusk?”

The chieftain reached him. The two leaders stared at each other, only a foot apart. While Raem was clean-shaven and bald, a meticulous man, his armor priceless and gleaming, the other—Zerra—was a brute of hair, fur, and grime.

He is a barbarian, Raem thought, but he will serve me well.

“Who are you, man of metal?” Zerra said. Half his mouth faded into scars, and his teeth were yellow.

“A king,” said Raem. “A soldier. A bringer of gifts.”

He pulled the second sack, the larger one, off his demonic bat. It clanked onto the hill, opening up to spill its treasures. Helmets, shields, and bronze daggers clattered into the grass.

The tribesmen gasped. Raem smiled thinly. He saw but a single bronze weapon here; a cache of this much metal would be priceless to this tribe.

Zerra looked down at the treasure, then back at Raem. His eyes narrowed. “Do you style yourself a god?”

Raem smiled thinly. “To you I am. And I will bring you more metal. Spearheads. Arrowheads. Swords. Vases and chalices and a throne to sit on. I will make you a king in the north.”

The chieftain lifted a bronze helmet, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside. He spat. “I am Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk. I take no gifts from gods or men. I am no beggar.” He drew the bronze sword from his belt. “I take my metal with blood. I slew the warrior who wielded this sword. I did not take it as a gift.”

Raem raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I hear. They say along the river that Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk, was once a humble villager living in a clay hut. They say his brother, a blacksmith, forged this sword for him—a gift of love, not a trophy of battle. They say this brother is a weredragon, that he leads a clan of weredragons, and they say, Zerra . . . they say you fear him.”

Half of Zerra’s face, leathery and stubbly, flushed a deep crimson. The other half, a ruin of scars, twitched. He raised his sword and his fist trembled.

“I do not ask you to accept these gifts without a fight, chieftain,” Raem said calmly. “But I am not your enemy. It is not me you should fight.”

Zerra stared into Raem’s eyes, his gaze judging, dangerous, seeking. Finally he grunted.

“Follow,” the chieftain said and began walking downhill.

They approached his tent. The buffalo hides were painted with scenes of hunters and bison. When they stepped inside, Raem found lion pelts upon the ground, a crackling fire in the center, and statuettes of voluptuous women—their hips wide, their breasts hanging low—carved of stone. A living woman lay upon a rug, not as luscious but attractive enough, her breasts painted with blue rings, her thighs red with bite marks. Zerra sent her fleeing the tent with a kick.

“You speak dangerous words, stranger,” said Zerra. He limped toward the campfire, pulled out a burning stick, and extinguished it inside his burnt hand, perhaps an attempt to impress his guest. He waved the smoking branch. “Why are you here?”

Raem lifted one of the female figurines. He caressed the stone form, remembering his wife. It had been years since he’d seen Anai, since he had caressed her body like this. He had caught his wife shifting, and she had fled him to these northern lands, to this very tribe, her reptile spawn Laira with her.

“Two weredragons traveled with you,” Raem said. “A woman named Anai. A child named Laira. The woman was my wife, the child my daughter.”

Zerra barked a laugh, a horrible sound. “I bedded them both. Here in this tent. The child was particularly willing. Thrust right into her, nearly broke her. The poor thing screamed.”

Raem placed down the statuette and frowned. The chieftain stared at him, mocking, caressing his sword.

He’s goading me, Raem thought, refusing to take the bait.

“If you catch Laira again,” Raem said, “you may bed her as much as you please, so long as you give her to me once she’s worn out. Then she would be mine to torment.”

The chieftain smirked and tossed another branch into the fire. “Your wife is dead. I killed her myself. The maggot child escaped.”

Raem raised an eyebrow. “And you are such a mighty warrior that you cannot capture her? The whole north is speaking of this . . . escarpment. Of this canyon in the stone, a network of caves of some sort. They say it’s a fortress.” Raem snorted. “And they say you fear to fly there.”

Zerra spun toward him, enraged. He drew another flaming branch and waved it. “I fear nothing! Nothing, metal man. The rocs refuse to fly there; the birds are cowardly. You claim to be some king? Fly there yourself. Fly upon that malformed demon of yours. The escarpment is swarming with the reptiles.”

“My bat is swift but small, barely larger than a mule. Your rocs are larger than dragons. Do you want more treasures of bronze? Then you will get your rocs to fly.” Raem clutched the man’s shoulder and sneered. “I will make you a king in the north, but first you will slay dragons for me.”

Zerra stood very still, staring, the burning branch still clutched in his hand. The flames were licking his wrist, but he would not drop the stick.

“Two hundred spears tipped with bronze,” the chieftain said. “Two hundred swords and ten thousand arrows. A breastplate and helm for every warrior in my army, chalices for them all to drink from, and plates inlaid with jewels. And you will send me three smiths and a hundred miners, so that we may forge the metal on our own. That is my price to you. Promise me these things, and I will slay the dragons for you, all but Laira. She will be mine to break, then yours to keep.”

The man is greedy, Raem thought. The man is cruel. This is exactly the man I need.

He nodded. “They will be yours.” He turned to leave, walked toward the tent door, then froze and looked over his shoulder. “Is it true, then? That your brother is a weredragon?”

The chieftain grinned horribly, displaying his rotting teeth. “Twin brother. I will kill him last . . . and slowest.”

Raem turned to leave again. This time Zerra’s words stopped him.

“And is what I hear true as well?” the chieftain called out. “That your own son, your heir and prince, is one of the diseased creatures?”

Raem’s throat tightened. He clenched his jaw. He looked back at the chieftain and found the man smirking.

“Concern yourself with my daughter, not my son, barbarian. He is mine to deal with; she will be yours.”

With that, Raem stepped outside the tent, stood in the wind and mist, and felt the old rage, fear, and sickness rise inside him. He craved. He needed the release.

He needed to become the reptile.

The urge nearly blinding him, he approached his demon. He mounted the creature, spurred her flanks, and soared into the sky. As he left the tribe far below, he realized he was digging his fingernails into his palms. The blood dripped down his arms and Raem narrowed his eyes and prayed to his god.

TANIN

TANIN WALKED THROUGH THE CITY of stone, seeing demons everywhere.

“By the stars, Tanin,” Maev whispered, walking beside him. His gruff, golden-haired sister clutched her bronze sword under her fur cloak. “This place is as haunted as your undergarments.” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Smells as bad too.”

Tanin scowled. “This is no time for your jokes. Keep both eyes wide open. We’re looking for Vir Requis.”

She thrust out her bottom lip, looking around her. “So are about a thousand demons.”

The creatures flew above, cackling and beating insect wings. They laughed upon palm trees and domed roofs. They ran through the streets, chasing women, pawing and groping and tearing off garments. Some creatures were small, no larger than cats, scuttling little things on crab legs. Others were as large as horses—some scaled, some bloated, some creatures of bones and horns, others balls of slime.

“Dragons, we seek dragons!” they chanted.

The city must have once been beautiful, Tanin thought—a place of marvel such as he’d never seen. Cobbled roads stretched between houses—real houses of stone, several stories tall and topped with domes, not simple clay huts like men built across the sea. Palm trees, fig trees, and flowers grew along the streets, and bronze statues stood in city squares, shaped as winged bulls. Far ahead, past a hundred streets and countless homes, rose a palace, a building that Tanin knew nobody in the north would believe could exist. Columns lined its walls, blue and gold, and lush gardens grew on its roof.

Whoever had built this city had created a wonder, but today this was a place of rot. Demon drool covered the cobblestones and blood stained the walls. Several corpses lay strewn across the street, torn apart. Demons were feasting upon the entrails.

“Dragons, we seek dragons!” they chanted, sniffing, moving from street to street. They spoke in many tongues; Tanin could understand his own language and make out several others.

“I guess flying is out of the question,” Tanin muttered.

Maev grabbed his arm and pointed. “Look, past that dome! A tower. The stories say the prince is kept in a tower. Let’s grab the boy and get out of this place.” She walked by a dead monkey—demon teeth marks could be seen upon it—and shivered. “I want to go home.”

Tanin grinned bitterly. “What happened to Maev the Brave, the girl who spent years boasting of being an explorer, an adventurer, a heroine?”

She gave him a withering glare. “Say another word and that girl will plant her foot so deep up your backside, you’ll be able to bite her toes.” She tugged him along. “Now come on, you stupid lump of a brother.”

They kept walking, moving down a cobbled road lined with wineshops. Soon they reached a palisade of columns, each rising taller than oaks. Their capitals were shaped as silver men, their heads lowered, their arms hanging at their sides, the palms facing outward. Beyond the columns spread a wide boulevard, its flagstones smooth and polished. A procession was moving down the road. Priests walked at its lead, clad in white, swinging pots of incense. One priest held a clay tablet engraved with cuneiform writing; he sang out the words. Behind them moved seven bulls, tugging a great chariot of wood and metal. Upon the chariot rose a great statue of the same slender, silver man, his palms open, his head lowered.

“Taal!” chanted city folk, kneeling on the roadside as the procession passed by. “Taal!”

The demons swarmed above, hissing with hatred, sneering, spitting. Yet they dared not approach the procession, and when the smoke of the incense wafted near them, they fled with shrieks.

“This city’s in the middle of a bloody war,” Maev said, peering from behind a column. “Taal must be their god, the slender silver man.”

“And the demons aren’t too fond of him.” Tanin winced to see one of the creatures scuttle by, dripping rot. The procession was moving directly ahead now; the demons fled like water from the prow of an advancing ship.

Maev seemed unusually subdued. She spoke softly. “These demons are hunting dragons. You heard them. There might be many more Vir Requis in this city, not just the prince. I think these demons are Eteer’s bloodhounds; hunters.” She shook her head. “By the stars, Tanin. What have we found here?”

He squared his jaw, watching the last priest move by, his cloud of incense lingering like a wake. “A place I want to leave. Now let’s race to that tower, free your paramour, and go home.”

Gripping his sword, he was about to step out onto the boulevard when several voices rose in the alley behind him.

“Weredragons . . .”

Tanin spun around and felt himself pale.

“Bloody stars,” Maev muttered and drew her sword. The doubled-edged blade—as wide and long as her forearm—gleamed in the sunlight.

A demon lurked in the alleyway, a creature of many human heads strung together like a string of beads. The unholy strand rose like a cobra about to strike, taller than Tanin. Each of the heads leered, full of sharp teeth. They all spoke together.

“We smell weredragons. Comrades! Comrades, come to feast!”

A dozen demons appeared upon the surrounding roofs—great winged insects, hooks and blades growing from their bodies. When Tanin heard a wet slush behind him, he turned to see a towering blob, dripping and sprouting hair, crawl forward to block the alley’s exit. Tanin could see mice, two cats, and a dog trapped within the translucent jelly, still alive and writhing.

“Weredragons!” the creatures cried.

Tanin sliced the air with his dagger. “Don’t shift,” he told his sister. “We’ll fight them off with blades. If we blow fire, the entire city will see.”

She snarled and raised her own blade. “I don’t need to shift to kill these buggers.” She spat toward the string of heads. “Come to me, darling, and taste my blade.”

The ring of demons tightened around them. They leaped from the roofs, landing before them. Trapped in a circle of rot, the siblings swung their blades, prepared to kill or die.

A high voice rose, piercing the alleyway, pure and strong.

Light flowed.

The demons hissed and cowered.

The voice rose higher. Tanin could not see its source, nor could he understand the words. The voice spoke in the tongue of Eteer; Tanin understood only the word “Taal” repeated twice.

The demons wailed. The creature with many heads retreated, coiling into a doorway. The winged beasts fluttered off, vanishing over the roofs. The blob slithered away, leaving a trail of slime. The pure, white light filled the alleyway, blinding them. Tanin and Maev shielded their eyes with their palms, blinking and trying to see.

Through the glare, Tanin could discern a figure walking forth, clad in white. It looked like a ghost or goddess of starlight.

The light slowly faded, revealing the figure. She was a young woman, a few years younger than him, clad in a white tunic hemmed in gold. Her eyes were large and green, and a black braid hung across her shoulder, tied with a golden ribbon. A headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz gemstones crowned her head. The light seemed to come from an amulet that hung around her neck. When she tucked the talisman under her tunic, the last rays faded, leaving only sunlight to fall into the alleyway. The noon sun blazed overhead, yet its light seemed dull after the splendor Tanin had seen.

The young woman stared at them, eyes widening. When she spoke again, she spoke in their tongue, her accent thick.

“You are northerners?” She looked down at their fur cloaks, then back up at their faces. “From across the sea?”

Maev growled. “How dare you banish those demons? I was going to slice them all. I was going to pummel them into mush. I was—“

“Maev, for pity’s sake!” Tanin interjected. He shoved down his sister’s blade and turned back toward the young woman.

By the stars, he thought. She’s . . . She’s . . . well, she’s beautiful.

A strange tingling filled his blood. For many years of hiding in the canyon, dreaming of Ciana’s face over and over, Tanin rarely talked to women—aside from his sister, whom he often wished to bury under a boulder. At the sight of this stranger, he suddenly felt awkward, too tall and gangly. His eyes strayed down to her body, which was slim and pressed against her tunic, and he quickly looked away, feeling even more self-conscious.

“I . . . I mean we . . .” He cleared his throat. “Yes, we’re from the northerners. I mean—the north. We are. From there.”

Maev rolled her eyes. “Oh in the name of sanity. Does your brain have to turn to mush every time a pretty girl is around?” She shoved him back. “Yes, we’re northerners. Who are you?”

The young woman gazed at the two, eyes wide, as if she wasn’t sure whether they were warriors or jesters.

“You’re not traders, are you?” Her voice dropped. “You . . . you came for him. For Prince Sena.”

Tanin puffed out his chest, seeing a chance to reclaim some dignity. “All’s in a day’s work, really. We’re used to saving people. I—“

His breath left him and his cheeks burned when the young woman leaped forward and embraced him. His heart thumped, and he patted her head, more joy and fear than ever coursing through him.

“Thank you,” the young woman whispered. She pulled away, leaving Tanin feeling incredibly cold and tingly, and embraced Maev next. “Thank you for coming.”

Maev’s eyebrows rose so high Tanin thought they might fall off. The gruff wrestler squirmed, trying to free herself from the embrace. When the young woman stepped back, tears filled her eyes. “I am Princess Issari Seran. The prince is my brother.”

Not long after, the three sat in a winehouse, a little place with a domed ceiling, pale brick walls, and several tables crowded with patrons. Figurines of gods, animals, and even phalli stood in alcoves; Tanin and Maev raised their eyebrows at the latter statuettes until Issari explained that they were fertility symbols. The three companions sat at the back, in shadows, beneath a bronze engraving of a winged bull. Issari had pulled a hood over her head and hid her mouth and nose behind a shawl.

“I am not to be seen,” she whispered, leaning across the table toward Tanin and Maev. “Many here would recognize the face of Issari Seran, Princess of Eteer.” She glanced around, but the remaining patrons were busy imbibing wine, squabbling over games of mancala, and admiring a scantily clad dancer who swayed upon a stage. “In the underbelly of this city, I am merely the Priestess in White, a savior of weredragons.”

Maev thrust out her bottom lip, raised her chin, and clenched her fists. “We are Vir Requis.”

Issari blinked. “What does it mean? I thought ‘weredragons’ was your name.”

With a growl, Maev leaped to her feet, knocking back her chair, and looked ready to brawl. A few patrons glanced over. Tanin pulled his sister back down, shoved a mug of wine toward her, and told her, “You drink. I’ll talk.”

Maev snorted. “Fine with me.” She brought the mug to her lips and began to gulp it down.

Tanin turned back toward Issari. “It means ‘people of Requiem.’ We’re building a tribe of our own in the north. There aren’t many of us now—just me, the warthog here, and my father and grandfather. We’ve come seeking others to join us. We weren’t sure others even existed.”

“Many did live here.” Issari lowered her eyes. “Many died. My father, King Raem, summoned the demons to hunt them. His wife was a were— I mean, a Vir Requis. So is my sister Laira, but she fled our kingdom many years ago. Many others lived here, but he killed most. Some I saved and sent north in ships, though I fear for them too; my father has flown north to hunt Vir Requis in the wilderness as well. I don’t know if others still live in this city—aside from my brother.” She clutched her mug of wine but did not drink. She looked up Tanin with those huge green eyes, and her lips quivered. “Can you save him?”

At that moment, looking into those endless green eyes, Tanin would have promised her to save the sun from the sky, rescue sunken cities from the depths of the sea, and free every last chained man and animal across the world.

Maev had to ruin the moment, slamming down her mug of wine. “My brother can barely free his manhood from his pants fast enough to piss.” She slammed her fist against the tabletop and shouted, “More wine!” She returned her eyes to Issari. “But I’ll free the boy. I’ll fly right into that tower. I’ll burn every last demon around it, and I’ll burn every last guard. Sounds like fun.”

Their conversation halted as a serving girl poured more wine. When they were alone again, Issari shook her head.

“You cannot burn the guards,” the princess said. “They are innocents.”

Maev raised her eyebrows again. She spat right on the floor. “Bloody stars! They’re guarding your jailed brother!” She scrunched her lips and looked at Tanin. “Then again . . . in some cases, that might not be a bad thing.”

Issari shook her head wildly, her braid swaying. “They are following my father’s orders. I know those guards. I grew up with them. They guarded my chambers in my childhood. They guard the tower entrance, and they guard the cell’s door. But they do not guard the window.” She raised her chin, and deep fire filled her eyes. “You can fly. You can reach that window. You can tear open the bars.”

Tanin sighed, his earlier feelings of heroism fading. He spoke wearily. “I saw the tower. A hundred demons fly around it. Demons are smaller than dragons, but they outnumber us greatly. If we fly up there, they’d take us down like wolves taking down a buffalo.”

Issari pulled out her amulet from under her tunic. With no demons nearby, it no longer emitted light. “That is why I will ride you.” She reached across the table and touched Tanin’s hand. “The light of my god will clear your path.”

Her hand was soft and warm, her eyes earnest. Tanin would have agreed to fly into the Abyss itself.

LAIRA

LAIRA STOOD UPON THE ESCARPMENT, staring at the dragon.

For so long—so many years of exile, pain, and tears—she had dreamed of others like her, of people with the dragon disease. Hiding in tents, shivering in the cold among the dogs, crawling through the forest, bruised and bleeding, she had yearned for this, prayed for this, never knew if others even did exist. Now she stood—a frail girl clad in rags, her hair sheared, her body lacerated, her jaw shoved to the side, a wreck of a thing barely alive—no longer alone.

When dreaming of this moment, she had imagined crying in joy, running toward the others, hugging them, laughing with them, feeling safe, feeling whole.

Instead she felt fear.

The dragon regarded her, a large copper beast, larger than her mother had been, larger than she was; the dragon was almost as large as a roc. His scales triggered an ancient memory; they looked like scales of burnished armor from her old forbidden home across the sea. His horns were long, his fangs like swords, his flicking tail bristly with spikes.

And Laira was afraid.

She had thought her father, King Raem, had loved her, but he had tried to kill her and her mother, forcing them into exile. She had thought Goldtusk could be a home to her, but its chieftain had brutalized her. Laira’s eyes burned. Was here another enemy, another one to hurt her?

“Hello there,” the dragon said, his voice a deep rumble, and wisps of smoke seeped between his teeth. “And who might you be?”

Facing him, she shifted into a dragon.

She was a smaller dragon, barely half his size. Her golden scales were softer, supple, more like fish scales than plates of armor. Her horns were only two little buds, and her claws were more like daggers than swords. And yet she filled her mouth with crackling flames, and she stretched her wings wide.

“I am one of you,” she said, and now she could not curb her tears. “I am sick like you. Please help me.”

Suddenly all those old emotions flooded her—shame of her curse, fear of being different, relief and shock and confusion at finding another. The feelings were so powerful that her magic fizzled away, and she found herself on her knees, a human again, trembling, her cheeks wet.

I am not alone.

The copper dragon released his magic too. He stepped closer and knelt before her.

When Laira gazed upon him, she gasped and scampered back.

“Zerra!” She grabbed a stone, pushed herself away from him, and prepared to fight. “Zerra, you . . . How . . . ?”

He had found her! Somehow the cruel chieftain had—

She narrowed her eyes.

She tilted her head.

“You’re his twin,” she whispered.

The man before her was tall, broad, and shaggy like Zerra, but he was not burnt. No dragonfire scars marred his face and hand. His hair was wild and brown, his beard thick, his arms wide. His eyes, which stared from under bushy brows, were his most distinguishing feature. Whereas Zerra’s eyes were cruel and hard, digging into her like blades, this man had large, compassionate eyes—eyes that had seen much pain, that had watched the skies for years, and Laira knew: He has been seeking me for as long as I’ve been seeking him.

“My name is Jeid.” His voice was soft, lacking the cruelty of his brother. It was the voice of a healer, of a friend. “You’re hurt.”

She smiled shakily at him. “I . . . I . . .”

She wanted to say more, but she was too weak, too hurt; she had suffered too much. Her eyes rolled back and she tilted. He caught her before she could hit the ground.

Barely clinging to consciousness, she felt him lift her. His arms seemed nearly the size of her entire body, and his chest was warm. He carried her down a rocky path, heading into a canyon that cracked the escarpment. Though wide and burly, he was sure-footed, easily hopping from one mossy stone to another. Finally they reached the canyon floor. The walls rose at their sides, green with vines and moss. Trees grew upon the canyon ledges above, barely clinging on. Caves gaped open in the walls, leading to shadows.

“My father knows the art of healing,” Jeid said as he walked. “The old man’s out collecting herbs. I’ll do what I can for your wounds until he gets back.” When they reached a cave’s entrance, he placed her down gently. “You’ll have to crawl in. Can you do that?”

She smiled wanly. “I made my way halfway across the world to here. I can crawl.”

She climbed up a pile of stones—they creaked beneath her—and wriggled into the cave. It was dark and a tight fit. She wondered how Jeid, twice her size, would enter. After crawling down a tunnel, she emerged into a wide chamber and gasped.

This was no mere cave.

It’s a home, she thought, her eyes dampening. It’s the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.

Murals covered the craggy walls, depicting bison, deer, and dragons flying under the stars. Fur rugs covered the floor, strings of beads curtained passageways into other chambers, and clay pottery stood on a flat boulder. A tin brazier crackled with embers, its smoke rising to waft out a hole in the ceiling.

“It’s not much,” Jeid said, “but it’s—“

“Home,” she whispered.

She wobbled and nearly fell again, her weariness catching up with her. She sat upon a bearskin rug and hugged her knees.

Jeid—himself much like a bear—rummaged around, pulled herbs from pouches, and tossed them into a pot with water. A sweet scent filled the cave, a scent of spring, bringing vigor to Laira.

“It smells nice,” she whispered. “Nicer than I do.”

He muttered something under his breath, looking uncomfortable. He brought her a bowl of the steaming water. “Drink.”

She held the bowl, blew upon it until it was cool, and drank. The tea flowed down her throat, sweet and healing, filling her with warmth. Jeid clattered about and returned with bowls of mushrooms, nuts, and wild berries. Laira’s stomach felt so weak. She could only nibble on a mushroom, feeling too sick for more.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I traveled for so long. For so many years, I didn’t know if others were real. I . . . I lived in a kingdom, and then a tribe, and . . . “ Her eyes stung and her tongue stumbled over the words.

“Hush now,” Jeid said, but his voice was kind. “There will be time for tales. First we must do something about your wounds.”

She looked down at herself. Her ragged cloak—a patchwork of rat furs—barely hid her body, revealing many scratches and bruises. Her wrists and ankles were still a raw mess. Her feet were the worst; the welts from the blazing pyre were infected and turning green.

What must I look like to him? Laira thought, feeling ashamed. A scrawny thing barely larger than a child, clad in filthy rags, her jaw crooked, her hair sheared short, infected and foul—hardly the kind of weredragon he had dreamed of someday meeting, she reckoned. She half-expected him to toss her out into the cold.

And yet he didn’t, and his eyes remained kind, and he brought forth clay bowls of ointments. When he smiled at her, it filled her with as much warmth as the tea, for it was a smile of relief, of goodness.

He likes me here.

“This should help the infection,” he said, dipping the cloth into the bowl. “It might sting a bit, but—“

A loud voice boomed from the cave entrance.

“Jeid Blacksmith! What in the name of sanity do you think you’re doing?”

Laira leaped up and the bowl clattered down. She sucked in her magic, prepared to shift, to blow fire, to attack any enemy who approached. Had Zerra found her? Had her father’s soldiers tracked her down?

When she saw the figure at the entrance, however, she tilted her head, keeping her magic at bay, not yet shifting.

An elderly man stood there, glaring at Jeid. He wore blue robes and a woolen cloak and hood. His beard was long and white, his eyes glittering blue, his eyebrows snowy and bushy. He held a staff formed of an oak’s root; the root split at the top into wooden fingers, clutching a blue crystal.

“I am healing her—“ Jeid began.

“You were about to burn her feet off.” The elderly man scowled. “Root of blackthorn? That’s used to heal frostbite, you fool. The lass is clearly suffering from infected burns. She needs greenroot, for stars’ sake.”

The old man stepped forward and smacked Jeid on the shoulder. The big, burly bear of a man scowled and stepped back with a grunt.

Laira gazed at the pair with wide eyes.

“Ignore my dolt of a son,” said the old man. As he approached Laira, his scowl faded, and the kindliest, warmest smile she had ever seen creased his face and twinkled in his eyes. “Grizzly means well—that’s what we call him, you can imagine why—but he has the brains of a pebble. All muscle and no wit, that one. Call me Eranor, my dear, or Grandpapa if you like. I am a grandfather to any who enter my home.” He pulled a packet from his cloak and unrolled it, revealing green paste. “This will do the job much better.”

Laira sat back down and stretched out her feet. Eranor gazed at her wounds, clucked his tongue, and began ordering his son about. Jeid—Grizzly, that was—though large as a great warrior, rushed about at every command. He fetched a bowl of steaming water, a cloth, and several needles and brushes.

“Now get outside!” Eranor said to his son. “Go on. You know the rules. Somebody always stands on the watchtower and guards. Go!”

Grumbling under his breath, the shaggy man shuffled outside.

Eranor watched his son leave and sighed. “I remember when he was a bundle I could hold in one hand. Now look at the boy.”

“He does look like a bear,” Laira said, remembering the bear she had fought in the forest.

Smiling, Eranor got to work—washing Laira’s feet, applying ointment, and stitching up the open wounds.

“I hope Grizzly didn’t frighten you. My son tends to do that. I’ve seen saber-toothed cats flee at the sight of him. I urge him to cut his hair and beard, wear wool instead of fur, and start to look like a proper person, but he won’t listen. Children rarely listen to their fathers.”

“It’s true,” Laira whispered, thinking of her own father, a cruel king who had banished her. She wished she had a father like Eranor instead. “Thank you, Grandpapa.”

A thought struck her, and she sucked in breath. But he’s Zerra’s father. A chill flooded her as the realization sank in. This kindly old man who was healing her . . . was father not only to Jeid, but also the cruel chieftain, the brute who had abused her for so many years. Would Eranor attack her now, tie her up, hand her over to the chieftain?

But the man only smiled up at her, seemingly unaware of her distress. “Good! Call me Grandpapa from now on. I like the sound of that.” He moved to her ankles, applying more ointment to the cuts. “So, my dear, you are Vir Requis too? I saw you flying outside in the forest. I came back here as soon as I could. A beautiful golden dragon! Now there’s a new color.”

At the talk of dragons, her fear eased, and she was able to push Zerra to the back of her mind.

“Vir—what?” she asked. “Are you . . . a weredragon too?”

Eranor paused for an instant, and his eyes seemed to darken. Then he smiled again and resumed his work. “I do not like that word, my sweetness. It’s a crude word, a word those who don’t understand us use. We call this canyon Requiem, a name my son gave it. It was my granddaughter’s name. We call ourselves Vir Requis—people of Requiem.” He smiled. “And yes, I too am proud to count myself among our number.”

He produced soft, cotton strands and began to bandage up her cleaned wounds. Laira lifted her bowl of tea and sipped, letting the warmth flow through her. For the first time in many days, she didn’t hurt.

“But . . . proud? Grandpapa, it’s a disease. Like the one infecting in my feet.”

“Nonsense!” Eranor tossed his beard across his shoulder. “Utter rubbish. Our enemies say such things, and perhaps you believed them. Sweetness . . .” He held her hands, kneeling before her, and gazed into her eyes. “You are not cursed. You are not diseased. You are blessed with a great gift from the stars. You are magic. You are wonderful.”

More than the tea, the coziness of this cave, or the healing ointments, those words changed something in Laira. As Eranor had drawn the pus from her wounds, those words seemed to draw out all the pain, fear, and shame from inside her. She found herself trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Oh, dear child,” said Eranor, his expression softening. He pulled her into his arms, and she embraced him, weeping against his chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he smoothed her hair. “Thank you, Grandpapa.”

When the sun set, and only the light of the brazier filled the cave, Eranor stepped outside into the night for his guard shift. Laira asked to guard too, but father and son raised their eyebrows and told her to stop being so silly.

Jeid cooked a stew of hares, mushrooms, and wild tubers. It was the best meal Laira had ever eaten. She sat wrapped in a great, warm cloak of bear fur, her body washed and rubbed with sweet-scented creams. For the first time since her mother had died, she was clean, well fed, and clad in warmth. Her eyes would not stop stinging.

I am magic. I am wonderful.

She wanted to tell Jeid about all her pain—about how her father had exiled her, how Zerra had burned her mother, how the chieftain had shattered her jaw and starved her, how she had crawled through the forest for so long, nearly dying. But she could bring none of it to her lips, and Jeid did not probe her, only fetched her clear water to drink, more food to eat, and even sang an old song to soothe her.

That night they lay upon soft fur rugs. Laira watched the embers for a while, feeling warm and safe. She had not slept in a shelter since her mother had died, only in the dog pen, huddling and cold.

This is safety. This is warmth. This is home.

Soon Jeid was snoring softly, and the sound comforted Laira. She wriggled a little closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body, and lay beside him.

Your twin hurt me, she thought, but you won’t. You protect me.

Her true father was cruel. Perhaps, she thought, Jeid and Eranor could be like the father and grandfather she needed. She closed her eyes, smiled softly, and slept.

In her dreams, yellow eyes opened and black wings spread wide. Hundreds of the rocs flew, slamming against the canyon, clattering at the caves, screeching for her blood, and Laira screamed and cowered as their talons ripped into her flesh.

TANIN

THEY FLEW ACROSS THE CITY at sundown, two dragons beating their wings and roaring fire, driving into a cloud of demonic fury.

Aerhein Tower rose before them from a hive of devilry, a bone rising from a wound. Hundreds of creatures bustled around the old structure, rising like flies from a disturbed carcass, hissing and shrieking and buzzing and flapping their wings. The demons of the Abyss saw the dragons, and they howled, and they drove forward with clouds of rot and fire and smoke.

“Shine your light, Issari!” Tanin shouted, diving upon the wind, the air whistling around him. “Scatter them!”

At his side, Maev pumped her wings. Her green scales gleamed in the sunset, and she roared and blasted out fire. The flaming pillar spun, crackling, and crashed into a cloud of demons. The creatures—rotting winged horses with hollow eye sockets—burst into flames. Tanin added his fire, torching a cackling green creature with bat wings. Yet countless more demons flew beyond those they slew; they covered the sky, a tapestry of horns and scales and boils.

“Issari!” Tanin cried to the princess who rode upon his back.

He heard her chanting above in her tongue, speaking the name of her god. A soft light grew, pale as a moonbeam, subdued amid so much darkness. Several demons shrieked and scattered, but the others jeered and spat, mocking the light of Taal. A lumbering creature dived down, a rotting bull with leathern wings, a mockery of the city sigil. It opened its mouth and spewed down acid.

Tanin dodged the rancid jet and blew more fire, torching the creature. The bull shrieked, blazing, and tumbled from the sky, only making room for a cloud of flayed women with feathered wings, their fangs long, their eyes flaming. Maev fought beside him, whipping her tail at swarming horseflies the size of wolves.

“Issari, what’s wrong?” Tanin shouted. “The amulet’s light is dim!”

“There are too many!” she shouted from his back.

Tanin cursed, spat out a jet of flame, and torched a rising cluster of eyeballs and fingers.

“Keep praying and shining what light you can!” he shouted back at her. “Maev!” The green dragon slew a festering cluster of rot, spat in disgust, and flew up toward him. Tanin pointed at the tower. “Maev, you break into that tower! Tear open the bars in the window. Issari and I will cover you.”

She growled. “I’m a fighter. I’m going to kill them all. I—“

“Do it!” Tanin shouted. “Go!”

With a grunt, Maev turned and drove forward, barreling into a cloud of cackling creatures—they looked like old men with canine faces—knocking them back with tail and claw. Aerhein Tower rose ahead from the smoke and flame of the creatures, its window peering like an eye. Tanin flew at his sister’s side, blowing fire, clawing, biting, slaying demons of every size and shape.

A flying, flaming snake wrapped around his neck, and Tanin screamed in pain. A desiccated, winged giant of a man—ten feet tall and flapping bat wings—grabbed Tanin’s wing and tugged off the claw at its tip. Tanin howled as the claw came free, showering blood. A rotting glob of boils drove into his belly, its skin acidic, sticky and burnt, and Tanin bucked as he clawed it off.

“Taal! Shine your light!” Issari shouted upon his back. Her amulet’s beam drove forward, gaining some strength. The flaming snake hissed, loosened its grip on Tanin’s neck, and fell. The lanky, winged giant covered its eyes, and Tanin sent it tumbling down with a swipe of his tail.

“Issari, clear a path for Maev!” Tanin shouted. “Shine your light around her. I’m fine. I—“

Before he could complete his sentence, more creatures slammed into him, great flying jaws with no bodies, and he roared as their teeth dented his scales. He kept flying, the creatures clinging to him. Balls of claws landed upon his wings, digging, cutting, and he roared and flapped madly, scattering them, flying on, blowing fire. Atop his back, Issari kept chanting, shining her light, a single beam nearly drowning in the clouds of darkness. The sun faded. Night fell and countless red eyes burned.

Pain flooded Tanin. Blood coated him. But he had to keep flying. This was the flight of his life, the battle he’d been waging since that day years ago. Jaws clamped around him, and acid rained against his scales, and as the pain flooded him, he was flying there again in the darkness, flying away from Oldforge, away from his beloved, away from the only home he’d known. And still he sought a home. Still he fought for his family, for his people—for Requiem.

“For you, Requiem,” he whispered. “For my fallen sister and for the nation we will build in your name.”

He blew his fire. He burned them down. He cut and bit and roared with fury, and finally he drove through the horde, and Aerhein Tower rose before him. He landed upon its crest, tossed back his head, and howled to the night sky. The city of Eteer rolled below him, two hundred thousand souls, countless lights, and beyond it the sea—beyond it Requiem, that distant tribe, the heartbeat of his lost, cursed, forsaken people, the people he would raise to greatness. He blasted his fire in a ring, beating his wings, burning down the forces of the Abyss that still clawed and swarmed toward him.

“Tanin, hold them off!” Maev shouted below, her maw full of blood, her wings pierced with holes. “I’ll tear the damn bars open.”

His sister, a green dragon with chipped scales, clung to the tower. As she began to bite at the bars in the window, demons swarmed and landed upon her back, biting and clawing.

“In the name of Taal, you are banished!” Issari shouted. Clinging to Tanin’s back, she shone her light down onto Maev. As the beam hit the green dragon, the demons hissed and fell, tumbling down to the courtyard. Yet hundreds more were flying toward the tower now, rising from every roof and alley in the city. Tanin leaped off the tower top and hovered by Maev, protecting her with his body, blowing his fire.

Arrows slammed into him.

He roared in pain.

Soldiers of the city stood below, nocking more arrows into their bows. Tanin sucked in breath, prepared to burn the men.

“Tanin, no!” Issari cried. “We cannot kill humans. We—“

Tanin growled. He spewed down his flames. The jet crashed into the courtyard ahead of the soldiers, sending them scurrying back. One man caught fire, fell, and rolled. The others leaped behind columns. Another blast of flame sent them scurrying away from the courtyard.

“Maev, damn it, hurry up!” he shouted. Glancing behind him, he saw her still gnawing at the bars. She had tugged only one out from the window. A prisoner stood inside—it must have been Prince Sena, for he looked like his sister Issari, his hair dark and his eyes green. Maev began tugging the second bar.

“Maev, for goodness sake, can you do this a little faster? I—“

Before Tanin could complete his sentence, demons swooped from above, shaped like hairless, eyeless moles the size of bears. Their tongues lashed out, as long as their bodies, slamming into Tanin. Their drool burned, and the tongues wrapped around his neck and limbs, tugging him away from Maev.

Tanin roared. He tried to blow more fire, but only sparks left his mouth; one creature’s tongue was constricting him, keeping his fire at bay like a tourniquet. He could barely breathe, let alone blow flame. He clawed and lashed his tail, but more demons landed upon his wings, tugging him down, laughing. One creature landed on his back, tore off a scale, and tossed it aside with a cackle.

Issari screamed and shone her light, but the eyeless moles seemed unaffected. Their tongues tightened around Tanin, tugging him away from the tower. Behind him, he heard Maev shout as demons landed upon her too.

“They’re blind—the light won’t work!” Tanin whispered hoarsely, unable to speak any louder, struggling to blow more flame.

Issari cried out wordlessly. He heard a hiss—a blade being drawn from a sheath. A weight lifted off his back. A flash of white flew before him. Tanin gasped—it was Issari! She leaped through the air, a dagger in her hand, and landed upon one of the blind moles. She drove her blade down, severing the creature’s tongue which wrapped around Tanin’s neck.

He gasped for breath.

Issari leaped again. She landed on his wing, thumping down upon the leathery surface. Tanin looked over his shoulder to see her lash her blade again, cutting down a demon. With a third leap, she landed upon a remaining mole, severed another tongue, and hissed like a wild animal. When first meeting the princess, Tanin had seen an angelic figure, a goddess of piety. Now, covered in blood, her eyes narrowed and full of rage, Issari seemed as fierce as any demon.

The princess leaped again, legs kicking in the air, and caught his neck. She swung around and landed on Tanin’s back. The demons, bloodied and squealing, hovered before them.

“Burn them, Tanin!” she shouted.

He sucked in air. He blasted his fire. Demons burned and fell. Tanin kept blowing his flames, lighting the night, spewing sparks and smoke like a gushing volcano.

“Got him!” Maev cried behind.

Tanin turned and saw his sister spit out another window bar. Prince Sena—thin and pale, his lips tight—climbed onto the windowsill. Chains bound his wrists and ankles.

“Maev, lift him in your claws!” Tanin shouted. “He can’t shift with chains.”

Maev grunted. “Oh, I’m not carrying him. He’ll fly.” As Tanin blew more fire, holding off a new swarm, Maev grabbed his chains between her claws. She grunted as she snapped the bronze links—first around the prince’s ankles, then his wrists, and finally the chains that wrapped around his torso.

“I’ve never flown before!” the prince shouted, standing on the windowsill. “I’ve only shifted in my room.”

Maev grunted. “Now’s your time to learn!” She flicked her tail, knocking him down from the window.

“Maev, damn it!” Tanin shouted.

Issari screamed.

As the prince tumbled down, Tanin made to dive, to try to catch the boy, already knowing he had no time. All he could do was watch.

An instant before Sena could hit the courtyard, the prince shifted.

A blue dragon rose, wreathed in smoke, blowing flame.

The demons, perhaps in awe of a third dragon joining the fight, screamed and cowered. Tanin found himself grinning, found tears in his eyes. It was true. All the stories had been true. There were other Vir Requis. There was hope.

Requiem lives.

The dragons soared. They blew their fire together. The three flaming jets crashed into the army of demons, scattering them, and the creatures fled. The dragons of Requiem flew into the night, ringed in fire.

ISSARI

AS SHE RODE UPON THE dragon, holding the amulet before her, Issari felt something new, something that dampened her eyes and lit her heart. For the first time, she felt pride. She felt power. She knew then that dragons were not weak, cursed creatures for some to hunt, for others to pity and save. She knew that Vir Requis, the children of Requiem, were mighty and strong.

I am proud to fight with you.

As they flew across the city, casting back the demons with fire and holy light, sadness too dwelled inside her, for she knew that she would never see her brother again.

You will fly north with them, Sena, she thought. You will be proud and free.

She looked at him—a blue dragon, the beast that had shifted in their chamber in secret, that now flew and blew fire and roared. Issari had often pitied him, thinking his magic a handicap, but now she envied him. Now she wished she too could shift, could fly, could fight with fang and fire.

She looked down at the city—a city of evil, of fear. And she knew that her task was different than his. Her burden, heiress of a kingdom, was to rule.

Ahead she saw it—the coast of Eteer and the black sea. It would take him home. It would leave her here, empty, missing him, a single light in a dark city.

“Fly north with us!” Tanin said between blasts of fire. The red dragon looked over his shoulder at her, his tongue lolling, his face scratched but his eyes bright. “Join us in Requiem.”

Riding on his back, Issari lowered her head. She looked down at her city, and she saw it there, rising from smoke and shadow—the palace. Her father was in the north now, enlisting his allies, hunting Laira. This was Issari’s kingdom to rule, to inherit, to save from damnation.

“I cannot,” Issari said. “Place me down upon my palace, my friend, I—“

Fire blazed ahead.

Issari stared, gasped, and her heart seemed to stop.

The demons across the sky shrieked and fled like birds from a running dog.

Below in the palace courtyard—the place where Raem had beheaded so many Vir Requis—the ground shattered. Cobblestones flew. A rent tore open, and a creature burst from underground, wreathed in fire, beating bat wings. The figure soared, leaving a trail of smoke and cinder. Her body was carved of stone, curved and cracked, seeping flames and smoke. Fire girded her loins, and her fangs shone. Her eyes blazed like cauldrons of molten metal, and a ring of fire haloed around her head. She stretched out her arms as she rose, a pillar of sulfur and heat and light, laughing, shrieking, painting the city with red light.

“Angel,” Issari whispered. “Queen of the Abyss.”

The three dragons halted, reared, and clawed the sky. Their wings beat, scattering smoke and fire. Sparks flew off Angel, showering the city, igniting trees and gardens. The Demon Queen wasn’t much larger than Issari—small compared to the bulky dragons—yet she did not cower. She let out a shriek like shattering glass, so loud that Issari covered her ears, and the dragons shook as the sound waves blasted them. The demon laughed, and rings of fire blazed into life around her, unholy halos that spun around her body, sending out heat and light. Smoke pounded and her wings beat, the wind tearing down trees, scattering stones, and sending the dragons into a spin. At that moment, Angel seemed larger than any dragon.

“Greetings, reptiles!” she cried. “Greetings, stinking, cursed creatures of disease.” As she laughed, the cracks on her body of stone widened, seeping lava like blood. “Do you see this kingdom? Do you see this hive the humans call Eteer? Look upon it! Here is your graveyard. Come to die.”

Sena winced; the blue dragon turned away from the flames. Tanin growled, but the red dragon dared not approach, and sparks sizzled against his scales. Sitting upon Tanin, Issari raised her amulet, but the chain caught fire, and she cried out and tore it off her neck. The amulet seared her palm when she held it, and she could barely see through the pain.

Maev—her green scales chipped, her face bloodied, her wings tattered—seemed the only one undaunted. She reared, roared, and shot forward.

“Enough talk!” Maev roared. “Taste some fire.”

With that, she blasted out her flames.

White-hot, the blaze crashed through the rings of smoke and flame, slamming into Angel.

Engulfed in the inferno, the Demon Queen laughed. She tossed back her head and stretched out her arms, basking in the fire.

“I am a creature from the molten rock inside the womb of the earth!” she shrieked, her voice rising like typhoons from the blaze. “Your dragonfire cannot harm me. Now you will taste true heat.”

The Demon Queen swung her arm. A fireball flew from her grasp and tumbled forward, leaving a wake of light. The projectile slammed into Maev.

The green dragon let out a cry like a wounded animal. The flaming ball shoved her back in the sky. Scales cracked. Blood spilled and the smell of burnt flesh rose. Maev fell from the sky, wings beating uselessly, and crashed into the palace below. The rooftop gardens ignited and smoke hid Maev, curling upward in a cloud.

“Maev!” Tanin cried. The red dragon looked down toward his sister, then back up at Angel, seemingly torn between flying to Maev and battling his enemy.

Sena seemed to reach a decision more quickly. The blue dragon let out a roar—a sound that shook the city below.

“For long days, I languished in a cell,” Sena cried out. “I watched as you and your kind destroyed my city, my kingdom, my home. My father is away, and I am Prince of Eteer, and I banish you back into the Abyss. Leave this place!”

Angel only laughed and tossed another ball of fire. Sena beat his wings, rising above the flaming missile, and blasted his own flame. The jet crashed into Angel and Sena swooped. The blue dragon slammed into the demon, biting and clawing. Smoke and flame enveloped the two.

“Sena!” Issari cried from Tanin’s back.

Through strands of smoke, Issari glimpsed the demon spinning, clawing, ripping off scales. Sena’s cry rose, torn in pain. Blood rained. The blue dragon and the Demon Queen fought within a sphere of light and heat.

Tanin was flying toward the melee, but it was too late. Sena fell from the inferno, scales cracked, and slammed into a house below. The roof collapsed under him, and the dragon-prince vanished into a pile of rubble and dust. Only his tail rose from the debris, flicking weakly.

Smoke rose from Issari’s hand as the amulet seared her. The pain drove up her arm and along her ribs, and the tip of her braid crackled with fire. Clutching the dragon tightly between her thighs, she raised her chin, and she held her amulet high.

“Hear me, Angel!”

The demon looked toward her, eyes white-hot, searing, blinding Issari. All the princess could see was the white light, two unholy suns.

She shouted louder, “Angel, hear me! I am Issari Seran, Princess of Eteer, a priestess of Taal, heiress to the throne. My father flies across the sea. My brother is fallen, maybe dead. I rule Eteer now. You will stand back! You will let us pass!”

She gripped Tanin’s horn, and she rose to her feet upon the dragon’s nape. She raised the amulet as high as she could, and it blazed to life, humming in her hand. The fire spun all around. Rings of flame burst out, thudding into her dragon, and wind whipped Issari. Burn marks spread across her tunic, and her skin reddened. Yet still she shouted.

“Stand back, Queen of the Abyss! I am Issari Seran, and you are bound to my house. In the name of Taal, god of purity, I banish you. Stand back or my light will burn you!”

The Demon Queen screamed. An inferno of fire and wind, greater than typhoons, burst out from her. The shock waves slammed into Issari, knocking her down. She clung to Tanin’s horn, her legs swinging over open air. The dragon rolled in the sky, wings beating, trying to steady himself. The world spun around Issari—a flaming sky, collapsing buildings, and everywhere that horrible light of the underworld, those two white eyes, those great bat wings.

“You will be my whore!” shrieked Angel, lava spraying from her mouth. “I will take you into the Abyss, Princess of Eteer, and I will break you, and I will feast upon your living flesh, and my demons will thrust into you, and you will feed us. Your blood, your pain, your sex, your flesh; they will be ours to feast upon, and you will scream forever in the depths.” Angel beat her veined wings, rising from the holocaust, and came flying toward her. Her claws stretched out, and her teeth gleamed white in her red, fiery smile. “You will scream for mercy. You will scream for thousands of years. And I will answer you with more pain—your soul, your sanity, your secrets—all will be mine to shatter.”

Overcome by the fiery winds, Tanin howled and began to fly backward, fanning back the smoke.

“Fly to her, Tanin,” Issari said softly, straddling his neck. She patted his cracked, hot scales. “Fly to her and be brave.”

“We must flee, princess!” he said, panting. Blood filled his mouth.

Issari shook her head. “I will not flee from her. Fly, my friend. For Eteer and for Requiem.”

As Angel laughed, spitting out flame, Tanin roared—a roar so great it tore across even that demonic laughter. Cobblestones below shattered. Palm trees cracked and fell. And Tanin, red dragon of Requiem, drove forward into the blaze.

Angel hovered before them, wings churning the smoke.

Issari rose to her feet upon the dragon’s head, clinging to his horn, and leaped forward.

She sailed through the air, legs kicking, and slammed into Angel.

It felt like falling into the sun.

Issari screamed.

The heat and light engulfed her. Wings wrapped around her, and claws slashed her, and those eyes peered into her, those white forges tearing through her veins. She closed her eyes, but still that light blazed.

She felt herself fading.

No. No, Issari. A voice spoke within her—perhaps the voice of her lost mother, perhaps of her soul. You will not die here tonight. For Laira. For our home.

Issari screamed and opened her eyes.

She dug her fingers into a crack on Angel’s body. Clinging on, she drove her amulet forward. The metal slammed into Angel’s face, shattering stone, and light flared out in a dozen beams.

Angel screamed again, and this time it was no scream of rage. This time she was hurt.

Stone cracked and melted. The light of Taal flared, washing over the world, and silence fell. Issari heard only the ringing in her ears.

She plummeted.

She smiled as she glided between sky and earth.

Above her Angel writhed, clawing at her face, and shards of stone fell from her. The demon let out a shriek so mighty that buildings shook. In the distance, Aerhein Tower cracked and fell with a shower of dust and bricks. Above, caught in the winds, Tanin beat his wings, spinning.

Issari’s back slammed down against a palm tree.

She crashed through the fronds, fell through hanging vines, and thumped down onto a patch of grass.

She lay in the rooftop gardens of her palace, she realized. Plants burned around her. Smoke unfurled and flames spread, drawing closer. When she looked aside, she saw Maev lying beside her. The Vir Requis was in human form again, her hair singed; she coughed and rose to her knees.

“I’m alive,” Issari whispered, lying in the grass, the ringing still filling her ears. When she looked at her hand, she found the amulet fused with her flesh, embedded into her palm like a jewel into a crown. “Taal saved me.”

Wings beat above. A red dragon and a blue one—Tanin and Sena—landed in the gardens.

“We must leave,” Tanin said, panting. “Now. Angel retreated but she still lives. She will summon a new horde of demons.” He lowered his wing by Issari like a ramp. “Climb onto my back.”

Issari rose to her feet, shaky. Past the flaming gardens, she caught glimpses of her city—pain and terror still filled it. She could not abandon this place.

She shook her head. “I stay. You are children of Requiem. Go north, find safety, and build yourself a home. But I don’t share your magic. My battle is here. My home is in Eteer.”

The blue dragon shifted back into human form. Sena approached her, hair singed and face sooty. He held her hands.

“Are you sure, sister?” the prince whispered. Tears filled his eyes. “You can come with us. Please come with us.”

Tears streamed down Issari’s face. “I don’t know where Father flies upon his demon; perhaps he has found Requiem, and you will meet him in the north, and perhaps he heads back home, and I will face him in the ruins of Eteer. But I know this: Here is my battlefield, and here is the kingdom I must fight for.” She embraced her brother. “If you find Laira . . . if you find our sister . . . tell her that I love her. Tell her that I will fight for her.”

Scales clanked as Maev shifted and took flight. “Come on, let’s fly out of this place!” She growled. “Demons are gathering. Boys, shift and fly for pity’s sake! No time for goodbyes.”

Sena gave Issari a last look—a look that said everything, that spoke of his love for her, of their loss, of their fear. He kissed her cheek, stepped back, and rose as a dragon.

Coughing in the smoke, Issari made her way to the roof’s trapdoor, entered the palace, and walked down corridors and staircases. She stepped onto her old balcony, the same place where the demons had eaten the crone, the same place she would always stand and gaze toward the sea and think of her missing mother and sister. She stood gazing at that sea now, hand raised.

In the darkness, almost invisible in the night, three dragons flew across the water.

“Goodbye, Tanin and Maev,” Issari whispered. “Goodbye, my brother. I love you.”

The light blazed out from her hand, a beacon of farewell.

LAIRA

WARMTH.

SAFETY.

LOVE.

FOR SEVERAL days now, these strangers—these foreign feelings, these new spirits—surrounded her. And for several days now, Laira had been scared.

Life in the escarpment felt like a dream, like a strand of gossamer trembling in the wind, ephemeral, vanishing when the light caught it wrong. She spent nights in a cave by a fire, not a muddy pen of dogs. She ate real food—stews of wild game and mushrooms, bowls of berries, apples, wild grains—and not once did she root in the mud for bones or peels. No one beat her here. No one scolded her. Jeid and Eranor told her tales by the fire, wrapped warm blankets around her at night, and tended to her wounds. They treated her not as a creature, but as a friend.

And Laira had never felt more afraid.

Love and warmth. These were new feelings for her. She didn’t think she was worthy of this love. Whenever Jeid approached with a bowl of stew, she expected him to toss it at her, not serve it to her. Whenever Eranor approached with healing herbs, she flinched, expecting him to strike her, not heal her.

“I’m not worthy of love,” she would whisper every night, curled up in the cave, the fire warming her. “I’m ugly. I’m deformed.” She shivered. “Why do they love me so?”

Every morning she expected it to end—to wake up, to realize it had been a dream, a cruel joke, a trap. She kept waiting for Zerra to step out from a cave, to reveal that he’d been working with Jeid and Eranor all along, to shout, “Maggot, how dare you flee me?”

One night as she lay shivering, thinking these thoughts, she heard Eranor and Jeid whispering above her. They thought she was asleep, but how could Laira sleep? How could she dare sleep when so many nightmares filled her—visions of her mother burning, of Shedah and her leechcraft, of Zerra and his fists? And so she lay still, eyes closed, and listened.

“The poor child,” said Eranor, and she could imagine the old druid stroking his white beard. “When will we see her smile?”

Jeid sighed. “My brother shattered her jaw. Maybe she can no longer smile.”

“She could smile with her eyes, but still they are sad.” Eranor too sighed. “I can heal the wounds of the body. The wounds in her soul run deeper. Those may never heal.”

Jeid grunted. “To heal wounds, first the poison must seep out. Healing hurts. Her soul is healing now and it pains her. And I promise to the stars: I will protect her. I will keep her safe until she is healed.”

That night, for the first time since arriving in the escarpment—perhaps for the first time in her life—Laira slept the night through, no nightmares haunting her.

The next morning, Jeid and she went into the forest to collect wild apples, berries, nuts, and mushrooms. They walked atop the escarpment’s ledge, the trees rustling around them. It was late autumn, and many of the leaves had fallen, but small apples still grew upon the trees, and mushrooms still peeked from the carpet of red and orange leaves. A waterfall cascaded, raising mist, and geese honked above.

Laira wore the new fur cloak Jeid had given her, the best garment she had ever worn, and leather shoes—the only shoes she had ever owned—warmed her feet. As she walked, she gazed upon piles of fallen branches, mossy stones, and leaves that lay within bubbling streams, imagining faces. She had often played this game, seeking eyes, mouths, and noses in the forest, imagining that someday one of these creatures—perhaps with boulders for eyes, a log for a nose—would open its mouth and speak to her, an ancient spirit of the woods.

For a long time, Jeid walked silently. There was sadness in him too, Laira thought—something deep, dull, older than her pain but no less potent. Whatever his pain was, he never spoke of it. And Laira never spoke of hers. And so they walked silently, and that silence comforted her.

Finally, upon a slope thick with brush, he spoke. “Here, look. Wild apples.”

Laira smiled to see the apple tree. She began to collect what fruit had fallen. Jeid—burly and tall, his arms almost as wide as Laira’s entire body—proved surprisingly agile at climbing the tree. He tossed the fruit down to her, and she collected them in a pouch.

“I didn’t know grizzly bears could climb!” she said, and for the first time in many years, she felt something strange, something that tugged at her crooked mouth. For so many years, her slanted mouth had remained closed, stiff, sad. Yet now warmth spread through her, and her lips tingled, and Laira smiled.

Jeid smiled down from above—a huge grin that showed his white teeth. “Grizzlies are excellent climbers. We—“

Suddenly he wobbled. Laira gasped. The branch he stood on creaked, and Jeid fell. He landed hard on his feet, wobbled for a moment, then fell onto his backside. He blinked up at Laira, seeming more confused than hurt.

“I guess not,” he said.

Laira sat down beside him, the leaves crunching beneath her. She leaned against him. He was beefy and huge; she was a wisp of a thing. She thought that if anyone passed by, they would mistake them for a gruff old bear and a scrawny little fox.

“I like it here.” Her voice was quiet, and she played with a fallen oak leaf. “I like the rustle of the wind in the trees. I like the cold wind. I like . . . I like who I am here.”

He held her hand in his—a pale lily in a paw—and something broke inside her. The pain flooded her, gushing out like blood from beneath a scab peeled off too soon.

And she told him.

She needed to talk.

She needed to share this with him or she thought it would never leave her.

She told him of fleeing Eteer when she had been three, almost too young to remember, but old enough for the fear and pain to linger. She told him of Zerra burning her mother at the stake as she watched. She spoke of Shedah leeching her for potions, of Zerra beating her, of years of hunger, cold, neglect, and pain. Of the shattered bones, of the shivering nights in rain, and of her hope—her hope to find others, to find the escarpment, to find him. Her voice remained steady, and her eyes remained dry, and she simply spoke—remembering, sharing, healing.

He listened. Sometimes his eyes widened, and sometimes he gasped, and at other times he seemed both mad and pained. But he did not speak until she was done. And then he simply held her, silent.

They returned to the canyon. Laira had learned that many tunnels and caves ran underground here. There were chambers for sleeping, for cooking, for storing supplies. There were secret rooms for defense; their walls had small openings like arrowslits, outlets for a dragon to blow fire into the canyon. There were secret traps of boulders to topple onto invaders. There were deep caves for hiding when danger came. It was both a secret, magical labyrinth and a fortress of stone and moss.

That night, Jeid and Laira lay down to sleep in one of the caves, a fire burning beside them, its smoke wafting out a hole in the ceiling. Eranor stood outside upon the watchtower—that pillar of stone that rose between the trees, affording a view of the valleys below. Firelight painted the cave, but Laira still felt cold.

She rose, wrapped in her fur blankets, and settled down beside Jeid, and he held her in his arms. They lay together, sharing their warmth. She laid her head against his chest, and his one hand held the small of her back. She felt safe. He would not hurt her. He would not try to lie with her as his twin brother had.

“I will keep you safe,” he whispered. “Always.”

She believed him. And she loved him. She did not know if she loved him as she loved a foster father, a man, or a friend. It did not matter. She loved him and that was enough.

I’m happy here, she thought. This is my home.

She was drifting off to sleep when she heard the shrieks.

She jerked up, sure she was dreaming.

She knew those shrieks. They still filled her nightmares.

When Jeid sat up, eyes wide, she knew it was no dream.

“They’re here,” she whispered. She leaped to her feet and grabbed a burning stick from the fire.

A shadow darted and Eranor rushed into the cave, gasping.

“Rocs!” the old man said. “Rocs outside!”

Laira ran. She bolted past Eranor, raced out into the canyon, and looked up into the night sky. A hundred of the foul vultures flew above, larger than dragons, their riders bearing torches and bows.

The Goldtusk tribe attacked.

JEID

HE ALLOWED HIMSELF ONLY AN instant of fear.

My brother attacks.

The rocs no longer fear us.

We will die under stone.

The thoughts pounded through Jeid. His fingers shook and his heart thrashed. Then he took a deep breath. He clenched his fists. He turned toward his companions.

“Laira, you stay in this cave. When I give the signal, blow fire through the exit. The rocs won’t be able to enter.” He unclasped his sword from his belt and handed it to her. “And take this blade. If you must race into the tunnels, you’ll only fit in human form; you’ll need a sword.”

His voice was soft, and he worried that Laira would tremble, that her fear would overcome her. But the young woman nodded firmly. She took the short, broad sword and held it steadily. She raised her chin and stared back. “They will not enter.”

This one has been fighting all her life, Jeid realized. She is perhaps the strongest among us.

He nodded and turned toward his father. The old man stared back grimly, eyes dark beneath his white brows.

“Father, hurry down the tunnel to the pantry,” Jeid said. “Wait for my signal, then blow your fire too.”

Jeid pointed to the two tunnels at the back of the cave. The left one led to the pantry, a hidden chamber full of their nuts, dried meats, fruits, mushrooms, and other foods for winter. The right tunnel gaped open beside it; that one dived underground, twisted under the canyon floor, and emerged into a chamber in the opposite cliff.

Eranor nodded, tossed his beard across his shoulder, and raced into the left tunnel. He vanished in the darkness.

The shrieks rose outside, louder now; the rocs were descending into the canyon. Men shouted too, crying out to find the weredragons, to flay and bugger and disembowel the creatures until they begged for death.

Damn it, Jeid thought. Stars damn it! I need Tanin and Maev here for this. Just when we need to fight, the two little buggers are away.

“Where will you go, Grizzly?” Laira asked, voice quiet.

Jeid managed a wry smile. “To cook some birds.” He touched her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead. “Be strong, Laira. We will defeat them.”

With that he raced into the second tunnel at the back. The passage was narrow; he had to crawl. As he moved in the darkness, his heart thudded and the sneer would not leave his lips. He was not afraid for his life, he realized. His cared not whether he lived or died. He was scared for his father. For Laira. For Requiem. The tunnel walls shook as the rocs shrieked outside.

Finally the tunnel curved sharply. He climbed a slope, emerging into a chamber that held their tools and weapons—fishing gear, blades, pelts, arrows, and sundry other items. A small opening gaped in the cliff side, looking out into the dark canyon, barely larger than his head.

“I see no weredragons, my chieftain!” rose a deep, hoarse voice outside. A roc cawed.

A second voice answered, high-pitched and twisted with cruelty. “This is the place. The reptiles are hiding here. Down into the canyon! Find them.”

Jeid recognized that second voice, and a growl rose in his throat.

Zerra. My twin brother.

Wings beat, men cursed, and he heard talons clatter down against the stones outside. Jeid approached the small opening and peered outside. He could see them below, the great vultures—larger than dragons—barely fitting into the gorge. Their talons scattered stones, and their riders gazed around, hands on their bows. Last time Jeid had seen them, the tribesmen had worn fur and leather and fought with stone-tipped arrows. Tonight they wore bronze breastplates and helms, and metal tipped their arrows.

Somebody armed them, Jeid realized. That’s why they no longer fear us. Somebody gave them armor and weapons . . . and sent them here.

He pulled back from the opening. An eerie silence fell. Men began to dismount and spread out across the canyon, searching. Their torches crackled.

“I see a cave!” one man cried, pointing toward the chamber where Laira hid.

“There’s another cave here,” said another man, pointing toward the pantry where Eranor was awaiting the signal.

“It’s time,” Jeid whispered.

A rope dangled above him. Jeid gripped it with both hands, clenched his jaw, and gave it a mighty tug.

For a moment nothing happened.

Jeid held his breath.

A creak rose, almost inaudible at first, then growing louder. Dust rained across the cave exit.

Then, with the sound of crashing mountains, a hundred boulders crashed down.

The avalanche slammed into the canyon, shaking the cliffs. Cracks raced across the cave walls around Jeid. Dust and shards of stone blasted into the chamber, nearly blinding him. When he peered outside, he saw the boulders rolling—some larger than men, craggy and mossy, others sharp and small.

Blood splattered the canyon.

Boulders slammed into rocs, snapping their spines, burying the birds. Men screamed. Arms reached out from the rubble. More rocs flew above, helpless to rescue their brethren.

“They’re here—find them!” Zerra cried above. “Land on the boulders and into the caves.”

Jeid shifted. His dragon form, bulky and long, filled the chamber, pressing up against the walls. He shoved his snout out of the exit.

“Fire!” he shouted.

He roared his flames.

The jet blasted out into the canyon, crashed against the fallen boulders, and sprayed up like red waves. Through the blaze, Jeid saw Laira and Eranor breathing their own fire from their holes, adding their jets to his.

The canyon roared, a great oven.

Tribesmen screamed.

Rocs ignited and fell.

A man ran, a living torch, and collapsed.

When Jeid had to pause for breath and their flames lowered, he beheld a ruin. Melted flesh clung to stones. Arms twitched under the rubble. One man still lived, crawling across boulders; his legs were gone, ending with trailing stumps and jutting bones, and the skin on his face had peeled off. But more rocs and riders still lived. Dozens of wings beat above, and dozens of men cried out.

“Get down there!” Zerra was screaming. The voice came from the sky above the canyon; the chieftain had not yet dared enter the gauntlet. “I don’t care how much fire they blow. Get down there and dig them out!”

Jeid found himself trembling again, his scales chinking. He ground his teeth. He dug his claws into the stone beneath him. That day returned to him, the day he still dreamed of: fleeing Oldforge with fire and blood, leaving his dead wife behind.

“Turn back, Zerra!” he shouted into the gorge. “Turn back and I will spare your life. This place is forbidden to you. Enter this canyon and it will be your tomb.”

He heard his twin laughing outside. “It is you, my dear brother, who is buried now. It is you who lurks in your grave. Emerge to fight me or die like a coward. I care not.” Zerra emitted a horrible laugh that sounded like snapping bones. “Men! Dig into these walls, shatter these stones, and slay the maggots in their holes.”

More rocs screeched and descended. Jeid growled and blew his flames again.

LAIRA

LAIRA FILLED THE CAVE, A golden dragon. She sneered, beat her wings against the ceiling, and blew more fire out into the canyon. She heard the tribesmen scream, and a smile twisted her jaw. Even in dragon form, that jaw was crooked, shoved to the side, a reminder of Zerra’s cruelty.

You are out there, she thought, blasting her flame. The man who beat me, starved me, thrust into me in his bed. She roared as her flames crackled. Now I burn you. This ends here.

Across the canyon, she glimpsed Jeid blowing his flames too. The jet emerged from a hole no larger than his snout. Within the canyon, the enemies died. Fire blasted against the walls, showered up, and knocked rocs down. Screams echoed and ash rained.

But the rocs kept coming, and Laira’s flames were burning low. Soon her jet fizzled into mere sparks. Fear gripped her, and she growled and blasted out every last flame inside her. Across the canyon, she saw that Jeid and Eranor too were down to sparks. They would need time to rest and recharge.

But the rocs gave them no respite.

They kept diving into the canyon. Men leaped off and hid behind boulders where the fire could not reach. Archers rose from behind a dead roc, fired, and crouched down. One arrow slammed into the cliff side near Laira. A second entered the cave and grazed her cheek, and she hissed. She closed her jaw, waiting, sneering. Smoke plumed from her nostrils. When the archers rose again, she blasted what flames remained inside her. It was but a thin stream, but it caught one archer in the chest. He fell.

More arrows flew. Laira retreated from the exit and flexed her claws. Her foot stepped into the brazier, and she grunted and kicked the embers aside. Smoke rose around her. She had no fire within her—not until she could rest—but she could still fight.

“Enter and fight me!” she shouted. “Enter this cave, Zerra, and face me.”

She snarled and raised her claws. Arrows flew into the cave, slamming into the walls around her. When she stepped back, they could not hit her. The tribesmen would have to enter, leaving their rocs outside.

And I will kill them, Laira thought, refusing to tremble, refusing to let the horror overwhelm her. She had killed men with her flames. Now she would kill with tooth and claw.

“You came here to die.” She clawed the air. “Requiem is my new tribe. Requiem will be forged in fire and blood.”

As she waited for them to enter, shrieks sounded above.

Laira whipped her head up and blasted smoke out of her nostrils. On the ceiling was a small hole, a vent for their brazier’s smoke. Talons reached into the opening, scratching, cracking stone, widening the gap. Soon a roc head appeared, and its shriek echoed in the cavern, nearly deafening Laira. She cried out with the pain of the sound.

More talons dug above and debris rained. With a shower of dust, a chunk of the ceiling collapsed. Stones pelted Laira, cracking her scales, and she blasted what fire she could muster.

Through the dust, flame, and smoke, a roc crashed down into the cave.

Zerra sat upon it.

The chieftain stared at her and his lips—halved by his scars—twisted into a horrible smirk. He wore a breastplate beneath his fur pelts, and he pointed a bronze-tipped arrow at her.

Still in dragon form, Laira lunged toward him.

The arrow flew and slammed into her neck.

She cried out, the pain driving through her. Her neck stiffened. She felt ilbane flow through her, bitter and burning—a leaf’s latex harmless to most but poisonous to dragons. She roared and tried to lash her claws. But the roc was quicker. Its talons drove into her chest, knocking her down.

She slammed onto the floor. The pain drove the magic away from her. She shrank, becoming a woman again. The arrow clattered to the floor, coated with her blood.

“Hello again, little Laira,” Zerra said, staring down from his roc. He spat upon her. “You I will not kill, no. The other weredragons will die tonight, but you will return home with me. Do you think you suffered before? You will soon miss those days. I will make you suffer like no one ever has. Ashoor, grab her.”

The foul vulture, dripping oil and shedding charred feathers, raised his talons over Laira.

She tried to shift back into a dragon, but she was too hurt, too weak. She swung the bronze sword Jeid had given her—a wide blade the length of her forearm—but the roc knocked it aside. The blade sparked against the wall.

As the talons descended, Laira scurried away. Clutching her sword, she stumbled into one of the tunnels.

She plunged through shadows, fell, and banged her hip. Her muscles felt stiff, her eyes puffy, her bones cold and throbbing. Grimacing, she began to crawl backward, leaving the cave and entering the network of underground passages. The burrow would take her under the canyon—to Jeid.

Light blazed as Zerra thrust a torch into the tunnel. She heard him laugh as he crawled in after her.

“So you will be caught like the maggot that you are.” His voice echoed. “Maybe you would like another bedding here in the darkness before I drag you home. Yes, I do think that back in our tribe, I will take you every night.”

Laira tightened her grip around her sword’s hilt.

She kept crawling. Soon she would reach Jeid. He would help her. They would battle Zerra together. As the torch grew nearer, as he crawled after her, Laira kept scurrying. Her blood trickled and her head spun. The tunnel grew larger; soon she was able to run upright, though her legs would not stop shaking. Blood covered her cloak.

Stay alive. Keep moving. Soon you’ll reach Jeid. Soon—

She slammed into stone.

“No. Stars, no.”

The tunnel had collapsed; boulders blocked her way. She was trapped.

She spun around to see Zerra walking toward her, a torch in one hand, his sword in the other.

No fear. For Requiem.

Laira screamed and lunged toward him, swinging her blade.

JEID

THE CAVERN COLLAPSED AROUND HIM.

Rocs clawed and bit, tearing at the opening. Stones crashed down. The ceiling cracked. The beasts, mightier than any animal that roamed the earth or flew in the skies, were tearing the canyon apart. Boulders slammed down behind Jeid, blocking his way deeper into the network of tunnels. He roared, down to mere sputters of flame, as the cave collapsed around him.

And so I fight in the open, he thought.

Stones pelted him. One slammed down onto his spine. More buffeted his neck, knocking him down. Jeid growled.

And so I fly out to death in fire.

He stretched his wings wide. He bellowed—a cry that shook the canyon.

“For Requiem.”

He crashed forward, driving through the raining boulders, barreling past rocs. Clawing the air and lashing his tail, a copper dragon blowing fire, Jeid emerged into the canyon and sounded his cry.

“For Requiem!” His voice was hoarse, and blood coated his scales. All around the enemy flew, wings covering the sky, arrows filling the air. But beyond them a light shone; the sun was rising. “For a dawn of dragons!”

He soared, blowing fire, into a sky of talons and arrows.

A roc swooped toward him. Jeid clubbed it aside with his tail. A second rancid bird landed upon his back, and a beak crashed through Jeid’s scales. Blood showered and he howled, flew backward, and slammed the roc into the canyon wall. The creature crashed down, but three more swooped at Jeid. He roared his flames and bit into rank flesh. Arrows pelted him. Jeid flew higher, grabbed a rider between his jaws, and bit down hard. The man tumbled down in two halves, entrails spilling like streamers.

Flame and blood lit the sky.

“Eranor!” he cried. “Laira!”

He could not see them. When he stared down, he saw that their caves had collapsed. They were trapped. Perhaps dead.

I killed them. I led them here. I called this a new home; it became a tomb.

Rocs slammed against him, shoving him down. He growled. His claws hit the canyon floor, and he shoved upward, wings beating, tearing through the beasts.

So I die with them.

He crashed through the sea of fetid birds, rose out of the canyon, and entered the sky. The trees burned across the escarpment. Red smoke hid the sky. Everywhere they flew—the rocs of the Goldtusk tribe. The arrows of riders fell like rain, slamming into him. One sliced through his wing.

I fly to you now, my wife, he thought, eyes rolling back. I fly to you, Requiem.

When he closed his eyes, he saw it above—the Draco constellation, stars of Requiem, wells of magic. He flew through blood toward the lights.

Heat bathed him.

Roars rolled like thunder.

Jeid opened his eyes and saw them there. They rose from the dawn, three dragons, blowing their fire.

“A dawn of dragons,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

With slicing claws and streams of flame, they flew into the battle, red and green and blue. Tanin. Maev. The Prince of Eteer.

Jeid joined his roar to theirs, and their flames wreathed together.

MAEV

SHE HAD WRESTLED IN GRUNGY town squares. She had fought in pits of mud surrounded by cheering tribesmen. She had swapped punches and kicks in rundown huts and cellars, and she had flown over a southern kingdom, battling demons. She was Maev, a lost woman, a fighter, a dragon of Requiem. And here above her home, above this new tribe, she fought the battle of her life.

This was also the battle of her death. The battle she could not win.

The rocs swarmed toward her, many times the size of demons, dwarfing even her dragon form. They clawed through her scales. Their beaks drove into her flesh. She kicked, bit, lashed her tail. She blew her flames, and her comrades fought with as much vigor.

But the enemy was too strong.

The arrows of their riders were too many. The bolts slammed into Maev, and she dipped in the sky.

“Requiem!” she shouted, hoarse. A roc swooped toward her, and she torched it. It slammed into her, burning, and she knocked it off. “Fight them, dragons of Requiem! We die in blood! We die in fire!”

Yes. She would die here. Maev knew that, and she was ready. She would die in glory, slaying them, so that for eras tribes and villages and distant kingdoms would speak of Requiem, would speak of the last stand of dragons.

I do not go gently into death, she thought, grinning as blood dripped from her mouth. If I die here, I die taking down dozens of you.

She whipped her tail, slamming its spikes into a rider. The man’s armor caved in. She yanked back her tail, tugging the man off his roc, and tossed him against a second bird. The beast shrieked, and more flew from above, and more claws slammed into Maev.

She dipped in the sky, and her flank hit the side of the canyon. Boulders tumbled down, and her tail hit a tree. The oak crashed into the canyon, burying a man beneath it.

She heard Tanin cry in pain above, and his blood splattered her. He crashed down, three rocs upon him, plunging into the shadowy gorge. A boulder shattered beneath him. Ahead of her, Maev saw more of the vultures mob her father. They knocked Jeid into the forest above the canyon. Trees ignited and fell, and fire hid the world. She no longer saw Sena, but blue scales fell from the sky, pattering around her like small discarded shields.

And so here I fall, Maev thought. Not in a distant kingdom. Not in a strange town. But here. At home.

It was not a bad place to die.

She pushed herself up.

She emitted a roar and torched a swooping roc.

Claws lashing, wings beating, she soared. The sky was hidden behind feathers, blood, and smoke.

Let me die in the sky.

“Requiem!” she cried. “My wings will forever find your sky.”

She soared into the cloud of rocs, crashing into them, smiling as she killed.

LAIRA

THEIR BLADES CLASHED TOGETHER IN the tunnel, bronze against bronze, showering sparks.

“I will kill you now,” Laira said.

Zerra laughed. “I will show you no such mercy.”

His sword swung down. She raised her own sword, and the blades clanged together. She thrust and he parried, and when his blade swung again, it cut her wrist. Her blood showered but she gripped her hilt tightly.

“Yes, bleed for me, harlot.” Zerra spat. “Bleed like you bled into the crone’s leeches. Bleed like you bled under my fists. Bleed like you’ll bleed tonight as I bed you, as I toss you to my men. They will each take you in turn until you’re too hurt to scream.”

Laira sneered and swung her blade. “No. No more.” She advanced, forcing him back. He was twice her size, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. She was small and weak, and ilbane ached in her muscles, but a fire burned inside her, and she attacked in a fury. She drove him another step back. “No more. Never again.” Her voice rose in strength, and she barely heard the slur of her crooked jaw. “You will nevermore hurt me, Zerra. I am no longer the little girl you beat, enslaved, tortured, starved.” She thrust her blade at him, and her voice rose to a great cry. “I am Vir Requis! For Requiem I slay you. For my people. For a dawn of dragons.”

Her sword slammed into his, again and again, until she found an opening. Her blade sparked against his breastplate, denting the metal.

He only laughed. “Vir Requis? Is that what you call your wretched kind? This is nothing but a colony for the diseased. I will cleanse the world of my brother and his children, and I will shatter your soul. You have grown impudent, and I will enjoy breaking your spark of defiance.” He thrust the blade. “When I’m done with you, you will eat dung and drink piss and thank me for it.”

She tried to parry but he was too fast. His blade drove into her shoulder.

Laira screamed.

“Yes . . . scream for me.”

He swung his sword again. She leaped sideways, hitting the wall. His blade nipped her thigh, and her blood flowed. She parried the next blow but wasn’t ready for his fist. His blade in his right hand, he slammed a left hook into her cheek.

White light and stars exploded.

She swung her blade blindly

He grabbed her throat. She gasped, struggling to breathe. When she could see again, she found his face near hers, a smile twisting his halved lips. She tried to swing her blade, but he caught her wrist, pinning her arm to the wall. She struggled, kicking, but couldn’t free herself.

“So deformed . . .” He thrust out his tongue and licked her crooked jaw—a long, languorous movement that left her dripping with his saliva. “So sweet. But not hurt enough. Not yet. Look at my wound, darling.” He turned the burnt side of his face toward her, forcing her to stare at the grooves and rivulets. “Soon your whole body will look like this.”

Still clutching her throat, he sheathed his sword and lifted his torch, which had fallen during the duel. He brought the flame near her cheek. She winced and tried to turn her head away but could not. She sputtered and blackness spread across her. All she could see was the fire. All she could feel was the pain. She closed her eyes for fear of them melting.

“We will begin with burning your face,” he said.

She couldn’t move her right arm; he held it pinned to the wall. She kicked hard, hitting his knee. His leg crumpled. They fell together and she grabbed a fallen stone. She sprang up, slamming the rock into his temple.

He grunted.

His fingers released her, and Laira gasped for breath.

She wanted to collapse. She wanted to simply breathe. Instead she lunged forward, swinging the rock again. A shard of granite the size of her fist, it drove into Zerra’s jaw. She heard the crack as the bone shattered. Two teeth flew. His chin drove sideways with a sickening crunch.

He fell to his knees, clutching his face with one hand, and managed to lift and thrust his blade. She parried and swung her sword down. The bronze drove deep into his arm and thumped against bone. He screamed and dropped his sword. Laira kicked it aside.

She placed the tip of her sword against his neck.

“Beg me for your life,” she whispered.

Suddenly she trembled. Her voice was hoarse. Her knees shook.

“Beg me!” she shouted.

He stared up at her, eyes baleful. He said nothing.

“You will die here,” she said. “Beg for life.”

He stared, silent, his jaw shattered. His arm hung loosely, slashed open; she saw the bone and tendons. He managed to slur, blood and saliva dripping down his chin.

“What . . . do . . . you want?” He coughed out blood and teeth. “To be a huntress? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

She shuddered. In the darkness of the tunnel, she saw her again. Her mother smiled at her, stroked her hair, and told her bedtime stories. Laira ran with her through the forests, collecting berries, laughing and speaking in Eteerian. She remembered joy. She remembered warm embraces, safety, love.

“You killed my mother,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “You shattered my life. What do I want?” Her breath shook and she bared her teeth. “I want you to die, you bastard.”

She screamed as she leaned forward, driving her blade into his neck.

His blood dripped, and he gave her a last stare, then tilted over and lay still.

Laira stared down at his body, and she no longer trembled. A peace descended upon her.

“For my mother,” she whispered. “For Requiem. For me. It’s over.”

She knelt, grabbed his hair, and lashed her blade again.

Her footsteps were slow. Blood trailed behind her. She stepped out of the cave into a canyon of flame and blood, carrying Zerra’s severed head.

“Goldtusk!” she shouted.

She stood upon bloodied boulders. The dead lay around and beneath her. Arms thrust out from the debris, and gore painted the canyon walls. One rider lay whimpering, his organs dangling from his sliced belly. Dozens of rocs still flew above, and at least two dragons still lived. Maev writhed on a pile of boulders, blowing her last sparks onto a roc. Tanin lay slumped, lashing his claws, holding back a beast; arrows pierced his flesh. Laira had never seen these two dragons, but she knew them from Jeid’s stories—his children returned to battle. She did not see the others.

“Goldtusk!” Laira shouted. She raised the severed head above her. “Goldtusk, hear me! I am Laira Seran. I was one of you. I carry the head of Zerra, your chieftain.”

The rocs shrieked. All eyes turned toward her. The battle died down as they stared. Hunters hissed and tugged their reins, halting the rocs. The birds hovered, blasting Laira with foul air, billowing her hair.

“I am a child of Goldtusk!” Laira cried, voice hoarse. “I slew the chieftain. By the law of our people, I lead this tribe now. I am chieftain! I am Laira of Goldtusk, a worshiper of Ka’altei. I command you—land, dismount your rocs, and kneel before your mistress.”

For long moments—the ages of the stars and the world, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the endless mourning in her heart—they merely hovered, staring. She stared back. She knew how she looked—a scrawny thing, broken, scarred, covered in blood. A wisp of a person, a hint of who she could have been.

But this is who I am, she thought. This is me. These years of pain, this fear, this broken body—they made me who I am. This person was hurt. And this person is strong.

She raised the head higher, staring, silent. All others fell silent too. She could hear the wind in the trees and the crackle of fire.

It was one rider—a gruff old man named Sha’al, a chunk of mammoth tusk still embedded in his chest from an old hunt—who landed his roc first. He dismounted, gave Laira a hard look, and then knelt before her.

A second rider joined him, a young man who had once tossed Laira a few nuts on a cold winter night. He knelt before her, sword lowered.

“Chieftain,” he said.

A third rider joined him, then a fourth. Soon dozens of rocs landed in the canyon, cawing nervously. Their riders covered the boulders, kneeling before her, heads lowered.

“Chieftain.

“Chieftain Laira.”

“Daughter of Ka’altei.”

They spread across the canyon, kneeling in a great wave. Laira stood, staring upon them—her people. She looked to her side where Maev and Tanin struggled to their feet—her new family.

“Our war ends now,” Laira said softly. She lowered the severed head. “Goldtusk and Requiem will forge peace. We—“

A grunt rose ahead, followed by a strangled cry.

Laira raised her eyes and her heart nearly stopped.

“No,” she whispered.

Jeid stumbled forward across the boulders, back in human form. A young man—not a rider of Goldtusk but a foreigner in the robes of Eteer—walked behind, holding a blade to Jeid’s throat.

SENA

HE SHOVED THE GRUFF, BEARDED man forward, holding a knife to his throat. Everyone stared at him. Everyone judged him. Everyone thought him a villain. Sena trembled and felt tears stream down his cheeks, and he pushed the knife a hair’s width closer.

“Stand back!” he shouted. “Stand back or I slit his throat!”

This battle, like all of this autumn, had been a feverish dream. For so long Sena had languished in Aerhein Tower, chained, starving, mad with his thoughts, the demons flying outside his window to torment him. Since fleeing that place, he had found no solace.

They said the north would be safe, Sena thought, the blade trembling in his hand. They said this would be a home.

But here too people hunted his kind. Here great vultures, each larger than ten demons, slew dragons.

“I can’t live like this,” Sena whispered, voice shuddering, as they stared at him. “I’m a prince. I’m a prince!” His tears flowed. “I can’t live in the wilderness, hiding in caves, hunted, hurt. Look. Look at the blood. Oh Taal . . .”

The dead spread around him. He saw scattered limbs blackened with fire, white bones thrusting from the torn flesh. A severed head lay before him. Globs of flesh and puddles of blood lay everywhere. A dragon claw had disemboweled a roc, and pink entrails spilled across the ground, wet and stinking.

A home? This was a morgue. This was a nightmare.

The burly, bearded man grunted in his grip. Sena held the brute tightly, pushing his blade closer against the skin.

“Be still!” Sena said. “Be silent! I will cut you.”

Upon the boulders, Maev leaped up and glared. “Sena! You pathetic little snake. You foul piece of pig shite. I saved your backside from that tower. You hold my father now!” She hopped across a boulder, moving closer. “Drop your knife or I’ll smash your head against the canyon wall.”

“You will stand back!” Sena said, staring back at her. Tears burned in his eyes, and his legs trembled. He pushed the blade a little deeper, nicking the man’s skin, and Maev froze. Blood dripped down Jeid’s neck. “Stand back, Maev, or your father dies.”

Ahead, a short young woman was holding a severed head. She had been shouting something earlier. Crouched in the forest among the dead, Sena had been unable to make out her words. The woman looked about his age, maybe older, but haggard and small, frail as if after a long illness. Her black hair was cut short, and her mouth was slanted, her chin thrust to the side. She stared at him, tilted her head, and approached slowly.

“Why do you do this?” she said. Her voice was vaguely slurred, perhaps due to her crooked jaw.

Sena glared at her, clutching Jeid. “I am a prince of Eteer! I don’t belong here. I can’t live in this place. I have to go home.” A sob fled his throat. “If I kill a weredragon, my father will forgive me. If I bring him this man’s body, his demons will sniff the weredragon curse. They will know I killed one. And my father, the king, will forgive my own curse. He will let me return to my palace. Maybe not as heir, but a prince again.” His chest shook and he cursed himself for weeping. “I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh Taal . . .”

The young woman with the short, black hair stepped closer to him. She raised her emptied palms in a gesture of peace.

“You are . . . the Prince of Eteer?” Her voice was soft, and she tilted her head. “You are Sena Seran, son of Raem.”

He nodded, peering around Jeid’s shoulder, keeping the knife in place. The bearded man was silent save for his gruff breath.

“And who are you?” Sena demanded. “Another one of this man’s daughters who wants to crack my head?”

The young woman shook her head, and a tear streamed down her cheek. “My name is Laira.”

Sena snorted. “I had a sister named Laira once. It’s a name of Eteer, not this forsaken place. She was exiled years ago and—“

He froze.

Laira stared at him, eyes soft, and moved closer. She reached out her hands. “It’s me, Sena,” she whispered, tears falling. “It’s me. Your sister. I’m here.”

Sena lowered his head and closed his eyes. Sobs wracked his body.

My sister . . .

“Oh Taal. Oh righteous god of purity. What have they done to you, sister?” He looked at her through his tears. “We have to go home. Both of us. We have to kill the others so Father forgives us. I want to go home.”

Laira smiled tremulously. She stepped across the boulders toward him, reached out, and gently touched his arm.

“We are home, brother. We are home.”

A clank sounded below, and Sena realized he had dropped his knife. With a grunt, the bearded man moved aside, and somehow Sena was embracing his sister, crying into her hair. She was so short—the top of her head barely reached his shoulders—and he held her slim body, nearly crushing her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Laira, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him, smiling, tears spiking her lashes. She touched his cheek. “Hello again, dear brother. After so many years, hello again. I love you.”

He embraced her tightly and they stood for a long time, holding each other upon the boulder, a sea of blood around them.

JEID

ANOTHER VIR REQUIS HAD JOINED them. His twin brother was dead. The Goldtusk tribe was Laira’s to command. The world shook around Jeid, but he no longer cared.

He cared for only one thing now.

Back in dragon form, he dug through the rubble, tossing boulders aside. His eyes burned. He worked in a fury, unearthing dead tribesmen, a crushed roc, and puddles of blood. Boulders rolled around him.

“Help me!” he said. “Tanin, Maev!”

His children rushed forth, shifted into dragons, and dug with him. Their eyes were narrowed, their mouths shut tight. They were thinking the same thought as him, Jeid knew.

Eranor was missing.

Jeid ground his teeth. Last he’d seen his father, the elderly druid had been blowing fire from the pantry, the rough cave that was now buried under rubble. With a grunt, Jeid grabbed a great boulder—it was as large as a man. Tanin and Maev had to help, shoving against it, before it creaked and crashed down.

The entrance to the pantry, once a narrow cave barely large enough for a man to crawl into, lay shattered. Jeid tugged back stones, widening the opening, revealing the shadowy chamber.

“Father!” he called. No answer came.

His arms shook as Jeid shifted back into human form. He raced into the cave and felt his heart shatter.

Eranor lay in the cavern, in human form again, rubble upon him. The ceiling had collapsed, and a boulder buried the old man’s legs. Blood stained his long, once-white beard.

“Father!”

Jeid rushed forward and knelt by the old druid. Eranor was still alive, his breath ragged. The old man managed to focus his eyes on Jeid and clasp his hand.

“My son . . .” His voice was a mere whisper.

Maev and Tanin rushed into the cave too and knelt by their grandfather. Tears filled their eyes.

“Tell me what to do.” Jeid clutched his father’s hand. “Tell me how to heal you.”

Eranor smiled—an almost wistful smile. “This body cannot be healed. Do not weep for me. I am old and I’ve lived longer than most. I lived to see Requiem rise.” He closed his eyes. “In my mind I can see it—a great kingdom of dragons. You will lead them, Jeid. Lead them to hope, to light.”

“No.” Jeid shook his head. “No, Father. You will lead us. Don’t leave. Now is not your time.”

“I fly now to the stars, my son.” Eranor’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Tanin. Maev. Come closer. Be with me.”

They all crowded around him, holding on to the old man, tears in their eyes.

Eranor gave a last smile. “I fly now to the Draco constellation. I fly to those we lost. I—“

His eyes closed.

His breath died.

Jeid lowered his head, pulled his father to his chest, and held him close for a long time.

The last leaves of autumn scuttled across the hills, and the first snow began to fall, when Jeid buried his father. Wind fluttered his fur cloak as he stood above the grave. A third boulder rose here, a third tombstone coated in moss. By it lay the two other graves—the young Vir Requis who had lost his leg, a stranger and yet one of their family, and an older grave overrun with ivy, the grave of his daughter. Of Requiem.

“I don’t know how many more will die for our tribe,” Jeid said, throat tight. He clenched his fists at his sides. “But I will fight on.”

He looked at the others who stood around him, faces pale, eyes cold. His people. His tribe. The ones he loved.

Maev had refused a cloak of fur. She stood in a simple tunic, her arms bare, displaying her coiling dragon tattoos. Snow frosted her golden hair. No tears filled her eyes, and as always, her bottom lip was thrust out in defiance. As always, bruises and scratches covered her. Yet Jeid knew that beneath that stony exterior lay pain, love, and hope. The young woman stared down at the grave, chin raised, a well of tears hiding behind stone walls.

Tanin stood at her side, his eyes red, snow filling his shock of brown hair. The tall young man wrapped his fur cloak more tightly around himself. His lips whispered silent prayers or perhaps goodbyes. The juggler turned warrior—now a man grieving.

I never wanted this life for you, my children, Jeid thought. I wanted you to grow up in safety, a true roof over your heads, a life without fear, without pain.

Perhaps this day he grieved for his children—for their life of exile and bloodshed—as much as for his fallen father.

The new members of his tribe stood here too. Sena—slender, his cheeks soft—stood wrapped in a cloak, pale with frost. He stared down at the grave, silent, thoughtful. Laira stood at his side, holding his hand.

You too are my family now, Jeid thought, looking upon them. I will fight for all of you.

He knelt and placed a single birch leaf upon the grave, securing it with a stone. His father had always loved birches, and it was the only gift Jeid had to give. The others followed, one by one, placing down their own leaves and stones. Snow dusted the gifts.

Jeid straightened and looked at his new people. Young. Afraid. Looking to him for guidance. He spoke softly as the snow fell.

“Thus, with leaf and stone, we say goodbye.” The others stared at him, eyes large, lips tight. “Thus, with blood and fire, we defended our home. We fled a village, a tribe, a southern kingdom. All over the world they hunt us—the people they call diseased, the cursed ones they call weredragons. But we are blessed. We are Vir Requis, and our magic comes from the stars.” He looked up at that sky as if, past the pale sunlight and clouds, he could see those stars. “For a long time, I called Requiem a tribe. Tribes move across the world, seeking safety, struggling to survive.” Jeid shook his head. “Requiem will be no tribe. We will be a kingdom.” He looked back at them, meeting their eyes one by one. “We will tell the world: You can no longer hunt us. We will no longer hide. No more will the children of Requiem hide underground, ashamed, afraid.”

They nodded. Maev growled and raised her fist. Tanin punched his palm and sneered. Laira’s eyes lit up, and she raised her chin, and even her brother straightened and gazed ahead with pride.

“We will stand proud!” Jeid said, his voice rising louder. “We are only five, but more will join us. Many more Vir Requis hide across the world, afraid, believing they are cursed. We will trumpet our cause and call our people home. We will raise a palace of stone, and we will tell all tribes and nations: If you hunt us, you will die. If you attack us, you will burn. Dragons will rise! The kingdom of Requiem will last ten thousand years.”

“Yes!” Maev said. The young woman shifted into a dragon, beat her wings, and soared. She raised a great pillar of fire, and her roar pealed across the land. “Requiem! I fight for you.”

One by one, the others shifted too. They took flight, roaring for Requiem.

Only Jeid remained on the ground, still in human form. He looked down at the graves, and his eyes stung.

For you, Father. For you, my daughter. For you, unknown warrior. For all those who’ve died.

He looked up at the sky, shifted too, and took flight. He joined the others. They hovered above the hills and valleys, and Jeid added his flames to theirs. Five jets rose, spinning and crackling with heat and light, wreathing together into a great column of fire, a beacon for hope, for life, and for a new home.

They flew through the day and night, five dragons no longer afraid, until they reached the great mountains of Dair Ranin. There their claws dug, cutting loose marble from the mountainside, a great round pillar they could not carry, but which they rolled across the hills and valleys upon a wagon of logs.

For long days they worked in the forest, carving, smoothing, sculpting, using both dragon claws and bronze tools. The rocs awaited them in the hills beyond, for here among these birches—here was holy ground, blessed with dragon starlight. Fresh snow covered the trees when finally their work was done. A great column rose between the birches, three hundred feet tall, its marble smooth and glittering like the snow, its capital shaped as rearing dragons.

They stood before the pillar, five dragons, dwarfed by the size of their creation. It seemed to Jeid that the pillar glimmered with inner light. A circle of marble tiles stretched around it, and birch leaves scuttled upon the polished stone. In the distance, rising above the forest, sunlight gilded the distant mountains.

“The Column of Requiem,” Jeid said. He shifted back into human form and placed a hand upon it. “A beacon to draw our kind to this forest like a lighthouse draws in ships.”

Laira shifted back into human form too. She held Jeid’s hand and leaned against him.

“Requiem is a true kingdom now.” She stared up at the pillar. “But we need a king.” She looked at him and touched his cheek. “You vowed to lead us. Be our king.”

The others gathered closer, also resuming human forms. They nodded, one by one.

Jeid barked a laugh. “King Jeid Blacksmith? Doesn’t sound very kingly.”

“It sounds bloody stupid,” Maev said and spat.

Laira smiled and placed her small, pale hand against Jeid’s wide chest. “You told us that Requiem will last ten thousand years. But Requiem will last for eternity. Give yourself a new name, not the name of a blacksmith but the name of a dragon. Become King Aeternum, a king whose song will echo through the ages.”

Beside them, Tanin nodded in approval. “King Aeternum. I like it. Future generations might even think Jeid was noble, not a grizzled, gruff grizzly.”

“The only thing eternal about Grizzly is his appetite,” Maev muttered.

Jeid sighed and shook his head. Ignoring his children, he looked back up at the column. It soared past the treetops toward the clouds, and the sun fell upon the capital, breaking into many beams.

I hope you are watching, Father, Jeid thought. I hope you are proud.

Laira let go of his hand, stepped forward, and touched the column. She smiled softly and closed her eyes. When she sang, her voice—passing through her crooked jaw—barely sounded slurred to her but high and pure.

“As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home.” She opened her eyes, smiled, and looked up at the pale clouds. “Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.”

Jeid smiled too. He repeated the prayer, a new song, a holy song—Requiem’s song. The others joined in and their voices rose together.

“Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.”

ISSARI

THE CITY-STATE OF ETEER—center of a civilization, a light to the world—lay charred and crumbled.

Issari stood upon her balcony, staring at the destruction. Aerhein Tower, the prison which had once held her brother, lay fallen, crushing houses beneath it. Blood and gobbets of demon flesh covered the city domes, courtyards, and cobbled streets. Half the trees had burned, and ash rained across the balcony, remnants of the fire upon the palace roof.

“Two dragons came to this city,” Issari whispered, the smoky wind invading her nostrils. “Three left. And here I remain, an heiress to a broken land.”

The demons too remained, still marring her city. Dozens had died in the dragon onslaught. But Angel, their queen, still crackled in the underground, moving through the city sewers, nursing her wounds and blasting flame and smoke through sewage holes. Hundreds of her minions still covered the roofs, gardens, and streets, screeching and cackling. Hundreds of women walked the streets, dazed, holding their growing bellies; the spawn of demons festered in their wombs.

Issari winced in sudden pain. The welts on her back blazed with agony if she even breathed too deeply. When her father had returned to the city—only three days ago—he had beaten her, whipping her back until she bled.

“I left you here alone for a month,” King Raem had said, voice cold. “I left you, my heiress, to rule this city, and I return to find it in ruins.”

She had not wanted to scream. She had vowed to remain silent under his lash. Yet as he had beaten her, and as her blood had splattered the walls, she had screamed.

A sigh ran through Issari as she stood here now, gazing upon the hive of devilry and ruin. She raised her hand and gazed at her amulet. When she’d pressed it against Angel, it had embedded itself into Issari’s palm. Her flesh had healed around the silver sigil—a slender man within a circle. She had tried to pull the talisman free but could not. It was a part of her now—as much as her heart. The silver gleamed softly, crackling to life as a demon fluttered by the balcony. She closed her fingers around the amulet, and its glow faded.

“Forever I will be a bane of demons,” she whispered, though she did not know how one woman could fight so many. Even three dragons, blowing fire, had been unable to defeat Angel. How could she stop this? How could she save her kingdom?

She closed her eyes, trying to remember flying upon Tanin, the red dragon from the north. Like she did so many times, Issari again wished she too could shift. If she could become a dragon, she could fly north. To Requiem. She could join Laira, Sena, and the others. Her eyes stung, and Issari felt like she were the cursed one—lacking magic, plain, weak.

Do you like me like this, Taal? she thought. Pure?

She raised her head. Night was falling and the first stars emerged. The new constellation shone, shaped like a dragon. And for the first time in her life, Issari prayed to new gods.

“Please, stars of Requiem, if you can hear me, bless me with your magic. Let me rise as a dragon. Let me fly. Let me be strong.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to shift. She imagined herself as a dragon—beating wings, roaring fire. Yet nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, she was a girl again, only a slim thing in a white gown, her dark braid hanging across her shoulder.

She left the balcony and walked through the palace, heading down stairways and corridors. When Mother and Laira had fled, Issari had been only a babe, but she knew the stories. To this day, guards whispered how Raem—then only a prince—had found his wife and child shifting into dragons in the palace cistern. Since then, few had dared enter that dark, wet place, perhaps fearing that the miasma of reptilian disease still lingered there. But this evening, Issari needed to see that place—to think of her family, to imagine dragons.

She walked down a craggy tunnel and stairs, plunging into underground depths, until she emerged into the cistern.

It was a towering cavern, as large as the throne room above. Columns supported a rough, vaulted ceiling. Water rose taller than a man here, still and silent. A cold place, wet, secret, and dark.

Slowly, Issari began to walk down a flight of stairs toward the water. When she saw the shadow ahead, she gasped and froze.

Merciful Taal . . .

Ahead of her, half-submerged in the water, was a dragon.

Instinctively, Issari reached to her belt and clutched the hilt of her dagger.

She did not know this dragon. The beast was black and burly, his horns long. He had not seen her, and Issari quickly hid behind a column and peeked. The dragon stood still in the water; the only movement was the smoke pluming from his nostrils. Finally, with a grunt and shake of his head, the dragon began to shrink. His wings pulled into his back, his scales faded, and a man floated in the water, bald and shirtless.

Issari slapped her palm over her mouth to stifle her gasp.

It was her father.

Slowly, dripping water, King Raem stepped out from the pool. Issari pulled her head back, pressing herself against the column. If he saw her here, he would not merely beat her again; he would drown her in this pool. She crept deeper into shadows, waiting for Raem to climb the stairs and leave the cistern.

But she did not see him leave. For a long moment, she saw and heard nothing. Then a loud crack pierced the silence, followed by a grunt. A second crack followed.

Issari dared to peek around the column. Her father was kneeling by the pool, chastising himself with a belt. Welts rose across his back, much like the ones he had given her.

“Diseased,” the king hissed. “Cursed. Shameful.” With every word, his belt lashed again.

Issari stared in disbelief.

Her father. The man who had banished his daughter and imprisoned his son. The man who had murdered scores in the city, those he called weredragons. The man who had released an army of demons to purify his kingdom with blood and rot.

Her father . . . was Vir Requis.

Issari’s eyes stung.

All those you killed, she thought, trembling. All that you destroyed. All this pain, all this terror . . . because you are ashamed. Because you are one of them.

Her amulet blazed in her hand; it felt like holding an ember. Issari took ragged breaths and raised her chin. She knew then. She knew what she could do, what she had to do. She knew that only she, here in this place, could save Eteer, could save Requiem, could return light to the darkness.

She drew her dagger.

Leaving her hiding place, she walked toward her father, daring not breathe.

He did not see her. He was still kneeling by the pool, chastising himself. Blood dripped down his back.

It will be just one more wound, Issari thought, staring at his blood. Just one thrust of the blade.

Her dagger shook and her heart thrashed, but Issari knew she had to do this. She would sin. She would murder again—like she had murdered the crone. She would save the world.

She reached her father—the man who had beaten her, tortured her siblings, the man who had to die—and raised her dagger.

With a sob, she thrust the blade.

Raem spun around.

The king gasped and raised his arms, protecting himself. The dagger sliced into his forearm, ripping flesh open. The blade scraped against bone.

Issari screamed.

Raem reached out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. The blade clanged to the ground. A second later, the king’s fist drove into Issari’s chest.

She fell back, unable to breathe. She tried to suck in breath; horror engulfed her when she realized she could not. The pain bloomed through her.

“Father—“ she tried to whisper.

He grabbed her. He twisted her arms behind her back and manhandled her forward, his blood dripping.

“You treacherous whore.” His voice shook. “You worm that crawls with maggots. You betrayed me.”

Issari managed a hoarse whisper. “You killed your own father. You unleashed demons upon this world. You are the traitor to Eteer. You—“

He clamped a palm over her mouth, and she screamed into it. He shoved her up the stairs, his blood leaving a red trail. When she fell, he dragged her. Her hip banged against each step. She tried to fight, to punch him, to kick, but could not. Another blow from his fist rattled her jaw. A slap sent her reeling.

“Father, please!”

Blood filled her mouth. And she knew that begging wouldn’t help. She had stabbed him, almost killed him. Her life was forfeit.

I should have flown north with the dragons, she realized. I should have fled. Now I will die here, alone, afraid.

He dragged her down a corridor, past tall bronze doors, and into the palace throne room.

Once a place of splendor, it had been transformed into a hive of fire and brimstone. The porphyry columns, once pure and pale blue, now stank with serpentine demons that wrapped around them, oozing drool. Once a mosaic had covered the floor, featuring birds and dolphins. Now globs of rot hid the artwork, and demons rutted in the puddles, grunting in their passion. Once the throne had risen in a beam of light; now it rose from a mass of writhing creatures who bit, licked, and clawed one another. Angel herself now lurked here, clinging to the ceiling like a bat, drooling lava and hissing down at her minions below.

Issari gasped as her father tossed her into the chamber. She fell, landing in a puddle of rot.

“Demons of the Abyss!” Raem called out.

The creatures ceased their racket and turned toward him. One paused with another’s leg between its jaws. Others froze, still linked together as they rutted. They stared, hissing, tongues lolling.

“Here lies a traitor.” Raem pointed down at Issari. “She is yours to do with as you like. Mate with her. Eat her flesh if you like. Keep her alive for your amusement or kill her. But one thing I demand: Make sure she never leaves this chamber again.”

With that, he left the hall and slammed the doors behind him.

Issari leaped up, raced to the doors, and yanked at the handles. Locked.

She spun around, pressed her back to the doors, and stared at the creatures. The demons approached slowly, grins widening. Angel detached from the ceiling, landed on the floor, and hissed like a viper. Her tongue reached out across the hall, an obscene tentacle longer than three men, to lick Issari’s cheek.

Issari raised her hand. Her amulet, embedded into her palm, blazed to life.

“By the light of Taal!” she shouted. “I banish you. I—“

Angel spat. A wad of dark drool hit the amulet, hiding its glow. With a scream, Issari tried to rip the glob off, but it clung to her hand, black and sticky.

The Demon Queen leaped toward her, crossing the throne room in a single bound. She landed before Issari, gripped her cheeks, and hissed.

“What a pretty thing.” She caressed Issari’s hair with a clawed hand. “So fair. So fresh. So innocent. You will be mine to break. I will mate with you, and so will all in my hall. And when we are done, we will feast upon you.” Smoke rose from her mouth, and she licked her lips. “You will live through it. You will watch as we devour your legs, then your arms, then slowly work our way up your torso, sucking up your entrails as you scream. But you will not die.” Angel sneered, holding Issari pinned against the doors. “Not until I say you can.”

Around them, the other demons howled, drooled, laughed, beat their wings, spewed their filth. Their faces spun, eyes red, mouths dripping.

Issari closed her eyes.

A dragon can defeat them. A dragon can blow fire. A dragon can fly away.

She took a deep breath, seeking a magic deep within her. She imagined herself growing wings and claws, rising, flying. Yet nothing happened.

The demons dragged her away from the doors. They slammed her against the floor, stretched out her limbs until they almost dislocated, and held her down on her back. Towering creatures like human vultures cloaked in red feathers leaned forward. Their beaks opened, full of serrated teeth. Worms crawled between their feet, as large as children; they were great leeches, Issari realized, like the ones Shedah had used but many times the size.

“Break her!” Angel commanded.

Issari closed her eyes again.

To shift is not a curse, she thought. My mother could shift. My siblings can. Even my father shifted.

She breathed shakily. For years, King Raem had preached of the evil of the reptilian curse. For years, Issari had feared the magic, thinking the weredragons poor souls to pity. But her father too could shift! It was not a curse. It was not an abomination unto Taal.

It was magic.

Issari took a deep, shuddering breath.

Wings sprouted from her back, shoving her upward.

She opened her eyes to see claws growing on her fingertips. Her body ballooned, knocking demons back. White scales, glimmering like mother of pearl, grew across her body like armor. Demons clawed but could not break through.

A white dragon, Princess Issari rose in the chamber, sounded her roar, and blew her fire.

RAEM

HE STOOD IN THE CHARRED rooftop gardens—the same place he had stabbed his father—stitching the wound his daughter had given him. His lips were tight, and sweat dripped down his face as he worked, sewing his arm shut.

The trees, bushes, and flowerbeds lay burnt around him. The broken lattices rose like blackened bones. Once this had been a garden of life, a place of solitude and peace. The dragons had come. The dragons had burned. The dragons had torn his life apart, torn his children from him.

Two of those children—Laira and Sena—now flew in the north, diseased creatures. His third child, his youngest, he had taught too well.

“Issari is like me,” Raem said softly into the ashy wind. “A traitor to her father. And so she will suffer.”

He violently thrust the needle into his arm, savoring the pain. He was sewing the last stitch when the palace shook. Dust flew. Bricks toppled into a courtyard below. Raem leaned over the roof’s edge and sucked in his breath.

A white dragon crashed out of the palace doorway, shattering bronze and stone, and soared into the sky.

Raem stared, silent.

A cloud of demons burst out of the palace like black blood spilling from an infected wound. They began to fly in pursuit, but the white dragon turned and blasted fire. The inferno blazed across the demons and crashed into the palace, forcing Raem to step back into the charred gardens. Sparks landed upon him, searing his skin; he was still shirtless after his visit to the cistern. When the flames died, he saw demon corpses upon the courtyard below. The white dragon was already flying toward the coast.

Light caught the dragon’s palm, shining against something metallic. Raem knew that light.

An amulet of Taal.

“Issari,” he whispered.

Before he could take another breath, the roof crashed open behind him. Through a cloud of rock and smoke, Angel ascended, shrieking. Claw marks drove down her stony chest, leaking lava. Rings of fire burst out from her.

“Your daughter!” she cried, voice a storm. “Your daughter is diseased!” She landed before him, wings knocking down charred trees, and clawed what remained of the roof. “You have forbidden me to leave this city, and now she flees. Send me after her!”

Raem was surprised.

Not surprised that Issari was a dragon.

Not that his city crumbled around him.

Not that his wound dripped, a failed assassination attempt from his dearest daughter.

Raem was surprised that, despite all these things, he found himself feeling remarkably calm, even casual.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, my dear Angel, it seems she is a dragon. And yes, I have forbidden you to leave this city.”

The Demon Queen screamed. Her fire blazed, a great pillar upon the roof. The palace shook. Demons who flew above, balls of slime, burst under the sound wave of her scream, falling down in tatters.

“Send me after her!”

Calmly, Raem turned to look toward the coast. The white dragon was now over the water, fleeing north. A second beast was flying in the opposite direction, heading from the sea toward the city. As Raem watched, a great oily vulture—larger even than a dragon—flew toward the palace, a rider upon its back.

With a shriek, the roc landed on the palace roof. A Goldtusk hunter spilled off its back, barely landing on his feet. He was a tall, hirsute man with beads threaded into his beard. Three fingers were missing from his hand, the wounds fresh, and a gash ran down his chest. His skin was ashen, his eyes sunken. Blood stained his tattered fur cloak.

“I seek King Raem!” the man said, wavering, looking so weak he barely acknowledged the smoky, fiery Angel.

“You have found him,” said Raem.

The hunter gripped Raem’s arms. “The rocs . . . many dead. Zerra . . . slain. Laira, that maggot of a harlot . . . took over the tribe. The dragons have a kingdom now. Requiem, they call it. All is lost. All . . . lost . . .”

With that, the man collapsed. He breathed no more.

Raem stared at the dead man, at Issari who was barely visible upon the horizon, at the ruin of his palace, and at the panting, sneering Angel.

And he laughed.

His laughter seized him. He could not stop. Angel shrieked again, beating her wings, and Raem laughed so much he had to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Do you see, Angel?” he said. “Do you see the pain of children? Never breed, Angel. Never bear a child.”

She ripped out a chunk of roof and tossed it aside. She lifted the dead hunter in her claws, raised him to her lips, and hissed.

“It is time,” she said. “Time to eat human flesh. Time to grow. Time to kill dragons.”

Raem looked down upon the city. He saw no living souls. All his people—once proud and strong—hid in their homes.

The dragons destroyed my city, he thought. And so be it. Let blood fill these streets.

He nodded.

“A thousand men and women I give to you. A thousand meals. Fly through the city with your demons, Angel. Feast upon them. Grow large. Grow strong. And then . . . then we fly north. To Requiem.”

Angel howled in joy. Her jaw unhinged, her maw opening wide like a python about to swallow a pig. She stuffed the dead tribesman into her mouth, gulping him down, chewing, swallowing, until her belly extended like some obscene pregnancy. Her limbs grew longer. Her head ballooned. She laughed as she grew taller, sprouting to twice her old height, then growing even further. She spread her wings wide like midnight sails.

“Rise, demons of the Abyss!” Angel shouted. “Rise and feast upon the flesh of Eteer!”

She beat her wings, rising, ringed in fire, a woman of stone and lava the size of a dragon. From the palace windows and doors, they burst out, a thousand abominations of the Abyss. They spread through the city streets. They crashed through the doors of homes and shops. And they fed. And they grew.

Screams and blood filled the city of Eteer that day.

Raem watched from the palace roof, a thin smile on his lips.

Before him, the demons grew, extending like boils about to burst. Globs of flesh. Scaled creatures of hooks and horns. Unholy centipedes of many human heads and limbs. All rose before him, growing to the size of dragons. They hovered before the palace roof, swallowing the last bits of human flesh.

It was an army of darkness. It was an army to purify the world.

Upon the roof, Raem raised his arms. He shouted out for them all to hear.

“I have fed you, my children! And you have grown strong. Now we fly! We fly north. We fly to Requiem. We fly to kill dragons!”

They shrieked, howled, sneered, laughed, roared. Their voices rose into a single cry, a thunder that shook the city, that shattered towers, that sent burnt trees crumbling. Raem’s mount—the twisted woman broken, cursed, and stretched into a bat—flew toward him. Once the size of a horse, the deformed creature was now as large as a dragon, and the blood of men stained her lips. Raem mounted the beast and stroked her.

Hiding the sky behind their wings, leaving a trail of rot, the demon army flew across the city and over the sea, heading to the land of dragons.

The story continues in . . . REQUIEM’S HOPE

DAWN OF DRAGONS, BOOK TWO

Available Now

Afterword

DANIEL ARENSON IS A BESTSELLING author of fantasy and science fiction.

Four of his trilogies—Dawn of Dragons, Song of Dragons, Dragonlore, and The Dragon War—are set in Requiem, a world where humans can turn into dragons. He’s also the author of Moth, a series about a world torn in two—its one half always in sunlight, the other always dark. Eight of Daniel’s books have hit Amazon’s overall Top 100 bestsellers list; one has hit the Top 20. In total, his books have sold over 500,000 copies.

Raised on Dungeons & Dragons, The Lord of the Rings, and scratchy Star Wars VHS tapes, Daniel still consumes—and tries to contribute to—geek culture.

JOIN THE DRAGONS OF DARKNESS! The Dragons of Darkness is an army of Requiem and Moth fans across the world. Join our ranks:

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THE DAWN OF DRAGONS TRILOGY:

Requiem’s Song

Requiem’s Hope

Requiem’s Prayer

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BOUND

Kate Sparkes

Chapter I

Aren

THE BARMAID DIDN’T OFFER HER name to me as she would have to any other unfamiliar man who entered the tavern, but it was there at the front of her mind. Florence, though she preferred to be called Peggy. I could have dug deeper into her thoughts and memories to find out why, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. She was just another loose end I was going to have to tie up at the end of the night, another irritation in a long chain of them.

The wooden clock on the wall read half-past eleven as I moved toward a table in a dark corner, trying not to draw the attention of the half-dozen border guards who were preparing to leave. I wished only to be left alone, to get the information I needed and move on. The hood of my cloak blocked my peripheral vision, but I kept it up to cover the shoulder-length hair that would identify my status as an outsider in this strange land.

A red-haired brute bumped my shoulder as he slipped into his heavy coat, and he cursed at me. His friends laughed. They’d have been more cautious if they’d understood what I was.

For the sake of my mission, I allowed them to leave unharmed.

Peggy knew what I was. Every time she glanced in my direction, her thoughts jumped to the preserved dragon head in the back room. She pushed the thoughts away, refusing to make the connection. It was an attitude I was familiar with. The people in this country, Darmid, feared magic. They’d spent centuries destroying every form of it within their borders, protecting themselves from a threat they didn’t understand.

Few things irritated me more than willful ignorance. I needed to get home to Tyrea before I snapped and strangled one of these people who so reminded me of spooked cattle.

The barmaid ignored me as the seconds and minutes ticked audibly by on the intricate monstrosity mounted behind the bar. Her anxiety grew, pushing out of her in high, fluttering waves that I ignored. I breathed slowly and deeply, focusing my magic on the area outside of the inn, staying aware. All was quiet. Peggy and I were alone.

She jumped as a tiny door on the clock snapped open and a bright red bird popped out, tweeting an off-key tune that did nothing to lighten the atmosphere. It pulled her out of her anxious stupor, and she turned to me.

“Drink?” she squeaked.

I shook my head, and she went back to sharing her attention between the door and the clock.

“We’re closing soon,” she said a few minutes later. “Do you…” she hesitated, torn between emotion and professionalism. “Do you need a room?”

“No. Only a few more minutes, and I’ll be on my way.”

She nodded, but made no move to begin closing up.

The door flew open, blown back by a gust of wind and rain. A slender man entered, wearing a black coat matching those of the men who had left earlier. He struggled to pull the door shut behind him. The hat he wore low over his eyes had done little to keep his face dry, and his thick mustache dripped rainwater down the front of his already-soaked garments.

He nodded to the barmaid and removed his hat as he passed. “The usual,” he muttered.

He turned his head from side to side as though sniffing for danger, paused as he caught sight of me, then hesitated for a moment before sliding onto the bench across the table from me.

I took a moment to reach outside of the building again with my mind. He had followed my instructions, and had come alone.

Drops of water from the hem of his coat made dull tapping noises as they hit the grimy floor, out of time with the clock. He knocked his fingers on the table and pretended he wasn’t afraid, but his thoughts pressed out of him, propelled by uncontrolled emotion. Fear, dread, a touch of excitement. Seeing a person so exposed repulsed me, and once again I longed for this assignment to be finished.

So finish it, I thought.

“You are Jude Winnick?” I asked him, dropping my voice to a pitch and volume that grabbed his attention but left the barmaid unable to listen in.

She interrupted us, leaving the safety of her post long enough to deposit a cup of sharp-scented spirits in front of my companion. She ignored the droplets that sprayed the table as she retreated.

He drank deeply, then wiped his mustache on the sleeve of his coat. “I am.”

“Your brother is Myles Winnick, the magic hunter?”

“Might be. Might not be.” His words were confident, but his voice trembled. “I know who you are, Aren Tiernal. I know who your brother is. I could turn you in.”

Half-brother. Even as I worked to gain Severn’s favor, I couldn’t help but distance myself from him in my mind. “Is that why you answered my message, why you came here tonight? Are you going to place me under arrest?” I allowed myself a small, humorless smile and leaned forward, catching his gaze with my own. “No one knows you’re here.”

He licked his lips and took another long drink, then signaled to the barmaid to bring more. She looked away.

Winnick cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

“Your brother has been a busy man lately.”

Winnick snorted. “Well, he’s good at what he does. He sniffs out people like you better than a fox after rats.”

“I’m looking for a magic-user born in your country. Any one would do, but your brother is killing them off. It’s inconvenient.”

“Not for us, it isn’t.”

“It could be.”

Another attempt to drain the dregs from his cup, and a scowl. “Why don’t you talk to Myles about it? He’s the magic hunter. I’m just the muscle.”

I leaned back and rested my hands on the table. “Your brother is well-protected, and I don’t think he’d be interested in speaking to me. But you—you could get close to him. Pass on a message. I heard a rumor that he’s captured another Sorcerer. Perhaps he’d be interested in letting me take that person with me. Far less messy for your people than trying and executing him.”

The drink must have been strong. Winnick’s inhibitions were lessening after just one serving, his confidence growing. He pushed the cup too far to the side of the table, and it clattered to the floor. “And help you Tyreans? Not bloody likely. What do you want him for, anyway? As I hear it, your country’s just lousy with people like you. What do you want with ours?”

“That’s not your concern.” Nor is it mine, I added to myself. My brother Severn, regent of Tyrea, had ordered me to bring him a magic-user from Darmid, and to make sure no one in our own country saw me do it. I didn’t care what happened to them after delivery. I just wanted to find one so I could leave this magic-barren land behind and return home for a reprieve from the manipulation and the killing.

I wasn’t eager to see Severn again, but some things couldn’t be avoided.

Winnick grinned, revealing several gaps in his yellow teeth. “What if I told you we’d just executed that one this morning? That he died bitching and moaning about his innocence, how he couldn’t help having magic?”

I clenched my hands into fists under the table, but held my temper in check even as my pulse quickened. “I would be displeased if I heard that. Is your brother tracking anyone else right now?”

“I don’t know.”

But he did know. Had I not been able to read his thoughts with magic, the shift in his eyes and the nervous twitch of his wrist would have given him away.

“Look at me.” He obeyed, and in an instant I was past his almost non-existent defenses, probing his thoughts. “Where?” He felt me in his mind, and tried to push the name of the town away, but I caught it. Widow’s Well.

“How uplifting,” I whispered as I released him.

He collapsed back against the booth and tried to pull his thoughts together. “You’re a monster,” he gasped.

“I wouldn’t have to be if you’d cooperate.”

“I’ll never help you.” He shuddered, then pushed his short hair back from his brow. “My brother will hear of this, and his superiors, and theirs.”

“I’m terrified.” I glanced at the barmaid. She stood straight and still, jaw clenched as she listened, looking anywhere but at us. At least her ignorance and fear were working in my favor.

“Are we done?” he asked. His right hand slipped under the table.

“Don’t.” I spoke sharply enough that the barmaid risked a glance in our direction. “This won’t end well for you if you attack me.”

He didn’t listen. The hunting knife gleamed dully in the lamplight as he raised it and held it tight in his trembling fist. I gritted my teeth. I should have taken that drink.

Winnick stood and adjusted his grip on the knife’s bone handle. “I don’t think you mean for this to end well for me either way. I know about you people, and where your power comes from.” He blinked and looked around. “I shouldn’t have come. Making a deal with the bloody devil himself, that’s what this was.”

I stood, reached slowly into my pocket and produced a heavy gold coin, which I set on the table. “So you’re not interested in a reward for the information you’ve so generously shared?”

His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. His left hand reached for the coin, but he pulled back. In that moment of unguarded distraction I forced my way deep into his mind, past thoughts, memories and desires. He tried to close himself off, but it was too late.

I had all of the information I was going to get from him. I decided I would alter his memory and let him go. After all, Severn wanted this done quietly. I could be done with Winnick in a matter of moments and go on to search elsewhere for a magic-user.

Memories flooded Winnick’s mind. Images of people he had helped his brother hunt down. Men, mostly, and hardly any with significant power. A few might have been classed as Sorcerers if they’d had the education and opportunity required to develop their talents, but not one had been given the chance. I saw them hanged. I saw a young woman screaming as the hunter and his men dragged her away from her crying children, as her neighbors looked on and did nothing. And I saw this man and his brother laughing over their victories in this very tavern. My breath caught in my throat as rage finally overtook me.

Winnick bared his teeth in a mad grin. “You see that?” he whispered.

He tried to back away. I didn’t let him, and his eyes widened as he understood the extent of my control over him. His knife clattered to the floor, though he tried to hold onto it. His thoughts turned to pleading, his emotions to fear and desperation as he tried to anticipate how I would hurt him.

A low moan escaped his throat, and behind him the barmaid clapped both hands over her mouth. I ignored her. She wouldn’t remember any of this once I was through with her, and neither would Winnick. Not until he had to. Not until the suggestion I planted in his mind was ready to become action.

To hell with subtlety.

I leaned closer, and whispered to him what he was going to do.

Chapter II

Rowan

ANOTHER DAY HALFWAY DONE.

ANOTHER morning working at the library, with the smells of old paper and new ink, with adventure and romance and tragedy. A few more hours of listening to Mr. Woorswith reminiscing with his cronies about the wonders and horrors they’d seen when they traveled to Tyrea in their youth. I’d lurked in the shadows behind the historical reference shelf, wishing I could see it all for myself, just once. Not much chance of a good Darmish girl like me doing anything of the sort, but I enjoyed eavesdropping on the old men’s tall tales. They got me through long shifts and distracted me on days when the headaches tormented me. Today it hadn’t been enough, and I’d asked to leave before lunch.

I slipped out the front door of the library and reached into my bag as I descended the stone steps to the street. The book of fairy tales that I carried felt heavier than it had any right to. No reason to feel guilty about it, I reminded myself. True, I was technically not allowed to access materials in the restricted section, and no one—not visiting scholars, not curious magic hunters—was allowed to remove a book about magic from the building. But no one would know. They’d never caught me before.

My boots scuffed over the dirty cobblestone streets, kicking up dust that swirled in the autumn breeze and settled into a thin layer on the bottom of my skirt. A sudden gust blew my auburn hair into my eyes, and I tied it in a thick knot at the back of my head. Not fashionable, but there was no one nearby I felt like impressing. My mother would have told me to lift my face to the world, to take pride in myself, and for goodness sakes just smile a little. But she wasn’t there to bother me about it, and I could hardly be bothered to care on my own.

A bright ray of sunlight broke through the clouds overhead, and the dull headache that had been building all morning pressed harder at the back of my skull. The world swam in front of me, and I paused to take a few deep breaths. You’ll be home soon, I told myself, and closed my eyes against the light. Just get home, make some heartleaf tea for the pain, go to bed, everything will be fine. Nineteen years of this hasn’t killed you yet.

A clattering noise interrupted my thoughts. Hoof beats on stone, faster than they should have been. I opened my eyes, but the pain made everything slow. By the time I lifted my head and struggled to understand exactly what was happening, they were almost on top of me. Four horses with uniformed riders wearing the king’s blue and gold, armed but not armored, completely out of place in the town of Lowdell.

What’s the rush, boys? The thought passed slowly through my thick mind. One of them yelled. I tried to step out of the street, but something wasn’t working. My legs wouldn’t respond. I closed my eyes again.

Someone grabbed my arm and yanked me away, spinning me out of the road as the horses thundered past. It hurt my shoulder, but that hardly registered over the headache, which screamed to life as my head snapped sideways. I pressed my hands to my face and leaned into my rescuer.

When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, my older brother Ashe stood looking down the street where the riders had disappeared. He ran his fingers through his short blond hair and frowned. “Didn’t even look back.”

“Must have been late for something.” I slumped onto one of the crates that the grocer had left stacked outside of her store.

“Too late to do any good, that’s for sure.” Ashe scratched at the arm of his blue messenger’s uniform and bent to pick up the papers he’d dropped when he pulled me out of the road. “You all right, Ro?”

“Same old thing,” I said, and tried to smile. “Just need to get home to bed.”

He frowned. “I’ll walk you.” I started to object, but he held up a hand to stop me. “I know, it’s not my fault you’re incompetent. Still, I’d feel sort of bad about it if something happened to you. I just have to post these on the way.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

He grinned and offered a hand to help me up. “Come on.”

Three more soldiers on white horses trotted down Main Street as we waited to cross, their expressions grim and their gazes forward.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” I asked Ashe.

He didn’t answer.

The notice boards in the center of town kept us informed of all the important things. Posters for community events, help-wanted notices, and advertisements for matchmaking and snow-clearing services overflowed from four sides. The fifth was reserved for birth announcements, but there was rarely anything to post there, and nothing until a baby was at least six months old. On a really exciting day we might find a new reminder about the dangers of magic and the proper procedures for reporting a magical creature or plant if we saw one—or, God forbid, a person using it.

“What’s this?” I took a heavy, cream-colored page from Ashe before he hung it.

“Read it for yourself.”

Bold, scarlet letters stretched across the top of the paper. “Notice: Every able-bodied man over the age of sixteen is required to volunteer for security patrols as part of a province-wide initiative…” I glanced up at Ashe. “This is ridiculous.”

He snorted. “I know. How is it volunteering if we’re required to do it, right?”

“Not quite what I meant.” I scanned the rest of the notice. “They don’t even say why, do they?”

“Same as it’s always been. The threat’s just escalated since the Tyrean king disappeared. His son doesn’t seem willing to let us be.” Ashe took the paper from me and tacked it up high, partially covering a list of banned flora.

“It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Nah. It’s never as bad as they make it out to be.”

I wouldn’t have taken the news so calmly if it had been my name being added to that list. Mother would have said that was typical. I’ve never liked being forced to do anything.

The pain was receding to its usual dull ache, but I leaned on Ashe’s arm when he offered it, and we started toward our parents’ house. I still had trouble thinking of it as home. My parents sent me to live with my Uncle Ches and Aunt Victoria when I was six years old. Their home, called Stone Ridge, was a half-day’s journey from Lowdell, and my parents had hoped that life far from the city would be good for my health. I’d been back in town for a few years, but I still felt like a visitor in my parents’ house and an outsider in town.

“There’s no point worrying about it,” Ashe continued, mistaking my silence for concern. “Folks have been talking about the possibility of Tyrea invading for ages, probably since our people settled here. But there have never been any large-scale attacks on any of the border towns, nor so much as a hint of their navy on our waters for as long as I can remember. Besides, even if something did happen, I doubt we would be the primary target.”

Though Lowdell seemed like a bustling city to me, it was tiny compared to other places in Darmid. Ardare, the capital city, would be far more valuable to the Tyreans than our port town.

“The Tyreans probably wouldn’t even remember to tell us if they did take over,” I said. “We’d just wake up one morning and the dragons would be back.”

Ashe made a sour face. “Don’t even joke about it. The dragons wouldn’t be the worst thing to show up, either. I’d rather deal with one of them than with a person using magic.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes. I breathed the ocean air as we left the protection of the town’s buildings and followed the road through fields of long grass that stretched down to the bay. The smell of salt water and seaweed calmed me and cleared my mind like nothing else.

I slowed as we got closer to our parents’ house. I rarely had a chance to speak to my brother alone, and our conversation brought up questions that were more pressing than my pain. Instead of saying goodbye, I leaned against the fence.

“Ashe, have you ever met a Tyrean? Or anyone else who used magic?”

“Never have, never want to,” he said, with a firm shake of his head. “You haven’t, have you?”

“No,” I said. Not really. During my first years with my aunt and uncle, a family of Wanderers from beyond the mountains had come by a few times, selling wares. They seemed nice enough. I’d never tell Ashe, though. Most people considered the Wanderers harmless, and they’d never seemed magical to me. Still, their visits to Stone Ridge were a well-kept secret. We were a good family, and did not associate with anyone connected to magic or Tyrea.

Remembering the Wanderers and their disappearance troubled me, and I spoke without thinking. “If you’ve never seen magic, then how do you know it’s bad?”

Ashe gave me a sharp look. “Same way you know a fish has gone bad just from the smell. You don’t need to taste it to know it’ll make you sick. You haven’t been thinking about that again, have you?”

“No,” I lied. I’d been thinking about it less in recent years, and I’d mostly accepted that real life had nothing in common with magic as I’d imagined it when I was a child. Still, I felt out of tune with the rest of the people in town, like I had too many questions that no one else seemed inclined to ask. Ashe was the only one I trusted not to shun me for them, and to answer me honestly.

“But no one will talk about it,” I continued, hating the slight whine that crept into my voice, “and the old stories—”

“Were written in a very different time and place,” Ashe finished for me.

“I don’t need a history lesson.” My uncle was a well-known historian, and he’d given me as complete an education as anyone could in our country. Hundreds of years ago, our ancestors overthrew rulers who wielded magic, who used it to enslave their countrymen. Our people rose up and killed the Sorcerers, then fled to this land at the Western edge of the mountains. Our magic hunters had been ridding the land of every trace of magic ever since—and every memory of it, including my beloved fairy tales.

Ashe planted his feet wide and crossed his arms, ready to lecture. “Magic is dangerous. You know how the people over there got theirs.” He nodded toward the mountains to the east. “They sell their souls, Ro, just like the Sorcerers in the old country. The Tyreans worship demons and a false goddess, not our God. We have to distance ourselves from that. I know Uncle Ches keeps the old story books in his library at Stone Ridge. I also know he and Aunt Victoria let you read them when you were little, and that was unfair to you. It warped your thinking. Magic isn’t wise unicorns and pretty mermaids and benevolent magicians, understand?”

“I know the stories aren’t true. I just wondered—”

“No. The real heroes are the magic hunters who keep us safe, and the soldiers who protect our borders against the Tyreans.”

Ashe obviously considered the subject finished and turned to open the gate, but I held him back. I needed my mind to be still. “How do you know that our stories are true? I mean, there was a time when people told their children those stories. They must have thought magic was good, once.”

Ashe folded his arms across his chest. “All right. Here’s a story for you, little one, since you enjoy them so much. I said that there have been no large-scale attacks on us, and that’s true. But I delivered a report this morning saying that a magic hunter was killed yesterday, his throat cut clean to the bone. There wasn’t much left of the killer once the other soldiers caught him, but they’re almost certain it was the hunter’s own brother that did it.”

My heart skipped at the news of the magic hunter’s death. No one I knew, but still… “That’s horrible.” I pulled a lock of hair from its knot and twisted it between my fingers, a nervous habit I’d never outgrown. “But I don’t see what their family problems have to do with magic or Tyrea.”

Ashe sighed. “The ruling family over there, the Tiernals, they’re really powerful. They say Severn, the one who’s on the throne now, has even more magic in him than his old daddy did. His brothers are strong, too, and one of them, Aren, uses it to control people’s minds.” Ashe tapped a finger against his forehead, as if the point needed emphasizing. “There was a barmaid who said the killer was in her tavern the night before the murder and she thought he met with someone, but she couldn’t remember what happened, or even what this guy looked like. She was terrified, thought she was going mad. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

It seemed impossible. An exaggeration, like I’d always assumed the old men’s stories were. I shivered and pulled my jacket closer to my body.

Ashe glanced at the house and lowered his voice. “Rowan, these people aren’t like us. Severn is ruthless. From what I’ve heard he could be insane, too. I have no doubt that the mountains are the only thing holding him back from taking our lands. We know less about this other one, but we know he’s dangerous, and this isn’t the first time he’s been to Darmid. God willing, they’ll catch him this time, but he’s probably long gone.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I keep my ears open, and you should, too. The world’s a dangerous place these days. The governor and councils don’t want people to know about attacks like this because it would cause panic. I’m telling you because I’ve seen the kind of books you sneak out of the library, and I know you’re curious about magic. It’s all dangerous, and if you mess with it, you’re jeopardizing everything good that’s coming to you. Understand?”

My stomach clenched. I’d been trying to avoid thinking about those good things I was supposed to be so excited about. Sympathy for magic held no place in my future. “Understood. You want to come in for lunch?”

“Nah, I’ve got work to do. You need anything else?”

“I think I can handle it. Thanks.”

Ashe waved and jogged back toward town.

I stood looking at the mountains for a few more minutes and another shudder ran up my spine. Magic, I thought. I knew Ashe was right, but still. What if? I’d once spent my days acting out fairy tales in the woods. More recently, on days when the town and its rules frustrated me, I’d thought about taking our old horse and following the shore past the mountains, just to see what was really there before I had to settle down for good.

Dreams are for children, I reminded myself, and you’re not a child anymore. Good things are coming, remember?

I sighed and rubbed my temples, where tendrils of pain once again crept forward. It was going to be one of those days when it came and went like the tide. The headaches were only becoming more frequent and severe as the years passed, but even town doctors were at a loss as to how to stop them.

At least there was one treatment that helped.

I opened the gate and followed the path through the yellowing grasses to my family’s home. Out of habit, I paused to rub my fingers over the rowanwood wreath beside the door. Nearly every home in town had one, thanks to an old superstition that said it would protect the people within from the dangers of magic. A tiny branch cracked off under my fingers, and I stuffed it back into the circle as another beat of pain thudded at my skull. No time to worry about a silly decoration. I had more pressing concerns to think about.

Chapter III

Rowan

A NOTE WAITED FOR ME on the little table inside the front door. I unfolded it and read as I followed the long hallway to the kitchen.

Rowan,

I’ll be at the workshop this afternoon. Please don’t go out tonight. We need to talk.

-Mum

“Where would I go?” I muttered, fighting the urge to crumple the note into a ball and toss it on the floor. Whatever she wanted to talk about, it wasn’t going to be pleasant for me. I left the paper on the kitchen table while I set the kettle to boil on Mother’s new wood stove, then searched the cupboards for heartleaf bark.

The purple glass jar where I kept it was empty, though I was certain I’d just bought some. The emergency supply I’d tucked away under the sink was stale, but better than nothing. I poured a thin stream of boiling water over the strings of bark and let it steep for as long as I could, then gulped the hot, bitter tea down. A burned throat was a small price to pay for relief.

I carried a second cup of tea with me to my room and cleared a space for it on the little bedside table, sending several charcoal pencils clinking to the floor. I laid my bag on the bed and took out the book of fairy tales. The leather cover was cracked, and the gold leaf that had once highlighted the title worn. My Uncle Ches took far better care of his personal collection. Still, the book was over two hundred years old and still in one piece. I wasn’t going to complain.

I turned to set the book down next to my tea. Something didn’t look right. The book I kept drawings in sat on the far side of the table, under the oil lamp. Not where I’d left it. The papers that had been underneath it were stacked in a neat pile, not the disorganized mess I had left them in.

I grabbed the sheaf of papers and rifled through, but the letter was gone.

“No,” I groaned. A black and white cat hiding in the pile of clothes at the end of my bed woke and yawned.

The letter had arrived a week before, and I’d panicked when I saw the return address and the neat handwriting on the envelope. I’d been expecting a proposal from Callum Langley, and should have been excited about it. After all, he was everything a Darmish girl could wish for—strong, handsome, son of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Ardare, and following in his father’s footsteps as a magic hunter.

We’d met at a party the year before, when I visited Ardare with my parents. I was trying to avoid another man who spouted poetry and insisted on comparing my eyes to storm clouds, dripping wine on my shoes all the while.

The hostess had been forcing her cousin on Callum. The woman was a simpering idiot who batted her eyelashes and laughed at inappropriate times when he was talking. He and I had started talking in order to avoid our pursuers and found that we got along very well. We always did, when he found time to visit. Still, I’d balked when he started talking about marriage. It felt wrong, too fast. And now, a letter. I’d meant to show it to my parents, but had hoped to work out my response first.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes to push back the pain so I could think. My mother would never understand why I’d hidden the letter. At nearly twenty years old, I was practically a spinster by Darmish standards, and was well aware of how embarrassing it was for my parents. I should have been married and trying to have children by age seventeen. Darmish women had difficulty conceiving, and the magic that lingered in our land killed many babies when they were still too weak to fight it off. Some families never had a child survive its first year, and a family like mine with four grown to adulthood inspired both gratitude and envy in the community. Darmish girls grew up knowing that it was our duty to maintain the population.

I just couldn’t help wishing it wasn’t my personal duty. I liked children, but felt exhausted at the very thought of living like my older sisters, who spent their days chasing snot-nosed toddlers around.

If only I could be more like my beautiful, bubbly cousin Felicia, who was constantly surrounded by suitors in the capital city and loved every minute of it. She was a few years younger than me and would be settling down soon, too. She’d find a perfect husband, have perfect children, and be happy making a perfect home.

I set the papers back on the table and wished I had someone to talk it over with. I couldn’t tell my mother about my misgivings, but Felicia might at least try to understand. If only she lived closer. I had no friends in town I could talk to, and if my sisters ever found time to listen, they’d just call me a silly fool and tell me to grow up.

That didn’t mean I had to sit around and listen to my mother’s predictable rant and watch the accompanying hand-wringing, though. It suddenly seemed like an excellent time to visit the family I’d grown up with. I’d been meaning to go anyway, to help get my aunt and uncle’s big, old house ready for winter. Going now would allow me a brief escape, and no one was likely to go that far to drag me home and face my mother. I’d think about sending Callum my acceptance when I returned. Refusing his proposal was out of the question, but…

“It just seems so final,” I whispered. The cat ignored me.

The headache was fading, if only slightly. I took off my skirt and slipped into pants that would be more practical for travel, then tossed clothing into my old canvas bag, along with the book of fairy tales and the knife Ashe gave me as a sixteenth birthday present. There was no harm in reading the book, no matter what Ashe and the authorities might think. The old stories comforted me with their familiar adventures, the romance, and even the magic, and they took my mind off of my real-world problems in a way that nothing else could.

In just a few minutes I was finished packing, and I hurried to shove the rest of the bedroom’s mess under the bed. “I’ll miss you, Puzzle,” I told the cat.

He twitched an ear and went back to sleep. If only everyone else was so content to let me be, I thought, and kissed his head.

My parents’ house wasn’t especially large compared to many in Lowdell, but Mother kept it meticulously clean and tastefully decorated. Today most of the windows were open, and the cream-colored, lace curtains lifted and swayed in the gentle breeze. I moved as quietly as I could through the kitchen, taking only a slice of buttered bread for my lunch and eating it as I piled meat and greens into a sandwich for the road. One of the beautiful glass flasks my mother made in her shop held enough water for the trip, and I threw in an apple for the horse. The back side of my mother’s note was still blank, and I used it to scratch out the details of where I’d gone. At least she’d be pleased that I hadn’t wasted paper.

The front door creaked open, and I froze.

“Rowan?” My mother’s voice carried clearly down the hallway. “Are you home?”

Damn. She was early. I hesitated for a moment, then slipped out the back door. There was no point discussing the letter with her. It would just turn into a fight with her insisting that I accept the proposal before Callum gave up on me, and me pushing back, not knowing why I thought I needed to fight so hard. I understood that marrying Callum would be the best thing for me. I would say yes, and make my parents proud. I would live the life I was meant to have, and I’d learn to be happy with it.

Everything would be just perfect.

The old wooden cart waited in our little stable, and I pulled a few things from the storage closet to take with me to Stone Ridge—a crate of preserves, sugar, sweets left over from the previous month’s festival. It wasn’t much, but taking supplies was a good excuse to make the journey.

I wondered what excuse I’d use to get away once I’d married and moved to Ardare. I’d have to find a way. They and their servants were more family to me than my mother, father, and siblings. But once children came along…

I gripped hard onto the side of the cart and took deep breaths to calm my aching stomach.

Jigger, our old chestnut gelding, watched from his stall. I slipped in beside him to crouch in the clean hay that covered the floor, and buried my face in my hands.

“It’s going to be perfect,” I told myself. “I’m going to have everything a girl should want.”

I tried to imagine a big, beautiful wedding. Callum would look so handsome, and I would stand there in front of God and everyone and declare that I would love him forever.

My heart fluttered in my chest, like a bird frantic to escape a cage that was growing smaller every day. I took deep breaths and squeezed back the tears that stung my eyes.

“What is wrong with me?” I whispered.

Chapter IV

Rowan

THE AFTERNOON AIR WAS CRISP, colder than it should have been before harvest’s end, but the sun shone bright and the leaves on the trees were halfway to what would soon be a riot of colors. Jigger’s hoofs crunched over those that had already fallen as we reached the shelter of the forest road. It was a perfect day for travel, and the weather did wonders for my mood. Soon I was able to leave my anxiety behind and let my thoughts drift to more pleasant things.

The sun had dropped behind the trees before we reached the rock formation that Stone Ridge was named for. The narrow granite and quartz ridge ran along the north side of the road, rising to twice my height in the middle and tapering toward both ends of its considerable length. It sat on the border of the property, and had marked the edge of my world when I was a young girl.

Back then I had pretended it was the back of a huge dragon sleeping in the earth, waiting to wake and snatch unwary travelers. It was a good game, but even then I’d known it couldn’t have been true. My people drove the dragons out of Darmid long before I was born. Sometimes I still wished I could see one, just once. It was so easy to imagine a sleek, green form slithering between the trees in that forest, especially on foggy days.

You should ask Callum if he’ll take you to Tyrea to see a dragon, I thought, and smiled. That might have been enough to get rid of him forever, if I’d wanted to. A respectable person would never be interested in such things.

I was lost in those thoughts when a crashing noise in the trees above us made me jump in my seat and let out a small scream. Jigger froze, ears forward and muscles quivering visibly under his shaggy coat. I understood perfectly how he felt—my own heart pounded, and I felt like I might throw up the sandwich I’d stopped to eat earlier. I scanned the trees overhead, and noticed a small patch of damaged branches over the long rock.

Maybe you called a dragon to yourself. The hairs on the backs of my arms prickled. I dug my knife out of my bag, then slipped down from the cart. It occurred to me that it would probably a better idea to just leave, as Jigger seemed eager to do. But these were my woods, and I’d always been insatiably curious about the things that lived in them. I didn’t think I’d forgive myself if I didn’t at least look.

It was probably nothing, anyway.

My knife looked laughably small, but it made me feel braver than I would have without it. I crept toward the ridge, and winced as the dry leaves crunched under my weight, the small sound amplified in the eerily silent forest. A moment later there came a shuffling noise from the other side of the ridge. It stopped, but something was waiting there, perhaps something more frightened than I was—or perhaps just waiting to attack. I leaned my chest against the cold, moss-spotted rock, breathed deeply, and peered over to the other side.

“SKREEEE!”

A high-pitched shriek pierced my brain in the spot beside my left eye that still ached. I glimpsed a large brown bird tucked beneath a fallen pine before I ducked back behind my own side of the ridge.

Not a dragon, then. I almost laughed at my wild imagination. Just an eagle, though not quite like the white-headed ones we usually saw near the water. I sheathed and pocketed my knife.

When I looked again, the eagle was waiting for me. It had backed as far as it could under the dead tree, but hanging branches blocked most of the space and prevented retreat. One wing lay outstretched at an awkward angle over the leaf-littered ground, displaying slick, wet feathers.

I’d never liked leaving an animal to suffer, but this one looked decidedly uninterested in any help from me. It held its yellow and black beak open, ready to strike, and glared at me from beneath the golden feathers that shadowed its eyes. I climbed over the rock, then crouched and made myself as small and non-threatening as possible.

The eagle wasn’t fooled. It hissed and fluffed its feathers, apparently putting as much effort into looking intimidating as I was into doing the opposite.

“Shh, you don’t have to do that,” I said in my softest voice. I knew I sounded foolish, but kept talking. I glanced at the bird’s long talons and hooked beak. “You’re plenty intimidating as it is, my friend.”

I had no idea what to do next. I wondered what Matthew, my uncle’s hired man, would do. He’d let it die, I decided, and he would be right to do it. Having an eagle around wouldn’t be good for the chickens and the sheep.

But I couldn’t just leave.

“You’re hurt,” I told the eagle, and looked away from its fierce gaze. “It’s going to get very cold tonight, and if I don’t take you with me, you’re going to die here. I don’t want to hurt you.” I shifted my weight closer to the bird. It pulled back a little, but didn’t screech or hiss.

When I risked another look, it had laid its head in the dirt and closed its eyes—I suspected more from weakness than from my kind words. My jacket was off a few seconds later, covering the bird’s eyes and body. It didn’t object.

The eagle wasn’t particularly heavy, but its massive wings made it awkward to carry. I was careful to keep a strong grip on its talons and to make sure all of the sharp bits pointed away from my body, but still spent the walk back to the cart half-expecting to get my innards clawed out. Jigger laid his ears back against his head and scraped a fore-hoof against the hard dirt. He only settled when he could no longer see me carrying that odd bundle.

I placed it in the back of the cart and took a closer look at the wing, careful to leave the eagle’s eyes covered as I’d read about people doing with hunting falcons. Blood oozed from its wing and was already staining my jacket. I sighed and took two blankets—one to cover the back of the cart, and one to wrap around my shoulders. I left the jacket where it was.

Jigger had found his usual plodding rhythm again when the thud of faster hoof beats came from ahead of us, the horses and riders still invisible around a bend in the road.

I shivered, remembering what Ashe had said about the world being dangerous, and realized how foolish it had been to stop. You could have been off the main road by now, I told myself. Idiot. I reached for my knife, unsheathed it again, and tucked it between my thigh and the seat of the cart.

I didn’t look up when the hoof beats grew louder, but watched from beneath the hanging curtain of my hair, hoping that if I didn’t draw attention to myself the riders would pass without stopping. A pair of horses and riders approached, silhouetted by the lingering sunlight in the west, and they slowed as they came closer. Low voices spoke for a moment. One rider came closer.

Calm down, I told my pounding heart. We’re not doing anything wrong. Still, I reached for my knife.

“Stop, please,” he called. “Excuse me, Miss? I—Rowan?”

I looked up to see Callum’s familiar face, and he grinned as I lifted my gaze to meet his blue eyes. I breathed a sigh of relief at finding a friend with me. He looked like he’d been on his horse all day and hadn’t shaved for longer. His light brown hair was a mess and his clothing dirty, but he still looked good. Better than I remembered, actually.

“Hello, Callum. I wasn’t expecting to see you out here.” I signaled for Jigger to stop, and Callum brought his big black horse up next to the cart, leaving his companion to continue toward the stone ridge behind me.

“I wasn’t expecting to be here, myself,” Callum said. “Are you all right? You seem flustered.”

I slowed my breathing and reached up to smooth my hair. “I’m fine. Ashe had me concerned about the sort of people I might meet on the road, so when I heard you coming…” I shrugged, then forced a little laugh. “Silly, right?”

More hoof beats approached, this time from behind us, and four rough-looking riders came into view. They slowed to a walk as they passed, each of them giving us a careful look. They wore full beards and dressed in coarse, dark clothing. The one in the lead gave me a lewd wink and sneered at Callum, but none of them stopped or spoke.

Callum watched until they’d disappeared down the road. “He wasn’t wrong,” he said. “We need as many men as we can get out here, but I don’t trust most of them.” He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “And they’re not nearly the worst of it.”

“Well, I’m very happy to see you, then. What brings you out this way?” I tried to sound pleasant in spite of the nervousness that gnawed at my stomach. Unless the eagle was dead, it would make noise soon. I didn’t want to have to explain that one. Still, leaving would be rude. In spite of my reluctance to accept his proposal, I couldn’t afford to push Callum away.

“Oh, sort of a hunting trip,” he said. I raised an eyebrow, and he laughed. “Official business, though, I promise—nobody’s taking time off these days. Actually, you might be able to help. Did you see anything unusual here when you were coming up the road?”

You might say that. The anxious fluttering moved up into my chest. “What, right here? I don’t think so. What are you looking for?” Please don’t say a bird.

“Probably a large bird.” Damn it. “Farmers in this area have been complaining that something is attacking their livestock, and we spotted an eagle a few minutes ago. My father shot it, but it flew on, and we can’t find where it fell.”

“Your father?” I twisted around in my seat. My day was going from bad to worse in a hurry. Sir Dorset Langley was renowned for his skill as a hunter and his cleverness as adviser to the king, but nothing I’d heard about the man had made me eager to meet him.

He rode back toward us, tall and straight-backed on a muscular gray horse that nipped at Callum’s mount. “Father,” Callum began, “This is Rowan, who I’ve been—”

Callum’s father held up a hand to stop him. “I remember. What’s in the cart?” Steel-gray eyebrows knit together over intelligent eyes that looked just like Callum’s.

“I… nothing,” I stammered. “I mean, I’m taking supplies to my aunt and uncle. Sir.”

“Hmm.” His gaze passed over the blanket-covered cart. “You didn’t see anything?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that, at least.” I knew that I should hand the bird over to be killed. It was absolutely the right thing to do if it was causing problems. But I remembered the eagle laying its beautiful head in the leaves and dirt, and I couldn’t let them hurt it. I didn’t like the cold expression on Dorset Langley’s face, and though his presence commanded respect, I didn’t feel inclined to help him. I scrambled for words that sounded natural, and hoped he couldn’t see the nervous sweat that I felt on my face. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“Open the cart.”

“Excuse me?”

“Standard procedure.”

I looked to Callum, who wore an expression of shock on his face. He leaned closer to his father and spoke quietly. “I hardly think this is the best way for you to introduce yourself to someone who might soon be family.”

Dorset Langley looked me over from head to toe and back again, narrowing his eyes at my face.

I held his gaze as calmly and as openly as I could. I have nothing to hide.

“Perhaps a girl who wants to marry a magic hunter should be willing to aid us in any way we request.”

“No.” Callum nudged his horse to move between his father and the cart. “If it’s gone, it’s gone. We’re wasting time questioning Rowan, and you’re frightening her.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I, now? My apologies, young lady. We’ve had a long week, and I’m not quite myself.”

I thought this was probably exactly how he usually treated people he considered beneath him. His words sounded sincere, but that piercing gaze never left me. “That’s fine,” I told him. “Maybe we’ll just start over next time?”

He just lowered his head in a sort of bow, then turned to ride back to the ridge. I looked at Callum, who was still frowning after his father. Prince Charming himself, I thought. Chasing off the ogre to save his fair lady.

“Well, I should get on,” I said. “It was lovely to see you. I suppose we should talk more some time when you’re not so busy.” I urged Jigger on, down the road and away from Dorset Langley, but Callum kept pace beside us.

“Did you receive my letter?”

“I did. I passed it on to my mother to look at. I hope that’s all right.” At least it wasn’t a complete lie.

“Oh, of course. I’m glad you’re… yes, very good.” He smiled, obviously pleased with the acceptance he anticipated. “Would you like an escort?”

I stretched my smile until I thought my cheeks would crack. “Oh, I’d like that, but I think your father is waiting for you. The turn-off is just ahead, I’ll be fine.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Will you be in Lowdell any time soon? I should be home next week, if you’d like to come by.”

“I don’t know. Things are busy for us right now. But thank you. I’d like to talk to you about—”

“Callum!” his father called.

Callum sighed. “I should get back to it. Yell if you run into trouble. We won’t be far.”

I thanked him again, and my stomach clenched as I watched him ride away. Such a gentleman, so kind and so strong. But my chest still tightened when I thought of talking to him about his letter.

When I looked back one last time, Dorset Langley was pointing toward the broken branches overhead. I urged Jigger to move faster and get us away before Callum or his father could change their minds about letting me go.

Chapter V

Rowan

THE SUN DISAPPEARED AS WE journeyed on, leaving the sky pink and purple overhead. The cart rocked and bumped over the uneven surface of the narrow road until the slate roof of Stone Ridge came into view over a low hill, followed by a crumbling rock wall and the heavy iron gates that had stood open for as long as I could remember. Jigger lifted his head. His ears pricked up and he threw his weight forward, perhaps recalling that the hospitality here was better than at home. I hoped there would be supper waiting for me, too.

As we started down the other side of the slope, a slowly spreading warmth flowed through my muscles, erasing the tension that my meeting with Dorset Langley brought on. Though I’d been living with my parents for years, it was only when I returned to Stone Ridge that I felt like I was home. Stone Ridge meant love, family, and above all, freedom that I could never enjoy in the city.

I laughed when a scrawny, long-haired black mutt jumped into the road and gave a half-hearted snarl.

“Good evening, Micah,” I said. The dog waved his curved tail and trotted alongside the cart as we passed between the gates and into the huge yard. Grass grew between the stones beneath us and weeds sprouted beside the roadway, but it was easy to imagine how beautiful the grounds must have been when the big house was new and filled with family and servants.

“Micah!” yelled a gruff voice from inside the carriage house. “Some guard dog you are!” My uncle’s hired man Matthew came out and leaned against the doorway. The dog ran to him and lay on its belly, grinning. Matthew shook his head and ran his fingers through his thick, silver hair as he walked toward me, dog at his heel. He swung himself up into the still-moving cart and settled onto the seat beside me. The long hairs of his unkempt mustache twitched as he sighed. “I swear if anyone ever decided to rob the house, that mongrel would lead them straight to the good silver.”

“At least he tried. You can’t blame him, really. He knows he can count on me for a belly rub.”

Matthew chuckled, then turned to me and scowled. “You should have told us you were coming. I’d have met you half way.”

“I’m fine, Matthew. You worry too much.”

“I don’t worry. Just good to know what’s what, that’s all.” He covered his smile with a work-roughened hand. He’d never admit to worrying, but Matthew had always cared for me like I was his own daughter. He and his wife Della had as much of a hand in raising me as my aunt and uncle did during my years at Stone Ridge. The hours he and I spent fishing at the river were among my most cherished memories, and he’d held me when I cried after I killed my first hen.

I may have had an unusual childhood, but it was a happy one.

“Is everyone else inside?” I asked.

“Your uncle is off to Ardare to advise on something at the university. He’s been gone a lot these past few months. Della’s inside seeing to Victoria. I don’t say your aunt will be up for seeing you tonight. Hasn’t been well.” Exhaustion crept into his voice as he spoke. The house and grounds were too much for him and Della to care for on their own, but uncle Ches couldn’t afford more help. “You want some help unloading, there?”

I almost said yes out of habit, but stopped myself. “Actually, would you mind taking Jigger after we get the cart to the house? He seemed to be favoring his right fore a ways back. Maybe you could give him his supper and take a look.” I hated lying to Matthew, but I couldn’t explain the eagle to him. Over the years he’d helped me bandage and care for injured rabbits, cats, and a saucy young crow, but I felt certain he’d draw the line at anything that might be a danger to the livestock or to me. Matthew was compassionate and talented with animals, but more than anything, he was a practical man.

He watched the horse, squinting in the fading light as we approached the stone walled house. “Seems fine, but if you can take care of the rest yourself, I’d be glad to.” He jumped down as the cart rolled to a stop and removed the traces from Jigger. “I keep forgetting you’re all grown up now.”

Jigger seemed reluctant to leave, and kept looking at the cart, ears laid back. Matthew clucked his tongue and hummed a soft, lilting tune, and Jigger went with him. I waited until they were out of sight around the house before I pulled back the blanket that covered the cart.

Nothing had moved, not even the eagle. The bird lay still under my jacket. It didn’t move even when I pulled the covering away and the cool evening air ruffled its feathers.

A lump formed in my throat. It shouldn’t have mattered, but I had looked forward to caring for the beautiful creature. It would have been a far more interesting problem than the ones I’d tried to leave at home.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and a dark eye opened. “Oh—I thought you’d gone.”

The eye closed again. The golden feathers on the bird’s neck seemed to glow in the light from the lamp outside the kitchen, and I reached out and gently ran my fingers over them. A shock pricked my fingers, and I pulled my hand back. The bird must have felt it, too. It opened its eyes again and tried to lift its head. I pulled the blanket back over the cart and hurried into the house. The heartleaf was wearing off, and I was anxious to get my work done.

There was no one in the big kitchen, but pots rested on the iron stove and the savory smell of supper set my stomach rumbling. “Hello?” I called, and set my bag down on the wooden table in the center of the room. “Della, are you here?”

Matthew’s wife leaned her head out of the pantry door on the far wall. White streaks of flour marked her cheeks, and her brown hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head.

“Hello, my girl!” she called in her musical voice. “I promised your aunt clean bedsheets tonight, and her supper’s ready. Just give me a minute?” She went to the stove and piled food onto a plate, then disappeared into the hallway.

I turned on my heel and jogged back to the cart, lifted the eagle as gently as I could, and carried it up the narrow back staircase to my rooms, taking the stairs sideways so as not to nudge the dangling wing with my knees. I bumped the wall with my shoulder and a section of wood panels popped open, startling me. The building was full of those hidden closets. Useful for children’s games and for storing spare bedding, but inconvenient now. Still, no one would miss those blankets if I made a mess of one. I shifted the eagle’s weight to one arm and grabbed an old quilt, pushed the door shut with my elbow, and continued up the stairs. The eagle twitched, then relaxed.

The door to the old servants’ quarters was unlocked, and I pushed it open with my shoulder. The sitting room of my private sanctuary smelled of fresh lilacs that stood in an old blue vase, mixed with the sharp cedar scent of the open wardrobe. I carried the eagle across the room and set it on the table I used for my drawings and collections, then lit the lamp, turning the flame low so as not to startle it.

Him, I thought, for no other reason than the fact that I hated calling an animal “it,” even to myself.

The blood that streaked my jacket looked brown in the dim light. I left the bird on top of the old quilt and ran back downstairs to unload the cart, pain slamming in my forehead with every step.

I felt bad leaving him like that, but I had to take care of other things first if I didn’t want anyone to follow me upstairs.

I put the kettle on to boil while I carried boxes into the kitchen. Della returned in time to take the last box of preserves from me, and I poured a cup of brewed mint leaves for each of us.

“How’s Aunt Victoria now?” I asked.

Della blew into her mug and took a sip. “Probably as bad as you’ve seen her, but I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s been almost exactly a year since the accident, hasn’t it? I’ve had a hard time just getting her out of bed these last few days. She was glad to hear you’re visiting, but I’m afraid she won’t see anyone but me right now. The memories are overwhelming her. She gets confused.” Della rubbed her eyes with her free hand, and I regretted not coming sooner. I went to Della and wrapped my arms around her tiny waist, and she squeezed back.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Della released me and sat at the table. “Not your fault. Not hers, either. It’s just one of those things.” She looked thoughtful, then smiled and patted the seat next to her. I sat, though I wanted to get back to my rooms. “But enough about us. How are you? And your family? And… everything?”

I smiled into my cup. Della knew better than to ask directly about the marriage situation. “Fine, everyone’s fine. There will be news on the other thing soon, I suppose.” I wondered how Della had felt when she decided to marry Matthew, who was nearly twenty years older than her. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to head up to bed. Do we have any heartleaf bark?”

Della nodded. “Of course. I don’t suppose you can get it at home now.”

“We’re out of it. I was going to stop on the way out of town, and I forgot.”

“Oh, my dear.” Her frown deepened the lines on Della’s forehead. “You didn’t hear, then? They’ve just classified heartleaf as a highly suspicious species. Not to be collected or sold.”

“What?” Highly suspicious was only a step below confirmed magical. Heartleaf trees would be extinct within a decade, at least in populated areas. “There’s no magic in it,” I groaned. “It’s just the only thing that helps.” I remembered the empty jar in the kitchen cupboard, and my jaw muscles tightened. “I can’t believe Mother got rid of mine!” She knew how I needed it. But I supposed a magistrate’s wife couldn’t allow illegal substances in her house, no matter how badly her family needed them.

Della reached out and patted my arm. “Well, I suppose she felt it was the right thing. There was a letter about that a few days ago, but we ignored it. Even if they made us get rid of what we have, there’d still be three good trees on the property. Take some supper with you, dear, it’ll help.” She busied herself filling a plate with roasted meat, potatoes, boiled carrots, and a slice of buttered bread. My stomach groaned again.

Della poured boiling water into a heavy mug and set a generous pinch of heartleaf bark strings next to it on the tray. “Sleep well, Rowan. I won’t wake you, but there’s plenty to be done tomorrow when you’re ready.” She kissed me on the cheek and hurried off to prepare plates for herself and Matthew, and I felt a pleasant ache in my chest. It was good to be home.

When I returned to my rooms, the lump on the table hadn’t moved. I set the tray down next to my favorite old armchair and ate a few bites of everything while I tried to think what to do. I went to the bedroom and dug my sewing kit out from under the bed, blew the dust off of it, then carried it and the mug of hot water over to the table. There were needles in the kit, strong thread, scissors, and a pair of pointed pincers buried beneath a tangle of string and fabric scraps. I dropped the pincers into the hot water, then pulled the ruined jacket off of the eagle and tossed it into the corner of the sitting room.

The bird watched with glazed eyes as I stripped off my heavy sweater and slipped into a long-sleeved button-up shirt. He didn’t seem able to do anything else, except twitch for a few seconds when I lifted the injured wing to examine the wound. I hesitated for a moment, waiting for an attack, but he just lay there as I began my examination.

It was worse than I’d thought. A nasty rip through the skin and muscle of the wing left bone exposed, and I suspected a break farther down. I took the pincers and carefully removed a piece of wood that was embedded in the wound. It was splintered lengthwise, jagged at the ends. Part of the arrow’s shaft, then, but it had a strange, sickly green color that shimmered in the flickering light. I dropped it onto the table and went back to work.

There wasn’t much bleeding now, even with the wood removed, but I didn’t know how I’d ever stitch the skin together. There were no clean edges to match up, and not enough flesh to cover the bone. I leaned back in the wooden kitchen chair and pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes.

“Skrork?” The bird was watching me again. For the first time I noticed the green flecks scattered through the deep brown irises of his eyes. They were beautiful. Cold, but expressive, almost human. Not like our chickens, which often seemed like alien creatures to me. I could almost believe that this bird understood what I was trying to do.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m no doctor.” The eagle closed his eyes and turned his head away from me. I pulled the lamp closer and cleaned the torn skin. If I could cover it and keep it clean, it might heal—but he would never fly again.

Sharp pain twisted through my head, and I picked up a few strings of bark to chew on. It didn’t work as well as brewing them, but it was something. My eyes throbbed to the slow rhythm of my pulse.

I tried to stand to find something to cover the wound with, but felt light-headed and sat down again, suddenly feeling ill. The room wasn’t spinning like it was supposed to if a person were fainting, but instead seemed to fade away. I could still see everything around me, but none of it seemed real. All of my focus was pulled to the eagle, its wing, the raw, bloody gash.

Nauseating pain washed over me and slashed at my skull, but I couldn’t pull back from the lamplight to find relief in the dark. White spots filled the edges of my vision. Something pulled at me, gentle but insistent.

The wing started to come back together. The veins knit themselves, and blood began pumping through them. My breath caught in my throat, my heart hammered. Impossible. I tried to look to the eagle’s face, but couldn’t shift my gaze away from what was happening in front of me.

I groaned as the pressure in my head increased to an unbearable level. My voice sounded far-off and weak.

Tears blurred my vision, but through them I watched as the healing continued. Muscles grew together over the bone, and the sharp bend in the wing straightened under the feathers with a soft cracking sound. Skin grew over the wound, dark pink and rippled, but nearly whole.

Grey patches bloomed out of the white lights and crowded everything else out. The world turned black, and I fell into darkness.

Chapter VI

Aren

HER MAGIC DISAPPEARED FROM THE room as she hit the floor, but it lingered in me, its glowing embers all that remained of the healing force that had taken me by surprise. I lifted my head and shifted my body to the edge of the table. There she lay, head cocked at an awkward angle and thick hair covering her face, chest rising and falling regularly. I closed my eyes, half-hypnotized by the strange feeling that flowed through me, pulsing outward from my injured wing. Hours before, I’d thought I was going to die, crippled, shot with an arrow that poisoned my blood and kept me from using my magic. Now I would live, if I could get away.

Perhaps a rest first, though.

I opened my eyes again, and blinked hard, fighting the influence of her magic, which felt so unlike my own in its warmth and gentle strength. It would have been easy to let myself drift off into it as it healed me, but I couldn’t. I was still in danger, and needed to get home. It wouldn’t be long before my body made the magic its own. I just needed to be patient.

I forced myself to my feet, bracing my talons against the flat surface of the table. I stretched my injured wing, resisting the contented laziness that infused my muscles. It wasn’t fully healed, but that girl had done what I couldn’t. She’d cleansed my blood of the poison, and healed my wounds far more efficiently than I’d have been able to under any circumstances.

There was no way I could open the window behind me without transforming back into my human body. I flapped to the floor and made my way through an open doorway into a tidy little bedroom, but the only window in there was closed, too.

There was nothing else to be done. I drew on that unfamiliar magic within me and transformed, sending the eagle’s body away as I drew my own form back to myself until I crouched with my bare feet pressed against the smooth, wooden floorboards of the bedroom. The temperature in the room dropped as the process began. Focus, I told myself. Transformation was still a relatively new skill for me, and I had to be careful.

I wrapped myself in a quilt from the bed. Not for the first time, I decided that forming clothes after transformation was going to be the next skill I studied. At twenty-three I was far more powerful and skilled in magic than anyone had expected, but I couldn’t let myself rest when there was still so much to learn.

The tiny sitting room where I’d left her was warmer and brighter than the bedroom. I sat in a worn-out armchair and examined my arm in the lamplight. The wound had transferred, as they always did, and it still throbbed with that unfamiliar magic. I found that I could think more clearly now that I had returned to my natural form, and several conclusions fell into place.

First, this young woman was no professional healer. The ability to heal another was among the rarest magical gifts. Besides that, anyone in my own country who regularly used magic to heal learned to strip their personal essence from the power before it left them, leaving it as blank as the ambient magic in the land around them. Their work felt nothing like this. Her magic was soft, yet powerful enough to make me feel light-headed. Her concern for me when the healing began was there, a feeling of peace and belonging that I hadn’t felt in years.

The intimacy of it made me shudder. I didn’t want this Darmish girl’s magic and her essence to be a part of me. I hardened myself to its influence, and waited for the power to become my own. But as her influence began to fade, an ache spread through my chest, a feeling of regret which I refused to examine. The sooner I moved past it, the better.

I looked down at the still form on the floor. “Who are you?”

A Darmish woman with magic in her—just what I had been searching for. But the magic had hurt her. When I crouched beside her, I felt nothing. Had she not just healed me, I would have thought her just another useless, magic-less body.

“Protected, then,” I muttered.

It made sense. Anyone like her living in this country would have to keep that secret well-hidden from the magic hunters, their townsfolk and even their families. But from me? It should have been impossible.

In any case, she was exactly what I’d been searching for. If I took her back to Tyrea and handed her over to Severn, my work would be done. Delivering someone like this would win Severn’s favor and once again prove my loyalty. If he trusted me enough to make me his Second, things would change for the better. My work might still occasionally involve manipulating Severn’s enemies, but at least I’d be doing it in Luid instead of in the outer provinces or this gods-forsaken land. Taking this hidden Sorceress to Severn would buy me power and wealth—and anything or anyone those resources could buy.

And yet, this girl had saved my life at great risk to herself, and I needed to decide what that was worth.

I stood to open the window, and breathed in the cool night air. My brothers would call me a fool for even considering leaving her here. They’d have taken her in just to prove they didn’t owe anything to anyone. Compassion was weakness, as was gratitude to those below our station, and my family had seen too much weakness in me when I was a child. I’d worked to harden myself to fear and love and everything else that makes one vulnerable, but suddenly found myself struggling again.

Wealth and power and freedom were within my grasp, and I was considering letting it go so a stranger could live. Idiot.

I flexed my arm again and felt its weakness. It would be too difficult to take her back in my current state, I decided. I would leave her, at least for now. If she was lucky, I’d find another.

The stairs creaked outside of the closed door.

Damn it. I’d forgotten to send my awareness out, lulled by that warm magic into a feeling of safety. I moved silently to the door and leaned against it. A single presence approached, female. Not threatening, but I doubted she’d be pleased to find a naked stranger in the house and the girl lying half-dead on the floor.

A knock. “Rowan? Are you awake? I’m off to bed, if you need anything.” A soft voice, concerned but not overly so. When no answer came, she turned to leave. As soon as she left the stairwell, I locked the door.

“Rowan, is it?” I asked. The girl on the floor didn’t answer.

The wagon ride had been torture. Every bump in the road sent fire burning through my veins, courtesy of the poison in my wounded wing. Still, I had listened, and heard much of her conversation with the hunters. Dorset Langley. I knew that name, though I’d never met the man. His reputation as a magic hunter reached far beyond his country’s borders. And she was to marry his son.

“Why ever would you do a thing like that?” In their country those who fought against magic were heroes, and she would be marrying into a wealthy and powerful family. But as a magic-user, perhaps even a Sorceress, she was putting her life in danger to do it. So either she valued social status above her own life, or she felt confident enough in her ability to hide the magic that she thought it was worth the risk.

“Or she doesn’t know what she is.” An interesting idea.

I sat again and pulled my hands through my tangled hair, then tied the mess behind my neck with one of the strings from the sewing basket. As I ate what was left of the girl’s supper, I glanced around the room to see what I could learn about her.

Illustrated books about nature lay stacked on one shelf, though I suspected they omitted many of the creatures we were familiar with on the other side of the mountains. There was fiction there, too, bound in leather and paper, probably nothing I would recognize. Scholars in Tyrea studied Darmish culture, such as it was, and I’d learned enough to know that their stories were like their land: scrubbed clean of magic.

And interest, I thought.

When I stood again, the heavy quilt I wore knocked the girl’s travel bag onto its side, and another book slid out onto the floor.

As I flipped through the brittle old pages, I smiled. “That’s more like it,” I told her, and tried not to laugh. In my country, these were children’s stories. There was a girl with a fairy godmother, as if the fairies would have any interest in the position. The prince turned into a monster and restored by love came next, followed by talking animals, burnt witches, and magic of the lightest and gentlest sort. But, I reminded myself, things were different here. The Darmish didn’t allow their children to be exposed to these stories, which they considered heretical. Just possessing this book would get my unlikely rescuer into serious trouble if it were discovered.

She was a mystery, but one I couldn’t dwell on for long. When I extended my awareness again, the house was quiet. It would be safe to leave. But as I stepped past the body on the floor, she moved. Not much, just a slight arch of the back. Her head turned to one side, and the waves of tangled reddish hair fell back from her face.

She was lovely. I’d caught a glimpse of that when I was in eagle form, but had been unable to appreciate it fully. Now, in human form and with the pain receding, I could see it. The memory of her thick eyebrows knitting together over clear and intelligent eyes increased my pulse, as did the thought of her well-proportioned torso as she struggled out of her heavy sweater. No woman in my home city of Luid would have allowed herself to be seen in such an unkempt state, but there was something appealing about this girl’s clean face and wild hair. Too appealing.

“Definitely time to go,” I whispered.

I should have been able to leave her there. She’d served her purpose. If a night on the floor was the worst she suffered from meeting me, she would be better off than most. And yet, I couldn’t do it.

I rubbed my hands over my face then wrapped the blanket around my waist. As I lifted her, her head rolled back, leaving her throat exposed as the collar of her shirt pulled open where she’d neglected to close the top few buttons. Such vulnerability should have seemed pathetic to me, but I found myself instead pulling her close to my chest and wanting to protect her.

It’s her magic, I realized, and released the breath I’d been holding. Of course. It was still affecting me. Completely natural. Regrettable, but natural. It will pass, and no one ever has to know.

My left arm screamed with pain, and I hoisted the girl over my shoulder to carry her to her bed one-handed.

I gave into my weakness for another moment and made her as comfortable as I could, removing her boots, loosening the ties at the waist of her trousers, and pulling a blanket up to her shoulders. I reached out for her mind, but found that I couldn’t see her thoughts. She was there, but blocked—another indication that her hidden magic was strong.

“Goodbye, Rowan,” I whispered. “Best of luck to you with your magic hunter.”

As I stepped out of the sitting room and onto the top stair, a certainty that she wasn’t safe stopped me. She had used magic to help me. Would that change anything for her? Would her betrothed see what she was?

“Not my problem,” I muttered, and forced my feet forward. Still, my mind wouldn’t let go of her. And how could she not know what she is? That was powerful magic that she used, that my body is still using.

A memory from history lessons tickled the back of my thoughts, but wouldn’t come forward. Something about a punishment that kings once used against rival sorcerers.

This could be significant.

Pain twisted through the new scar on my arm. Perhaps it would be better to stay for just a few days, until my strength returned. I’d need it if I was going to risk returning to Luid empty-handed. Perhaps I would learn something useful.

Perhaps I’d change my mind about taking her when her magic was no longer influencing me.

I returned to the sitting room and folded the quilt on the seat of the chair, then let magic flow through me and transform my body again. I found my eagle brain able to see the situation more objectively. Only logical, I thought as I settled in for the night. Survival first. In a few days, she’ll just be an unfortunate part of my past.

Chapter VII

Rowan

I’VE BEEN HAVING THE SAME nightmare for as long as I can remember. In the dream I can’t see or hear anything. All I’m aware of is something being wrapped tight around my body, squeezing. I try to inhale, but there’s no room to breathe. That’s where the dream ends, in suffocating darkness.

When I woke, it looked like I’d been having that dream again. The blankets were twisted around my legs, and at some point during the night I’d shoved my pillows onto the floor. I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but everything seemed jumbled in my mind, as though whatever happened the evening before had been mixed with surreal dreams. I remembered unbearable pain. I remembered trying to fix the eagle, and I remembered fainting. Nothing more.

I kicked the blankets away and rolled gingerly onto my side, careful to not waken the pain that had faded to a bearable ache as I slept. I was still dressed, but my boots stood neatly paired beside the bed, and the laces on my pants were undone. I didn’t remember going to bed. Had Della come up and found me on the floor? If so, had she seen the eagle?

The eagle. I closed my eyes again and sighed. The poor thing probably died while you were passed out on the floor, you silly thing. So much for your life-saving skills.

I changed into fresh clothes and hurried through the sitting area to the washroom, not daring to look around yet, and took my time getting ready for the day. Only when I couldn’t stand it any longer did I go back to the sitting room.

Nothing. No body on the table, no bloodstained jacket in the corner, not even the strange, green piece of wood I vaguely remembered pulling from the bird’s wing.

“Skraaw?”

I spun around to look for the source of the soft croaking noise. A brown and gold eagle perched with its talons sunk deep into the upholstery of my armchair, but it couldn’t have been the same one. Far from looking like the bedraggled, nearly dead thing I remembered, this bird was alert and healthy, though one wing drooped slightly. I took a step forward, then hesitated. That beak looked even more intimidating than it had the evening before. The eagle didn’t move, but watched calmly as I edged closer, as though he was accustomed to human company. A hunting bird, maybe.

As if to demonstrate his good health the eagle stretched, wingtips reaching out as wide as I was tall. He pulled them back in, right wing still held slightly askew, and began preening his glossy feathers.

I’m losing my mind, I thought, and looked again. The wound, while still visible, had done an impossible amount of healing for one night. This was a strange animal, or I’d been asleep for a lot longer than I thought.

I backed slowly toward the bookshelf and grabbed “The Illustrated Field Guide to Birds Vol. II.” I’d borrowed it from my uncle’s library thinking I could use it to practice drawing, but had never found time.

I had no idea what might have become of volumes I or III, but this book had exactly what I was looking for. On page twenty-six, perched between the White-Headed Eagle and the Fish Hawk, was my house-guest, the Golden Eagle. There was no other useful information, but it was good to have a name to put to the bird.

A name… When I glanced up the eagle was still watching me with his head cocked to one side. The feathers over his eyes gave him a stern and serious look.

“I don’t know how long you’re going to be staying, but I can’t be calling you ‘hey you’ or ‘fella’ while you’re here,” I told him. “We even name the chickens, and we eat them.” I tapped a fingernail against my teeth as I considered the problem. “I once read an old story with an eagle called Aquila in it. Suits you well enough. What do you think?”

I didn’t expect a reaction, and I didn’t get one. The eagle just stared at me, somehow appearing relaxed and vigilant at the same time.

He stretched again, hopped down to the floor and flapped up to the table, scattering my drawings and a few books. The window was open, and he shuffled over to the sill and onto a cherry tree branch that grazed the side of the house. He seemed perfectly content to sit there, ignoring me. I stooped to pick the books up. One was the old fairy tale book from the library, though I didn’t remember taking it out of my bag.

“It’s magic, isn’t it?” I asked as I leaned out the window. “That’s how you healed so quickly. Did you come from over the mountains?”

The eagle didn’t respond, but a thrill rushed through me. There was simply no other explanation. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the excitement dulled. I remembered what Ashe had said about magic, and everything we’d been taught about the need to protect ourselves from it. This was real life now, not a fairy tale.

But still, he was just an animal. There couldn’t be any harm in helping him, could there? He seemed normal, aside from the overnight healing.

“You’re not dangerous, are you?” I asked. Aquila stared at me for a moment, then slowly clacked his beak. Not threatening me, but I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe nothing.

“So what am I supposed to do with you now?” I paced between the chair and the bookcase, and Aquila watched from the window. “If I tell someone, I don’t know what they’ll do to you. I doubt it’ll be pleasant, if Dorset Langley was after you. But if I take you back to the forest before you’re ready, you won’t survive.” I tugged at my hair as I thought. “Tell you what. You can stay just a little longer, but I’m watching you.” I hardly wanted to admit to myself that I was feeling the excitement again. “You hurry up and finish healing, and then you’d better get out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

Aquila fluffed his feathers and settled his head on his breast. At least someone was comfortable with the arrangement.

“That’s settled, then. You do what you want, just stay out of trouble. If you fall out of the tree I can’t risk smuggling you in again, and if Matthew sees you, I have no idea how you got here. I’ll try to bring you something to eat later.”

I spun around and raced downstairs, excited about something for the first time in as long as I could remember.

I fell easily back into the routines of life at Stone Ridge, helping Matthew prepare the gardens for winter, putting up storm windows, feeding the animals and cleaning the barn. Aquila watched us from the tree, huddled close to the trunk where he was nearly indistinguishable from the bark.

I tried to visit Aunt Victoria that afternoon, but her bedroom door was locked, and she refused to answer when I knocked. She rarely left that room anymore, but I’d hoped she would at least let me in.

After Della and Matthew went to bed that evening I sneaked some raw meat from the cold storage to my room, and Aquila ate while I went to the bedroom and changed into my sleep clothes. When I returned, he seemed to be waiting for me. I took out my charcoals and sketched him for a while, but it didn’t relax me the way it usually did.

After a few hours of lying in bed with thoughts churning through my mind, I got up to find a book to read. Aquila was dozing on a chair, and woke when I passed. He hadn’t done anything unusual all day. Maybe I’d been wrong about the magic.

He stretched his neck out toward me, and I reached out tentatively to stroke the feathers on his head. He squorked softly as he side-stepped his way toward the table and the window. I decided to leave the books alone for a while and followed him instead.

The moon shone full and hazy behind the thin clouds that stretched across the sky, bathing the flower garden beneath my window in cool light. Most of the flowers had died off or gone to sleep for the winter, but the cherry tree still held its strange mix of flowers and fruits, and the rose and lilac bushes were covered in blooms. I opened the window, and Aquila stepped out.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I asked, and he glanced back from his perch in the tree. “I was six years old when my parents sent me to live here. I hated it here at first, but I remember how pleased I was when I learned that the flowers didn’t wilt or fade until well into the winter. Everything in the garden bloomed longer back then, the flowers and the trees. When I was little, I used to think it was because the garden was in love with my aunt. She cared so much for it, like it was a child or a friend, and I thought that the flowers were the garden’s way of loving her back. Now that she doesn’t go out there anymore, the flowers only bloom when they’re supposed to. The trees have longer memories, though.”

Aquila fluffed his feathers.

“I know, it’s stupid.” I leaned farther out the window. “Matthew told me it’s just because the trees were cultivated over generations to bloom long and bear extra fruit. He doesn’t have as much time to tend the flowers as Victoria did, so they die off more quickly. I still sometimes like to think it was magic, though. It was the only bit of it I ever really had, until you came along.”

I was about to duck back into the warm room when a frail shadow passed through a patch of moonlight below us. Aunt Victoria’s thinning blond hair was twisted into a bun that left strands floating loose around her face. She wore only her nightgown, but carried a winter scarf in each hand, trailing on the ground. She paused for a moment, then hurried down a side path before I could call out to her. I ran to the bedroom, pulled on a sweater and grabbed a second one for her, and raced down the stairs and out the kitchen door.

There was no sign of her when I reached the garden. I searched down the path, circled around past the peonies and looked in the dark stone garden shed, then took my time searching the area again. She was gone.

I turned back to the house, where a thin silhouette paced by the windows in my aunt’s room. At least she’s warm now, I thought, but it didn’t ease my nerves. She never went near the gardens anymore. I pulled my sweater tighter to my body and walked back to the corner where the old well lay buried in rocks. The breeze shifted the branches above me, and a patch of moonlight revealed the dull nighttime colors of the hand-knitted, wool scarves she’d left on the ground.

Something crashed into the bushes. An airy shriek escaped me before Aquila climbed out of the tangled mess of ivy vines that covered the ground beneath the rose bush. He managed to flap onto the bench behind me, and I laughed a little at the sight of him standing there with his long toes splayed out on the cold stone, acting like nothing unusual had just happened. He glared at me, and it was hard not to laugh harder at how insulted he looked.

I sat beside him, pulling my feet close under my body to warm them. “It feels strange to be laughing out here again.” Aquila wouldn’t understand, but I wanted to talk and he seemed like a good listener. A tolerant one, anyway.

“They died right over there. The twins.” My voice caught in my throat, all traces of laughter gone. “I didn’t know them well. My mother had me move back to town when Aunt Victoria was pregnant. I wanted to stay and help, but Mother said that finding a husband had to be my priority. Aunt Vic and Uncle Ches were so excited to have a baby. They’d given up hope.” I smiled a little at the memory, bittersweet as it was. “When we found out it was twins, my mother practically had to chain me to the floor to keep me from coming back. I met them a few times. They were sweet little boys. Uncle Ches always said they’d be a boatload of trouble later, but he laughed whenever he said it.

“I wasn’t here when they disappeared, a while after they started walking. They were gone for three days and every person in the area was looking for them when—” I had to take a few deep breaths before I could finish. “When Uncle Ches found them in that old, dried-up well. I don’t think anyone even remembered it was there. We don’t know what happened, how they got out of the house, whether one followed the other or they went in together, whether they died right away or…” I couldn’t finish that thought. “Anyway, Ches and Victoria have gone through hell this past year. He’s tried to move on, but she can’t. She spends most of her time in her rooms thinking the boys are playing somewhere else in the house. When she remembers that they’re not, she won’t get out of bed. Won’t see anyone.

“This garden was one of the best parts of my childhood, and it should have been for Jacob and Leram, too. None of it makes any sense.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, and tears started rolling out. By the time most of them had soaked into the sleeves of my sweater, the cold had caught up with me and I was shivering hard.

“I guess me freezing to death out here’s not going to change the past.” I wiped a sleeve across my face and stood. “Thanks for listening.” Aquila looked up at me, then out over the garden. I went to the pile of stones that covered the well and placed a rock on top of the scarves to hold them in place. “I’m going in,” I told him. “You’d better decide whether you’re in or out tonight, because I’m shutting the window.”

He chose in. I collapsed into bed and felt the approach of the deep sleep that had eluded me earlier. The last thing I heard was the rustle of feathers in the next room.

Chapter VIII

Rowan

THREE DAYS PASSED IN RELATIVE peace. My aunt didn’t return to the garden, but she did allow me to have tea with her one afternoon. Aquila showed no further signs of being unusual, except that he was the quietest and cleanest animal I’d ever met and managed to stay hidden from everyone else in the house. When the rain forced me indoors, I kept myself busy organizing my uncle’s library.

It was a fine respite from my regular life, but I knew it couldn’t last.

On the morning of my fifth full day at Stone Ridge the door to my room slammed open, jolting me awake. Footsteps thundered across the wood floor of the sitting area and into my bedroom. Someone landed on top of me with a loud cry of, “Get up, get up, get up!”

I grabbed the heavy feather pillow from under my head and used it to whack the intruder, who shrieked and bounced back onto the floor. I groaned as my cousin ripped the blankets off of the bed and flopped down beside me, out of breath and laughing. “Come on, sleepyface,” she said, grinning. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

I squinted at her and tried to look angry. “Felicia, I wouldn’t be happy to see Prince Charming himself if he woke me up by jumping on me.”

She giggled and brushed her golden curls back from her face. “That might not be so bad, you know.”

“Filth,” I muttered, and grinned back at her. That was the problem with Felicia. She was always so damned happy that I couldn’t stay mad at her, even when I wanted to. When I was a child at Stone Ridge, I looked forward to visits from Felicia more than I did trips to see my parents.

She rolled over and stared at me with a mock-serious expression. “We have much to discuss. But first, get thine self to a washing chamber and clean thy teeth. Thou art offending my delicate sensibilities.”

“Says the girl who smells like the horse that brought her here.” I rolled out of bed and raced through the doorway before she could smack me. Felicia always got me into trouble when we were kids, getting me to join in on whatever trouble she was causing. Now that we were grown, she still brought out the wildest and most childish part of me. I’d missed that.

There was no sign of Aquila in the sitting room. I couldn’t blame him for disappearing when that strange, noisy person burst in. I leaned out the window and came face-to-beak with him sitting in the cherry tree. “Sorry,” I whispered. He didn’t look impressed.

When I returned, Felicia was looking at the books on my shelf. She took a seat in an armchair with her legs crossed under her, and I sat in front of her on the floor. She pulled a brush out of her bag and went to work on my hair. She’d treated me like a doll since the first time she came to visit me at Stone Ridge. I never complained. It was relaxing.

“You know why I’m here?” she asked at last.

“You missed me?” I winced as she tugged at a knot in my hair. I’d known as soon as I saw her why she’d come. I might have temporarily forgotten about Callum’s letter, but my mother hadn’t, and she’d sent someone to remind me. I gritted my teeth, and reminded myself that it wasn’t Felicia I was angry with.

“Ro, you have a proposal. A good one, from a great guy. I’m here to make sure you don’t make a mess of it.”

“You don’t seem to have much faith in me.”

Felicia sighed and set the brush in her lap. “You know I love you like a sister, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s with love that I say no, I don’t. Remember when you had a proposal from that mayor’s son, and you turned that down? I supported you. He was dreadfully dull, and obviously wanted you for your family history.”

Harsh, but true. My mother and my sisters’ success in having healthy children, plus the fact that my family had no history of adults using magic, made me more desirable than I’d have otherwise been. Felicia would have managed to use that to her advantage. I hadn’t.

“But Callum,” she continued. “He’s perfect. He’s rich, he’s sweet, he’s gorgeous. He’s going to do great things. I can’t tell you how many girls in Ardare would love to get their claws into him. But he’s ignored them and courted you. He sent you a proposal, and you didn’t even tell your mother, or send me a letter to let me know.” She sounded hurt. “It seems like you’re still undecided, and I’m sorry, but you really can’t afford to be. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what my problem is.” I tried to keep my voice steady. It always betrayed me when I was upset. “I know what’s expected of me. Even if Aunt Vic and Uncle Ches didn’t make a big deal out of it, I’ve always known. And I know that it’s inevitable. I’m not going to disappoint my family and hurt Callum, and if I did I’d regret it, soon. I care about him, I really do.” I reached up to play with my hair, and Felicia leaned forward to gently move my hand away.

“But you’re not happy about it.”

The concern in her voice undid me in a way my mother’s nagging never could. My throat tightened. “I want to be happy. There’s something wrong with me, Lecia. I don’t think I love him.”

“Oh, honey, you will!” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around me. “You just don’t know him well enough yet. I wish your parents had let you move in with me. You would feel so much better about this if you lived in Ardare and saw Callum more often.”

“Maybe.” I scooted around to face her. “It just seems like I should feel more for him. He’s amazing. I just don’t feel any passion when he kisses me.” My cheeks grew warm. I was used to reading about this, not discussing it. “I don’t burst into flames when he says my name. I don’t pine for him when we’re apart. I don’t feel… that. And I don’t know that he does, either.”

She tilted her head to the side. “So you haven’t slept with him yet?”

“No.” My face grew warm. “It’s not that I’m opposed to the idea, but it’s never seemed right. And when I think about it, I just hear Miss Persimmon’s lectures from that marriage preparation class Mother made me take last year.”

Felicia laughed. “I promise, it’s far more enjoyable than the old ladies make it sound. They want to make sure you know how to make babies, but you only need to worry about that in the weeks before your annual cycle. The rest of the time it’s fun and practice. And more fun. Maybe even a happy accident. When’s yours due this year?”

“Just finished,” I admitted.

“Ugh. Don’t tell anyone. Let them think you can make a baby sooner. Like, right after the wedding. Or before, even.”

“Callum didn’t drop me when I told him about my headaches. I doubt a year of practice before my next chance to get pregnant is going to end things.” I thought back to the last time Callum had kissed me. It was sweet. Safe. Warm. Maybe that’s just how it starts.

Felicia reached out to squeeze my hand and got up from the chair. Cold panic washed over me as she went to the window and leaned out for a breath of fresh air, but it seemed Aquila had moved. Something on the table caught her eye, though. The fairy tale book. Felicia held it up and raised her eyebrows. “Are you supposed to have this?”

I pushed up from the floor. “No. But the books aren’t the problem.” She’d heard a few of the stories when we were children, but had lost interest when she discovered the delights of real life in the city.

She flipped through the brittle pages, pausing now and then to read or to look at a picture. “Don’t you want your happily ever after?”

“Sorry?”

She held the book out to me. “This.”

The drawing was simple, but the lines on the yellow page captured every important detail—the benevolent smile on the prince’s face, the admiration on his bride’s as she looked up at him. The long gown, the doves perched in the rafters of the church, the flower petals scattered on the floor. Everyone looked so happy, from the prince to his proud mother and father, and especially the girl. So why couldn’t I picture myself there?

I flipped a few more pages back and found an illustration of a turreted stone castle surrounded by a moat, and a dragon attacking it. That same prince stood with his feet planted firmly on the drawbridge, ready for battle. “I feel like I’ve skipped a few steps on my way to happily ever after,” I said. “Isn’t there supposed to be more?”

Felicia stepped around to look over my shoulder at the picture. “Rowan my dear, your prince does slay dragons. Literally. You know that, right?”

I sighed. “The dragon’s not the point. It’s the adventure, the passion, the excitement. So these stories are made-up and completely wrong about magic, I understand that. But surely there’s more out there than we’ve been told?”

“Not much that’s good. The feelings will come, believe me. You’ll find what you need with Callum. Everything else is better left in stories.” She took the book and stretched to place it on the highest shelf in the room, out of sight.

“You don’t seem too eager to jump into your own happily ever after,” I said.

She smiled. “You didn’t even notice.” She held out her left hand, where a gold and amethyst ring sparkled on her slender finger. “Robert asked me a few days ago.”

“Oh, Lecia!” I hugged her, and she laughed. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. That’s wonderful news!”

She took my hands in hers. “And it’s perfect! Robert and Callum are best friends, they’re both magic hunters… this is it, kid. All you have to do is say yes, okay? Stop dreaming about lives you can’t have, things that aren’t even real. Focus on what you can have before it’s out of your reach.”

“I want to want that,” I told her, and it was true. I wanted to stop fighting, to let go of the silly doubts that were holding me back from the happiness that waited for me. “Will you help me write the acceptance letter?”

“Of course! And you can stay with me in Ardare until the wedding. Spend more time with Callum. See what happens.” She winked and wrapped her arms around me again. “It’s going to be great, you know. The two of us in the city together?”

She went on about the stores we’d visit and the important people she knew as she let go of me and wandered into the second bedroom, and I thought of Aquila again.

“Hey Lecia, are you staying up here?” I called. “I don’t see your things.”

She laughed as she came back toward me. “Nope. Robert accompanied me here, and we’re staying downstairs overnight. Wouldn’t want to keep you awake.” She winked.

Right. At least I didn’t have to worry about more than one guest sharing my space.

She left to take a bath before lunch, leaving me alone again. Aquila appeared in the window and side-stepped cautiously over the sill to stand on the desk. He tilted his head, questioning.

“You’d better go,” I told him. “Matthew’s been too busy to notice you, but Robert won’t be. It’s not safe for you here with a magic hunter around.” He shuffled closer and arched his neck, and I ran my fingers over the soft, dusty feathers. “I’m going to miss you. I’m glad I helped you, but you need to go back to wherever you came from, and I need to get past this curiosity about magic.”

No magical speech poured from his beak as it would have in a story book. He didn’t thank me for my help by offering to grant wishes, and he didn’t leave a magic feather I could use to call him if ever I was in trouble. Those odd, beautiful eyes just stared at me for another moment, and then he was gone, soaring toward the forest.

Chapter IX

Aren

I FLEW FROM THAT COUNTRY as quickly as my wings would carry me, soaring over the mountains and relishing the feel of the magic that surrounded and restored me in my own country. It wasn’t a gift I was likely to take for granted any time soon.

After several days’ hard travel I reached the outer wall of Luid. Pale gray stone snaked around the outside of the city from port to forest and back, protecting it from attack on all sides. Light and noise flooded through the main city gates. I had forgotten about Severn’s birthday, which when combined with the harvest festival had become the single most lavish and wanton party of the year.

A string of three horse-drawn carts passed below me as I landed in a tree, nearly missing the branch. Even after three years of irregular practice at flying, I still had trouble with landings. The occupants of the carts didn’t notice me, but shouted and laughed amongst themselves. A woman shrieked and threw her head back, sending out a dazzling display as her dress reflected the moonlight in bright flashes. The others riding with her were no less elaborately costumed. Wealthy folk, perhaps people I would recognize, perhaps not. It was difficult to remember all of the names and faces that passed through.

Someone tossed a wine bottle up in the air. It flashed for a moment in the moonlight, then shattered on the road. Everyone laughed as they went on. I studied the glinting glass shards as I considered my position.

The question of whether to take Rowan back to Severn had gnawed at me every moment I spent in her home. The sensible option would have been to recover my strength and then make her go with me. She was as defenseless as she was ignorant of magic. Though her magic would protect her mind, I had other ways of making her co-operate.

And the rewards would have been sweet. The arrival of summer would mark three years since our father’s disappearance. He would be declared dead, and Severn would become a king in need of an adviser. Acting as his Second wouldn’t be an easy job, but I was well-prepared, and more than ready for the power and wealth that would come with it. I’d worked hard to escape the shadow of my mother’s dishonorable death, fought to win Severn’s respect and trust even as I hated him for his cruelty. I’d come so far, and my reward was so close.

And yet I had chosen to return to my brother empty-handed. I couldn’t repay my rescuer’s kindness with betrayal, especially when I didn’t know what Severn planned to do with her. She had impressed me with her courage in standing up to the magic hunters, and she had healed me, fed me and sheltered me. Even after the influence of her magic faded, I had no desire to let Severn harm her.

And that’s all it is. I fluffed my feathers against the wind and hardened myself to the memory of her. I don’t care for her, I told myself. It’s only a debt that I’m repaying. Her kindness, her laughter, and her interest in the world beyond her people’s stifling beliefs mean nothing. It’s over. I’d indulged that weakness enough already.

I preened my feathers, taking my time, not ready to return home. I would have to transform again before I got there, find clothing before I entered the palace. Severn didn’t know about my eagle form, a skill I’d developed in secret. He had directed much of my schooling, had suggested that I develop a small talent for reading people’s thoughts into the ability to control them. Hard and cruel as his tutelage had been at times, he’d shaped me into the man I was. Still, it wouldn’t have been wise to let him know everything I was capable of. I walked a narrow line between his approval and his potential jealousy, and keeping my balance grew more difficult every year.

I pushed off from the tree and soared over the city wall. The sounds of laughter and music became louder, and the smells of street festival foods wafted up to greet me—candied flowers guaranteed by Potioners to delight and captivate the mind, hot sweet drinks in a hundred flavors, frying slabs of moist dragon meat that most people would have few opportunities to taste in their lifetimes. The scents and sights reminded me of how badly I needed a good meal and some excitement that wasn’t life-threatening, but I doubted I’d find time to join in the people’s revels.

I dropped directly to the ground in a dark alley behind a small mercantile, not risking a loud landing on top of anything that would have kept me out of the mud. The shadows protected me from curious glances as I transformed and broke a window so that I could unlatch it and climb in. No one would take particular notice if a few items of clothing went missing during the festival. It was a celebration, but also an opportunity for crimes such as this. I left the doors locked and exited the same way I went in.

A young woman collided with me as I left the alley. Her mind was open, her thoughts as overpowering as the smell of strong wine on her breath. Interest, at first, until her drunken thoughts coalesced enough to recognize me. Fear took over then as she considered what might happen with a man who could make her do anything—or so said the rumors she’d heard. I turned away before I could see more.

Everyone else avoided me. Perhaps the expression on my face told them I was in no mood for whatever food, drink, or flesh they were peddling that night.

The turreted palace came into view as I entered the square, its imposing stone façade only slightly softened by the colored glass windows my grandmother had commissioned when she ruled. I slowed as I passed the public fountain, wishing I had more time to prepare.

Any hope I had of my presence going unnoticed was dashed when a pair of burly palace guards met me at the kitchen entrance. Without a word, they escorted me toward Severn’s quarters. Neither laid a hand on me, perhaps because they were only a little less afraid of me than they were of Severn, but their presence was a threat in itself.

The stone walls and rich furnishings we passed were as familiar to me as my own reflection, but returning home offered little comfort. So much depended on my brother’s mood and whatever had happened in my absence.

Severn himself met us at the door. His white hair, an effect of advanced magic he once tried to work before he was ready, hung loose over his shoulders. Nearly as tall as me, with a regal bearing and piercing blue eyes that missed nothing, he looked every inch the king he would soon be. Even in casual surroundings, clothed in nothing more than simple cotton pants and his silk dressing gown worn open, he commanded the room.

I couldn’t let my nervousness show. Severn was like a dog, and would attack at the first sign of weakness.

He dismissed the guards with a wave of his hand. They bowed and retreated, closing the door tight behind them. Severn turned and led the way through the lavishly decorated receiving room and between the heavy wooden doors that led to his personal living space. Empty bottles and half-filled wine glasses littered every flat surface, and piles of discarded clothing covered the floor in patches. The scent of sour grapes and sweat hung thick in the air.

Severn leaned against a marble-topped table and picked up a glass of pale wine. Hard blue eyes regarded me as he sipped, taking in every clue I might reveal about my absence.

“How wonderful,” he drawled. “Just what I wanted for my birthday. A ghost.”

I didn’t speak. I’d learned over the years that if I didn’t have an answer that would satisfy Severn, it was best to say nothing at all.

“We thought you were dead,” he continued, his voice as cold as I’d ever heard it. “It’s not like you to disappear. You know how I worry.”

“I was injured escaping from the mountains. I needed time to recover, and had no way to contact you without being seen.”

Severn poured a glass of wine and offered it to me. I drank it, not because I wanted it, but to show that I trusted him not to poison me. That, or I feared him enough to do as he wished with no thought for the consequences. It didn’t matter to Severn. Respect and fear were nearly the same thing to him, and he would accept either from me.

“And why was escape necessary?” He took my glass to refill it. “Surely you didn’t make such a mess of that simple mission that you brought the magic hunters down on you.” He arched one thick, dark eyebrow. “When I heard that one of Dorset Langley’s top magic hunters had been murdered, I assumed it was your doing. Got in your way, did he?”

“In a sense.”

“You need to control that temper, brother. I have other people I can use if I want to stir up trouble. From you, I require control and forethought.”

“It won’t happen again.” I didn’t ask how he knew. Though he couldn’t see into people’s minds like I could, he had some skill that seemed to bring him information on occasion. It wasn’t anything he’d ever explained to me, which made it all the more unnerving. Every secret I kept from him was a gamble. They had paid off so far, but there were never any guarantees where Severn was concerned.

He handed my glass back. It was several uncomfortable moments before he looked away and sipped again from his own. “You’re ruining my party. Tell me what happened, and go.”

“I learned that the hunter had executed every magic-user in the area, and I became angry. I manipulated his brother’s mind and sent him to kill the hunter.”

Severn sneered. “I’m not sure whether I’m impressed by your skill or disgusted with your unwillingness to dirty your own hands. Either way, what’s done is done. I can’t say I’m sorry.” I was certain he was pleased that the man was dead, but this was the most praise I could expect for it. “I assume you were unsuccessful in procuring a Sorcerer for me, if things ended so badly for you.”

“I was busy trying to escape. The magic hunters were after me before I left the mountains, before I could search further.”

Severn stepped closer, less than an arm’s length away. A smile twitched at his lips, but came nowhere near his eyes. “You’re a good liar, Aren, but I know you too well. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

I was nearly as familiar with Severn’s magic as I was with my own, and felt it immediately when that power pulsed around him, ready to be used against me. Pain erupted deep in my right shoulder, in the spot where he’d once injured me with a blast of pure magic. What he was giving me was only a reminder of what he could do, but it was enough.

“I may have found another.” I fought to draw in a breath. “The hunters attacked before I could bring her in.”

The pain diminished slightly, and I breathed normally. Severn leaned back against the table again. “Her? Interesting. Where?”

I fought back the tension that cramped my shoulders. “Near the border.” Truth, but not the whole truth. I cursed the weakness in me that insisted on protecting her. “What do you want her for?”

He frowned and set his empty glass down. “I wonder why you can be bothered to ask now.”

“I’m only curious. It’s not important.”

“It is, though.” The mask of confidence and certainty slipped from his expression. “It’s our magic, you see. In the centuries since the Darmish settlers arrived past the mountains and began destroying the magic in their lands, ours has suffered. Their position on the isthmus is keeping magic from the lands beyond them from moving through ours. Our power is growing stagnant.”

“I don’t understand. Magic is everywhere. It doesn’t require a trade route.”

Severn cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. “I would prefer to speak of this another day, but you should understand.” He dropped the glass and reached out to grab my left wrist. “Imagine that the blood is cut off from some part of your body. What happens?”

I fought the urge to pull away as his grip tightened. “Exactly as you’ve said. The blood that’s trapped there becomes stagnant.”

He nodded and released me. “Precisely. And eventually that hand or finger or foot dies. I believe it’s the same with magic, and we are suffering for their foolishness.”

“Not you, personally.”

“Perhaps not. Or perhaps we would all be more powerful without the Darmish destroying their land. It’s not something that’s noticeable to most, but the magic in Tyrea is less vital than it once was. I wish to know why.”

“Your scholars believe that the appearance of Sorcerers in Darmid somehow proves this?”

“It speaks to the magic still trying to manifest in their land, doesn’t it? But that’s not why we need them. There are experiments to be done, tests to learn about the quality of magic in their land. Perhaps whether it can be recovered. Much like yourself, I’m only curious. For now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have been more careful if I had known how important it—”

“It shouldn’t have mattered.” He glared at me, then turned to look out the window. “It’s imperative that we keep this secret until we have proof. I’m sure you can imagine the legal difficulties I’d face if anyone found out what I was doing to a Sorcerer. Or Sorceress, if we find this woman you mentioned.”

“I can. Though I suppose there would be less fuss over one from Darmid.”

“Perhaps not. Our laws leave no room for interpretation in that regard. I’ve looked.” He rested his hands on the window ledge and pressed his forehead against the glass. “I’ve wanted to rule for as long as I can remember. It’s what I was born to do, but it’s not easy. I have to do what’s best for this land and its people. This means making sacrifices, bending the laws.”

Memories of the sacrifices he’d forced me to make years ago flashed through my mind before I could block them off. But that was all in the past. There were more important things to focus on now.

“I regret that my actions in Darmid caused trouble for you.”

Severn turned back to me. Though he was still careful to guard his thoughts, his expression was more troubled than I’d ever seen it. “They haven’t yet. Your apparent desire to withhold information and distract me from speaking about this Sorceress does concern me, though.”

I gritted my teeth as the pain traced deep lines over the skin of my back, spreading outward from its source in a familiar pattern. “I want to help.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, I might regret my choice of Second. I selected you for many reasons, Aren, in spite of the many failings of your breeding and your character. Your power is impressive. Your dedication to your studies has brought you knowledge and skill. If I’ve been hard on you in the past and forced you to do things you disliked, it’s only because I saw your potential. I had to force you to achieve more than you understood you were capable of. And in recent years, you’ve done well.”

This was the closest Severn had ever come to appreciation or apology, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I hadn’t realized until that moment how badly I needed his approval, in spite of everything. I understood manipulation better than most, and recognized how he was using his words to win me over.

But damned if it wasn’t working.

“We could do great things for our people, Aren. I have far grander ambitions than our father ever had.” He breathed heavily, and the usual hard look returned to his face. “Now, tell me more about this woman.”

I drank my second glass of wine down. “I don’t know that she’d be any use to you. She seemed to be unable to use her magic. Unaware that she even has it. I suspect that it’s been bound, but I couldn’t say how.”

“You’re saying that someone—someone in Darmid, no less—used magic against this woman so that her magic would be permanently trapped within her?” Severn’s grin sent shivers up my spine. “Fascinating! I haven’t heard of that being done since well before Father’s time. I’ll have to look into it before we bring her in.” He tapped a foot on the floor as he thought. “What makes you think—” he began, and then shook his head. “We’ll discuss that tomorrow.”

Uneasiness crept over me, and I pushed it aside. My loyalty was to my family and my country, and telling Severn about her was in my best interests and his. Still, if I could keep my rescuer out of it, I would. “I don’t recall ever hearing about it being undone. It might be easier to keep looking for another.”

Severn narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. And yet, bound magic would make it much simpler to bring her in, wouldn’t it? No question of anyone objecting to holding a simple Darmish prisoner if she couldn’t prove she was a Sorceress. It might be interesting to experiment with her condition. Push her. See what happens under stress and pain.” He watched me carefully.

“That’s true. I only wonder whether it’s worth the effort.”

Severn let out a bark of laughter. “By all of the gods, Aren. Are you going soft? Do tell me more about this woman who has so bewitched you. How exactly did she convince you to protect her? As if I couldn’t imagine.”

“I’m not—” The pain whipped across my skin, harder and deeper than before. I fell to the floor and Severn dropped to his knees beside me, pushing on my shoulder so that I rolled on to my back.

“Don’t lie to me.” He pressed down on my chest. “I need to be able to trust your loyalty, Aren. A Sorcerer I couldn’t trust might find himself in prison instead of holding the second-highest position in the land. He might find himself in constant agony.” The pain drove deeper until it wrapped around my heart. He released me and I curled up on my side, breathless, every muscle in my body tight.

“Choose, Aren. Where does your loyalty lie? With your family, your country, your magic and your future king, or with a worthless, Darmish tramp?”

“I’ll find her,” I gasped.

“Good.” He moved a few paces away. I remained on the floor, unable to stop the shaking that gripped my muscles even as the pain disappeared. “I’ll come with you.”

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, and waited for the white lights to stop flashing before my eyes. “That won’t be necessary. You have enough to deal with here. I’ll bring her in.”

“I don’t think you will. Besides, I need a little fun.” His smile reflected cruel amusement. “I think this will be interesting. Now get out, I have business to attend to.”

He pulled a heavy silk cord than hung next to his bed and an attendant rushed in, eyes lowered. Severn spoke quietly to him as I struggled to my feet. The man disappeared, trailing behind him nervousness so strong that I barely had to reach out to feel it. It was a wonder he didn’t leave a trail of piss behind him.

I retreated to my own rooms and went straight to bed. The open window let in cold air and the sounds of the streets, but the idea of an escape route helped me relax.

How long had it been since I’d contemplated leaving? Years. I was seventeen the last time I ran away, and when my father brought me back he decided to let Severn handle my training. How I hated them both, then. Over time I’d become accustomed to my brother’s demands and his volatile temper, and had accepted that it was my duty to support the king, whether that meant my father or Severn. I was grateful for the things I’d learned from him, if not for his methods. And in the end, he was all I had.

I turned away from the window and pulled the feather pillow over my head to block out the noise, but I couldn’t escape my doubts.

I wasn’t born to be a hero.

No, I was born to be Severn’s puppet, wasn’t I? I gritted my teeth and forced the resentment away. Perhaps he had manipulated me, but I sensed that he did have our people’s interests in mind when he spoke of why he needed a Darmish magic-user. Maybe he was right, and I needed to get past this weakness before I could reach my full potential.

The question wasn’t whether finding Rowan again would be right or wrong. It was whether I was willing to do what was necessary for the greater good of my country and my family. For magic itself.

I would take Severn to Darmid, but I would wait as long as possible. With any luck she’d be safe in their capital city before we raided her home, and I would find another Sorcerer for Severn. If not, Rowan would learn exactly how cruel the world can be to a compassionate soul.

With that thought, I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the peace and kindness that had overwhelmed me after she healed me, or the light dusting of freckles on her nose.

Chapter X

Rowan

A WEEK AFTER MY CONVERSATION with Felicia, I was ready to leave.

With all of my things boxed up, the rooms didn’t feel like mine anymore. They seemed larger, less friendly, as though the house had already forgotten me.

I spun in a circle, but my skirt didn’t flare out the way I’d have liked. Felicia had insisted on leaving one of her own outfits for me to travel in, something fashionable for my arrival in Ardare and the start to my new life. The knee-length brown skirt was pretty and dignified, but closer-fitting than I found comfortable. The blouse and jacket weren’t so bad, though the jacket was too structured, and made it difficult to lift my arms. It was a grown-up outfit. No running and playing in this one.

Better get used to it now, I supposed. I hoped Felicia’s enthusiasm for fashion would prove contagious. I certainly wasn’t feeling it.

The dainty heels on my boots clicked as I crossed the floor, and I checked one last time to make sure the rain-streaked window was locked. As I turned, something on the bookshelf caught my eye, high up where I didn’t usually store things. I leaned forward onto my toes as much as the stiff leather boots would allow and grasped the fairy tale book with my fingertips, pulling it forward until it dropped into my hand.

So many memories.

“You ready?” Matthew stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in his striped shirt, his newest black pants and matching suspenders, holding his hat in his hand.

“Matthew, you didn’t have to dress up.”

“It’s a big day for us, isn’t it? I know it’s been years since you lived here, but you’re still part of Stone Ridge. Today our only chick is truly leaving the nest.” He stepped into the room and made a slow, thoughtful turn. “Looks different. They’ll send someone for all of this later?”

“I think so.” I laid the book on a lower shelf.

“I still say I should’ve been the one to take you.”

I laughed. “You hate the city. Besides, what would they do without you here, even for a few days? Callum is going to meet us in Lowdell, and he promised that he’d send the family’s—”

“Most trusted servant, I know,” Matthew muttered. “But if your uncle was home to help out, I’d brave the city for you.”

It might have been the oddest declaration of love I’d ever heard. I didn’t want to laugh at him, and I wasn’t supposed to cry. Instead, I hugged him. “I know.” He kissed the top of my head, and seemed to have trouble letting go.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Well, the carriage is here, and loaded with the boxes you had downstairs. Just the one, though. I thought you were going with a group of merchants or something.”

“We are, we’ll meet them at the main road. No need to clog ours. Callum said there would be a large enough group that we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone bothering us out there. I’ll write as soon as we reach Ardare, I promise.”

In truth, I would have been far more comfortable traveling with Matthew, but I couldn’t let him worry about me.

He nodded and picked up my travel bag. “I can take that,” I said.

He raised a shaggy gray eyebrow as he looked at my skirt and boots, but handed it over with a grin and a low bow. “Whatever you like, ma’am. Anything else?”

“I think anything else I need to take today is down there already. I’ll be along in a minute.”

When I was alone again, I picked up the book and paged through it. Monsters. Dragons. Witches and fairies, stepmothers and godmothers, all outlined in black and white on the illustrated pages. And happily ever afters, plenty of those. I hesitated for a moment, then slipped the book into my bag and hurried from the room before anything else could hold me back.

The coach waited outside, a black-stained wooden contraption like I’d seen on my few visits to Ardare, with an enclosed passenger compartment and a driver’s seat outside, drawn by a pair of black horses. I wiped my boots carefully on the bristle-brush mounted outside so as not to stain the cream-colored carpet. The interior was more luxurious than I’d expected, with painted walls and cushioned leather seats for a long trip. Curtains kept the space private for the wealthy folks who were accustomed to such means of travel. The whole thing creaked and rocked as we got going, but settled into a smooth rhythm when we reached the main road.

Daryll, a quiet, unobtrusive fellow, filled his half of the coach with his broad shoulders and long, black raincoat. He seemed out of place in the small space, like a guard dog forced to sit quietly in a parlor, but if he was uncomfortable he didn’t show it. We sat in silence for a while, until I asked, “How long have you been with the Langleys?”

“Twenty years.” His voice was soft and smooth, an odd complement to his imposing physique. “Callum was just a little fellow when I joined the household. I’ve been with them for longer than anyone else. They trust me.” He gave me a kind smile. “Callum insisted that I be the one to escort you to the city.”

“He told me he’d send someone he would trust with his own life,” I said, and Daryll seemed pleased. I tried to stifle a yawn behind my hand, but he noticed and checked his watch.

“Forgive me if I’m keeping you awake,” he said. “You’re probably tired from your recent excitement.” In truth, I was exhausted. I hadn’t been sleeping well, spending my nights fighting strange dreams, and the previous evening had been a late one, filled with goodbyes and last-minute plans. Daryll pulled back the curtain and leaned forward to watch the forest go by. It had stopped raining, though water still dripped from the leaves overhead.

“I’m going to ride with the driver for a while,” he told me. “We have a few things to discuss. If you’d like to close your eyes and rest in private while I’m gone, it might make the time pass more quickly. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

I decided that I liked Daryll very much. “Thank you. And thank you for traveling with me. It makes me feel better knowing you’ll be up there.”

Daryll nodded and gave a little smile. “We’re not expecting any trouble, Miss Greenwood, please don’t worry about that. You’re safe with us.” He opened the door and climbed toward the driver’s seat without signaling for the carriage to slow. His coat fell open, revealing a quick flash of dagger hilts that identified him as a Makai, one of the trained protectors employed by the wealthiest citizens of Darmid. I should have known Callum wouldn’t send just any servant.

The door clicked shut, and I stretched out on the seat and rested my head on a soft cushion. The smooth side-to-side rocking soon relaxed me, but my mind was racing too fast for sleep to catch it. I pulled the story book out and passed the time reading.

I’d almost reached the end when the carriage lurched to a sudden stop, sending me tumbling to the floor and the book skidding into the darkness beneath the other seat. Voices yelled outside, angry and frightened. The hairs on my arms prickled, and I shivered.

This is wrong. I reached into my bag for my knife, but didn’t know what to do next. I sat there turning the blade over in my hands, fighting to keep calm. It’ll be fine, Daryll is right there.

Someone yelled, but the words were muffled. The door popped open and Daryll appeared, leaning from the driver’s seat in front. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Leave the curtains closed, lock the doors, and don’t open them for anyone!” Then he was gone, and the door slammed behind him.

I reached over and twisted the silver locks on both doors, then slid back to the center of the seat and waited, trembling. There was more yelling and a sound like a tree snapping in half. A horse screamed. I stayed where I was, surrounded by chaos, but insulated and separate from it. I knew it was only an illusion of safety, that the thin wooden walls offered no real protection, but I couldn’t think of what to do except stay where I was and trust that the others would protect me. Never in my life had I felt so helpless.

Unfamiliar voices approached, growing louder until they stopped just outside. Someone tried the door on my left, but the lock held. A low, rough voice cursed, then called out. I held my breath. A wide shadow fell over the curtain, and the hinges creaked as someone hauled back on the door handle.

Every muscle in my body tensed until they felt ready to snap. I pulled my feet up onto the seat, making myself as small as I could. This is not happening. I mentally cursed Felicia’s choice of clothes, and wished I had my pants and flat boots on.

The door came off of the carriage with a loud crack, and a bald man leaned in, his shoulders filling the wide opening. He grinned, revealing several broken teeth. Blood dripped into one of his eyes from a gash in his deeply lined forehead.

He chuckled, and my own blood froze in my veins. “My, my. Not what we was expecting!”

Someone shouted outside, and he turned to look.

I kicked my left leg out, and the dainty heel of my boot struck him in the eye. He roared and pulled back from the doorway, and I launched myself out onto the road.

Everything was confusion. I caught a glimpse of huge hands shooting toward me, but the big man’s aim was off, and he only managed to tangle his fingers in the ends of my hair. I shrieked as he ripped several strands out, but I hit the ground running, straining the seams in my skirt with every step.

I stumbled into the unfamiliar forest and toward a nearby river that sparkled in the thin sunlight breaking through the clouds. Faint hope swelled in me as I drew closer to the water, and a chance at escape.

I wasn’t fast enough. Over the sound of my rasping breath I heard someone thudding along behind me, getting closer with every step. I adjusted my grip on the knife’s handle and prepared to turn and fight, but my feet went out from under me as I slipped on one of the loose, flat stones that littered the ground near the river. A sharp pain pierced my ankle as it twisted under me, and I fell.

I hadn’t even got one leg back under me when a crushing weight landed on my back, pinning my left arm beneath me. A meaty hand grabbed my other wrist and squeezed. I dropped the knife and screamed as he wrenched my arm behind my back, straining my shoulder until I thought he was going to rip my arm off.

“Don’t think so, sweetheart,” the bald man snarled into my ear, his breath sickeningly wet and warm on my face. He sat up a little and I pulled in a deep breath, but I couldn’t move. Tears of pain, frustration, and fear burned my eyes, and I screamed again.

I was aware of the sound of another set of feet clattering toward us over the broken rocks, but couldn’t turn to see who it was. I had little hope at that point that it was Daryll coming to save me. The footsteps didn’t slow as they came closer. The weight on top of me shifted. “Hey, lookit what we found in the—” My attacker’s words cut off as something hit him. He collapsed back onto me, and the air rushed out of his lungs in a quick, foul breath. He rolled off, gasping.

As soon as that weight was gone I pushed with my feet, crawling toward the water and fighting to catch my breath.

Above the buzzing in my ears I heard the thug speaking. “What’re you on about, she’s just a—”

He was interrupted by a cracking noise and a scream that I sincerely hoped was his. I tried to stand, but my ankle buckled, and I bit back a cry of dismay as I hit the stones. I’d reached the edge of the wide, shallow river. I was a good swimmer, but the current was moving fast and rough over mostly-submerged rocks. In my condition, I’d be dashed to pieces before I made it half-way across.

The scream stopped, and footsteps followed me, more slowly now. I’d lost my knife, but I picked up a sharp rock, flipped myself around, and pushed my back up against a boulder.

A shadow fell over me, and I looked up to see another stranger. He was far leaner than the bald one, younger and taller. The way he stood gave an impression of graceful strength that made me more afraid of him than I’d been of the mass of muscle that attacked me. The sun behind him left his face in silhouette. His hair was dark, just long enough for most of it to be pulled back and tied behind his neck.

Darmish men don’t wear their hair long like that.

He watched me, catching his breath and apparently considering my situation. I glanced back at my previous attacker, who lay flat on his stomach with his face pressed into the rocks, not moving. Nausea washed through me, and I grasped my chunk of rock so tightly that it cut into my fingers. I wasn’t about to go quietly.

The stranger stepped back, allowing sunlight to fall on his face as he watched me. I had expected a scarred warrior, but found quite the opposite. His unblemished skin and high cheekbones would have seemed more at home on a pampered aristocrat or a prince. His brows shadowed dark eyes in a stern expression that seemed familiar, though I was certain I’d never met anyone like this before. He reached up to rub a hand over the dark stubble on his jaw.

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and heavily accented. He stepped around so that he was standing beside me, then crouched. In a movement that was too quick for me to follow he caught my left hand in his own. I tried to pull back, but the strength drained from my arm, and the rock clattered to the ground. I was completely at his mercy, and though he’d saved me from my attacker, something about him filled me with terror. I met his gaze, and my mouth went dry at the sight of his cold, green-flecked, brown eyes.

I’d been wrong when I thought this man was completely unfamiliar.

He let me look for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not going to hurt you. Will you listen while I explain?” His speech was clear, but his accent made everything sound strange.

I was afraid to answer. Someone yelled from near the road, and the stranger frowned.

“I’m sorry.” He reached his free hand toward my face. Blood streaked his knuckles. I flinched, expecting him to hurt me, but he only laid his hand on my forehead. The world grayed out, and I fell away as I had the first time I looked into those strange, beautiful eyes.

Chapter XI

Rowan

EVERYTHING HURT.

I LAY WITH the left side of my body pressed into a soft surface, with something wedged behind me that kept me from rolling backward. It felt like the room was rocking. Without moving my head, I opened one eye just enough to get a blurry look at my surroundings. The bed I lay in took up one end of a narrow room with boxes lining one wall, a writing desk and built-in wardrobe the other. A heavy curtain was pulled across a small window, and the only light in the room came from a pair of oil lamps. The air smelled of something sweet and herbal that I couldn’t identify.

There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room. I opened my other eye and lifted my head to look around a bit more.

“Welcome back,” said a smooth voice from somewhere near my feet. I froze, my flesh crawling. “Sorry I had to do that. I don’t imagine falling unconscious is fun, but I’d say you’re becoming accustomed to it by now.”

I looked toward the end of the bed and there he was—the young man with Aquila’s eyes. The rest of his face would have been attractive if those eyes weren’t so cold, or if he would smile. As it was, just looking at him frightened me in a way that seemed to come from instinct as much as it did from the situation. He leaned back in an armchair next to the end of the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, apparently waiting for me to say something. I got the feeling he could wait all day if he had to.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice rasping. “What’s happening?”

“My name is Aren. You’re on a trading ship bound for Tyrea. My brother Severn needs you.”

“The…” I tried to moisten my lips with my tongue. “Severn is the king, isn’t he?”

“Close enough.”

I struggled to remember what I’d heard about Ulric’s sons. I couldn’t make my thoughts line up properly. Was Aren the one who read minds? No, controlled them. Unless I was missing something, he could certainly turn into an eagle. Those eyes were unmistakable.

Aren leaned toward me. “You should know that you’re in more trouble right now than you can imagine.”

I could have guessed that, I thought.

“I’m telling you this because you don’t have much time to decide what you’re going to do about it. Severn will—” He paused. Distant shouting echoed outside the room, and my heart beat harder, pumping fresh fear through me.

“Speaking of whom…” Aren stood and stalked to the door, then stopped and turned back to me. “I suggest you close your eyes again and that you not move until he leaves. Things will get worse for you in a hurry if he knows you’re conscious.” He came back and untied a set of white curtains that closed between the bed and the rest of the room, sheer enough that I could see out if I squinted.

There was a single hard knock at the door. Brighter lamplight flooded in from outside as Aren opened it and a white-haired person stepped in, looked around, then closed the door.

“Where is she?” he asked. Aren gestured toward the bed, and the man who I assumed was Severn strode toward it. My eyes snapped shut just before he pulled back the curtain. His clothing rustled as he leaned over me, and I fought to keep my breathing slow and even. He smelled smoky, like my hair after I fell asleep beside an outdoor fire. I struggled to remain still, and to keep by breathing slow and even.

“This is her?” There was a sneer in his voice. “Not much to look at, is she?”

“She doesn’t usually have those bruises.” Aren sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

You bastard.

“Has she wakened yet?”

“Not since I’ve been here. Sara was in to tend to her wounds earlier, and gave her something to keep her quiet. She’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” Severn leaned closer for a moment, his breath tickling my skin, then stood and turned away from the bed, letting the curtains fall closed.

I took a deep, trembling breath and let my eyes open again, just enough so that I could watch.

“About that temper of yours,” Severn said.

“This was completely different. You saw what happened. Morten got carried away, and I did what was necessary to protect your interests.”

Severn’s chuckled. “I wonder whether killing him was completely necessary. Still, it’s a small loss.” He gestured toward me. “You’re certain about her? I don’t feel anything.”

“No. Whatever they’ve done to her has been effective enough to keep her magic hidden from her people for all these years.”

The skin on my arms prickled. Who do they think I am?

Severn sat in the chair and removed his gloves, then leaned back far enough that I couldn’t see him. “Perfect. We’ll still try to keep this quiet, but getting her into the city will be easy enough, even if someone stops you.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Is that a problem?”

Aren shrugged. “She won’t be a problem. I thought you’d be sailing with us.”

“Hmm. No, I have the horse. I’ll fly back. I don’t like to leave the city in anyone else’s hands for too long. I suppose I could try to take her with me, if you don’t want the responsibility.”

“It will be fine. Sara will put her under again if she wakes.” Aren didn’t sound any more pleased to be stuck with me than I was to be trapped with him.

“Very well. No sign of anyone following us yet? Her husband-to-be, his father? Anyone?”

“Nothing.”

I thought back to the day I’d rescued the eagle with Aren’s eyes, the conversations I’d had with Callum and Felicia when he was within hearing distance, and fought back a wave of nausea. It had been this man, this Sorcerer, listening to my stories and sleeping in my rooms that whole time. I should have turned him over to Dorset Langley when I had the chance.

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Much as I’d love to see what you’d do if Dorset Langley himself angered you, I’d rather keep this quiet.” Severn stood and looked at me through the curtains again. “I’d almost say we were doing her a favor by getting her away from them.”

Aren rocked back on his heels. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but when he spoke there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “I doubt she’ll agree once she gets to Luid and finds out what’s waiting there.”

Severn chuckled. “No, certainly not.” He reached out to clasp Aren’s arm with his hand. “I’m pleased to see that your view on these matters has improved. This is for the best.”

Aren cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

Severn took a sudden step closer to Aren. It startled me, and had Severn not been nose to nose with his brother, he’d certainly have seen me twitch. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Never again.”

Severn held his position for a moment, then stepped back and left without another word.

Aren stood frozen in the center of the room, fists clenched. He breathed in, sighed, and collapsed into the chair, resting his face in his hands. I propped myself up on one elbow and winced at the pain that twisted through my arms and my torso as I moved.

I wanted to speak, but couldn’t find words. Though I waited, Aren said nothing.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” I whispered at last, and pushed the curtain aside so I could see him better. “I’m not whoever you think I am. I understand you not wanting to keep me here…” I trailed off and tried to wet my parched lips with my tongue. “I’d be happy to go.”

Aren raised his head just enough to look up at me, and a look of slight amusement touched his eyes. “No, there’s been no mistake. I wish there had.”

“I’m not—I mean, I don’t use magic. Please, just let me go home.”

Aren leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Let me think.” He closed his eyes, and I waited. I thought he’d fallen asleep when he said, “Gods damn the whole business.” He opened his eyes to glare at me. “If I turn you loose, he’ll find you again.”

“But—”

“Not to mention the fact that my life will be worth less than nothing when he realizes what I did. I can’t let you go.” He stood and tied the bed curtains back.

“Please,” I whispered again when his gaze met mine. I fought back the tears that filled my eyes, not wishing to appear weak. I doubted crying would buy me any sympathy from a person like him. “I’m not what you think I am.”

His jaw muscles tightened and his eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. He turned away and took a heavy-looking brown coat from a hook by the door. “I have to leave for a while. Sara will be in soon to change your bandages. I’d suggest not talking at all, especially about what you think you know about me, even to someone who seems trustworthy. Everything gets back to Severn. I’ll answer your questions when I return, if I’m able to.”

Before I could ask whether it was his return or my answers that were in question, he had left. The lock clicked into place. I was alone, a prisoner.

It felt like I was watching all of this happen to someone else. This is a dream, this is a story book. This is not my life.

But I couldn’t wallow in my disbelief and panic. I’d have to figure out how to escape, to get home or to a place where I could send a message to Callum. I suddenly found myself longing for that safe feeling I had when he was around, and wondered why I’d ever desired anything more. All I wanted now was to see him again.

Hot tears slipped down my cheeks. They had to come out some time. I allowed myself a few minutes of sobbing quietly into the pillow, and when I’d finished, my mind felt clearer.

Take stock. What do you know?

I knew that my body hurt. I tried to sit up, but the muscles in my stomach wouldn’t support me, and when I moved my legs my ankle burst into pain. I knew that I was afraid, and that I was in trouble.

What else?

Aren was a Sorcerer. I saved his life, and now for some reason he wanted to take me to Tyrea. I’d seen him kill a man.

I didn’t much care what had happened to the one they called Morten, but I wondered about the others. Daryll was certainly dead. If Aren was leading that group that attacked us, he was responsible for that.

A chill washed over me. What if Matthew had come along like he’d wanted to?

There was no time to think about it more. The door creaked open and a pretty young woman with long, honey-colored hair slipped into the room. She moved slowly and purposefully as she pulled a variety of items out of her basket, but she kept looking over her shoulder, and twitched when footsteps passed outside the door. I didn’t answer when she asked how I was feeling.

“I’m going to check your wounds and change the bandages,” she murmured in a warm Tyrean accent, and I closed my eyes. If she wanted to fix me, it would only help me when it came time to escape. The air felt cold on my arm when she uncovered it, and my skin tingled as she rubbed a thick ointment into it. That explained the strange smell in the room—some kind of herbal remedy for injuries. She worked it into my shoulder, and tendrils of warmth swirled deep into the muscles.

“The arm wasn’t out,” Sara told me, “but it’s been pulled too far. You shouldn’t use it for a while, and rest that ankle while you can. The other cuts and bruises will heal soon enough.”

I flinched when she rubbed the stuff into my cheek. When I tried to touch it, she pushed my hand away. “Look at me, please.”

After a few moments I turned my eyes to her, but kept them unfocused. Sara leaned in close and pressed her lips into a thin line. “We’ll see how things look in the morning.” She held a cup of water for me to sip from, then stood and gathered her supplies back into the basket, which she left on the desk.

“You’ll be fine,” she said softly, and laid a cool hand on my brow. “Just don’t cause trouble. It’s better that way.” And then she left. I didn’t hear the lock click into place.

I waited until I was sure she was gone, then tried to sit up. The room spun and heaved, and my thoughts became disordered. I grabbed on to the pillows to keep from falling to the floor. My thoughts of escape faded as I fought a losing battle to stay above the waves of unconsciousness that pulled me under.

The hours that followed were a blur of nightmares and surreal visions, most of them set in a strange labyrinth. Light from invisible fires flickered against stone walls, and tentacle-vines reached up from the ground to wrap around my ankles and trip me. I thought I woke and saw Sara a few times, but I couldn’t be sure whether I was really awake. At one point she had snakes instead of hair, and dripping fangs sprouted from a grin that was somehow wider than her head.

I woke completely exhausted. I knew I’d had no reason to trust Sara, but still felt betrayed that she would drug me after she’d tried to heal me. Aren had been right about that one thing, at least. I was glad I hadn’t spoken to her.

Though the room was dark and the bed comfortable, I fought off my need for sleep and pushed myself up to sit. My ankle screamed with fresh pain when I put weight on it, and I leaned on the walls and furniture as I made my way to the door, dressed only in my underthings. Perhaps there was nowhere for me to go, but I had to try.

The room tilted slightly and I tumbled, slamming hands-first into the door. I breathed deeply through gritted teeth until my shoulder quieted, and I reached for the door handle. My heart leapt when it turned under my touch, then sank as I realized that the deadbolt above was locked again.

A lump formed in my throat, but I was done feeling sorry for myself. I would take Aren’s advice and trust no one, especially him. I’d just have to wait until someone came back, and see what was to become of me.

Chapter XII

Aren

WHAT THE HELL AM I doing?

I shrugged into the brown coat and leaned against the door that held her captive. I’d had to leave, but probably not for any reason she might suspect. I couldn’t trust my own thoughts in there, and I needed a clear head.

This wasn’t how Severn and I had planned it. He’d chosen his men, all of them strong and trustworthy, but accustomed to action. They grew restless on the road, and when we ran into the traveling merchants, Severn told our people to kill the men and take whatever they wanted from what was left. I’d kept my distance until Rowan came bursting out of that coach and took off into the woods with Morten in pursuit. Whether he counted Rowan amongst the “men” or the other items, I didn’t like her chances. I went after them, but wasn’t fast enough to keep him from harming her.

I tried to tell myself that it was a stroke of luck that we’d found her so easily, and sooner than we’d expected. We were far from any town, and the only witnesses were dead or dying. I was only a few steps away from securing my future. But when I saw how frightened she was of me, I wanted nothing more than to tell her that I would never hurt her. It would have been a lie, but I wanted to say it just to make her stop looking at me like that.

As if it mattered what she thought of me.

I considered letting her escape into the woods, but Severn had already seen us. I thought about lying and saying I didn’t know who she was, but he’d have had her killed if she hadn’t been the Sorceress we wanted. She was so terrified and so overwhelmed that I’d been able to use my magic to push her over the edge into unconsciousness, and I told Severn that was how I’d found her.

I brought her back and got Sara to fix her up while Severn covered our tracks. I stayed and watched over her, and kept telling myself I was doing the right thing in letting him have her. I was acting in my country’s best interest, helping to preserve or restore the balance of magic. Advancing scientific interests. Keeping Severn happy.

All of that paled, though, when I really looked at her. A Sorceress deserved better than to be beaten, chained, hurt, and humiliated. Even a Darmish one. Even for the good of magic.

Severn’s glee over the prospect of torturing her had finished it for me. That, and his satisfaction in bending my will to his. In that moment every reason I’d ever had for wanting to escape had come flooding back, filling me with the hatred I’d fought so long to suppress. It took all of my strength and self-control to continue the ruse, to make him believe I was still with him. Even as he walked out the door, I was beginning to make my plans. Get her away, leave her somewhere relatively safe, and find a new life for myself somewhere far from my brother.

I still had no desire to be a hero or to sacrifice everything I’d worked so hard to gain, but here I stood preparing to do just that.

I sent my awareness out to search for him, but Severn was gone. “I’m not yours to control anymore,” I whispered. “Damn you. Damn the consequences.” I’d lost my balance at last, and fallen from the wrong side of Severn’s favor. It felt surprisingly satisfying.

Sara approached with her basket of supplies in one hand. She didn’t look up or speak, only stood waiting for me to move so she could enter the room. “You might as well leave the basket there,” I told her, and she nodded.

I made contact with as many people on the ship as I could, suggesting to their minds that they wouldn’t think anything of it if they saw me leaving with the prisoner, helping Severn’s guards realize they had somewhere else they needed to be, and arranging for our departure. The ship was still moored in the choppy waters of the little harbor, and I made my rounds in the shipyard as well. It was a far larger group than I’d ever attempted to manipulate at one time. It took the entire night for me to do my work, and with every person I affected I felt the magic draining from me.

At least most of them were too afraid to put up a fight when they felt me enter their minds.

Sara was leaving when I returned to the room at dawn. Rowan still lay in the bed with the blanket pulled up over her, a small breakfast of toast and stewed berries untouched on a tray beside her. She looked better, but her cheek was still marked by scrapes and bruises, and fresh bandages covered her shoulder. She watched warily as I paced, as though someone had released a wolf into the room with her.

“The ship leaves in less than an hour. We need to be off by then.”

Her eyes widened, and she twisted her body to try to look out the window. “We haven’t left yet?”

“No. The sailors decided to wait for the tide, and Severn ordered them to keep distance between ourselves and the decoy ship he sent out.”

She frowned. “Wait—we have to be off? And where are we going? I thought you said you couldn’t let me go. I mean…”

I sank into the chair at the end of the bed. It occurred to me that it wasn’t too late to change my mind. Severn would never know.

Instead, I said, “You want to get out of here, right?” She nodded vigorously. “Well, I’m going with you. You need someone to help you get to a safe place, and I’d just as soon not be here when Severn returns.” I leaned back and closed my eyes to rest while I could.

“But your men attacked me,” she said. “You brought me here. Why would you help me now?”

I forced one eye open. She sat up in the bed and clutched the blanket to her chest. Her eyes searched mine, perhaps wanting to believe me. I had no way of knowing what she was thinking, or what I could say to make her trust me. It might have been easier to explain my actions to her if I’d understood them, myself.

“It’s your decision,” I told her. “You’re free to do as you please. If you insist on staying here and waiting to see what happens to you in Luid, I’ll stay, too.”

“But I—”

“You should know that this is the last time I’m going to offer to help,” I added. “It will be too dangerous later.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she winced as the raw skin on her cheek stretched. “How can I believe anything you’re saying?”

I didn’t let my irritation show. Heavy footsteps passed by the door. Someone hollered far down the corridor. The ship would be leaving soon.

“Maybe you can’t. But you saved my life, even if you didn’t mean to. I don’t have time to explain more right now.” It was the reason I thought she’d be most likely to give if she were in my position. My family may have considered compassion and kindness the flaws of weaker people, but they ran deep in her.

I glanced at her breakfast. “The bread should be fine, if you’re hungry. I wouldn’t try the berries or the water.” Sara had no more interest in angering Severn than I usually had, and she’d be doing everything in her power to keep Rowan incapacitated. I poured a cup of fresh water from the pitcher on the desk and offered it to her.

She drank it all, and ate the toast. I turned away to retrieve my travel cloak from the wardrobe and pulled it on over my coat. When I turned back she was watching me. Making her decision.

“When do we leave?” She pulled the blanket tighter around her body, and I helped her sit up on the edge of the bed. She flinched when I touched her, but almost toppled over when I let go.

I nudged an old knapsack that waited on the floor. “Those are your things in the boxes. Get dressed quickly. Pack what you need. I suggest warm clothes, whatever you can manage. I have food and bedding. Stay here, don’t open the door until I return.”

“We’re just going to walk out of here?”

“I think riding would be faster.”

I collected supplies and food as quickly as I could and carried the bags one by one up to the deck, where I left them piled in a dark corner. When I returned to the room Rowan was dressed in trousers, brown leather boots that laced up to her knees, a heavy sweater and a jacket. Her pack was stuffed full, and Sara’s basket of ointments and potions sat empty on the bed. I handed her a charcoal cloak with a deep hood. It was Sara’s, the only one I could find that was small enough that Rowan wouldn’t trip over it. She ran her hands over the rough wool and the smooth, pink lining before she pulled it around her shoulders.

“Keep your face hidden until we’re clear of town, and don’t say a word until I tell you it’s safe,” I said. “When Severn comes looking for us, I don’t want anyone to have seen you.”

She looked like she was going to say something, but instead reached for her hood and pulled it over her head.

“We only have one chance to get away from here unnoticed. Keep your eyes down, and we’ll be fine.”

She limped toward the door, and reluctantly accepted my arm when I offered it.

Wooden boards creaked under our feet as we stepped into the passageway, and Rowan hesitated. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “Just keep moving.”

A door ahead and to our left creaked open. One of Severn’s uniformed guards stepped out, yawning, and turned toward us. I released Rowan’s arm and readied myself for a fight. He squinted, nodded, and turned to lock the door behind him. He saw us, but took no notice of us, which was as much as I’d hoped for. I released the breath I’d been holding as he passed us and continued down the passageway.

I took Rowan’s arm again and urged her to move more quickly. The sooner we got off of the ship, the better.

I took Rowan’s knapsack and went ahead when we reached the ladder that took us up to the deck. A cold wind blew in off of the ocean, and I pulled my cloak tighter as I offered a hand to help Rowan up. She looked around and blinked in the cloud-diffused sunlight, took in the sight of the men working to prepare the ship to sail, then looked down at her feet and waited for me to retrieve our supplies. If she was going to run, she was smart enough not to risk it yet.

A pair of gray horses waited for us at the bottom of the gangplank, as I’d arranged. I tied the bags to the saddles, then offered a hand to help Rowan up. She hesitated, but accepted. She took a few deep, shaky breaths as I mounted my own horse, but still said nothing.

We passed a few workers in the shipyard, all of whom ignored or seemed to look right through us as though we were ghosts. As we passed the fence a sailor staggered out of a dingy bar and looked at us with bleary eyes. When I reached out to take in his thoughts I found him struggling to remember some instruction. Something he was supposed to watch out for, to alert someone if he saw someone… something. He squinted at us.

“Say, you’re not… um,” he mumbled.

Shit.

I’d hoped that manipulating so many people would create a group effect that would draw in anyone I’d missed, but this one seemed unaffected.

“No,” I said. Had I been alone I might have taken care of things differently, but I glanced at Rowan and saw her watching from under her hood. Her hands gripped the reins tight, ready to take off at the first sign of trouble.

I reached out to change the sailor’s mind, to make him forget his instructions. I felt the magic go, leaving me weaker. The magic here near the border was stronger than it had been elsewhere, but I needed to get back to Tyrea soon to replenish.

The sailor’s drunkenness worked in my favor. He took a step away, stumbled, and went back toward the ship without further comment.

We went on, Rowan riding beside me down the hard-packed dirt road that led through town and toward the nearby mountains. We wouldn’t be safe until we’d left the obvious path and put distance between ourselves and the ship. Even then, Severn would be after us long before I was ready for him.

I gritted my teeth and urged the horse to move faster.

Chapter XIII

Aren

ROWAN STAYED CLOSE BEHIND ME as we climbed steep, winding roads, crossed the square and continued up a side street. The little town was packed into the foothills of tree-covered mountains, and the streets twisted back on themselves and met at strange angles with whitewashed buildings packed into every spare bit of space.

Few people were out so early, and those that were gave us no more than a look. They knew to mind their business and no one else’s. Not all of the Darmish were loyal to their own country, and my people used this particular harbor frequently. We were generous with the people, and they repaid us with safe passage and with information when it was available.

They were Severn’s allies, though, not mine. If he came asking questions later, they wouldn’t hesitate to answer.

A curtain twitched in a kitchen window, and an elderly woman squinted down at us. I looked away. As long as we got out of town, it didn’t matter what she saw. Severn would find out soon enough that we were missing, and one old hag noting which direction we’d headed would make little difference.

I closed my eyes to sharpen my focus and sent my awareness back in the direction of the ship, searching for chaos, confusion, or any sense of someone following us. There was nothing yet.

We rode without speaking, accompanied only by the sounds of a far-off pair of crows, the twittering of a few birds, and the sound of our horses’ hoofs as they scuffed through the drifts of pine needles that covered the long-unused logging road we followed toward the mountain. Late in the morning Rowan rode up beside me, looking like she wanted to ask a question, but I shook my head and she dropped back without a word.

Perhaps it would have been polite to ask how she was feeling, but it didn’t matter. We weren’t stopping, no matter how uncomfortable or frightened she was, or how badly a part of me wanted to haul her hack to the boat and insist that I’d caught her trying to escape.

I glanced over my shoulder. Rowan had let her hood fall, and she was watching a raven that flew overhead. My stomach turned every time I saw the bruise on her face, a reminder of how ill prepared I was to protect anyone. She looked calmer now than she had when she was trapped on the boat, though, and for a moment I felt as though I’d made the right choice in helping her.

Hours passed and the sun broke through the clouds. As we moved away from the immediate danger of the ship, doubts crowded my mind. In a moment of irrational anger I had thrown everything away—my family, my future, my identity. If I’d wanted to leave on my own, I could have planned a better escape. What I’d done was stupid and impulsive. But there was no changing the past. I locked those thoughts away and focused on keeping Severn from finding us. Worrying about what I’d done would only distract me from that.

After several turn-offs the road became little more than a path. We crossed a slow-running river shortly before noon and I turned my horse off of the road, letting him pick his way through the sparsely wooded forest for a few minutes before we stopped. “Do you want something to eat?” I asked Rowan, and swung down to the ground.

She opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything for a moment. Perhaps she was becoming as accustomed to the silence as I was. “We can talk now?”

“We could have hours ago. I just didn’t want to.”

She shot me a look that would have frozen a dragon’s insides, but it disappeared almost instantly. I wondered whether she expected an apology. She’d have to get used to going without.

When I offered my hand, she refused to take it. “I’ll manage on my own, thank you.”

It took her longer than it should have, but she made it safely to the ground. She limped past me into the woods as I tethered the horses and pulled fresh fruit and dried meats from the bags, eating as I offered the horses a little grain. When Rowan returned, she sat in a sun-lit clearing and devoured her meal. I’d have offered more, but we’d have to make our supplies last. We wouldn’t be going anywhere near a town as long as I could avoid it.

She sat with her knees tucked up against her chest and winced as she bit into an apple. The bruises had faded over the past few hours, thanks to Sara’s impressive gifts as a Potioner. Still, there was only so much her ointments could do. Morten certainly hadn’t showed Rowan any mercy. I had occasionally regretted killing people in the past, but I certainly didn’t this time.

Her gaze darted away from my face every time I caught her looking at me.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No? Where I come from abductions don’t usually end well.” She winced at her own words. “Sorry, I’m just…” She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes.

“Nervous?”

She swallowed hard. “Terrified, actually.”

Her openness surprised me. I tried to reach into her thoughts, but didn’t have any more success than I had before.

“You’re safer with me at the moment than you are anywhere else,” I said. “Severn will be searching for us in this area, but we’ll get away from here as soon as we can.”

“Good.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“If I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t be helping you, would I?”

“I suppose.” She still wouldn’t meet my gaze. Perhaps now that Severn was gone, she considered me the most immediate threat.

I wouldn’t be hurt by that. It didn’t matter whether she liked me. I was already toying with the idea that I could use her somehow, now that Severn was my enemy. That would mean keeping her around, trying to break the binding that had her magic trapped. It hadn’t been my original plan, but perhaps we’d both benefit, if only she would trust me.

“If you’re finished eating, we should keep moving.”

She struggled to stand as I went to untie the horses. I soon realized she hadn’t followed me out of the clearing. My anger caught me by surprise, and I tried not to let it creep into my voice. “I’m not going to rape you, either, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Her eyes grew wide. “Where I come from we believe that’s the territory of weak men and cowards. I am neither.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, mister—”

“Aren, please.”

“Aren.” She pushed past a low branch to follow me into the shadows beneath the trees, and reached out to stroke her horse’s nose. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been in a situation like this. I don’t know what to think or expect. Can I ask where we’re going? And if we can talk now, I’d like to ask about why your brother wanted me.”

Before I could answer, a shadow passed over the place we’d just been sitting. Rowan hobbled out from the shelter of the oak trees, shading her eyes against the sun. “What is that?”

“Rowan!” I whispered as loudly as I dared, but she kept going. The shadow passed again. I grabbed her arm to pull her out of the clearing.

“Hey!” she yelled, and I clapped a hand over her mouth. She struggled against me, but stopped when a dark silhouette passed above the trees, feathered wings spread out to soar toward the mountain. For a moment I thought it was Severn’s horse, a winged beast he’d captured years ago. It wasn’t, but it could have been just as problematic. Four legs were tucked up close to its body, and a sharp-beaked head moved side to side, watching the ground. I let go, and Rowan staggered back to lean against a tree.

“What—”

“Gryphon.”

“But we don’t have those in Darmid.”

“Welcome to the borderlands. At least it didn’t see us or the horses. We should move on.”

I tried not to let her see how shaken I was. The gryphon wouldn’t be a problem, but there were worse things hunting us.

I closed my eyes, focusing inward, and sent my awareness out again, more focused than it had been before, searching for Severn and then for any human presence. There was nothing.

When I opened my eyes Rowan whispered, “What did you just do?”

“I’m keeping us safe.”

“Was that magic?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“No.” She hobbled back toward her horse and allowed me to help her into the saddle, and we moved on.

I waited for more questions, but Rowan seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. The quiet forest reflected a calm I wished I felt. Conflicting plans and desires battled within me, but no obvious course of action revealed itself. My thoughts spoke over each other in an argument with myself that I couldn’t win.

Take her home.

Dump her in the woods.

Help her.

Send her away and board the next ship away from Darmid and Tyrea, alone.

No, free her magic and see how powerful she really is, first—she could be a strong ally.

I’ve done enough. If she wants to go home, let her deal with the consequences.

I rolled my shoulder muscles to ease the tension that weighed them down. I would try to make her understand the danger she was in, offer to help, and let her decide. If she chose to leave, I wouldn’t feel any guilt over her fate. And yet, I wanted her to stay. Perhaps it was some lingering effect of her magic, affecting me again now that she was close by. Nothing to be concerned about. It would fade again.

“Are you going to take me home?” she asked a while later.

“Not yet. Right now we need to focus on getting as far from the ship and Severn as we can. He’ll look for us going that way first.”

“He knows where I live?”

“Yes.”

Her face paled. “But my family—”

“They’ll be fine. He won’t attack unless he’s sure you’re there, and he’ll try to cut us off before then. Let’s find a safe place to spend the night, and I’ll try to explain everything.”

She frowned. “Sure.”

We’d want a fire, but we needed more cover than the trees would provide.

“What’s that? It’s beautiful.” Rowan pointed toward the nearby mountain face. Erosion had exposed diagonal layers of rock, variegated shades of gray with lighter brown streaks.

“Lovely.” Useless, but very nice to look at. I knew people like that.

Or was it useless? I rode closer to an outcropping in the rock and ran my fingers over the brown stone. My fingers came away dusty, but left no mark on the rock. “We might be able to find shelter here and build a fire,” I called, and Rowan came up beside me. “There may be caves.”

I dismounted and led my horse over the rocky ground as Rowan rode along the edge of the forest below, stopping to dismount and look at something in the woods. The first shadow in the rock I explored was only a hollow that wasn’t nearly deep enough to offer protection. A dark space up ahead looked more promising. I left the horse and stepped into a cleft in the rock that continued deeper into the mountain on a shallow upward slope, turning into a tall, narrow cave farther in. I wanted to explore further, but I hesitated as an uneasy feeling crept over me. I sent my awareness out.

Severn. He wasn’t on top of us yet, but he wasn’t far. My skin prickled with cold fear as I darted back into the sunlight.

Rowan was busy picking up an armload of firewood. “Rowan,” I called, and she looked up. I didn’t want her to panic, but he was getting closer. Too close. “Severn is coming.”

She stumbled forward, clutching the bundle of dry branches to her chest while she held her horse’s reins with the other hand.

The crack in the stone was barely wide enough for the horses to enter, but we had no other options. Mine pulled back and shuffled her feet against the dusty stone floor as the space narrowed and the walls came together overhead, but I urged her on, hoping we wouldn’t become trapped if there was nowhere to turn around.

The passage opened in a wide, enclosed space with an uneven floor and a ceiling that was just tall enough for Rowan to stand comfortably, but the horses and I had to keep our heads down. Rowan’s horse let out a nervous snort. I stepped aside and let Rowan and her horse pass, and handed her the reins for mine. She led them to the rear of the cave and stroked their faces, quieting them.

Severn was still coming closer. I felt his wrath in my bones, and his voice echoed in my mind as he cursed my name. My heartbeat sped up and sweat broke out over my body as I remembered other times when I’d hidden from him, when I was much younger. I’d succeeded a few times, before he forced me to stop. But it had been too long since I’d tried it. I wasn’t prepared.

Severn’s approach slowed. He’d sensed my magic and was trying to locate me. If I didn’t act, we were finished. I closed my eyes.

My thoughts turned away from Severn and back to the cave, making it an impenetrable fortress in my mind. Nothing happened. Then the temperature in the cave plummeted, raising goosebumps on my skin. I backed away from the entrance and hoped the change wouldn’t extend to outside, alerting Severn. A horse squealed, and Rowan began speaking to it softly. In my mind the cave sealed itself, rock closing out the light and any sign of our presence.

Still he came closer, his mind open to me for the first time. He’s baiting me. If I took the opportunity to look into his thoughts, he would feel me. I shut him out and quieted my own mind as well as I could.

Minutes passed, and no one entered the cave. I risked reaching out, and found Severn’s presence fading. I stayed where I was, waiting until I lost all sense of him. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see that nothing had changed. Sunlight still filtered in from the open entrance. It had all seemed so real in my mind.

When I turned back Rowan was staring with wide eyes, holding both horses’ reins in one hand and pulling her jacket and cloak tight to her body with the other. Her breath came out in smoky white plumes that faded as the cave warmed.

“Is he gone?” she whispered. I nodded, and she relaxed slightly. “What was that? Why did it get so cold?”

“Do you know anything about magic?”

“Um… no. Well, I’ve heard that you—I mean people sell their souls to get it.” She offered a nervous half-smile. “I sort of hoped that wasn’t true, though.”

“No. If I’m damned, it’s not for that.” I meant it as a joke to put her at ease, but she didn’t seem to think it was humorous.

“So what is it? How does it work?”

How to explain magic to someone as ignorant as her? I’d studied it all my life and still didn’t understand it.

“Magic is energy, like sunlight or a thunderstorm or the life in your body. It’s everywhere, or it should be. Some creatures wouldn’t exist without it, like flying horses, gryphons or the Aeyer—”

“Aeyer?”

“Winged people. Mountain folk. Other creatures and people are able to use it to do various things. We don’t all have the same abilities, and it takes a lot of training to learn how to use them properly.”

“For example?”

I wasn’t eager to talk about my natural abilities concerning mind-control. “For example, Severn has natural skill with fire. That talent showed itself long before he learned to control it. What I did a few minutes ago was an attempt to keep him from locating me, creating a magical shield of sorts. It’s not something I’ve practiced, or even planned. It worked, but the process also took a different kind of energy from the air in here, making it cold. We’re lucky that’s all that happened.” People had died attempting less, but that information didn’t seem like it would make her any more comfortable with the concept.

I stepped toward my horse, and she shied away. Rowan took the bags off of both horses as I turned to set up the firewood in a depression in the floor, stripping bark and piling it beneath the branches. Rowan carried the saddles to an out of the way spot in the cave and brought our bags to the fire pit, limping on her injured ankle.

“So does everyone in Tyrea use magic?”

“No. Most can’t at all. Some have very low-level magic, and use it as they can. Their skill sets tend to be very narrow. Sorcerers have more magic in us, and it replenishes faster after we use it. We have a wider range of natural gifts, and if we’re willing to risk those unpredictable outcomes, we can expand beyond that. Like me changing into an eagle. It was a risk the first time I tried it. Very dangerous, even after study. But it worked.” I took a fire striker from my bag and lit the kindling. “Sadly, some skills seem destined to remain forever out of my reach.”

She smiled at that. “Being able to make fires would be convenient.” She sat across from me with her legs stretched out in front, head tilted to one side. “There’s so much I want to ask about magic.”

“But?”

“But I think the more important question is why I’m here. Why did Severn want me? You said I have magic, but I don’t. I’m not like you. I don’t start fires, or make strange things happen.”

“You healed me.”

“I didn’t. I believe that magic healed you. There’s no other explanation. But it wasn’t mine.” She took off her boot and pulled Sara’s ointment from her bag to rub onto her injuries. “Is this magic? Is Sara like you?”

“No, she’s a Potioner. It’s different, and not important right now. She’s not a Sorceress. Not like you.”

Rowan set the jar aside and leaned forward. “Please stop saying that.”

“My body heals far more quickly than the average person’s. Any Sorcerer’s does, but it’s nothing on that scale. And what happened that night goes beyond simple healing. The magic hunters treated their arrows with a substance that kept me from using my magic. You destroyed that poison. Your magic flowed through me, repairing the damage until you fainted, and then it ended.” I couldn’t sit still anymore. I stood and paced the cave, though there was little space. “Do you remember any of it?”

“No. I remember a crazy dream, and darkness. Pain. Everything was so confused. But as far as what actually happened, I remember wanting something to cover Aquila’s—I mean, your wounds, and getting dizzy. So maybe you used unfamiliar magic when you healed yourself, and causing me pain was the unexpected effect?”

I stopped and stood opposite her, with the fire between us. “Why are you fighting this?”

She pulled her boot back on and laced it tight. “I’m not fighting, I’m being rational. I’m not like that.” She said it as though magic were a curse or an illness. But then, according to what she’d grown up hearing, it was.

“There’s powerful magic in you, Rowan.”

“But I—”

“Please, let me explain. You once told me you wanted magic in your life. At least give it a chance.”

She clamped her mouth shut and motioned for me to continue.

“Your magic healed me, but it hurt you. I believe that’s because when you were young, someone found out about your power and decided it needed to be locked away inside of you. It’s a process called binding, and it hasn’t been done for centuries, at least not according to any records I could find.”

She looked like the objections or questions were going to come exploding out of her at any moment, but she held back.

“Go ahead,” I told her.

“How? And who would do that? And if I believed you, what would you propose I do about this binding thing?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know, and I’m thinking about it.” I untied a blanket from my pack, laid it out on the floor, and sat. “I suppose might have some luck finding help or answers in Tyrea, though the libraries in Luid are out of the question now. There might be others who could help.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but going toward your brother doesn’t sound like the best plan to me.”

“When we’re in Tyrea my magic will be stronger than it is here. I can protect us. And magic has to be the answer to this. There must be someone in Tyrea who knows what kind of magic can break a binding, and once we do that, you’ll be able to use your magic to defend yourself.” I heard the excitement in my voice, and took a breath to calm myself. It would take time for her to learn, but I was sure she could do it. “You’ll find protection in Tyrea, especially with other magic-users, if people know what you are. If you go home now and your magic remains hidden, you’ll never be safe from Severn, or your own people if it gets out.”

She glanced at the flames dancing in the fire pit and chewed on her lower lip. “When I woke up on the ship and you said I was in more trouble than I knew, you weren’t just referring to Severn, were you?”

“No. He was and is the most immediate danger, but there’s more. There’s the binding, which I think is only going to cause you more pain as time goes on and your magic grows stronger.” The idea that it might kill her had occurred to me, but the look of horror on her face at the mention of more pain made me keep it to myself. “There’s also the fact that you’re a Sorceress who’s a Darmish citizen and planning to marry a magic hunter.”

She shivered in spite of the heat from the fire. “I have to go.” She used the rough stone wall to pull herself up, then limped toward the cave entrance.

“You can’t just leave.”

She stopped, but didn’t look at me. When she spoke again, her voice was weary. “I just have to pee. I’ll come back. Give me a few minutes alone. Please.”

I allowed her some time to get away from the cave, then tethered the horses outside with water and grain rations. I watched from a distance as Rowan returned to the cave, and decided she could use more time alone with her thoughts. Perhaps she’d realize I was right.

We needed to add to our food supplies, anyway. I walked farther into the woods, undressed, and transformed into my eagle’s body.

Prey was scarce on the side of the mountain, but I spotted and killed a fat rabbit. I changed back into my own body and returned to the tree where I’d left my clothes and hunting knife, and cleaned the carcass. It wasn’t much, but it would be better than nothing.

I hesitated before I entered the cave. If only I could sense Rowan’s mood and her thoughts. Had she been a normal citizen of her country, I could have forced her to understand. But then, if she’d been normal, she would have been safe from all of this.

She was lying on her bedroll with a sweater folded under her head, her bandaged leg elevated on rock that hunched up from the cave’s floor. The smell of Sara’s healing mixture touched the air, mixed with a hint of burning pine. Rowan didn’t look at me or say anything while I set up a makeshift spit over the fire. Just before the meat was cooked, she asked, “Where’s the smoke going?”

“Pardon?”

“The smoke. We should be choking on it by now. Did you do something to the wood?”

“No, it’s the smokestone. This part of the mountain is full of it. Absorbs smoke, and some of the smells from cooking. Usually forms around air pockets, which is why I thought we should look here for shelter. Not strong for building, but it can be useful.”

“Huh.” Her voice was flat, exhausted.

For a while the crackling of the fire was the only sound. When the food was gone and the remains taken far from the cave, she sat cross-legged on her blankets and spoke. “You remember what you said before?”

“Vaguely.”

The arch of her eyebrow could have been mild amusement or well-contained annoyance. “I’ve been thinking about it. There was a time when I’d have been excited to hear that I was a Sorceress, but that was before I understood the truth about it. About what magic means to someone in my country, how it’s feared and hated. If what you said were true, I would lose everything. My family, my home, Callum, my future, any hope of a normal life. Do you understand that?”

“I do. But none of that changes what happened that night. You healed me. The magic is there, whether you want it or not.”

The corners of her lips twitched upward. “Is this the part where you tell me there’s a prophecy about someone like me? No, wait. I’m a long-lost princess, right? Hidden from the evil fairy for my own good? And I need to seek out the magical amulet, or be saved by prince charming.”

I was confused for a moment, until I remembered the story book I’d leafed through in her room. “Funny, but no.”

She rubbed a hand across her eyes, and winced as it brushed the bruise on her cheek. “So you think this binding thing can be undone? Assuming I wanted that. I mean, I want the headaches to stop, but having magic would finish me in Darmid. They’d kill me as soon as look at me.”

“Even your family?”

“My father’s a magistrate. I don’t think that would make things easier on me.” She lifted her gaze to meet mine. “I’m going to need to think about this. I understand what you’re saying about the healing and all of that, but it just doesn’t make sense to me. And going to your country is just…” The end of her sentence disappeared in a yawn.

There was no point arguing when we were both tired. “Here,” I said, and handed her my bedding. “I’m going to change and sleep outside so I can keep an eye on things.”

I thought she’d also sleep better without me in the cave, but would be either too polite or too frightened to say so. I’d also have an easier time staying alert if I wasn’t in my human body. Now that we were away from the destruction of Rowan’s people, my magic was replenishing itself. I could afford to use some for her comfort and mine.

I stepped out into the forest and searched for Severn, but felt nothing. I let my clothes fall into a heap as I transformed and took off to find a place in the treetops where I could watch the horses and the cave.

I doubted I’d be getting much rest.

Chapter XIV

Aren

I NEVER SLEPT AS DEEPLY in my eagle’s body as I did when I was a human. I passed the night without dreaming, and managed to keep a faint awareness of any human presences that might be approaching. There was no one, save for the woman sleeping in the cave.

I woke before sunrise. While I changed, dressed and collected the horses, I considered the problems Rowan brought with her.

She understood what I’d told her, but didn’t want to believe it. If she didn’t believe, she wouldn’t go to Tyrea to look for help. I doubted she’d stay with me simply for the pleasure of my company. All I needed was for her to see the wrongness of what had been done to her, to get angry about it, and to fight against everything she’d been brought up believing about herself, magic, and my people.

“That’s not so much to ask, is it?” I asked my horse as I offered her a morning grain ration. She rolled an eye at me and flicked an ear. “No, should be easy enough. Maybe she had a miraculous vision overnight that convinced her.”

I led both horses back to the cave and heard Rowan moving about, packing her things. She nodded to me when I entered, but didn’t speak.

“What, not even a ‘thank you for not murdering me in my sleep?’” I asked as I laid the saddle pad on her horse.

She smiled and came to help me. “I’m very grateful. Did you sleep well?”

“Well as I ever do.” I didn’t ask her the same. The shadows beneath her eyes spoke of a restless night. She was moving more easily, though she still limped when she walked, and her face looked better than it had the day before. She’d brushed her hair out and braided it, and changed her clothes. I had hoped that I’d only found her attractive when I first saw her because of her magic’s influence. It seemed that was wrong. Injured and unwashed as she was, she still looked good.

I turned away before my body could make me understand just how good.

We left the cave, and Rowan winced as she settled herself in the saddle. “Too much riding yesterday.”

“There’s still a long way to go,” I told her. “We should make it to Tyrea tonight if we keep a good pace.”

“We? Does that mean you still want to help me?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“I do. I’m absolutely certain of what I told you last night.”

“But—”

“I wouldn’t have stayed at your house if I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have even bothered to pick you up off the floor.”

She winced. “You put me to bed when I was passed out?” I nodded, and she looked thoughtful. “You know, that kind of thing always works out well in fairy stories. In real life it seems a little awkward.”

You have no idea. I tried not to think about what I’d felt that night, with her magic in me. How she’d looked, how I’d wanted to keep her safe. “I think the princes in those stories usually have better reputations than I have.”

“True. I just never thought about how creepy it all was, them kissing sleeping girls and all of that.”

“I promise that was the only time I wasn’t an eagle when you were in the room.”

“I appreciate that.” She seemed to be mulling things over as we rode away from the cave, still moving east, picking our way through the sparse forest. “So,” she said at last. “I was thinking about whether I’m going home, or going to Tyrea.”

I tried not to look like I cared, and reminded myself that escape would be easier without her. “Yes?”

“I should want to go home. The thing is, I was just saying to Felicia that I wanted adventure in my life.”

“I remember.”

“The point is, I used to want this. I’ve heard stories about Tyrea and wanted to see it for myself. I once met people from there. Wanderers. Do you see them where you live?”

I nodded. Wanderers were hardly what I’d call Tyreans—they didn’t claim any nationality, refused to pay taxes, and went where they pleased. They were an irritation at best, and a security risk at worst. But if she thought highly of them and it made her think well of my people, so be it.

“There was a little boy who told me a few things, but his mother shushed him. Probably didn’t want to get them in trouble. I tried to forget like Matthew told me to, but I don’t think I ever got over the curiosity. Maybe that’s why I loved those stories so much.” She smiled and shook her head. “But I made a promise to Callum, and I’m happy with that.” She hesitated slightly before the word happy. “I can’t leave him because of a childhood dream that was foolish and dangerous to begin with. And I especially can’t go with you.”

“Of course you can’t. I’m everything you’ve been taught to fear. You believe what you’ve been taught about magic and about my people, so obviously you wouldn’t want to give me a chance to prove that wrong.”

She frowned. “I’m not like that. And don’t do that, it’s not going to work.”

“Do what?”

“Telling me I’m something that I’m not just so I’ll have to prove you wrong. It’s tricky. I don’t like it.”

Perhaps she was smarter than I’d thought.

“So what I’m thinking is that maybe I’ll stay with you until we get to the border. You can tell me more about magic, and about your country. If by then I think you’re right about me, I’ll keep going. If you want me to.”

“I do.”

She turned to me with narrowed eyes. “Why? Why are you helping me?”

“I already told you. I’m repaying you for saving my life.”

Her frown wrinkled her nose. It would have been oddly attractive if I’d let myself think of her in those terms. Which I don’t.

She studied me for a moment longer, then looked forward and straightened her shoulders. “You really think there’s a way to get rid of the headaches?”

“I’m sure there’s a cure for you.” I hadn’t found any information in Luid of how bindings were performed. Severn hadn’t given me many chances to look through the old court Sorcerers’ records. Still, there had to be some way. “And maybe you’ll enjoy life in Tyrea. If you go that far, of course.”

She was silent for a while longer, save for asking whether we could ride and eat at the same time. We could, and did. Her ruminating suited me. I was accustomed to being alone, and much preferred traveling in silence.

“This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she said at last. “I should go straight home and forget all about this, but I’ve spent my entire life wanting to know more about magic, dreaming of an adventure like this.” She tilted her head to one side. “Though I might have preferred that the magical, mysterious stranger who saved me from the bad guys wasn’t terrifying and possibly evil.”

“Well, no one is perfect.”

She grinned, looking truly amused for the first time since I found her by the river. “I know I’ll regret it if I don’t take this opportunity. This might be my only chance to fix whatever’s wrong with me, and I believe you want to help. But you should know I’m going to have a lot of questions, and I need you to answer truthfully. Can you do that?”

“I’ll do my best.” Not an appealing prospect, if it meant endless conversation like she seemed fond of when she was with her family. Still, it would keep her around until I could convince her of her magic, and there would be dangers ahead far worse than a lone gryphon that she’d need to learn about.

She still looked troubled. “This is a bad idea, I know it is.”

I couldn’t disagree.

It took her far too long to understand that I wasn’t willing to talk about myself. I tried to be patient, politely deflecting her inquiries when she asked about what I’d been doing when she found me half-dead by the road, how exactly I “did magic,” my family, where I’d grown up, whether I had any pets or friends, what I did when I wasn’t out abducting people. I had agreed to tell her about magic, nothing more.

She became increasingly frustrated with each refusal, and with each question she pestered me with I came closer to abandoning her in the woods. In theory, I admired her curiosity. In practical terms, it was going to drive me mad.

“I would feel better about all of this if you would tell me just one thing that makes me think you’re anything other than a creepy bad guy luring me off into the woods to feed me to a dragon,” she said.

“The fact that you’re still here leads me to believe that you don’t think that at all.”

She flipped her braid back over her shoulder. “I’m still just a little uncomfortable. You seem to know so much about me. Tell me something. Anything. Tell me your brothers’ names.”

I gripped the reins tighter and took a deep breath. “What difference does it make?”

“None, I suppose,” she said. “But I’m putting a lot of trust in you, and you haven’t given me anything in return.”

“Besides not killing you?”

She sighed. “You’re right, I know. Coming along was my decision, and I appreciate what you’re doing for me. I’m just—”

“Severn, Wardrel, Dan. Those are my brothers’ names. They’re not as friendly as I am.”

“I picked up on that from Severn.” She looked over at me and seemed to be considering something. “Thank you.”

I reminded myself that she probably still saw me as something of a monster. Not being able to read her was throwing me off, and if I wanted to help her—and it was too late to change my mind on that—I’d have to try to make her comfortable without letting her get too close.

“You didn’t know there were gryphons in the mountains?” I asked.

“No. I’ve read about them before, but I didn’t ever expect to see them in Darmid.”

“Normally you wouldn’t. Your people have done a surprisingly good job killing off every bit of magic in the populated areas of your country, but the mountains are still wild. Out here you’ll want to watch the skies for gryphons, be wary of the paths that a dragon might use for hunting, watch for burned trees. This is probably where they’ve fled to, if your hunters have left any alive.” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

I must not have succeeded. Rowan grimaced and looked away. “I guess that’s a sore spot for you,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But you can’t be upset with us for protecting ourselves against gryphons or dragons, can you? They’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous, but necessary for most of us. Everything is connected. Without dragons and every other magical creature, there’s nothing to keep magic in the land. Your people understand that, and push all the harder to be rid of it completely. It’s causing problems in Tyrea. That’s actually why Severn wanted you.”

“For information?”

“Experimentation.”

“Oh.” It seemed enough to buy me a few minutes of silence as she mulled it over. Perfect. If I could interest her with those things, she’d have a reason to stay with me, and I would avoid talking about myself.

We rode farther from the mountain’s slope as the day passed, under cover of the forest. Rowan looked around, taking in the trees and the rocks, and the occasional animal that darted across the path. I was doing the same, but I soon realized she wasn’t seeing the same things I was. To me, every noise was a reason for caution. I looked at the trees for signs of damage, anything that might indicate what sorts of creatures lived in the area. I watched the sky for potential attackers.

Rowan seemed to be simply enjoying the colors of the leaves. She took deep breaths of the earth-scented air, and smiled when a doe paused in the path ahead of us before leaping away into the underbrush.

I only wondered what the deer might be running from. You have a lot to learn about the world, Rowan.

“So tell me about dragons,” she said after the deer fled. “I don’t know much about them, except that there’s a skeleton at the university, and Dorset Langley has a bow made from a rib he took from the first one he killed.”

“How very impressive. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Of course you do. “Your people’s perceptions of dragons seem to be based on younger dragons. They’re nasty beasts, violent and thoughtless. If we have to kill a dragon, it’s usually not more than a few hundred years old.”

“So you do kill them? I thought you needed them.”

“We do. And they don’t often bother us enough that we’ll hunt them. Farmers in dragon lands accept the loss of a few animals every season as the price they pay for living there, and they take precautions against it. Once in a while a young dragon will develop a taste for human flesh, though, and discover that we’re easy prey. Then we have no choice. When they’re older, they know better.”

“How old is old?”

“A dragon could in theory live for thousands of years. They don’t let it go that long, though. As they get older, they become more like us. Their minds change, they think and speak like we do. And they hate it.”

She seemed surprised. “Are we so terrible that an animal would rather die than be like us?”

“They spend hundreds of years living without greed, envy, betrayal, sadness, anger. Even the things we might consider good are confusing to them. It becomes much harder to kill or steal when you start to think about what it does to someone else.”

She gave me a look that said she was reading too much into that statement, then asked, “Do they love?”

“I think any respectable dragon would kill itself before it let things get that bad.”

My answer seemed to please her far more than I’d expected. Strange woman. I’d thought I had her figured out. Easily distracted by daydreams, rebellious only when it was safe and suited her whims, kind but somewhat selfish, probably a horrible romantic. Smart, but dangerously unobservant. Perhaps I was only mostly right.

I realized that I’d let my awareness slip for far too long, and took a moment to check the forest around us. No humans. I’d have to watch that, though. Having company made for too many distractions.

Rowan appeared to be enjoying the conversation, and seemed to be growing less wary of me as the day wore on. “Is it true that they steal treasure? Is that a part of them becoming like us?”

“Partly. Dragonlings are quite fragile. They consume hard gemstones and minerals, and those substances are incorporated into their scales. It’s entirely natural that they’d seek them out for that purpose.” I’d learned all of this when I was a child, and it amazed me that the Darmish could be so ignorant. “But yes, when they get older they begin to hoard things they think are beautiful, and later the things that are valuable to other creatures. Gold isn’t good for a dragon to eat, it’s much too soft. But an old dragon might have more of it than most city treasuries, simply because someone else wants it. Of course, it benefits the dragon when people hear about their treasure and try to steal it. An old dragon doesn’t need to eat much, but they always appreciate fresh meat.”

“Is that treasure cursed?” she asked, whispering the last word. She was watching me so intently as she waited for an answer that a low-hanging branch nearly knocked her off of her horse. She ducked at the last moment, and turned to face forward again. I hoped she hadn’t seen me trying not to laugh at her.

I cleared my throat. “You know, I think that’s enough questions for now.”

“You promised me answers!”

“I didn’t promise all of them at once. I’m trying to focus on keeping us safe. Curses and everything else will have to wait until we stop for the night.”

Of course the treasure was cursed. Possessing it invariably turned people into the very worst parts of themselves, cruel and selfish and murderous, caring nothing for anything but their own pleasure. It would have been exhausting to try to explain it all to her, though, and I was tired of talking.

“But what if—”

“Shh.” I held up a hand to silence her. “There’s someone here.” I relaxed when I realized that it wasn’t Severn I’d sensed, but that didn’t mean we were safe. It felt like two men behind us, still far enough off that they wouldn’t know exactly where we were, but close enough that I wasn’t just going to wait and hope that they’d go away. They didn’t feel familiar. Darmish, perhaps, though I couldn’t tell whether they were magic hunters.

Either way, I would deal with them. I just hoped it wasn’t the Langleys. That would be particularly messy.

A strip of grassy, treeless land stretched out to either side of us like a deserted road. I urged my horse forward, into the shelter of the trees on the opposite side, and Rowan followed.

“What’s going on?”

“Wait here,” I said, and handed her the reins while I dismounted. “We can’t have people following us. I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

I looked down the broad path in both directions. The trees on either side reached branches across, and the ground was overgrown with grass and saplings. Definitely unused, but still… “Don’t go anywhere, and try to be quiet. I don’t think there’s anything here, but it’s best not to take chances. Just stay well off the path. If anything threatens you, leave the horses and run. I’ll be back.”

“What is it?”

“Dragon path.”

“Really?” She leaned forward and squinted as she looked toward the place where the wide path curved back into the trees.

I tried to forget about her as I crept back through the forest toward whomever was unlucky enough to be on our trail.

Chapter XV

Aren

THE MEN WERE EASY TO locate. They were locals sent to search the woods for us, careless and unaware of how close they were to success. I heard and saw them long before they knew I was there.

“Do you see anything?” His Darmish accent made it come out, “D’you see hennyting?” His thoughts were easier to follow than his words.

“Same as. Are we going to turn back? I’m about ready to get back to my Mary and a home-cooked meal.”

“Nuts to your Mary. Give it another few. We’ll never hear the end of it if we’re first back.”

“Imagine if we did find them?”

The first speaker snorted, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Gawd, I hope not! Magic stuff gives me the creeps.”

They certainly hadn’t located us through any skill of their own. More likely they’d been sent off in our direction, picked up a few signs of someone passing, and followed because they’d been instructed to follow every clue. What a shame for them that they were so keen on doing their duty.

They were alone, and hadn’t thought to send word back to the magic hunters. The second one told me so before I broke his neck.

I dragged the bodies to a shallow ravine, then hurried back to where I’d left Rowan.

That could have been worse, I thought. I didn’t enjoy dealing with situations like that, but if those two incompetents were the worst thing we had to deal with before we got to some kind of safety, I wouldn’t complain.

The horses were still there, tearing away at the leaves of some low redberry bushes. Rowan had left our bags piled under the boughs of a thick pine, but she was gone. I hoped she’d only gone to look for food, but I knew better. I left the horses where they were, took the bags with me, and set out down the dragon path, heading toward the rocky hill to the North.

She’ll be fine, I told myself. Just a young dragon, long dead. Dorset Langley probably killed it and made a piano bench out of its bones. Even if it had been an older dragon that left its treasure behind, Rowan would know not to touch anything in its cave, wouldn’t she? Perhaps not.

I pushed my feet harder into the grassy earth and ran.

The cave entrance was wide and low, opening beneath an overhang of dark rock. The leaves littering the ground were another reassuring sign. If a large dragon had been going in and out, its belly would have cleared the debris. I left the bags outside and ducked my head to creep into the cave.

The cave Rowan had slept in the previous night had been damp and cool. This one was warm and dry enough that I had to breathe slowly so as not to cough. My stomach tightened with apprehension, but I forced myself to go on. Something rumbled in the cave ahead, but the echoes and the curves of the tunnel distorted the sound. The passage grew lighter, not with daylight, but with a red-gold glow.

Had that not told me what lay ahead, the strong magic in the air would have. Had Rowan felt it? Could she? Perhaps that had been enough to warn her off. But I had to know.

I stayed close to the smooth wall, creeping forward until the tunnel opened onto a larger cavern which was almost entirely filled with a massive dragon.

The light in the cave came from the dull glow of the creature’s red scales. Its thick body rested on the floor, and great clawed feet curled at the ends of four muscular legs. Relaxed, not aggressive or defensive. The tail curved around the wall of the cavern toward me, and the head, which was half again as large as one of the horses I’d left outside, was raised at the end of a sinuous neck, gaze directed at a spot just to the side of where I stood in the shadows. I leaned forward. Rowan crouched on a stone outcropping with her back pressed to the wall, her attention fixed on the massive face in front of her. She appeared unharmed, but frightened.

“I think we have company,” the dragon said, and a chill spread from the base of my spine through my body. The rasping voice spoke with our words, but sounded nothing like a human. The dragon and Rowan both turned to look at me.

“Aren, run,” Rowan ordered.

“Don’t be rude, girl,” the dragon replied. Its green eyes were surrounded by scales that were the same deep gray as its neatly folded wings and the narrow spines crowning its head and tracing the length of its back. “Come in, please.”

I stepped into the cavern, but stayed near the entrance. There was no point trying to reach Rowan. We’d both be dead before we took one step toward freedom. The dragon shrugged, a gesture that rippled down the length of its body and ended with a flick of its tail. “Good enough. This young lady was just telling me about this journey that the two of you are on. Seems strange to me that you’d help her. Out of what? The goodness of your heart?” The beast lifted its lip in a sneer. “I hardly think there’s much of that in you.”

“You know who I am, then?”

“I do. I rarely care for the short-lived concerns of humans, but your family is familiar to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “I just wanted to look, and then Ruby invited me in, and I didn’t think I should say no.”

“Ruby?”

Another flick of the tail. “The girl wanted to know my name, and I told her dragons don’t have them. She asked me what I ate to become such a lovely color, and I told her.” The dragon blinked slowly and fixed its gaze on my hands. “Very nice gloves you have there. Dragon skin?”

“Yes.” There was no point lying. “He killed a dozen people before we killed him. Fourteen if you count unborn children.”

“I don’t, but I suppose you are correct. He earned his death.” It stretched its forelegs and flexed its claws, clearly not intimidated by my presence. “If I kill her, will you do the same to me?” There was a mocking tone to its voice.

“I’ll try.”

Rowan sighed. “I told you not to come in. Are you going to kill me?” she asked the dragon.

“Of course. You’re not much, but my young are hungry.”

I hadn’t noticed the pool of still water between the dragon’s forelegs. Beneath the surface I could just make out the pale shapes of a trio of dragonlings, still too young and soft to survive the air their mother’s heat made so dry. That was why the path appeared unused. Mother dragons guard their eggs and their young more carefully than any other creature, forgoing food and exercise in order to protect them.

“Your story has entertained me,” the dragon continued, “and I thank you. But if you’re finished, I have no reason to spare you. Or him.” She leaned her head closer to Rowan. “But I’ll let you choose flames or claws, by way of thanks.”

I scrambled to think of a way to get us out of there, but couldn’t come up with anything that would work fast enough. All I had was my hunting knife and magic, neither of which would work quickly enough to save us.

Rowan stood, slowly and unsteadily. She reached out a trembling hand and laid it on the glowing red snout. “I think you should let us go.”

It was a lucky thing the creature didn’t snort in surprise. It might have cooked Rowan where she stood. “Why ever would I do that?”

Rowan closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Come on, I thought. She’d have to find a way to use magic again. I didn’t know what she’d be able to do with it, but we were both going to be eaten if she didn’t think of something.

“Because,” she said, and looked up. “You want to know how the story ends.”

The dragon opened her mouth, then paused. She pulled back, neck curving into an S-shape. “This is how it ends.”

“It could be. But if you let us go, there will be more for you to hear. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Neither do you. I think you’re curious, that you’d like to find out. Isn’t that better than a tiny little meal?” Her voice shook, but she stared steadily at the dragon’s horrible face.

A few seconds passed, and then a rumbling noise began deep in the dragon’s massive chest. It took me a moment to realize that she wasn’t growling, but laughing—or as close as a dragon could come to it. Her tail thumped twice on the floor.

“I almost wish I could like you,” she said, and bared her teeth in a grotesque parody of a grin. “You’re amusing. I think your story would be worth hearing, but what’s a little human’s word worth, eh? Now, a sorcerer’s, perhaps…” Her head swiveled toward me. “What do you say, king’s son? Will you give me your promise that neither of you will tell anyone what you’ve seen here, and that you will come back to tell me how the story ends? Soon, I mean. If you don’t, I will find you, and I promise that the ending of this little story will not be pleasant.”

I tried to erase the look of shock I felt on my face. Was this dragon actually offering to let us go? True, an agreement with a dragon was never to be entered into lightly, and the consequences could be unpredictable. But if the alternative was death…

I nodded. “I promise, you’ll have your story.”

Ruby drummed her clawed fingers on the floor, then stood and stretched, arching her back so that the gray spines scraped the ceiling. Her mouth twisted into a sly smile as she reached into an alcove and pulled out a mass of gold coins, jewelery, ornaments, and unrefined ore, all of it littered through with precious gemstones that would have made any jeweler in Luid weep to see them.

“Very well, with two further conditions. First, you leave the horses. I can smell them on you, and it reminds me that my young are old enough to taste meat. Second, as a symbol of our agreement, I insist that you choose a bit of my treasure to take with you.” It seemed she was going to make sure the story that came back to her was worth the price she was paying for it.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Rowan stammered. “You’re very kind, but—”

“I insist. Come, child. You must like pretty things. Choose, or stay for supper.” Rowan turned to me, eyes wide and frightened. “No,” Ruby said. “Not him. He’s got his gloves, he needs nothing more from us, and you need no help from him. Choose your prize, and I’ll let you go. Both of you. This is my offer.”

Rowan’s shoulders sank, and she lowered her gaze. Don’t, I mouthed, but she didn’t see. I was sweating in the warm air, but my skin felt chilled. Please.

She clenched her hands into fists, then forced them to relax. “Any treasure of yours, and we can go? I have your word on that?”

Something like a smirk crossed the dragon’s face. “Any that’s in this cave. Let it not be said that I’m not generous.”

“Then I suppose I’d be a fool not to take your greatest treasure.”

“You would.”

Rowan looked up, straight into the beast’s eyes. “Then kindly bring your children out of the water so I can choose which I like best.”

Ruby’s gasp was nearly drowned out by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I didn’t know whether what Rowan had just done was brilliant or insane. Maybe both.

Ruby lay down on top of the pool. “You wouldn’t.”

“I could, according to the terms of our agreement. Perhaps I won’t. And perhaps you’ll remember that before you try to trick us again. No more games. We go, you get your story. That’s all.”

The air warmed as the dragon let out a deep, shuddering breath that made my mind hazy when I breathed it in. “Agreed. But name your prize. You already said you’d take one. What do you want the most?”

Rowan’s gaze passed over the heap of gold, along the great crimson body, toward the far end of the cavern. “There,” she said, and jumped down from her perch. She walked closer to the dragon’s rear claws than I would have dared, and stooped to pick something up off of the floor. Don’t take anything, please, I thought.

“This,” Rowan said, and held up what looked like a shallow bowl. “I told you I’ve waited my whole life to meet a dragon. I can’t think of a better prize than one of your scales.”

Ruby’s jaw opened, and she cocked her head slightly to one side. She turned to me. “She’s not even lying, is she?”

“I don’t think so.”

The dragon tapped a foreclaw on the ground and sighed. “Go, then. Take your prize, and let it be a reminder of your promise to return.” Rowan clutched the scale to her chest and ran toward me. Ruby watched her go by, then studied the two of us for a moment. “Well. I think this could be interesting, indeed. Go on.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said, and the dragon nodded.

I pulled Rowan up to the tunnel entrance, holding onto her arm to support her. Her whole body was trembling.

Ruby’s head turned to follow us. “Don’t forget to leave the horses.”

Rowan looked down at her injured ankle, then back at the dragon. She looked like she was going to object.

“Don’t,” I whispered. “It’s a small price, believe me.”

She nodded, and led the way through the tunnel. My gloves fell to the ground as we ran. I didn’t stop to retrieve them.

It seemed strange that the sun still shone through the colored leaves when we emerged, as though nothing in the world had changed.

We left the cave, turning away from the path. Ruby would find the horses soon enough, and we didn’t need to be there when she did. I hoped she’d find the bodies I’d left. It would be better if they disappeared completely.

I handed Rowan her bag and bedroll, and we ran as far as we could before her ankle gave out and she had to stop to treat and re-wrap it.

After she finished tying her boot, she covered her face with her hands. “That was horrible!” she cried.

“Well, what did you think was going to happen?” I tried not to yell, but I spoke more loudly than I’d intended. I was impressed with her quick thinking, but that didn’t do anything to cancel my anger at her. “At what point did you realize it was a bad idea? Obviously not when I said ‘dragon path’. Was it when you discovered that there was a live dragon in there, or only after you started having a friendly conversation with it?” She didn’t look up. I took a few deep breaths, then knelt in the dirt beside her. “Rowan, you could have died in there. You’re lucky that’s not the first thing that happened. If that had been a younger dragon…”

“I know.” Her voice cracked.

“How did you know not to take the treasure?”

“Stories. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Well, good. But that doesn’t change the fact that under any other circumstances, we both would have been roasted.”

“I’m sorry.” We stood and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then slipped the gray traveling cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood. “I need to go home.”

“You can’t, we haven’t found help for you yet. Even if you don’t believe me about the magic, we can get help for your pain.”

When she looked up at me, any trace of happiness or excitement that might have been there before was gone. “I thought I wanted an adventure,” she said, “but this isn’t at all what I expected. I don’t have magic, and you can’t fix me. It was stupid of me to let you try. I’m going home, and I’m going to put all of this behind me. Maybe it’s not too late for that.” She picked up her knapsack and bedroll and started down the hill, deeper into the dimly lit woods.

“But you just got us out of a dragon cave,” I called.

She turned back. “Yes. Right after I got us into a dragon cave. I’m obviously not ready for any of this. Which way is the border?”

I picked up my own things and followed her. I couldn’t let her go home to be captured by Severn, or to marry a magic hunter who would probably turn her in or kill her when he realized what she was. I still wasn’t entirely sure why it was so important to me, but it was.

If I could arrange it, I might get one more chance to convince her of her gifts, to make her stay and fight to save herself. I didn’t like to think about what I’d have to do, but I had no choice. It was time to try something drastic.

Chapter XVI

Rowan

PAINFUL AS RIDING HAD BEEN, walking was worse. Aren took the lead and I limped behind, trying to keep up with his long strides, occasionally catching up when he stopped to look back. My stomach grumbled as supper hour passed, but we’d lost too much time. I doubted there would be any stops before nightfall.

He wasn’t speaking to me now, and that was fine. I didn’t blame him for being angry. I’d been too impulsive, forgetting that the dangers out here were far different from any I’d known at home. Aren wasn’t always nice about giving orders, but he’d been right, and like an idiot I hadn’t listened. I wanted to talk about it, but decided to wait until he was ready. I needed some space to think, anyway.

Staying with Aren had been a terrible idea. I’d been curious about magic and thought, for just a moment, that he might even be right about me. I had acted without thinking of the consequences, and what had my stupid curiosity brought me? I’d almost gotten us eaten.

And those poor horses. Aren had called them a small price to pay, but I kept thinking about them. They should have been back at the docks, getting their supper. They’d done nothing but carry us without complaint for two days, and now they were as good as dead.

I had made a terrible mistake. It was time to go home. Even if Aren couldn’t straighten Severn out on what I really was, Callum would protect me. Not only that, but I’d be able to tell him what I’d learned about Tyrean magic, and how wrong we were about it. They didn’t sell their souls, and those people who used magic in Darmid really were born with it. It would change everything. Maybe useful information like that would make up for not telling him about the eagle.

My head throbbed with heavy pain again, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other, crunching over dead leaves in a faltering rhythm as the afternoon passed. Aren walked with his head down, jaw clenched, frowning. I felt badly for him. It was clear that he couldn’t go home after what he’d done. Would that have worked out differently if he’d been right about me?

Not your problem, I told myself. You never asked him for this. He took a gamble, and it wasn’t paying off. I tried to tell myself I had bigger problems to think about, but couldn’t help worrying about his. He wasn’t a friend, but we were in this together.

Late in the afternoon we reached a place where the forest ended, cut back in a straight line. Harvested fields sprawled in front of us, and in the distance dark trees crowded up against a cluster of whitewashed farm buildings. In between, placid-looking horses grazed in a large paddock.

Aren stopped and leaned on the fence. “Are you tired of walking yet?”

“Yes.” Most of my injuries were nearly healed, but my ankle and shoulder still ached. “Why? Are we going to try to buy horses?”

“What? No.” I thought the expression on his face was probably the same one I’d worn when he tried to tell me I was a Sorceress. “Can you ride without a saddle?”

“It’s how I learned. But we can’t just take someone’s horses. That’s stealing.”

He gave me that Are you serious? look again. I thought I’d see a lot of that one if we spent much more time together. He dropped his backpack and bedroll, and boosted himself over the fence.

“Rowan, we have people hunting us who aren’t going to treat us very nicely if they catch us, so I think moving more quickly might be a really good idea.” He was talking like I was an idiot, and I wanted to slap him for it.

“I was lucky earlier today,” he continued in a more normal tone. “The two men who were following us weren’t being careful, and it was easy for me to surprise them. We might not be so fortunate next time. Come on, there’s no one home here. It will be easy.”

I had forgotten about the men who were following us. “Did you kill them?”

“I did what I had to do.”

How many people did you have to kill before you could just say it like that, without showing any more remorse than you would for killing a rat?

“If it makes you feel any better,” he added with a sardonic smile, “I didn’t pay for the other horses, either. You’re already a thief and on the run from parties in two countries. A few more horses won’t hurt.”

“Fine. It’s still not right,” I said, and dropped my own things onto the pile. “Let’s just hurry.”

He held out a hand to help me over the fence. “Sometimes necessary has to come before right,” he said. “And look at it this way. Your new friend Ruby seems to be ready to get out hunting again. We’re saving a few of these horses from her.” He took a few steps, then turned back. “And no, we can’t take all of them.”

“I wasn’t even going to suggest that.”

We didn’t speak as we crossed the back fields. We entered the paddock, which sloped downward at the far side into a wooded area contained within the fence.

From a distance, the herd seemed to be a common enough mix of work and riding horses. As we approached, though, I saw that these horses all had heavy jaws, and thicker legs than the horses I was accustomed to. Their hooves were massive, and their lower legs all covered in long hair that matched their shaggy manes and tails.

“Wait for them to come to us,” Aren said.

“What are these?” I whispered.

Aren reached out to stroke a black mare’s white-blazed face as she approached. She shied at first, but seemed to warm to him quickly. He smiled. “Proper Tyrean horses. This will make things easier.”

Another of the mares approached me, a stocky piebald-coated creature with the largest brown eyes I’d ever seen on a horse. She sniffed at my cloak and snorted. “You don’t like dragons?” I asked her. I reached out, and she allowed me to touch her face. “Aren, we’re still in Darmid, right?”

“We are,” Aren said. “I’d say these are quite illegal because of their magical ancestry, but people are smart to keep them. They’re tougher than the horses you’re accustomed to. If they learn to trust us they’ll forage without wandering off or getting lost, and they can eat almost anything, plant or animal. They’re stronger, faster and more sure-footed than your horses, too. Gods, I miss Tyrea.” He left to search a nearby shed, and came back with a pair of simple leather bridles. “Your people’s stubbornness about this land makes your lives far more difficult than they need to be.”

A pale gray mare trotted over and bared her teeth at my new friend, revealing long, sharp canines. She gave a friendly nip, then returned to the herd.

We were adjusting the bridles when a brain-piercing scream ripped through the cold air from behind us. Somewhere near the house a dog added its howls to the racket.

Aren cursed. “Hurry. We need to go.”

What seemed to be a white stallion emerged from the trees below us and stopped at the top of the hill. It didn’t sound like any horse I’d ever heard, though, and when I risked another look back I saw the long teeth that curved up from either side of its mouth. Its eyes burned like hot coals, and the ground shuddered when it stamped a hoof.

“Rowan, go.”

There was nowhere to mount, and the horse was too tall for me to climb. I settled for taking the reins in hand and running. The mare seemed eager to escape, too, and tried to pull ahead. Aren and his mount kept pace beside us.

“What is that?” I yelled.

“Tusker,” he called back. “Nasty beasts, used for breeding these horses every ten generations or so. Didn’t think anyone was crazy enough to keep one loose with their mares.”

We kept running, but the tusker was too close. He’d catch up when we stopped to open the gate, and I doubted he’d be content to just take back his mares.

I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye as Aren leaped and pulled himself up by his horse’s mane. They sped ahead. You bastard, I thought, and in a moment of panic I almost let go of my own horse and ran for the closest fence in hopes of diving under it. When I looked ahead again, Aren had reached the gate. I expected him to try to jump it, but he swung down to the ground and started working at the lock, giving it a hard smack and hauling back on it until it popped open, sending sparks flying into the air. He hurried his horse through, and waited.

The tusker’s hoofs pounded the grassy earth behind me, gaining with every step. I pushed my legs to move faster than they’d ever had to before, ignoring the pain that burned in every muscle and shot up from my ankle.

We made it through the gate and Aren slammed it closed behind my horse’s tail, then reached through to snap the lock shut moments before the tusker slammed into the fence, bucking and shrieking. Aren yelled, and the tusker’s head snapped back as though it had been slapped, long white mane flying. It pawed at the ground and screamed, but didn’t hit the gate again.

Aren stepped back and examined his hand. The skin on his palm was red, burned and blistering.

“What happened?”

He grimaced. “I couldn’t get the lock open. I tried to use magic. At least it worked, right?”

We mounted our horses and raced back to pick up our things. The tusker continued his tantrum behind us as we rode off into the woods. My mare kept looking back, but settled when we were far enough away that she couldn’t hear him anymore.

We stopped beside a wide stream to catch our breaths and let the horses drink.

“There,” Aren said. “Wasn’t that easier than walking?” He was almost laughing. Unbelievable.

I took a few more gasping breaths. “You knew there were people following us back at the dragon path, you felt Severn coming after we left the boat, but you didn’t know about that?”

I crouched by the water and splashed some on my head and face, letting it run down the back of my neck. If it had been summer, I might have jumped into the river clothes and all to wash the sweat and dirt away. I still felt guilty for stealing the horses, but at that moment I would happily have broken into someone’s house for a bar of soap.

Aren followed my example, and raked his wet hands through his hair. His expression and voice turned serious. “It’s not easy, you know. Just trying to be aware of human enemies takes concentration and energy. Focusing on everything else that might be out there is impossible. For me, anyway.” He shook his hands, sending droplets of water back into the river.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re doing a great—”

“We should keep moving.” His words were clipped, his voice tense. “There was no one home at that farm, but they’ll be out looking for us when they get back and find their monster upset.”

We rode upstream in the shallow water until a short run of rapids blocked our path, then finished our crossing. The sun had set, and we had to move slowly through the woods. Still, Aren was right. It was better than walking.

“Are we almost to the border?” I asked. “I think I’ve had enough adventure to last me the rest of my life.”

He didn’t answer.

Aren was quiet while he built the fire in a sheltered place beside a cliff in the forest. I was starting to feel lonely having no one to talk to, but what was there to say? At least he seemed to have let go of the idea that I’d healed him that night at Stone Ridge.

He’ll probably be glad to get rid of me.

There wasn’t much food left, but it was probably too dark for Aren to change and go hunting. I hoped he’d do it again, though, that I’d see the eagle I knew as Aquila one more time before I left him. The whole situation was beyond strange, but fascinating when I thought about the magic instead of how he’d deceived me. In a way, I missed Aquila. He’d been good company.

Aren hardly ate anything, just sat watching the fire burn. I tried to leave some food for him to have later, but it was difficult. Excitement, exercise, and missing meals had made me ravenous.

“If I’d been human that day you found me, would you still have helped me?”

His voice startled me.

“Yes.”

He rolled his dirty white shirt sleeves up to his elbows and leaned forward. “If you’d known who I was?”

“I don’t know. I would have been frightened of you.”

He didn’t speak as I put the rest of the food away, then asked, “Would you let me die now?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you saw me injured and dying again, knowing what you do now, what would you do?”

I didn’t understand what he was getting at. “If I saw you hurt like that again, I couldn’t leave you. I don’t know how I would help.”

“You still think I’m wrong about your magic, but you’d want to help me?” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Not threatening, exactly, but he looked half-insane in the flickering firelight.

“Yes.”

“I believe you.” In one smooth motion he reached into his knapsack, produced a long, dark-bladed hunting knife, and plunged it into his left wrist. I screamed. He gasped, then pulled the knife through the flesh of his arm, twisting it near his elbow. The blade must have been sharper than any I’d ever come across before. It cut through muscle and tendons like they were liquid. Blood gushed from the wound.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted. Aren held his arm away from the blankets so that his blood poured onto the ground, burning on the fire-baked rocks.

“This is up to you,” he said, speaking calmly. “You probably have a few minutes, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave it for too long.”

“No.” My legs went weak, and I had to sit down and push with my feet to back away. “You’re crazy.”

“And I’m dead if you can’t manage a repeat performance. I…” He grimaced. “Gods, that hurts.”

I told myself that he was tricking me, that this was some kind of illusion, but as his eyes grew glassy and his breathing shallower it became harder to believe that. “You ass,” I whispered, and he tried to laugh.

“Rowan, I can’t—”

“Shut up.” I picked up the knife and used it to cut into a blanket so I could tear off a ragged strip. I dropped the knife and kicked the handle as I stepped back toward him, sending it spinning into the trees.

He looked at the fabric in my hands. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I said shut up!” The sight and smell of blood sickened me. Panicked tears made the world tremble, but I managed to start wrapping the cloth tight around the butchered arm to try to slow the bleeding.

Aren placed his other hand over mine, then unwrapped the bandage when I pulled away from his touch. “Don’t. You can do better than that.”

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop the tears, then grabbed Aren’s injured arm in both hands and squeezed. He yelled.

“You deserved that,” I whispered, and forced myself to look at the gaping wound. It was a cleaner cut than the one the arrow had given him, but longer and deeper, and there was more blood. The flesh twitched at the edges, trying to come together, but it seemed that his magic wasn’t able to take care of such a severe wound.

My focus was drawn toward it, slowly. Suddenly I remembered every detail of the night I’d found Aquila in the woods.

The back of my head began to pound with a heavy and increasing pain. The flesh twitched again, but this time the muscle pressed together, starting near Aren’s elbow and closing down to his wrist. I wanted to close my eyes or to run away, but I didn’t.

I’m doing this. A wave of joy washed over me at the realization, but pain burst from the back of my head, drowning it completely. I fought to stay conscious when white spots appeared in my vision. I needed to see what was going to happen.

The bleeding slowed, then stopped. I felt his magic responding, drawing mine deeper, accelerating the healing process. Seconds later, all that was left was a long, red scar twisting its way up his forearm.

Aren’s blood was everywhere, on the blankets and my hands and our clothes, but when I looked back at his face, he seemed relaxed. Almost happy.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I turned, crawled away from the fire, and threw up my supper under a tree. Sharp pain hit between my eyes and my arms gave out, sending me crashing into the musty leaves.

I wanted nothing more than to faint as I had before, but it didn’t happen. I had to let Aren help me back to my bed. The light made everything hurt more. I turned away from the fire and pulled my knees toward my chest.

Aren pulled a blanket over me, and I pushed his hand away. “Leave me alone,” I whispered. He’d been right about the magic in me, but I wasn’t prepared to thank him for what he’d done.

“I’m sorry I had to do that. I didn’t think—”

“Just go.” His shadow moved away, and I was left shaking and trying to hold back tears that would only make the pain worse if I let them come.

Chapter XVII

Rowan

AREN WAS NOWHERE TO BE seen when I woke the next morning—not that I spent much time looking. The previous night’s pain lingered, and the rust-colored stains on the rocks beside the burned-out fire were vivid reminders of what had caused it.

It seemed I had what I’d always dreamed of, but it was nothing like I’d expected. The healing had been beautiful, but the memory of the pain tarnished any sense of wonder I felt at it. I didn’t want to think about what any of this meant for my life back home. I just wanted to get away, and think about it all when my head was clearer.

I found Aren with the horses. He didn’t say anything, but at least had the decency to look concerned. I ignored him, still not ready to forgive. He packed up the campsite while I went out into the woods to strip a bit of sweet-smelling bark from a heartleaf tree. Taking too much would have caused permanent damage to the tree, but I thought about doing it. I’d need it later.

Your species is in trouble, my friend, I thought as I tucked some bark into my pack, and reached up to rub my fingers over a sweet-smelling pink leaf. You and me, both.

Neither Aren nor I spoke as we rode away. That suited me at first, but after a while I began to wonder if he wasn’t speaking because he was angry with me for almost letting him die. Not that it would have been my fault, but he seemed to have strange ideas about these things. Finally I asked, “Are you mad?”

He snorted. “Angry, or crazy?”

Good question. “I meant angry.”

“Then no, not at all. I have no reason to be. I just didn’t want to say anything until you were ready to talk.”

“I’m not.”

“All right, then.”

I knew he’d been trying to help, and he had. He’d showed me my magic. But the way he’d done it was horrible. What if he had been wrong about me, and he’d died? I leaned forward to rest my forehead against my mare’s strong neck. Her mane smelled like clovers.

That would be a good name, I thought. Clover. Getting attached to animals seemed like a bad idea, but I couldn’t help it. She was the closest thing I had to a potential friend at that moment.

What followed might have been the most awkward hours of my life. At least, they were uncomfortable for me. The silence didn’t seem to bother Aren. He was either used to traveling alone, or to having people angry with him. He didn’t even speak when we stopped around midday and he wandered off behind a cluster of boulders, leaving me holding his horse’s reins with no explanation of what he was doing. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. A familiar avian shape appeared at the top of the tallest rock, feet scrambling to hold onto the steep surface. He gave up and glided toward me, then past me, and crashed into a patch of low scrub bushes. I laughed.

“Nice. Very graceful.”

He backed out on foot and shook his feathers out, and I dismounted. He looked toward the sky.

“You’re leaving?”

He shook his head.

“Hunting?”

His head bobbed up and down, and he shuffled closer, until he was almost standing on my boot. I sighed and sat on a rock. “Just because you look different, that doesn’t make it easier to forgive you.” Still, I couldn’t help reaching out to touch the soft, golden feathers on his head. He arched his neck under my hand.

I pulled back, and he shuffled away. “Nice try, though.”

He dipped his head toward the ground, then pushed off and climbed into the air until he was only a black dot against the blue sky.

I didn’t know what the plan was, but it seemed like there was enough time to let the horses rest. I gathered wood for a fire in case we were stopping, then watched the horses graze while I waited for Aren to come back. We’d have to talk when he was human again. I needed to make a decision.

As I saw it, I didn’t have a single appealing option. Go home, knowing what I was… and what? Marry Callum and hope he never found out, and risk ruining him if my secret came out? Not likely. Go home, quietly break off the engagement, adopt some cats and move to a small town where no one knew me, shut people out forever? Also not appealing, but the other option was staying with Aren and trying to fix whatever was wrong with me.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension and the pain. Maybe I hadn’t given him any choice. I hadn’t exactly been open to listening to him.

He never said he was a nice person, did he?

A snapping noise startled me, and I turned to see Aren approaching, dressed and carrying a pair of skinned and cleaned partridges. He lit the fire, and warmed himself by the flames. He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, we can talk,” I muttered, and moved closer to warm fingers that were going numb in the cold air.

“How’s your head?”

“Better than last night. How’s your arm? And your hand?”

He held up the hand he’d burned on the lock. Had I not seen the injury, I wouldn’t have believed it had happened. He rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing a thick scar twisting up his arm. I grimaced. “That’ll fade,” he said. He spitted the birds and set them over the fire. “I’m glad your head’s not too bad.”

“Does any of this affect your theory about my magic being bound? I thought I wasn’t supposed to be able to use it.”

He shrugged. “This is why we need to look for answers. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re too strong for whatever they did to you. But there’s magic, you didn’t know about it before, and it’s hurting you. And we’re going to find help.”

My anger melted. “Aren, why was all of this so important to you? You didn’t give me a good answer before.”

“No, I couldn’t.” He looked down and studied his hands, turning them over, brushing invisible dirt from his palms. “Taking you off of that ship was the most foolish thing I’ve ever done, but once we were off, there was no turning back.”

“You could have left me on the boat, though. Let Severn have me.”

“Could have.” He shrugged. “I don’t understand it, myself.”

“Do you regret it?”

He sighed. “Regret is pointless. I don’t know why I thought I had to help you. Maybe I just thought that a Sorceress deserved better.” He shifted uncomfortably and squeezed his eyes shut. “No, that’s not all of it. I don’t know. You showed me kindness, and you helped me because you cared, not because you wanted something from me. I hadn’t experienced that in a long time. Maybe I just couldn’t let him destroy that.” For a moment he seemed vulnerable, open. It disappeared quickly, replaced with the stern, closed-off expression that seemed to be his default.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” I wanted to reach out to touch him, but didn’t know how he would react to that. I let it go.

He took the birds off the fire. It seemed too soon, but the meat was cooked and falling off the bones.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“Why, are you leaving?”

“I don’t see what other choice I have. I appreciate everything you’ve done. Well, almost everything.” He winced, and I smiled in spite of myself. “But I have to go home. Try to get by.” I broke a leg off of my bird and bit into it. The meat was dry and unspiced, and perhaps the best thing I’d ever tasted.

Aren finished his food first, then watched as I picked the last of the meat off of the bones and licked the grease from my fingers. “We should keep moving,” he said. “We’re not far from the border.”

We led the horses to a cool stream that flowed through the field and let them drink, then filled our water bags and rode on.

“You could keep going,” Aren said. “I meant it when I said I’d help you find answers. If there’s a way to undo this binding, you could do great things. You deserve better than your people can offer you. I mean, you’re not perfect. You talk too much, you’re ridiculously uncooperative, and I don’t know if you ever think before you act. You’re completely blind to your people’s cruelty—”

“Says the man who comes from a family that’s too horrible to talk about. What’s so bad about mine compared to yours?”

He looked steadily at me. “I didn’t say anything about your family. But as a people, the Darmish are ignorant and cruel. Even that dragon you met would die defending her young, but your people let their babies be killed if they’re born like us.”

“That’s not true! We value every child that’s born. We have so few of them.”

“And fewer that survive the first year, if I recall correctly.” He frowned. “You really think they’re taken by disease, or by magic?”

“No, it’s—”

“I know what they’ve told you. Think for yourself, Rowan.” Not an order or an insult, but a plea. “Does it seem likely that you’re that unusual?”

I thought back to the wanted posters I’d seen, and the few magic-related trials I’d sat through when my father needed an extra clerk. Were they all like me before they died? Were we all born that way? A lump formed in my throat. It can’t be.

Aren shook his head. “I don’t think the mothers usually know what happens, but it gets taken care of one way or another.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” He reined his horse in, and I turned mine to face him from the opposite side of the path. “You really think your little cousins’ deaths were accidental?”

His words were like cold water thrown in my face. “That’s not true. It’s the magic still in the land that makes babies fragile. My mother had a baby before me who died from it when she was a few weeks old, and…” I trailed off as a lump formed in my throat. “No one’s killing them. It’s just a sad fact of life.”

“Really?”

“Really. People who need more children so badly that they’d practically force us into marriage to make sure we have them would never throw away a human life.”

“And what about a monster’s life?”

I shuddered. The idea that someone would have hurt Ches and Victoria’s children because they were like me was unthinkable. My aunt and uncle’s grief-stricken faces flashed before me.

No, it’s impossible. No one could be that cruel. And if someone was killing those babies, they knew the truth about magic. At the very least, the king and his magic hunters were lying to the rest of us. No wonder they thought fairy stories were dangerous. But not Callum. He had just started. He couldn’t possibly know.

My stomach roiled, but I forced my food to stay down.

Aren watched, his expression more compassionate than I’d ever seen it. “I know this is hard,” he said, and smiled sadly. “I understand what it means to throw your life away and start over. It’s not pleasant, but there is a certain freedom in it.”

He turned his horse and started down the road again, and we stopped at the top of a small rise. In the distance, smoke rose from a group of buildings.

“Is this the border?” I asked.

He nodded. “This is as close as I’ll be getting to those people. If you want to go to them, you’re free to do so. I’m sure your future husband’s name will be enough to ensure your safety until he comes to get you.”

“What?” I couldn’t follow his thoughts while mine were still reeling from what he’d just told me. “You say you’ve thrown everything away to help me, you almost kill yourself to make sure I understand what I am, and now you’re telling me to forget it and leave?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said quietly, “but I didn’t think all of this through before. I wanted to help, but all I’ve done so far is put you in danger and cause you pain. I’ve done everything I’m willing to to convince you to see this through. You’re not a prisoner.

“Maybe you’re right,” he continued. “Maybe you can hide what you are and have the life you were expecting, marrying a wealthy magic hunter and having lots of babies to support the pure and normal population of Darmid. Maybe you’ll be really lucky and none of them will be freaks like you. But you should have so much more than that.”

I hated him a little when he called me that, using my people’s words against me, reminding me again of how they hated what I was. It seemed impossible that anyone would murder infants, but when I thought about how passionately the people I’d met in the city spoke against magic and how they pushed for its complete extermination, I could see it.

I might manage to never use magic again, and perhaps Aren was wrong about the pain getting worse. I could manage. But what if someone I loved got hurt? I would never let someone die to protect my secret. I would try to heal them, and then I’d find myself arrested. In court. Convicted. Dead. And my family shamed forever.

I glanced at Aren. He was looking down the path, which curved away from the border-guard station. Toward Tyrea.

There were no guarantees of what would happen if I went that way with him, either. Even if we found someone who could help me, what then? There would be no returning to Darmid. Physical pain gripped my chest at the thought of never seeing my aunt and uncle again, or Felicia. My parents and Ashe. Tyrea would be dangerous for me on my own, and worse if I was with Aren, with Severn hunting him. He’d helped me, but he’d hurt me. And I didn’t want to let him leave.

Aren urged his horse forward at a slow walk. “What will you do if I go?” I asked.

He stopped. “I’ll take my chances in Tyrea. I don’t want to rush you, but Severn or his people will likely be here soon. You’ll be safer with those guards.”

“They won’t find you? Severn, I mean.”

“He will, eventually. But I still don’t regret any of this.” He nudged the horse, and they continued down the path. He didn’t look back before they disappeared into a patch of trees.

If I listened carefully, I could make out the sounds of laughter coming from the border-guard station. Aren had brought me far closer than was safe for him. He was right. I’d be much better off with the guards than I’d be on the road with him, with his horrible brother trying to capture us. Perhaps there would be a cure for me among the doctors in Ardare. Or I could just break off my engagement quietly and live far from magic hunters and cities. I could find a life somewhere that didn’t involve magic, or running from a Sorcerer who wanted me dead. I could forget about all of this, forget about Aren and what I might find over the border.

I took a deep breath, and decided.

“Wait!” I called, nudging Clover into a swift trot that was far from comfortable for me.

He’d moved to the side of the path and stopped. Clover leaned her head toward Aren’s horse and snorted.

“I hope I don’t regret this,” I said as we started forward again.

“Me, too.” Aren didn’t look at me, but he smiled, and something in my chest slipped a little.

Don’t be stupid, I thought. He’s not your friend. He’s barely even not your enemy. But that relaxed grin suited him, and made me feel far better than it should have.

We came to a place where the trees thinned, then disappeared, leaving us at the top of a hill that rolled down toward an uneven landscape littered with boulders, long grass, and stunted trees. Far to our left, the main road flowed down the hill toward a few small farms surrounded by a patchwork of gold and brown fields, and beyond them a tidy-looking town. The buildings looked like dollhouses from where we sat.

“Welcome to Tyrea,” Aren said.

A shiver flowed through me that was part apprehension and part excitement, and I followed him toward the road.

Chapter XVIII

Rowan

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE mountains.

How many times had I wished for exactly this? It didn’t seem so different from the land I was familiar with, really. The same rugged beauty, the grasses turning brown as winter approached, the rocks beneath pushing through at the high points.

Well, what did you expect? A flock of fairies handing out magical guidebooks? I smiled and breathed in not the ocean-and-seaweed smell of Lowdell or the pine forest air of Stone Ridge, but air that was fresh and cool and pleasant, nonetheless.

Aren smiled. “You like it?”

“So far, so good.” Now that we were past the border and my decision made, I was beginning to enjoy the journey.

You’ll have to watch that, I reminded myself. You’re still in more danger than you’ve ever been before. The headache was growing stronger, and I took a few strands of heartleaf bark from my pack. “Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “is this stuff magic? They’ve banned it back home.”

“In a way. Plants like that certainly have properties they wouldn’t have without ambient magic.” He took a strand of the dry bark. He rubbed it between his fingers. “This is weak,” he said. “You’re probably used to that. I assume the magical plants in your land are less potent than the ones in most of Tyrea. Sara would have been able to tell you more about that than I can.”

“Sara works for you?” I remembered her wariness and her warning that it was better not to cause trouble.

“No, for Severn. Why?”

“No reason.” A pair of hawks wheeled slowly through the air above us. One dropped, then plunged to the ground not far from us. “Can I ask you something else?”

“I can’t stop you.” He didn’t sound keen on talking, but I still needed answers.

“Why an eagle? I don’t suppose it’s easy to learn to do something like that. Is that the only thing you change into? Did you have a choice about your form?”

“It is, and I did. Why not an eagle? I grew up with hunting birds, and was able to study their physiology. I can get myself where I need to go more quickly flying than I can on foot, and usually without being noticed. I can fight if I need to. It’s been useful for hunting, hasn’t it?”

I nodded.

I remembered the beak and talons that I’d been so cautious of, but also thought of how little that body weighed when I picked it up, how fragile the bones seemed, and how impossible it was for him to get away when he couldn’t fly. A wolf might have been a stronger choice for survival and fighting, or maybe a dragon if he needed to fly. I wondered what form I would choose if I had the chance—but that could never happen.

Or could it?

With that thought I suddenly understood the full meaning of what had happened the night before. I had magic in me. Yes, it had hurt me. But if Aren was right about finding a way to break the binding, I might be able to do anything. It was too much to think about, like trying to look directly at the sun. Excitement and happiness lifted me, warming me to my toes.

The town was farther away than I’d thought, and it was late afternoon before we arrived. A boy stopped his game of marbles for long enough to direct us to an inn down a side street, a wide, white building with a handsome stable around back. A groom took the horses and promised to treat them to the best night of their lives. Aren started toward the inn, then stopped and held out his hand.

“What?”

When he spoke, he sounded apologetic. “They should probably think we’re together. It makes more sense than an unrelated man and woman traveling together for no obvious reason, and we don’t want to be memorable if we can help it. Two rooms would cost more than we have available, so we just got married.”

“Oh. Well, congratulations to us,” I said. “They’re going to remember us anyway, if someone asks. We’re not exactly disguised.”

Aren stepped in front of me and pulled the hood of my cloak up so that my face wasn’t hidden, but shadowed. He held it and looked into my eyes for just a moment longer than he needed to. My mouth went dry.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just act like everything is normal. Happy, even. And try to stay quiet.”

I took his hand and walked beside him through the front door of the inn. His long fingers were cold, either from the weather or the blood loss. I sat in a plush armchair while he paid for a room.

It was a beautiful place, nicer than any inn I’d seen back home, small but richly decorated in polished wood and luxurious fabrics. Several people ate their suppers in a brightly-lit dining room, and the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary wafted out into the lobby. I should have been interested in all of it, but I found myself watching Aren instead of enjoying my surroundings.

His hands rested on the dark hardwood desk, and he smiled and laughed quietly with the clerk. She blushed. He looked exhausted and pale, and like he’d been on the road for far too long. In spite of that, I understood why the woman behind the counter found him so interesting. It wasn’t just the way he looked. There was also the way he carried himself, his quiet confidence, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled on the rare occasions when he really smiled. I shifted in my seat, which had suddenly grown uncomfortable.

The woman behind the desk giggled quite unprofessionally and handed a key to Aren. She leaned over and whispered something as he was turning away, to which he replied “No, but thank you,” and came back toward me.

I stood too quickly, and faint gray spots appeared in front of my eyes. Aren rested his hand on my waist and guided me toward the stairs. I suddenly felt warmer than I had by the door, and my heartbeat quickened.

After a few nights on the road, the room looked like heaven. The head of the bed was piled with big, fluffy pillows, and thick quilts were folded at the foot. A chair and small, formal-looking sofa faced a stone fireplace, and when I took off my boots, the carpet was soft and deep under my feet.

“Oh,” I groaned, and flopped face-first onto the bed. Sleep began to crowd my mind as soon as my face sank into the feather mattress.

“You go ahead,” Aren said from somewhere very far away. “I’ll sleep on the chair.”

“Hrmflphmrm.”

“Pardon?”

My head weighed a thousand pounds, but I lifted it to tell him, “I said, ‘that’s not fair, you take the bed.’” I mashed my face back into the sheets, then lifted my head again to add, “It smells so clean!”

I heard him moving around the room, but couldn’t open my eyes. “If I change, I’ll be more comfortable perched on the chair than either of us would be on the sofa,” he said. “Go ahead and sleep for a while, I’ll see what they have to eat around here.” I barely heard him, and was only vaguely aware of him pulling a blanket up to cover me.

The most beautiful scent greeted me when I woke form my nap, clean and floral. I opened my eyes to the last of sunset’s light filtering in through the window. As much as I wanted to stay curled up in that beautiful bed, I had to see where the smell was coming from. After three days on the road, I knew it wasn’t from me. My hair was greasy, and my skin felt like it had a layer of dirt and smoke ground into it. If only it was—

“A bath!” A door I hadn’t noticed before stood open, revealing the edge of a tub in a small room, steam rising from its bubbly surface. I nearly cried, it looked so good.

“Excellent timing.” Aren sat in the chair next to the fireplace, reading a leather-bound book. His damp hair left wet patches on his clean shirt. “I asked them to prepare a bath for you. Nothing personal. I just thought you might like one.”

“That’s all right,” I said as I climbed off the bed. “I know I stink.” He grinned as I walked past him and into the bath room. A washbasin stood in the corner with a round mirror hung over it, and a wooden bench next to the tub was stacked with soaps and fluffy towels. There were no windows, but oil lamps burned bright on the walls, creating an inviting atmosphere. I cleaned my teeth with one of the mint-flavored cloths on the edge of the wash-basin, made sure the door was closed tight, then stripped off my dirty clothes and stepped into the tub.

The water was hot enough to turn my skin a deep pink as soon as I slipped in, but I didn’t care. I was happy to let it burn the grime of the previous days out of my skin and hair. I soaked until my skin wrinkled and used a heavy bar of soap to scrub every inch of myself twice over.

The door to the bedroom opened slightly. I scrambled to grab something to cover myself, but it was only the maid. “May I take your clothes for cleaning, ma’am?”

I willed my heart to slow. “In a minute, thank you.” The door closed again, and I slipped my head under the water again. Silly thing. Who else would it have been?

The towels were like nothing I’d ever used before. Thick and fluffy, they seemed to drink the water off of my skin. A clean nightgown and robe hung on the back of the door, and I slipped into them. It almost made me feel like myself again.

The maid was bringing in supper when I left the bathing room. “Your husband said he’d be back soon, ma’am,” she said in a lilting Tyrean accent thicker than Aren’s. She placed a plate of chicken, roasted potatoes, and unfamiliar greens on the small table, then went to the other room to collect my dirty things.

“If I may say,” she added as she collected my boots and my extra clothes for cleaning, “he seems like a real gentleman, and I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing and nodded. She smiled and backed out the door.

“Thanks,” I said, but she was gone. If only you knew. Then my stomach growled, and I forgot about everything but my supper. I ate too much and too quickly, and it felt fantastic.

I cleaned my teeth again after I finished a glass of a deep-red wine, then ducked down the hall to the toilets that our room shared with a few others.

When I returned, Aren was taking off his boots. “Careful about leaving the door unlocked,” he said.

“Sorry, you didn’t leave a key. The maid has one, though.” He didn’t say anything to that, but leaned back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. “Are you all right?” I asked. “Have you eaten?” His color was better, but he looked even more tired than I still felt.

“I’m fine, I just need a good sleep.” He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

“You’re sure you don’t want to sleep in the bed? As a person?” He opened one eye, and my face grew warm. “I mean, not with me. It just doesn’t seem like you sleep well as an eagle. I could sleep somewhere else.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up slightly, and he closed his eye again. “I’ve never slept well.” He pushed himself up and stood, then paced around the room, checking the windows and door. He stopped in the middle of the room and seemed to be listening. Satisfied with what he heard, or perhaps didn’t hear, he turned to me. “It’s better if I change.”

“Fine.” My voice came out colder than I’d intended. I turned away, and a moment later heard his clothes dropping to the floor, followed by a flapping noise as he scrambled up to perch on the back of the chair. “But I could be very comfortable on that sofa if you change your mind.”

I blew out the trio of candles on the table and climbed into bed without looking at him. I didn’t know why I was so irritated. It wasn’t like we were going to stay up late and share stories by the fire if he stayed in his human body. After the previous night, I should have been glad to be half-way rid of him. But I was lonely, and being the only person in the room only reminded me of that. I missed my family. I missed my life, even if I hadn’t ever appreciated it before. I wondered what my parents, my aunt and uncle, Felicia and Ashe were doing. They had to be worried about me. And what about Callum?

My stomach tightened as I realized that I no longer wanted Callum to find me, whether he knew the truth about magic or not. I was on my own. It was frightening, but good. For the first time in my life I’d chosen to do something unexpected. And there was the magic. It wasn’t what I’d imagined it would be, but it was real and fascinating and a part of me. What lay ahead was uncertain and dangerous, but now that I’d decided to keep going, it was exciting, too. And I wasn’t completely alone.

I rolled to face the sitting area, where an eagle’s silhouette stood outlined against the window. “Aren?”

He snapped his beak to produce a soft clacking noise.

“Have a good sleep.”

Clack. Goodnight.

Chapter XIX

Rowan

“WAKE UP.” I WAS PULLED from my dreams by a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.

My eyes snapped open. The room was still dark, with only a hint of sunrise lighting the window. Aren leaned over me wearing nothing but a blanket he’d wrapped around his waist. I shouldn’t have stared, but it was a fantastic view. His body was lean and strong, beautiful. I forced my mouth to close and hoped he hadn’t noticed my reaction.

“Get dressed,” he said, and stepped back. “We have to get out of here, now.”

He’d already set my clean clothes and boots on the end of the bed. I threw off the blankets, grabbed a set of clothes and ran to the other room to get put them on. When I returned, Aren was dressed and pulling his boots on.

“What’s going on?” I whispered as I pulled the lavender-scented sachets out of the toes of my boots and tossed them aside. “Is someone coming?”

“Men. Not Severn, but they’re his. I’ve done what I could to throw them off, but we can’t let them find us here. Come on.” We took our bags and cloaks, and he pulled me down the hall to a closed door that I’d assumed was another bedroom. Aren turned the cut-glass doorknob slowly, and the door opened onto a steep, enclosed staircase.

“Is this what you were doing when I was in the bath? Scouting escape routes?”

“Among other things.” He hesitated, head turned to one side, listening.

We crept down, keeping close to the wall. We’d almost reached the bottom when voices approached the other side of the door.

“Is there another entrance? Another way upstairs? Anything?” A man’s voice, accompanied by the sound of several sets of footsteps. It didn’t sound like they were right outside the door, but they would be soon.

“Shit,” Aren whispered. “We’ll have to go back up.” He started up, then paused at the top to wait for me.

I moved more slowly, examining the walls as well as I could in the almost non-existent light. If this building is anything like Stone Ridge… there.

“Wait.” I ran my fingers over a wide groove in the paneling until they slipped into a hidden space. I tugged. Nothing. I tried again. Aren started moving back down toward me, and the narrow door nearly smacked him in the face as it popped open. He ducked around and piled our things on the floor next to a dusty old mop and bucket, then offered me a hand to help me step up into the otherwise empty closet. He followed, and I reached past him to pull the door toward us until the latch clicked softly.

The cupboard was tall, but Aren had to hunch over to keep from knocking his head on the top. I was grateful for the vertical space, but it wasn’t wide—just enough room to breathe and not step on each other’s feet.

The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed open and heavy footsteps clattered toward our hiding spot. I held my breath and pressed my face into Aren’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around me. The door to the upper level of the inn opened with a short groan. Someone heavy stepped down onto the top step.

“Henderson!” the top-of-stairs man called. “What have you got?” He continued down, and the two met just a step or two above the cupboard. I couldn’t believe they didn’t hear my heart pounding, or the blood that rushed through my ears. Aren breathed deeply and quietly, but I felt his heart beating as hard and fast as mine. I had to fight an insane urge to throw open the door and get it over with. I closed my eyes and grabbed on to the back of Aren’s jacket, squeezing my hands into tight fists, just to keep myself grounded.

“Nothing, sir,” said the man I’d heard downstairs. “They all say the same thing—the only couple they’ve had pass through here was two nights ago, and they didn’t match our description. Some of them don’t remember anyone at all. Desk clerk said she thought they’d headed south out of town, but she couldn’t be sure.”

The other man grunted. “Fine. There’s something going on here, though. That clerk had a strange look about her when we came in. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was them and he did something nasty to the lot of them. We’ll assume it was and go from there. Only lead we’ve had so far. Send word back to the boss, let him know we’re headed south.”

“Yes, sir.” Henderson’s boots scraped the stair as he turned and clomped back down. The other one didn’t move.

“Henderson? You take a few men and head north. He might have given them a mixed-up idea about that, too. We’re supposed to watch for these things.”

“Yes, sir.” The sound of Henderson’s footsteps grew fainter, but the other one stayed behind. The stair creaked, and the closet door moved in as something pushed on it. Aren tensed, and I held my breath. A scratching noise came from outside, then a sigh. “Damn it,” the man muttered, and the door settled back into place. Footsteps descended the stairs, and the door at the bottom slammed shut.

My heart slowed, but I couldn’t stop shaking. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, not speaking, breathing in the closet’s musty air. It seemed like hours, but I felt certain that as soon as we opened the door someone would decide to come storming back up the stairs and spot us. I was fine waiting. There were worse places to be. I felt safe with Aren.

I looked up, but it was too dark to see his face. Was he using magic, sensing the people around us? I never felt anything when he did it, but his eyes sharpened when he focused on his magic. I shivered as I thought of that look. Frightening, but dangerously attractive. I suddenly became more aware of his arms around me.

“They’re gone,” he whispered, and lowered his hands to his sides. My own fingers seemed frozen, and I had trouble letting go of him. I reached out and felt for the latch.

Aren stepped out, brushed cobwebs from his hair, and then held out a hand to help me. I was glad for that. My legs were like jelly, and I expected to fall out of the cupboard and roll down the stairs.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and gave me an uncomfortable smile. “How did you know that door was there?”

“Hide-and-seek. I almost got stuck in a closet like that when I was a kid.” I reached behind me for our bags, then pressed the door closed.

Aren took his things and started back up the stairs. I followed cautiously. “Aren’t we leaving?”

“I just want to see something. It’s safe enough, now.”

The doors to the bedrooms were all open. I’d locked ours when we left, and it hung off of its hinges, cracked in the middle. Every room we passed was ripped apart, mattresses overturned and wardrobes emptied. Most had been unoccupied, but I still felt terrible for the people who would have to clean up the mess. I doubted Henderson or Sir would be back to help with that.

Aren leaned against the wall and crouched, resting his forehead in his hands. I sat across from him and waited. He looked up. “That was too close.”

I laughed, mostly out of relief. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. It’s much more difficult to sense danger when there are other people around, getting in the way.”

“That’s not your fault. I guess we’ve been lucky so far.”

“Maybe. But I should have known they were coming long before I did. I must have been sleeping more deeply than I realized.”

“No harm done.”

“For now.” He stood and offered a hand to pull me up. “I couldn’t have picked a better person to be stuck in a closet with, though.” He picked up his bag again and headed toward the dark staircase.

I hoped I wasn’t blushing. That would have been stupid.

Chapter XX

Aren

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG with me?

I couldn’t look at Rowan as we walked to the stable. It wasn’t like me to speak on impulse, to say something that revealed so much of myself. But then, I’d been acting out of character too much in the past few days. It was so much easier before. I knew my place, knew what I was supposed to be doing, and who I was supposed to be.

Now that I had thrown that life away, I couldn’t seem to remember who I was.

I’d made a plan before I fell asleep. Get her to safety, find someone to break the binding, leave her to make a new life for herself wherever she chose. We’d both be safer once we were apart. Severn would follow me. He didn’t need her as much as he needed his revenge. And I would be better able to escape without her. The decision should have pleased me, but it left me feeling empty.

She was becoming more of a distraction as the days passed. In spite of the trouble she caused and the way she always had something to talk about, I found myself enjoying her company, wanting to touch her, to make her smile or to tell her things that would please her. But it was best that I not let her get too close. Every time I caught myself thinking about her, I found that my attention had slipped from my magical defenses.

My reasons for helping her were becoming more clear to me. My feelings toward her were not due to magic—at least, not now. I had to face the fact that I cared for her, wanted to protect her. I would accomplish that task, but the emotions couldn’t be allowed to continue. I would acknowledge what had happened, learn from it, but I would not let it make me weak. And she would never know.

Rowan spoke quietly to her horse while I convinced the groom that he should give us new tack for the horses, plus supplies for ourselves and the animals. She seemed like the sort of person who became attached to people and animals far too quickly. A person like her would never survive in my family.

She turned to me and smiled nervously after the groom left. She’ll do better somewhere else, I thought. She could take care of herself. She’d shown that in the dragon cave when she got us both out of that situation, and without any magic to rely on. The hardness she’d revealed in her handling of the dragon was unexpected, and admirable. Finding that cupboard in the inn was a bit of good luck, but still, she’d thought to look, and moved quickly to try and keep us safe. I didn’t like hiding, but it hadn’t been all bad. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and being trapped in there left us too vulnerable, but even understanding the danger we were in hadn’t kept me from enjoying having her body pressed against me for a few minutes.

“Did you really give those people fake memories?” she asked after the groom left to collect our things, pulling me out of thoughts I shouldn’t have been thinking.

“In a way.”

“And you made that magic hunter kill his brother before we met? That was you, wasn’t it?” She looked afraid to hear my answer. No use lying. Better that she know and keep her distance.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing to that man who just left? He looked strange. Dazed.”

“What I had to do to get what we need. Nothing that will hurt him, so don’t worry about it.”

She stepped away from me and rubbed her horse’s nose. “It seems wrong, though.”

With that, my fears of liking her too much disappeared. “I didn’t see you jumping in to distract him and keep me from doing it,” I whispered back as the groom returned with new saddle bags filled with food and clean bedrolls to attach to our packs. “You’re benefiting from this at least as much as I am. If you don’t like it, find your own cure.” She held my gaze for a moment, then looked away and turned to saddle her horse.

I understood that she was probably confused about everything that was happening, but I was exhausted and in no mood to feel like a villain for trying to help her.

She was silent as we rode away from the inn, through the still-quiet village and past a faded sign that advised us to “Come Again Soon!”

Not bloody likely, I thought. I’d be lucky to survive the next week if I couldn’t keep from being distracted or falling into a deep sleep. Keeping us safe was a far greater challenge than I’d anticipated.

Rowan seemed to be turning things over in her mind for the next while, and it was well into the morning before she said anything. She didn’t turn toward me, but watched from the corner of her eye as she spoke. “Have you done that to me at all?”

“No. Not once.”

“How can I be sure of that? You could be making me think that I was making my own decisions but really you’ve been doing it for me, and making me not notice that what I was doing was strange, or—”

Though I was frustrated with her and nearly too tired to think, she almost made me laugh. “Rowan?”

“What?”

“The pleasure of your company isn’t worth that much trouble.”

A look of shock crossed her face that quickly changed to amusement when she saw that I was smiling. “I’ll bet.”

“Doing something like that is extremely difficult—not only in knowing how it’s done, but in the amount of concentration and energy it takes. I do it when I have to, certainly more than is good for me, but I couldn’t have held onto you for this long. That’s if I could do it at all. Magic offers protection against it, and I can’t even see your thoughts. Like it or not, you’re here by your own choice.”

“Or you could be lying about all of that, too, and making me believe it.” She smiled, but I doubted very much that she trusted me. “Sorry. This is all so strange. I want this to work, but…”

“I know. I don’t think I’m actually qualified to act like a hero for anyone.”

“I don’t know. You’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

I tried to ignore the warming effect her words had on me. I wasn’t supposed to need kindness or praise, but it felt good.

I shook it off.

She squinted up at the sky. “We’d better find shelter soon. Those clouds are coming in fast.” The day had started out clear, but the sky was darkening, and gray clouds hovered in the sky ahead. A freezing wind whipped past us, and Rowan pulled her cloak tighter. I stopped to pull mine out from my pack. No sense getting drenched if I could avoid it.

We’d nearly reached the end of the farmland that surrounded the town, and only a few fields remained between us and a return to the uneven, boulder-strewn landscape that surrounded them. A farmer watched us as we passed, but neither of us acknowledged him.

Storm clouds rolled in, shutting out the sunlight until the sky became as dark as night. A light rain quickly changed to a freezing downpour that blew in our faces. Lightning flickered and thunder crashed immediately after, frightening the horses. Then the storm really started.

Sheets of water fell like waterfalls, drenching everything and leaving the road little better than a shallow river. It became impossible to see ahead, but the horses hurried on.

I hoped the rain would be our only concern, but danger loomed at the edge of my awareness. People on the road, following.

Rowan kept pace beside me as the horses raced down the road, their hoofs sending up sprays of muddy water that were lost in the downpour.

I looked back. Lightning flashed, revealing three dark shapes on the road, following hard behind us, close enough that there was no doubt that they were in pursuit.

“Rowan!” I called, unsure whether she’d hear me over the rain. “Rowan!” When she looked, I motioned for her to ride closer. The road swung to the left, but we kept going straight, over the rough ground. The horses slowed.

“What are you doing?” Rowan shouted. She sat hunched over her horse’s neck with water streaming off of her hood.

“We’re being followed. The road’s not safe.” She glanced behind her, but it was impossible to see anything. I hoped our pursuers were finding the same.

The rain let up slightly, but the darkness remained. I gave my horse freedom to choose her path, and Rowan’s fell behind. I didn’t particularly care where we went, as long as it was away from the road, and as quickly as possible. The land sloped upward, and we found ourselves in a tree-filled space between two rocky cliffs. The rain rolled off of the leaves and onto us, but it was some relief from the downpour. The horses grew cautious, slowing they walked against a river of rainwater.

The land opened up, and we were no longer sheltered. A splashing noise behind me indicated that Rowan’s horse had stumbled.

“We have to stop!” she called. “They can’t keep going like this!”

“We have to!” I pulled back on the reins, though, and waited. When I focused my awareness on the space around us, there was nothing. No one but me and Rowan. Lightning flashed again, silhouetting the crumbling remains of a massive stone building. I turned my horse’s head toward the structure. The roof was gone, but it would be better than nothing.

We reached what might once have been a courtyard and found the space occupied by an encampment. A massive tent surrounded by smaller ones took up much of the space, with several hard-topped wagons parked nearby. I pulled my horse up. I hadn’t felt anything. No danger, no human presences at all. If the people here were dead, we’d want nothing to do with this place.

Horses huddled beneath an awning affixed to one of the stone walls, their backs to the wind and rain. A few human faces peered out from the largest tent, letting a sliver of warm light out into the darkness.

That’s impossible. And worse than if they’d been dead. I didn’t trust it. I was about to turn back when a tall woman in a red cloak stepped out into the rain and waved us down. “Welcome, fellow travelers,” she called in a lilting accent. “It’s a poor time to be out on the road. Would you honor us by coming in for a meal?”

“Yes, and thank you!” Rowan called. She rode toward where the horses sheltered, and two younger men dressed in heavy rain gear came out of the tent and helped her dismount. I followed reluctantly, and allowed one of the men to take my horse.

“I don’t like this,” I said in a voice pitched so only she could hear me.

“They’re just Wanderers,” Rowan said, exasperated. “They’re not road bandits.”

“I remember. But I can’t get a sense of them. It’s like they’re not here.” One of the men handed me my knapsack and bedroll, and they both ran back toward the tent, not waiting to see if we’d follow.

“Maybe you’re just tired,” she said, and pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes. “And didn’t you say you did something to keep Severn from locating you? Maybe they’re doing that. Or maybe they’re ghosts. Who cares? They’re offering a warm place to stop, and we’re not getting any drier out here.”

She reached under my cloak and threaded her arm through mine, and pulled me toward shelter. A blast of warmth hit us as we stepped between the tent flaps. The inside of the large tent was crowded. Adults sat on cushions scattered in groups around the floor, most of them finishing meals and conversing in low voices. Several ragged-looking children ran around yelling, weaving a path between groups of people who barely seemed to notice them. People turned to look at us, but went back to their conversations a few seconds later. A tall man resumed playing a stringed instrument, and one of the children broke away from the pack to pick up a small drum to play along.

The woman who had greeted us held out a hand. She was older than most of them, silver-haired and with deep lines around her eyes and mouth, but there was no hint of frailty about her. She radiated calm and confidence, and a hint of low-level magic.

I’d have to watch this one. Her magic didn’t seem significant enough to be a threat, but that depended entirely on what she could do with it.

“Jein Hammus,” she said. I realized we hadn’t come up with identities for ourselves. I’d paid for our room at the inn without giving names.

Rowan reached past me to give the woman’s hand a firm shake. “Penelope Jones,” she said, then laughed nervously. “I mean, Anderson.” She gazed up at me with a sickeningly sweet expression and smiled. “Sometimes I still forget, it’s all so new. This is my husband, Doug.”

Jein Hammus smiled. “Well, how nice. Terrible time to be traveling, though.”

“Autumn?” Rowan asked.

“That, too. Please, sit with my family. Have something to eat.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but perhaps we should just—”

Rowan interrupted me. “Oh, don’t be silly, darling. It would be rude of us to refuse such generous hospitality. Thank you, Missus Hammus.”

“Jein, please.” She led us toward the rear of the tent, pausing to speak quietly to a few people along the way. The ceiling was high, held up by tall posts. Flaps in the walls indicated either exits or connections to the other tents I’d seen outside. Rowan took my hand. Her skin was icy cold. We needed the shelter, there was no question about that, and the spiced meat stew smelled wonderful. The horses needed the rest, too. I just hoped we weren’t going to become trapped again. Now that we were inside the tent, I could read most of these people better. They seemed curious, but not hostile at all. The Hammus woman remained a mystery.

She introduced us to her husband Johen and their son Frans, who looked to be twelve or thirteen years old.

“Our daughter Patience is here somewhere,” Johen said. “Probably with the other children.” He offered Rowan his seat, and I took an empty cushion next to her. Frans watched from behind the curtain of dark hair that covered his eyes and said nothing.

“I’m sorry if we’ve interrupted something,” Rowan said. She accepted a plate of stew from Johen.

“Oh, not at all,” Jein said, and settled onto another seat. She indicated that we should go ahead and eat. “We accept hospitality where we find it, and we’ve yet to turn away an honest soul we’ve met on the road who was hungry or weary.” She glanced at our clothes. “Or damp.”

“Is this wise, Mother?” Frans asked, glaring at me. “With things the way they’ve been?”

Jein sighed. “Perhaps not.” She turned to us. “Are you trustworthy?”

Rowan glanced down at her plate, thinking. She looked up and grinned. “Bildich rohmnen, pesha,” she said.

Jein raised her eyebrows. “Not a stranger at all, then!” she said, and returned Rowan’s smile. Frans scowled and wandered off.

“I was telling Doug not too long ago that I used to play with a little boy named Romul when his family stopped at my home,” Rowan told Jein. “They brought interesting things to sell, and Romul’s mother made the most amazing cookies.”

They talked for a while, and I tried to act like I’d heard at least some of these stories before.

A thin-faced girl with bright ribbons braided into her white-blond hair stumbled out of the crowd of running children and dropped onto the cushion between me and Jein. “Will we have a show, Mother?”

“I think not tonight, my love. We haven’t unpacked here, and our guests are weary from their travels. Another time.” The girl pouted, and when the children passed by again she flounced off to join them. Jein sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why we name our children before we know them well. I’m not holding much hope of that one growing into hers.”

When Rowan mentioned that there had been other people on the road, following us, Jein excused herself. “Don’t worry about anything,” she said, and laid a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “We haven’t let enemies find us before, and we won’t now.” She and Johen, along with many of the other adults, bundled into their shawls, capes, or jackets and headed out into the storm. I wanted to follow, but couldn’t without being seen. I stayed on-edge, aware, but nothing seemed dangerous. Perhaps these people were what they seemed.

No, I thought. No one is.

Two white-haired old women stayed behind, huddled close to a cluster of burning torches, and half a dozen other adults cleaned up after the meal, occasionally sending curious glances our way. The children continued their game, racing in circles until someone shushed them. Patience gathered the children close and spoke to them, and they all raced outside, yelling. The tent smelled of damp wool and burnt wood, but it was far more pleasant than being outside.

Rowan scooted closer to me. “How was your meal, dear?”

“Just wonderful, Penelope, oh light of my life,” I replied dryly, and she stifled a giggle behind her hand. “Nice names. Where did those come from?”

“I once had a goat named Penelope.”

“And Doug?”

“I have no idea.”

“And Bindig Row—”

“Bildich rohmnen, pesha. It means something like ‘We are friends, dear one.’ Romul’s mother taught it to me, said it was a good phrase to know, especially if I needed help from the Wanderers. I had forgotten all about it.”

I didn’t want to talk too much about what we were doing, not with other people possibly listening, but we couldn’t avoid it completely. “We can’t stay here. We know nothing about these people.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you think everyone is after us? They’re Wanderers. I really doubt they’re working for your brother. They obviously don’t know who we are, anyway. You’re being too suspicious.”

“And you’re too trusting.”

“Well, I guess that evens it out then, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. There wasn’t time to, anyway. A woman we hadn’t met yet was coming toward us with brightly-colored clothing folded over both arms. “Hello, my dears. I’m Alys. Jein thought you might like to borrow some clothes while your own are drying by the fire.” I reached into my pack. Everything was damp.

“Thank you,” I said, and she nodded.

“If you go through the flap over there you can get changed in the storage space. It’s small, but I don’t suppose that will be a problem.” She winked, then walked toward the old women. Rowan flashed me a smug smile and carried both piles of clothing toward the storage room.

Rowan changed her clothes first, emerging in an orange sweater with a wide neckline and a reddish-brown skirt that fit tight through the hips and fell in loose folds to her ankles. I took my turn, nearly tripping over the piles of boxes and sacks piled on the floor as I struggled to get out of my wet trousers. The smells of onions and spices tickled my nose. Alys had brought me a blue shirt that slipped over my head and laced at the front, far more colorful than I liked, but I wouldn’t complain.

I took my dagger from my bag and slipped it into the deep pocket of my borrowed pants. When I returned to the main room, Rowan was waiting nearby. Alys took our wet things and disappeared through another flap in the side of the tent, returning moments later.

“This place must be huge,” Rowan said, stretching to try to look through the other doorway.

“I’m sure when you spend most of your time traveling, you figure these things out. You never saw anything like this in your extensive dealings with the Wanderers?”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say extensive. I only met them twice, and not this group. Ours only came out in the summer.”

Patience dashed in out of the rain wearing a pink dress that she had to hold up to keep out of the mud, and a floppy red hat that dripped rainwater everywhere. A motley band of seven other children followed her, the youngest just a few years old, all dressed in wild and colorful clothes. “Ladies and gentlemen and extinguished guests!” she bellowed, and Alys chuckled. “Preeeeeesenting the finest show in the entire world!”

“Oh, I love the theater,” Rowan said, and joined in the scattered applause that was nearly drowned out by the rain.

Patience’s voice had no such problem. She bellowed out a rough program that sounded like it would drag on for hours. When she finished, Rowan clapped again, then stood. “Come on,” she said. “We should get better seats.”

“You’re joking.”

She frowned down at me. “Douglas Anderson, are you telling me that you’re too important and busy right now to enjoy a show performed by the great actors of the future?”

Once again I didn’t know how to argue with her. A few of the adults who had left earlier returned, and though they smiled at the children, none of them took seats with us. I stretched my awareness, but still felt nothing dangerous, and none of these people paid particular attention to us. I decided to stay alert, but went with Rowan to find seats close to the area the children were clearing for their show.

The theater had always seemed like a waste of time to me. I’d seen a few shows, but none like this one, a mixture of made-up play and plenty of opportunities for the performers to show off unrelated talents. I wasn’t particularly fond of children, but these ones put on an interesting, if confusing, show. There were several lengthy sword battles, and the littlest troll kept wandering off when he was supposed to be terrorizing a village. Everything was exaggerated and dramatic, and it wouldn’t have been hard to laugh at it, but I didn’t think it was supposed to be a comedy. I just clapped when everyone else did at the end of the scenes and tried not to jump to my feet every time someone came into the tent.

They surprised me, too. One of the older girls sang a song about a maiden who fell in love with a dragon, and her voice was beautiful enough to have commanded any stage in Tyrea. Rowan was wiping tears from her eyes by the end of that one.

You trust too easily and you cry too often, I thought, but there are far worse things. I turned away before she could catch me watching her.

After a tumbling act put on by two brothers who would probably be great performers once they got their timing right—and stopped punching each other when things went wrong—the show concluded with a troll being run through with a collapsing sword and roasted over a fire made from orange and yellow fabrics. Rowan gave them a standing ovation.

By the time the play was over, the smell of another meal was filling the tent. Rowan ran over to the performers to congratulate them and ask about their costumes, and I walked around the inside of the tent, examining the walls and trying to figure out why I hadn’t sensed people near the ruins. There were no known or registered sorcerers among any groups of Wanderers, but this protective magic was strong enough that there had to be one here more powerful than Jein.

After supper, during which I stayed quiet and tried to remember everything Rowan was saying about us, we sat with Jein and drank strong, hot tea. The woman was charming and kind, but had a hard edge to her and avoided speaking to me. She had magic in her, and could surely feel mine. Perhaps that made her wary.

Several of the children came to say goodnight to Rowan before their parents bundled them off to bed. “I heard there was a performance this afternoon,” Jein said. “The children are always so happy to have a fresh audience. It’s good practice for when they’re older, but we don’t always have time to watch.”

“So you travel and perform shows?” Rowan asked. “All of you?”

“We do. We also do a little trading along the way, and yes, we always travel together, though not usually so late in the autumn. People want shows in the summer, when life is easy and fun. Most have no time for them when things are harder, though entertainment would probably do them more good then. It’s more difficult to travel in the colder months, too.” She glanced toward the tent’s roof, where rain was still beating out a steady rhythm. “Obviously. Normally we would be at home now, settling in before the snows come.”

I knew what Rowan was going to ask, and I didn’t want her to. I thought I could guess the answer. “Why are you traveling now?” she asked, oblivious to my warning look.

Jein sipped from her cup. “Things have been difficult for us, particularly the past two years. The… I don’t know whether he calls himself the king yet.”

He doesn’t, I thought. Not until our father is declared dead.

“In any case, our home was a little too close to the capital city, and has been taken over as a military training ground. It’s nothing to him to displace a few people who hardly pay taxes and won’t swear loyalty to him. There were…” She swallowed hard and shook her head. “It’s better for us to be here.”

She took us outside into what had become a light drizzle and led the way toward one of the wagons. “No sense you two sleeping on the floor of the hall,” she said, and opened the door. The tall, hard-topped structure was cold inside, but they had set up a soft bed in the back with several heavy blankets, and left us a tall candle with twelve hour-markings on it.

“We’re not displacing anyone, I hope,” Rowan said, and picked up a soft-looking purple blanket to wrap around her shoulders.

“No. Not right now,” Jein said. “We’ll hope the sun shows his face in the morning. I’m growing tired of lamps and torches.”

After she’d gone Rowan asked, “You won’t sleep, will you?”

“Probably not. I don’t want to change here, and sleeping as a human means I can’t be sure of waking quickly if there’s a problem.” There was more to it, but nothing she needed to know.

“What if we took turns keeping watch? I can stay awake for a few hours while you get some rest.”

I wanted the first watch, but she insisted that I needed sleep more than she did. “Can’t have you dozing off, can we? Besides, I don’t trust you to wake me up to take my turn.” She pulled a pillow to a spot beside the door and sat with her legs crossed under her skirt, flipping through a book of plays she found lying on a box of larger volumes. The candlelight picked out the red in her hair, making it glow. I looked away and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I probably won’t sleep,” I said, but lay down and pulled a blanket up to my shoulders. “If I do, wake me after three hours.” She nodded.

I felt myself drifting, and realized that Rowan may have been the only person I would trust while I closed my eyes—not because she couldn’t be a threat, but because I believed she wanted to help me as much as I wanted to keep her safe. I yawned. I won’t sleep, though.

Chapter XXI

Aren

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES again nearly six hours had melted off of the candle. I sat up and looked around, thinking that Rowan must have fallen asleep, but she was standing with the door cracked open, looking out into the courtyard.

“What’s going on?” I rolled out of bed and went to her. The floorboards were cold on my bare feet.

“The rain stopped, the stars are out. That’s about it. Everything has been quiet.” She turned toward me, and the candlelight shadows accentuated the way the orange sweater clung to the curves of her breasts. I wanted to reach out and run my hands over it, to pull her close and feel the heavy wool over the softness of her body. The wide neckline had slipped off of one shoulder. I tried not to stare. Maybe I do need more sleep, I thought, and rubbed my eyes.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

She shrugged, sending the knit fabric a little lower down her arm. “You needed sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“It’s not safe.”

Rowan moved toward the bed. Her bare skin grazed my arm as she squeezed past. “Everything is fine. We’re safe here for now, and I’m perfectly capable of staying awake to keep watch. But now it’s your turn.” She handed me the blanket she’d been wearing and crawled into the warmth of the bed. “You try to take everything on yourself, and that’s not good for anyone. You’re going to have to trust someone some time, you know.” She rolled so that she faced away from me, and in a few minutes her breathing became deep and slow.

I pulled the blanket tight around my shoulders and stepped outside. The clouds had cleared, and with all of the lights out in the camp, the stars filled the sky. I closed the door and sat on the wooden steps, gazing up. In spite of everything going on in the world around us, I found myself feeling content for the first time in years, happy that for the moment, Rowan and I seemed to be safe.

A light appeared in the largest tent, moving around with whoever carried it. A lone figure stepped into the courtyard, holding something in each hand, and walked toward me.

“May I?” Jein asked, and I moved over to make room for her on the wide step. Her thin frame didn’t take up much space, but I gave her plenty. I also kept one hand near my knife, concealed under the blanket.

She handed me a mug of something warm. “Thought a hot drink might make you more comfortable out here.”

“How did you know I was awake?” I lifted the drink and inhaled the steam. Some kind of cinnamon tea.

“Sometimes I know things.” Jein took a long sip from her cup. “Doug.” She looked sideways at me.

My fingers tightened around the knife’s handle. “How long after we arrived did you know who I was?”

“Part-way through supper, though I suspected sooner. There were rumors in a few towns we passed through. Your family may be trying to keep it quiet, but gossip travels so quickly.” She quirked a silver eyebrow at me. “Something about you stealing a woman from your brother, and that you may have killed ten men in your escape. Is that right?”

“Not entirely. But that’s not how you knew who we were.”

“No. It gave context, an idea of why you might be traveling in a rainstorm with a young lady, but I’d have known without that. It’s part of our magic.”

“‘Our’?” As I’d always understood it, magic was a highly individual thing. It couldn’t be shared any more than physical strength or intellect could.

“Indeed. None of us are particularly gifted, the way you are, but when we work together, we can protect ourselves.” Jein sipped her drink again. “It’s something we’ve picked up out of necessity. Whatever small magic the members of our community possess, we pass on to the leader when the need arises. Me, now.”

She didn’t offer to explain further, and though I was curious about this idea, I didn’t ask. If she didn’t trust me with the information, I couldn’t blame her.

She turned to me again and gave me an appraising look. “We used it tonight. The men who were following you were gone, but we could have kept them away if they had been nearby.”

“I’m sure.” I remembered how invisible they’d been to me, and wished I could know how to block Severn as effectively. The trick at the cave had worked in that moment, but I needed practice. “And yet you invited us in.” I took a small sip of tea. It was strong and sweet, and the cinnamon burned my throat. I waited, but felt no ill effects.

Jein set her cup down and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Foolish, I know. You’re a dangerous person. You could kill me right now just for knowing who you are.”

“I could. I think I won’t.”

“But I don’t imagine your brothers would show us any mercy if they found out you’d been here.”

“True.” The sky overhead turned from black to deep blue, and the stars began to fade.

“And there’s your companion,” Jein continued. “She gave me the assurance. We don’t teach that to just anyone, but her friend obviously thought she’d need it some day. I could have turned her out, or you, but we take our duty to offer aid where we can quite seriously.” I recalled hearing that the Wanderers worshiped several gods, and each band had a particular favorite, but that they all answered to one who rewarded compassion. I wasn’t familiar with him, personally.

“A password seems like an easy security measure to overcome,” I said.

Jein smiled. “Can you remember it?”

I opened my mouth to speak, and the words wouldn’t come. Incredible. I had heard of protected words, and thought they were only stories.

“So I had reason enough to think she came by the words honestly, and meant us no harm,” she concluded. “If only it were so easy for you to know our intentions, eh? Perhaps you can see now.”

As I looked at her, her defenses softened. I didn’t probe deep into her mind, certain that she’d shut down and throw us out if I did. But her peace and calm radiated from her, and no ill will. My grip on my knife loosened. “Thank you.”

“Hmm.”

The ruins became clearer, silhouetted against the lightening sky. Members of Jein’s group rose and began their morning tasks, criss-crossing the yard, talking and laughing softly together. Jein closed off my awareness of her again, but not before I felt the pain that flickered through her mind as she watched them.

“When you said your home was taken over for military training, that wasn’t everything, was it?”

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t think it was appropriate to say anything more, though. Your w—” She smiled. “I almost said your wife. I like her, she lies well. But yes, there was more. It was fortunate that we’d just returned from our summer circuit, and almost everything was still packed. There was no warning. None of our defenses alerted us to danger. There might only have been ten or a dozen of them, but they came down on us like a winter storm. It was all confusion and screaming. Burning. I think the one leading them would have been happy to see us all dead.”

“But you got away.”

“We were twice this many a month ago.”

That would make somewhere around forty dead or lost. My stomach clenched. “The leader of that group. You don’t know who he was?”

“Not for certain. But I think you might. Massive fellow, rode a white devil horse. Arms like oaks, laughed as he set fire to our homes.” Her voice cracked, but the expression on her face didn’t change.

I knew. Wardrel was four years older than me, born to one of our father’s secondary wives. His magic wasn’t especially powerful for a member of our family, but what he lacked in talent he made up for in physical strength. He was cruel, without reason or purpose. Severn had tried to kill me when I was a child, but it was because he felt threatened. When Wardrel killed my dog, it was because he enjoyed it—both the killing and my reaction. Our father sent him away after the mangled body of a servant’s child was found in a cellar room, but Severn brought him back not long after our father disappeared. He thought he could control Wardrel.

It seemed he’d at least found a use for him.

“One of my brothers,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I had no idea anything like this had happened.”

Jein’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You had other things to do, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did. I haven’t been home much in the past year.”

“Doing your brother’s work.” Jein took a thin, curved pipe and a packet of herbs from her pocket and prepared a smoke, taking her time with lighting it. “It makes me wonder why you’re here now, traveling with this girl you took from him. And she seems to be unafraid of you. Have you changed so much?”

“No.” I remembered what I’d told Rowan the previous day. “She trusts too easily. And she doesn’t know anything about me.”

“And yet here you are, guarding the door while she sleeps. Protecting her. Doing what I presume you think is right instead of what your brother wanted.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’d imagine it is.” Jein pulled deeply at the pipe, and sighed a sweet-smelling cloud of smoke. “May I offer you a piece of advice?”

A baby cried somewhere in the camp, and a pair of women walked into the largest tent, talking quietly.

“Of course.”

Jein spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Where you come from is nothing. My people, my family, we only look ahead. We’ll find a new place, and we’ll build a new life. I hope that you will choose to do the same.”

She patted me on the arm, then stood and went back to the tent. I sat for a few more minutes, watching the displaced and broken community start their day’s work. I finished my tea and went inside to see if Rowan was awake.

With the rain over and the Wanderers heading in the direction we’d just come from, there was no reason for us to stay with them any longer. We made ourselves useful while we could. It seemed only fair after all the Wanderers had done for us. Rowan assisted with cleaning up after breakfast and held a few babies for their busy mothers while I helped take down the tents and got our horses ready for our departure. She made the children promise another performance when she met them again, and Alys joked that they were going to steal my wife away and turn her into a true Wanderer.

Rowan laughed. “Maybe when I get tired of him, I’ll find you and do just that.”

Maybe you will, I thought. It was as good a place for her as any, and Jein was right. Rowan was a convincing liar. She loved a good story, and she’d probably be a great performer. These people wouldn’t force her into marriage, or anything else she didn’t want. She could have a good life with them.

And then she turned to me and smiled, and I found myself hoping she’d forget all about it.

Chapter XXII

Rowan

MY INJURIES FROM THE ATTACK had healed, but by mid-afternoon I was more sore than ever from riding. Lessons at Stone Ridge and hours spent on horseback in the woods hadn’t prepared me for this. My headache had grown steadily worse since we left the Wanderers, and we hadn’t passed a heartleaf tree since the border. Aren seemed deep in thought, and didn’t speak unless I did first. I had a lot of time to think, and it wasn’t making me any more cheerful. There were still too many questions about my past and my people, and not enough answers that I liked, no matter how I looked at it. I didn’t want to think about any of it, so I kept my mind occupied with easier subjects.

“Can you tell me about unicorns?”

“What about them?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” I wanted to hear him talk. His voice was pleasant, and his accent was even better. At least that was one aspect of life in Tyrea I could easily get used to.

“They look like horses,” he said. “But with a horn. And magic.”

“That’s very helpful, thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

“Fairies?”

“They’re around. Don’t see them too often.”

“Does that mean you have seen a unicorn?”

“No.”

Those questions weren’t getting me anywhere. I decided to move on to something else. “So, I think I’ve been pretty good about not asking questions—”

He snorted.

“—about where we’re going. I’d like to have some idea. Not that the past few days haven’t been exciting and interesting, but I think I’ve reached my geographical limit for traveling blindly away from home with a stranger. All you’ve told me is that we’re going to get some help for me. Maybe.”

He seemed amused by my irritation, which only made it worse. The headache’s not his fault, I reminded myself.

“I suppose I should have said something about that,” he said. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I think I know of some people who might have the information we need, who may be willing to help you.”

“Fantastic!”

“But they’re hard to locate. They move around a lot, and I’m not sure where they’ll be right now.”

“Are they Wanderers?”

“No, they just disappear frequently. But they tend to be more intelligent than most people, and they have access to a lot of information. Since I can’t go back to the libraries in Luid, they’re our best chance at figuring out what exactly happened to you and how we can undo it.”

“But you have no idea where to find them?”

He shrugged, and looked toward the sky. “Johen told me that there’s some nasty weather coming in from the northwest. There’s a lake just north of here where wealthy people from Luid keep summer homes. It should be deserted now, we’ll ride out the storm there.”

His horse was several paces ahead of mine before he noticed that I’d stopped.

“Wait,” I said. “I’ve been missing from home for what, five days? I haven’t been able to tell my family that I’m all right, I don’t even know if I am all right, my headaches only seem to be getting worse, and you’re telling me that we’re going to take a few days for a little lakeside vacation? Please tell me you’re not serious.” I knew I was acting like a petulant child, but had always found it hard to control my mind and mouth when I was in pain.

He didn’t say anything until I nudged my horse to move forward and caught up with him. His face was nearly expressionless, but there was a hardness there that I couldn’t read. I thought at first that he was trying to keep his temper in check, that I’d crossed some line by questioning him. Then I realized he was trying not to laugh. At least a good night’s sleep had improved someone’s mood.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is just ridiculous.”

“What, me?”

“No, all of it. Everything that’s happened in the past few days. If I’m handling this badly, it’s because I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m usually giving orders or following them, not discussing plans with people. Especially not with someone like you.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know how to take that.

“Did you have another idea about where we should go?”

He knew damned well that I didn’t. I scowled at him. “I just want to know what’s going on. How exactly are we going to find these mysterious people?”

“There’s a good chance they’re at the lake.”

“You might have mentioned that.”

“Might have.” He smiled to himself and nudged his horse forward.

I rolled my eyes and followed. The remorseless killer thinks it’s amusing to tease me. Fantastic.

We turned when we came to a narrow road that cut through rolling, forested land, and I passed the time by observing Aren as he rode slightly ahead of me and to my left. Such a confusing person. Since I’d met him he’d hurt people, done things to their minds, killed them. But while I knew those things were wrong, he’d done them to keep us safe. As I spent more time with him, it all seemed to fade to insignificance. He’d been nicer to me since the incident at the fire, when he’d cut himself. Not friendly, exactly, but more relaxed and less cold. Sometimes it was easy to dislike him, but at other times he seemed like the sort of person I could get used to having around. He was certainly more interesting than anyone I knew back home.

When he said “just north of here” I imagined an hour’s ride, maybe two. I was wrong. We stopped to eat and to tend to the horses before we got to the lake, and all Aren could tell me was that it wasn’t too much farther. I was beginning to realize that his concept of distance was far different from mine, and resigned myself to another night of being kept awake by my aching butt.

Sunset found us on a bare dirt trail that meandered around a massive lake, weaving in and out of the forest. Dozens of islands dotted the glassy water, and docks jutted out from the shore in small clusters with broad stretches of land between them. Even if they knew we were in the area it would take someone forever to search every house.

I hoped we’d be settling in at one of the closest places. The ones I could see were beautiful. These people’s summer homes were bigger and better-built than most of the houses in my hometown. My spirits lifted as I anticipated a hot drink and a soft bed, and soon.

The sun became a sliver of pink light beyond the now-distant mountains, and still we rode. I pointed out a few nice-looking places, but Aren seemed to want to get as far from the road as we could. I gave up and followed, silently cursing him with every step my horse took.

The path grew narrower and rockier, and we dismounted to lead the horses over the uneven ground. I was so close to falling asleep on my feet that I nearly collided with the back of Aren’s horse when he stopped in front of me and turned up a dark path.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I said, and a loon yodeled back from somewhere across the lake. I pulled my cloak tighter, and followed the horse’s rear toward a house, hoping that this place would be even better than the others I’d seen.

It wasn’t. It was nice enough, two levels and certainly more than enough space for two people. The wide-windowed, wood-paneled building sat on a broad stone foundation, solid but plain. It didn’t look nearly as rich or as comfortable as the other houses.

A white chicken burst into the clearing that surrounded the building and dashed back into the forest on the far side. Other than that, the place seemed deserted.

“Trust me,” Aren said, and led the way around back, where a stable shared a wall with the house. It was unlocked, and it only took us a few minutes to put the horses’ tack away and turn them out to forage.

We searched all around for a key. Aren found one on top of the door frame, but the door remained stuck closed. I remembered the magic Aren had done with the gate lock when we took the horses. “Can you open it?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t going to burn himself again.

“I think so.” He cracked his knuckles, then backed up a few steps and ran forward to slam his shoulder into the door, which groaned gently and popped open.

“Not exactly what I was thinking.”

He grinned and pushed his hair back from his face. “I know. Come on in.”

The moonlight from the windows cast eerie shadows on the interior of the cabin, and I hesitated before stepping into the large, open space inside of the door. A group of chairs and a sofa formed a seating area to the right. To my left was a kitchen with only a counter separating it from the rest of the room, and a dining table. Aren pulled a few candles out of his bag and lit them, pressing the bottoms into holders as we found them, making the room far more inviting in spite of the chill that remained in the air.

An open door at the back of the kitchen area led to a room with a large bed. A smaller bed sat in the back, with storage shelves hung on the wall above it. “This will be the best place to sleep for now,” Aren said. “If we light the stove, it’ll be warmer in here than upstairs.” We left our things there and I continued exploring the house.

A hallway behind the sitting area led to a clean toilet room and a back door that opened onto the garden. A good-sized hen house had been left with the door open. Nothing grew in the garden except for a healthy crop of weeds and a few of the summer’s leftover vegetable plants, all picked clean. Beyond that, the forest stood silent and shadowed. I pulled the door closed and made sure it was locked before I left it.

The back half of the house had a second level with a wide staircase leading up to an open area flanked by two bedrooms. The beds up there looked more comfortable than the ones downstairs, but the air was freezing. I closed the doors to both rooms and hurried back downstairs.

Aren had both the wood stove and the fireplace lit and was busy looking through the kitchen cupboards. “We should be fine as far as food goes,” he said, his voice muffled by the cabinet doors. He stepped back and closed them. “Lots of preserves, and whoever was living here left some fruits and a few vegetables in the freshbox that still look good.”

“That’s impossible, unless they left this week.”

He shook his head, bemused. “I don’t know how you people survive, really. There are probably a few of those chickens outside, can you catch them?”

“Not my favorite thing, but I can do it.” All I cared about at that moment was sleep. The night at the inn had been helpful, but letting Aren sleep while we were with the Wanderers had left me with only a few hours to rest. I wondered if my body would ever adjust to life at this pace.

I went back to the small room off of the kitchen and sat on the edge of the small bunk to remove my boots. Having my feet free felt incredible. I groaned and wiggled my toes.

Aren followed me and leaned against the door-frame. “What are you doing?”

I looked down at my feet. “Taking off my boots. Sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting one of my headaches. “No, I mean what are you doing on that bed? The other will be more comfortable.”

I gestured toward the large bed. “It’s all yours. I got the only bed the other night at the inn. Besides, you’re bigger than me. I’m sure this will be fine.”

He frowned and looked out the door at the exposed rafters. “Thank you, but it’s probably better if I change.”

The disappointment that flashed through me caught me by surprise. I tossed my boots into the corner of the room. “Why? Why is it better? Do I make you uncomfortable? Do you find me less irritating when you’re not human?”

“I told you, it’s easier for me to stay alert that way. Obviously it doesn’t always work, but I’d like to avoid repeating the other morning if we can.”

I brushed past him and went to the kitchen window. The lake was visible through the trees, glowing in the cloud-diffused moonlight. “So you think they’re here now?”

He sighed. “No. There’s no one around.”

“Why don’t you get one more good sleep while you can? You seemed so much better today after you stayed human overnight.”

“I’m fine.”

I let the curtains fall closed, then sat at the oak table and traced the patterns in the wood with my fingers. “I know it probably seems silly to you, but I also find it’s a little less lonely when you’re a person. Even when you’re not talking to me.”

He raised his eyebrows.

That never crossed your mind? Maybe he didn’t get lonely the way I did.

“You’re right,” he said, and rubbed a hand over the stubble that had grown back on his face since we’d left the inn. It looked good. Really good. He didn’t seem to notice me studying him, and I enjoyed it while I could. He looked over, and my heart skipped as his eyes met mine. “I should try to sleep, and if we’re lucky Severn won’t be able to locate us. He might be too busy to focus on that right now. That’s not the only thing, though. It’s—hang on.”

He rolled up his sleeves, pumped water from the faucet into a big kettle and set it on the stove. I suddenly realized that he was familiar with this house. I would have asked, but didn’t want to distract him if he was about to tell me something about himself.

As he moved around the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of the inside of his left arm. A clean white scar divided it, all that was left of where he’d cut himself so badly. That bit of insanity was starting to seem like a dream. A nightmare, really, but I could forgive him for it. I certainly wouldn’t go so far as to thank him for that pain, but…

“You don’t seem like a villain,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I could stop them.

He frowned at me as he poured steaming water into a tea pot. “What do you mean?”

Can’t you just shut your mouth? I asked myself. I didn’t listen. I didn’t usually. “Just that you aren’t what I expected you to be. Any time I’ve heard people talk about your family, they were afraid. Sometimes they tried to sound brave when they mentioned how powerful you all are, or horrible things you’ve done, but I could always tell they were covering up their fear. According to my brother, you’re practically the Big Bad Wolf. You know, like from—”

“Fairy stories, I know. I’m familiar with the concept.” He set the tea pot and cups on the table.

“I just mean that you’ve been helping me, even when I thought I didn’t want you to. Even when you didn’t seem to want to, actually. You’re not what I’d call friendly most of the time, but you’ve been teaching me things…” My words trailed off, and I cleared my throat. “I guess you just don’t seem like a bad person, when you let your guard down a little.”

He stood frozen in the space between the kitchen and the table, and stared at me. “Don’t say that,” he said quietly. He sank into the chair across from me and drummed his fingers on the table.

“I’m sorry?”

He flexed his fingers, and the scar on his forearm stood out more clearly. “It’s not you. I should have told you a lot of things already, but I was… I don’t know. You didn’t seem to know much about me, and I didn’t want to frighten you off. And then I started to enjoy having you around, and I didn’t want you to think badly of me. I mean, you ask too many questions, and it makes things difficult.”

“I—”

“But I actually like that you’re curious about magic, and everything else your people didn’t want you to know about. It was nice feeling like I could help you with some of that. But that’s not who I truly am, and you need to understand that. I’m not who you just described. I can’t be. Not in the real world.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “If you were really bad or untrustworthy, you’d have shown it by now. You’d have left me to be eaten by that dragon.”

“You got out of that yourself.”

“You were there, though. You came looking for me. I think it probably took a lot for you to stay with me at the inn when you could have just flown away and saved yourself. If you were such a bad person, you’d be at home in Luid right now. You wouldn’t have bothered to save me from your brother. You’re tired and under a lot of pressure, and that would bring out the worst in anyone, but you haven’t shown that at all. You’ve been a bit of a jerk sometimes, but underneath that you’ve been trying to do the right thing.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He pushed his hair back from his face and squeezed his eyes closed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m thinking.” He took a deep breath, then stood and started pacing. “What have you actually heard about me?”

“Not much. You’re sort of a blank to most people I’ve heard talking about your family. They don’t seem to know why, but they’re as afraid of you as they are of Severn, or even of your father.”

“That sounds about right. How do I explain this?” He continued pacing, and for once I managed to keep my mouth shut while I waited. “I have three brothers, all older. My father was the king, and he was always busy while I was growing up. My brothers were able to do work for him before I was, so I was left behind. Like a spare, almost. My father didn’t need me, but Severn saw my potential after he tried to kill me.”

“What?”

“It happens. I survived, and Severn eventually realized that instead of getting rid of a rival, he could use me to strengthen his own power. When our father put him in charge of keeping peace in the outer provinces, making sure that no one who opposed him was able to make trouble, Severn took a more aggressive approach than others had in the past. He got rid of those people. Not personally, but he made sure it was taken care of.”

“Taken care of by people like the gang that attacked my group on the road to Ardare?” I thought I knew where this was going, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want a reason to be afraid of him again.

“He uses people like that for big jobs. Out of control crowds, guarding his own safety. A lot of the time, though, Severn relies on subtler methods of getting things done, methods that are actually more frightening for his enemies because they don’t understand what’s happening and can’t prepare for it. He doesn’t want people to be able to prove that he’s responsible for these things that happen to them. He can’t be openly accused of murder. Or massacre. Or—”

“I get it.” I shuddered, remembering the magic hunter my brother told me about. It had been so easy to forget.

Aren crouched in front of me and looked into my eyes. His looked pained. Angry. “I don’t think you do. The rest of us all support Severn. There’s nothing else for us to do. He won’t allow rival sorcerers to live, not if they’re any kind of a threat, not even if they’re family. I hate him, but I do what he wants. Or I did, until I met you. I had no choice. I’ve been well-rewarded for my efforts, though. I had a good life in Luid, and often I didn’t even feel badly about the things that I did, or the things I’m still doing to keep us safe. I think my brothers enjoy it. Wardrel has killed children while their mothers screamed for mercy and laughed while he was doing it.”

My hands gripped hard onto the edge of my chair. “You’re not like that.”

“No, I’m not him. But you have to understand that while what I do is subtler, it can be just as cruel in its own way.”

“The mind-control.”

He nodded. “I’m good at it, too. My methods aren’t perfect, but I’ve incited riots by working on a few key people and using their influence to set off a crowd like an explosion. I’ve turned people against their own brothers, wives, parents. I once made a man kill his best friend, a Sorcerer who had plans to challenge my father. That one drowned himself when he realized what he’d done. I’ve never killed a child as far as I know, but I’ve probably made a few orphans.”

“Probably? You don’t even know?”

He stood again and moved a few paces away. “No. I do my work, and I get out of town before anyone knows I’ve been there. I don’t enjoy what I do as much as Wardrel does, and I don’t mastermind plans like Severn does, though I am one of his close advisers. But I’ve done as much damage as any of my family. Severn made me what I am, and it was his idea that I learn how to do this. As I said, he doesn’t know everything I’m capable of, but—”

I stood and pushed past him on my way back to the window, cutting him off. I managed to keep control of my voice, but I didn’t want him to see the foolish tears blurring my vision. It shouldn’t have mattered. I shouldn’t have cared what he was, as long as he helped me.

I’d known that he killed people, but that had somehow disappeared under everything else that had happened. This was bigger than I’d realized, more horrifying. The lack of emotion in his voice as he spoke about it gave me chills.

“I just don’t want you to see me as something else and be hurt by it,” he added. “I’m not proud of what I am.”

I laughed, and the sharp noise that came out was completely unfamiliar to me. “You’re not sorry, though, are you?”

His reflection appeared in the window next to mine, then grew smaller as he withdrew to the sofa. “For a long time, I wasn’t. It felt good to be appreciated by Severn after years of being ignored by everyone, to have something I was really good at, to be serving my family the way I was brought up to. But I also hated myself for letting Severn use me, though I don’t know what I could have done differently. There was no way out. When Dorset Langley shot me, I thought that perhaps dying wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. Then you came, and I had no choice but to live…”

“And what?”

“I don’t know. Your magic reminded me of things I’d tried to forget. Broke me, somehow.”

I leaned my head against the window, then stepped back and closed the curtains in case anyone could see the light from outside. I turned back to him. “And then you left me alone. And when you were surprised to see me on the road that day, you decided to help? I don’t understand.”

“Rowan… No.” He leaned forward and pressed his face into his hands. “Yes, I was surprised to see you. But that’s only because I thought we’d find you at Stone Ridge. We were on our way to take you in. I’d told Severn about you. I had every intention of letting him have you, because that was the best thing for me, because it would help me get ahead. That’s who I am.”

It felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I couldn’t speak. “So up until the last minute…”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” There seemed to be genuine remorse in his eyes when he looked up. “It was wrong—”

I didn’t care about his remorse. “You’re damned right it was wrong!”

“—and I realized that as soon as I saw you. You don’t know how difficult it was for me to walk off that ship with you. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and at the time I didn’t even understand why I was doing it.” His voice was growing louder. Agitated. Perhaps angry.

“And now I’m what to you?” I demanded. “A suicide mission? An attempt to make you feel better about yourself, or to find some kind of redemption before your brother kills you?”

“No, it’s not like that.” He looked up, and I turned away.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said. “I like you. I wish my life was like the past few days have been, maybe minus being chased by people who want to kill us. It’s been good to get away from what my life was, and better because you’ve given me something else to focus on. But it’s still there. That’s still who I am, and it’s not fair to you for me to pretend that I’m something I’m not.”

That bitter laugh escaped me again. “Nothing about this is fair,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. My insides churned with anger at his willingness to hurt innocent people, disappointment that he wasn’t who I’d come to think he was, and embarrassment for the fact that I’d been stupid enough to care. “Sleep wherever you want, just leave me alone.”

I didn’t mean to slam the bedroom door. It just happened. And for the first time since the start of the whole adventure, I cried myself to sleep.

That night I dreamed that a dragon was chasing me. Not Ruby. This one was much darker than her, and cloaked in shadows. I ran, but its glowing eyes came closer with every step I took. A wooden bridge appeared in front of me, spanning a dark canyon. The boards looked rotten, but the hot breath on the back of my neck forced me forward. The dragon stopped its chase, but the bridge gave out under my weight, and I fell.

And then I was dancing. My dance partner was taller than me, dressed all in black. His hand rested lightly on the waist of my blood-red dress, pulling me close as we moved together. The dance was perfect, but wild, fast and spinning and thrilling. It was nothing like real life, where I had trouble finding the beat of the music and my feet always seemed to get in each other’s way. We moved through a crowd of people, all faceless, none of them important, none of them as real as my dance partner. My heart beat wildly, and every inch of my body seemed more alive than it had ever been. The soft fabric of my dress caressed me with every movement, and my skin tingled where my partner’s body pressed against me.

I pulled back and lifted my face to see Aren looking down at me, his expression as unreadable as I’d ever seen it. The music stopped, and he walked away.

I tried to follow, but those faceless people kept getting in my way, bumping into me and turning me around. Someone grabbed my arm. It was Callum, smiling and trying to take me back to the dance floor. I knew I was supposed to be relieved to see him, that I should want to dance with him again, but I kept looking over my shoulder hoping that Aren would come back and cut in.

Callum kissed me. It was sweet. It was nice, and it felt safe. But for some reason I wished I was still being chased by that dragon.

Sunrise found me wearing an old pair of coveralls and too-large rain boots, cleaning the chicken coop and searching for fresh eggs. I hadn’t slept well after the strange dreams, and I thought that focusing on a simple task might give my mind enough space to sort things out. The conflict in my brain was only making the pain in my head worse. The stink in the coop didn’t help, either, but there was only one thing I could do about that.

Three chickens flapped past me and out the door when they woke, but a brown-feathered hen stayed on her nest, eyeing me warily. She gave a warning squawk when I tried to reach under her. Broody. I left her and went back to work.

“It’s so stupid, isn’t it?” I asked her. “I knew what he was. Is. I saw him control people at the inn. I’ve heard stories about his family.” The hen shifted and fluffed her feathers, but gave me no answer.

I set the rake down and leaned on the handle. “It’s just that in the past few days, I forgot about that. I knew it, but it didn’t seem to fit him anymore. When I used to wish for adventure, when I wanted to learn about magic and see more of the world, I never imagined it happening with someone like him. He’s interesting, sure. And he has these moments when he seems like a decent person, and like maybe he sees me as more than a problem, or a secret Sorceress. He said he likes me.”

“Brrrrrrk?”

“Not like that. I don’t know what that dream was about.” I squeezed my eyes shut to chase away the lingering images. “But I was starting to think of him as a friend, I guess. Or at least someone I could trust. Then he reminds me he’s actually a remorseless killer who forces his way into people’s minds and turns them into monsters, just in case I forgot that. I mean, even in the past few days he’s killed people, and with no more remorse than you’d show for killing a mouse. Oh, and by the way, he was also planning to kidnap me so his brother could do God knows what to me. And this after I saved his life.” I sighed. “I don’t want to stay with someone like that. Staying is a bad decision. Isn’t it?”

He’d help me if I wanted to leave. He’d draw me a map to the nearest town, or maybe help me find the Wanderers again. He’d probably take me there, even knowing how dangerous it would be.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” I said, and got back to work turning over dirty bedding. “I still don’t think he is a monster. Or if he is, he’s changing. He helped me get away from Severn and whatever was supposed to happen to me in Luid. He gave up everything. I don’t know. I believe him when he says he’s not a good guy. He’s definitely not prince charming. Not that I’d want him to be, mind you.”

The hen let out a flurry of clucking noises and stretched her neck toward the window.

“Oh, what do you know? You’re a chicken.” I set down a fresh layer of straw over the old. The mess below it still didn’t smell appetizing, but it would keep the chickens warm. I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes, he’s very attractive, and sometimes I get this feeling like there’s something between us. He can be so charming when he wants to be, but I can’t trust that, can I? That’s what he does. He manipulates people.”

I forced myself to think rationally and tried to forget about those gorgeous brown eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he looks like, or that being around him makes me feel good, at least when I’m not mad at him. He’s going to help me get this binding thing taken care of, he’ll have done what he promised, and then we’ll go our separate ways. Nothing else makes sense.”

The chicken just watched me with those dark, beady eyes, showing no sign that she cared either way. I sighed. “I miss Aquila. He was a better listener.”

I didn’t feel any better for having talked things out, but I thought I was closer to making a decision. There was one thing I needed to know, that would decide whether I could stay with Aren. I stripped off the coveralls, washed up in the freezing water from the outdoor pump, found a few eggs that were fresh enough to eat, and went back inside.

Aren was still asleep when I passed through the sitting room. I’d been pleased earlier to see that he’d taken my advice and slept as a human after all. He didn’t look comfortable sprawled on the sofa with a light blanket pulled over him, but at least he was getting some rest. It was a good thing no one had sneaked up on us during the night. He didn’t even seem to hear the door open.

The smell of eggs frying and bread toasting soon woke him, though. He stood and stretched, and the cracking noise from his spine made me wince. Definitely needs a proper bed tonight, I thought.

The main room had grown warm overnight with the wood stove and the fireplace burning. Aren wore soft sleep pants, but no shirt. I tried not to stare at the lines of his bare chest and stomach when he stood and folded the blanket onto the sofa. Not like that, remember? He pulled a shirt on before he turned to go down the back hallway, and I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. I couldn’t remember ever having so many confused feelings about one person.

Breakfast was ready when he came back and sat at the table. His hair was a mess, there was a faint line across his cheek from the folded blanket he’d used as a pillow… and he looked way too good. I turned away and went back to get the food.

Who cares what he looks like?

He smiled tentatively when I brought his plate over. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re welcome.” I sat across from him. “I’m going to ask you something, and you need to answer me honestly, even if you think it’s not what I want to hear. No tricks, no side-stepping, no vague responses that I can interpret as I choose. Can you do that?”

“You know me too well.”

“Can you?”

“I’ll try.”

“When all of this is over, what are you going to do?”

He raised one eyebrow. Maybe he’d been expecting a different question. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘all of this,’ and even more on how it actually ends.”

“Would you go back to your old life if that were possible?”

“It wouldn’t be. But if in some other world Severn were willing to forgive me and let things go back to the way they were, rights and privileges reinstated, all is forgotten?”

I nodded, not wanting to speak and risk saying the wrong thing.

He looked down at his plate, thinking. I sipped my tea.

“No.” He looked up. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Why? You went back after you left Stone Ridge. You were going to betray me. Why not now?”

He took a sip of his own drink, but his eyes never left mine. “I don’t think I could. When I went back, I just wanted to forget about you. That was the plan. But then Severn made me tell him about you, and I’m ashamed to say that I turned you in to protect my own ass.” He lowered his gaze. “I think I was trying to prove something to myself, too. That I was strong enough to do what needed to be done, for Severn and Tyrea. And as much as I hated how much control Severn had over me, and the person he was turning me into, I did have a lot to protect. Family obligations aside, I had a good life in Luid.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. He seemed less certain and confident than I’d ever seen him. I stirred my tea, not wanting to push him to finish even as the waiting tore me apart. “But as I’ve spent more time away from that life,” he continued, “I’ve realized that it was killing me. I meant everything I said last night. I’m not a good person. But I hate what I’ve become. I thought the part of me that cared about what happened to you was weak. I’ve spent years trying to crush it. But I’m starting to think that maybe it’s worth hanging on to. If I went home again, the part of me that has appreciated your kindness and tried to keep you safe would die. I would become everything Severn was trying to make me. And I don’t want that.”

He looked up again and tried to smile, but it fell flat. “I think I’ve realized that I’d rather have a short life, even if it’s spent like this, than live hundreds of years the way I was before.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath, and let it out in a long sigh. “Good answer.”

He cleared his throat as hint of color touched his cheeks. “Thank you.”

We were silent for a minute, eating, and then the corners of his mouth twitched. “What would you have done if I’d said, ‘no, I can’t go back, because I plan to run away with you to a far-off land and live happily ever after?’”

I nearly choked on my eggs, then stared at him for a few seconds. I smiled sweetly. “Before, or after I ran outside and vomited?”

He leaned back in his chair and gave me that smile that creased the skin beside his eyes and set my heart pounding. “Excellent. You are as wise as you are beautiful.” I reached up to touch my pulled back, tangled hair and wondered how exactly I was supposed to take that.

After the food was gone and we took our dishes to the kitchen, Aren asked, “How did you sleep last night?”

“Fine. Strange dreams, but that’s normal for me.”

“That’s good. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“That what would be a problem? My dreams?”

“No, mine. You’ve never asked how I make people do things.”

I poured a cup of drinking water and went to sit on a soft armchair. “You didn’t say much about your magic or how you changed forms. I assumed you didn’t want to talk about those things.”

He took a seat close to me. “I don’t, but you should know. It’s something like pulling a person into a dream, but they’re not asleep. It’s difficult to do it when I’m awake, but when I’m sleeping it sometimes happens on its own, and I find myself in people’s dreams. Accidentally. I’ve never hurt or influenced anyone that way, but most people don’t want others to know what they dream about. After Dan found out about it, my brothers all refused to sleep anywhere near me. It’s the reason why Severn suggested I learn to control people’s minds. He knew I had a gift that could be developed.”

“Does that always happen?” Not a pleasant thought, given my dreams last night. I took a long sip of cold water.

“No. I don’t know if you’d even be affected. Your magic may protect your dreams, as it does your waking thoughts. I don’t think I could get inside of you if I tried to.”

I choked on my water, nearly spitting it out.

Aren held back a smile. “Your mind, I mean.”

The silence dragged on for longer than I meant it to. “Well. Good to know you weren’t just changing at night because you were sick of me. You didn’t dream about dancing last night, did you?”

“Dancing? No.” His smile disappeared. “But sometimes it’s best if I don’t dream, anyway.” He stood and went to wash the dishes, and I left him to it. I had more questions, but I also had a lot of answers to digest. It felt like there were mysteries buried in everything he said, and for once I needed a break as much as he did. I decided to do more exploring.

The upstairs wardrobes were filled with clothing, both men’s and women’s. Mostly summer things, but I found some sweaters, thick pants and a wool skirt on a high shelf, set away for the cold days that must have come to a northern lake even during the hottest months. I didn’t find anything in the bedrooms that told me who owned the house, though.

I was about to go back downstairs with my armload of clothes when Aren called, “I’m going down to the lake to check on something. If you want to go for a swim, you should do it soon. It looks like the snow is coming.” I imagined how cold the lake must be, and shivered.

“You’re crazy!” I called after him.

After he was gone, I dug my dragon scale out of the bottom of my bag. I hadn’t thought to look at it since I put it away after we left Ruby’s cave. One of the dragon’s smaller scales, certainly, but larger than my hand. I balanced the curve of it in my palm and admired the way the light reflected off of it, changing the colors as I turned it over. Far more beautiful than any treasure. I set it on the table in the sitting area.

Next I looked over the books on the shelf. There weren’t many—a few romance stories that must have been someone’s light summer reading, and a “Pictorial Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Glass Lake.” The lowest shelf held a dusty toy horse, a miniature wooden boat, and a heavy volume entitled simply, “Child’s Tales.” I sat in an armchair and rested the book on my crossed legs as I flipped slowly through the stories.

Detailed pictures burst from the pages in brilliant color, bringing the stories to life. The girl trapped in an ogre-guarded castle looked familiar, though the man waiting to climb to her seemed more sinister than any I remembered.

On another page a woman stood on a mountaintop, bathed in light that seemed to pool in her hands, black hair swirling around her, a sword sheathed at her waist. It was an impressive weapon, but it was her magic that she chose to wield against the purple dragon that hovered before her.

I think I could get to like Tyrea, I thought, and flipped the page again.

I was engrossed in a story about a king who made a fateful deal with a sea serpent when Aren returned. Water dripped from his hair, but his clothes were only wet in spots, as though he’d gone swimming without them and put them back on without drying off first.

“Very refreshing,” he said. “Should have taken a towel.” He wandered off to an upstairs room, leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor behind him.

“You’re a strange person,” I told him when he came back down.

“You should go out.”

“Should I, now? I’m not partial to freezing water. There must be a tub here somewhere that I can use to wash up. In warm water. Indoors.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but that seems like a lot of extra work. The water is nice, really. There are hot springs in the lake. Not right here, but they keep things from freezing. I was colder coming back up here than I was in the water. Besides, I left soap down there for you. You’re going to have to go get it, anyway.” He rocked back on his heels and waited for me to answer.

“Now there’s a logical argument if ever I heard one.” I snapped the book closed and placed it on the table. “Is it safe? No man or woman-eating monsters? It’s a big lake.”

“Not as far as I know. I’ll come down and keep an eye on things if you want. As an eagle, I mean. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“What, because you don’t have eyes when you’re an eagle?”

He shrugged and leaned against the door-post. “Because I don’t care what I see when I’m in a body that’s not human. I still have my own thoughts, but that body doesn’t seem to have human emotions. Or desires. It can be useful.”

The thought of him seeing me naked, whether he cared or not, was terrifying and yet strangely exciting. I grabbed a towel for my body and one for my hair from the closet and picked my way down the rocky path to the lake, with Aren following close behind. I stopped short, and he had to step sideways to keep from running into me. “But when you change back, you’ll still remember everything you saw, won’t you?”

He grinned. “Yeah, I can’t do anything about that. But if it makes you feel any better, I won’t look. Not even a little.”

“Right. I’m sure you’re always a perfect gentleman.” His grin widened, and I wondered what he was like with women when he was at home. Powerful, a king’s son, deadly attractive, and terribly charming when he wanted to be? God help the women of Luid.

I started walking again, and he fell behind as we reached the dock. There was a soft rustling sound behind me, and a feathered body flew past me and up to the top of a high, bare spruce branch near the water’s edge. He made himself comfortable, then twisted his neck to study the darkening clouds overhead, making it very clear that he wasn’t looking at me.

I’d have liked a few moments to watch him, to appreciate the magic he’d just performed so casually, but I decided I should get into the water before he started to wonder what was taking so long. I stripped my clothes off and set them on one of the wooden crates that were nailed to the dock. He didn’t look down once, not so much as a glance.

You are not disappointed in his lack of interest, human or eagle, I told myself as I dipped a toe in the water. It wasn’t as cold as I’d expected. The air was freezing, though, and a sharp breeze blew in from across the water. I took my chances and made a shallow dive.

The water under the surface wasn’t as cold as a lake should have been in late autumn, but was still cool enough to shock my fire-warmed body. I yelled, sending a flurry of bubbles toward the surface. I arched my back to bring me back to the air and shouted, “It’s not exactly warm!”

Aren glanced down, held his wings out to the side in an “I never said it was” gesture, and went back to studying the clouds.

The soap wasn’t as fancy as the stuff at the inn, but clean was clean, and it felt wonderful. The water did, too, once I was used to it. I’d been swimming naked more times than I could count when I was a child, but hadn’t done so in years, and never with someone like Aren around. I’d forgotten the feeling of cool, silky water slipping over my skin.

I took a deep breath, ducked under the surface, and kicked farther out into the lake, pulling myself along with my arms and relishing the power in my muscles. I’d always loved the water, the way it surrounded me and supported me. It was like flying in a way, suspended between ground and surface. I swam until my lungs burned for air, and came up far from shore. When I looked up, Aren was alert and searching the water for me. I waved to him, and he shook his head and settled back down to preen his feathers, clearly trying to communicate that he wasn’t worried. I laughed and started my swim back toward the shore.

I took a deep breath and prepared to dive under again. My breath caught in my throat as something wrapped around my ankle and tugged, pulling me straight down. I barely had time to scream before my head was underwater, the light of the surface moving swiftly away from me.

Chapter XXIII

Aren

SHE DIDN’T NEED TO SCREAM. I saw her pulled under. I lifted off and plunged toward the water before I thought about what I was doing, and realized that my eagle’s body wasn’t made for swimming. I would have to change. I’d never done it while I was moving so quickly, and for a second I wondered what would happen if I lost track of where I was and couldn’t call my body back to me. There was no time to think. I did it as quickly as I could, and felt the familiar weight of my body rushing back to me before I hit the water. It wasn’t a graceful dive, but the fall pushed me deep into the lake.

When the water slowed me, I opened my eyes. The lake water was clear, but with the sun hidden I could hardly see anything. A pale, blurry shape moved below me, struggling as it moved farther away. I kicked my legs, but she was going too quickly. She twisted, and was suddenly pulling herself toward the surface. I continued downward to try to catch a glimpse of whatever had grabbed her, hoping it wasn’t what I thought, but it was gone. I turned to follow Rowan.

She was holding onto the dock when I surfaced, her arms shaking as she struggled to pull herself up. I looked away. Keeping a casual eye on things when I was an eagle was very different from doing it now. Under other circumstances I might have offered to help, but I didn’t need things to be any more awkward between us than they already were. I watched the lake for signs of trouble, but there was nothing. It was as calm and flat as it had been when I swam earlier.

“Aren?” I turned back to the dock, where she stood wrapped in a red towel that did a barely-decent job of covering her body, holding another out for me.

“I think it’s gone,” I said. I took her place holding on to the side of the dock while I caught my breath. Gooseflesh broke out on my skin where it was exposed to the cold air.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I didn’t see anything. Just you going under.”

“It felt like a hand.”

“Did it?”

She held her leg out and turned her ankle from side to side. “No claws, no teeth. Grabbed like fingers.”

That’s impossible, I thought, trying to ignore her exposed skin. They wouldn’t.

Without warning, something popped up from the water beside me—or rather, someone. His skin had the same faintly grayish cast to it that I remembered, barely noticeable in the overcast light. His black hair was shaggier than it had been the last time we met, but nothing else had changed.

Rowan jumped back and pulled her towel tighter around her body, but she quickly stepped forward again and held out a hand to help me out of the water.

I spoke more loudly than I meant to. “What the hell are you doing?”

He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “I came to ask you the same thing. I was going to be nice about it, though. And I thought there might be a girl here.” He looked up at Rowan and gave her a wide, friendly grin. “Hello!”

“Watch it,” I muttered, and he looked back to me.

“Aah, I see.” He pulled himself up and rested one arm on the splintered wood of the dock.

“Do you welcome everyone to the lake by trying to drown them?” I demanded, gesturing toward Rowan and nearly dunking myself in the lake in the process.

“Is that what the commotion was?” He frowned. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll take care of it.” He relaxed and smiled again, as though nothing had happened. “So it’s been what, seven years?”

“About that.”

“Seven years. Damn. I mean, darn. All that time and I just get a ‘what the hell are you doing?’ No hug for your best friend?”

“Not wearing any clothes at the moment.”

He laughed. “You humans are such prudes.”

Rowan knelt on the wooden boards, holding the towel so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Or perhaps it was the cold. She was still shaking. “Excuse me—‘you humans?’”

“Sorry,” I said. “Rowan, this is Kel. He’s not human.”

“And thankful for it,” Kel added. He pushed back from the dock and flipped over to dive deep into the lake, showing off a muscular, human-looking torso with gills across his sides that closed in the air. His smooth, iron-gray tail flashed above the water, broad flukes splashing as he disappeared.

Rowan gasped.

Kel turned underwater and surfaced next to her a moment later. “Completely warm-blooded though, I promise.” He winked.

He really hadn’t changed. I rolled my eyes and pulled myself out of the water. Rowan turned away and held out the second towel, and I dried myself and stepped into my clothes, which still lay in a messy pile where I’d dropped them. I sat at the end of the dock and dipped my feet into the water.

Rowan stood with her arms crossed. “Not to spoil the reunion, but could we please talk about what happened? Someone grabbed me and dragged me under. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

I winced. She wasn’t familiar with mer ways, their discomfort with speculation, gossip, and potential false judgment. Kel offered a reassuring smile. “I have my suspicions. No one you’d know, I’d say. Rest assured, fair lady, you’re safe now.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes passed over what she could see of him again—quick, but not fast enough that he didn’t notice. He flashed another flirtatious grin, and got a little smile in return. “Excuse me. I’m going to go over there to get dressed.” She went up the path far enough to find some bushes to change behind. Kel watched her until she disappeared.

“Nice,” he said. “So you two are…”

“No.”

“Huh. So would you mind if I…”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “I’ll never understand you people.”

“Nor should you want to.”

Rowan came back with her towel wrapped around her hair and crouched with her bare feet tucked under her skirt. The shock of her near-drowning seemed to be wearing off. “Am I interrupting?”

“I don’t think so,” Kel said. “We have a lot of catching up to do, though, and it’s getting cold up here. I don’t suppose you have any more clothes up at the house?”

“I think so,” Rowan said. “I’ll go look.” She started to walk away, then turned back. “Um, pants?”

Kel laughed. “If you insist. Human magic-users aren’t the only ones who can change forms. Want to see?” He hauled himself out of the water and laid on the dock, the flukes of his long tail just touching the water.

Rowan’s gaze flickered to the end of his tail and back. “That’s fine, thanks. I’ll just see about those pants.”

Kel slipped back into the water, and we didn’t speak again until Rowan had disappeared into the house. “How’s everyone?” I asked.

“Good. Everyone’s good. We heard about your father disappearing. So… Sorry, I suppose.” An awkward silence followed.

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it? “

He looked up and studied me. “Maybe not. Depends. I’m certainly surprised to see you.”

“I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t come back. I wouldn’t have if—”

The door slammed shut up at the house. I excused myself, and went a short way up the path to meet Rowan. She carried a pair of work pants, a heavy flannel shirt, and a pair of clean wool socks.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “Kel is a good person. Better than most humans I’ve met. He has an odd sense of humor, though. Also, he likes human women. A lot.”

“Legs are fun!” Kel announced from the other side of the bushes, and Rowan smiled.

“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “He seems nice.” She handed the clothes to me. “But I don’t need to see him change. I’ll go find something to eat.”

“I’ll help.” I tossed the shirt and pants over the bushes onto the dock.

“Hey!” Kel yelled. “That almost landed in the—”

I threw the socks.

“Quit it! There had better not be boots coming!”

Rowan laughed again, and we started walking, taking our time. Kel caught up before we reached the cabin. He looked completely human, the gray in his skin having warmed to brown. If Rowan was surprised by any of it, she hid it. I thought she was handling everything well considering how little experience she had with magic, and felt a completely out-of-place sense of pride.

Rowan went to check on the horses, who had come back from the woods during the night. I added wood to the fires while Kel poked through every cupboard in the house. He found a belt and was threading it through the loops on his pants when Rowan returned. “You people make your clothes so complicated.”

I brought a bowl of fruit over. “You don’t usually make any clothes.”

“Too right. Only in this form. This sort of body tends to leave sensitive equipment just hanging out in the wind when you’re not dressed.” He turned to me. “You’re an odd lot, you know that?”

“You may have mentioned it before.”

Kel declined the food, but was happy to spend time answering Rowan’s questions about the merfolk, the myth about them having scaled fish tails, where they lived and how they traveled between inland lakes, whether they could all form legs.

Kel smiled at that question. “Most can, and those who can often do. We have a beautiful place called the Grotto where we dress up, dance, cook food, and where we keep our library and beautiful things collected by those of us who choose to brave the human world.”

Rowan stared past him. “I would love to see that.”

“Maybe you will someday. We do occasionally invite human visitors. Do you have any other questions?”

I snorted at that. “She does, believe me.”

Rowan gave me a good-natured glare. “What about the stories of mermaids intentionally making human sailors crash their ships?”

“Absolutely not,” he told her. “That story is a common one, but I’ve never met a mer who would want to cause that kind of harm to anyone who wasn’t an enemy. I know some who might approach lonely sailors, or sing beautiful songs to them to get them through the lonely nights. It’s not our fault that human men can’t steer straight when they’re aroused.” He seemed to think this was hilarious.

I soon realized that Rowan had been holding back when she asked me about magic. She wanted to know everything, and Kel was happy to share. I should have been glad to have someone else to do the talking, but I wasn’t. I hated how interested she seemed in him, how her eyes shone as she listened, how she laughed when he made a joke. Another out-of-place emotion. It was none of my business what she did.

She decided to go out and catch a chicken for supper. “Aren, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked, and walked out the back door. She waited for me just around the corner. “These are the people we were looking for, aren’t they? The ones who might be able to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I would have,” I said, “but they’re good at not being found. If they sensed that a stranger was searching for them, they’d have disappeared completely. Sometimes they’ll investigate if they’re curious, though.”

She rested her hands on her hips and glared at me. “So I was bait?”

“What? No! Not exactly. But you did make them curious.”

“If they know you, why wouldn’t they have just come to see you?”

“I’m supposed to stay away from them. Kel’s band of merfolk were friends of mine when I was young, but that changed as I grew up. They know what I am, what I do, and they don’t approve of how I’ve directed my magical gifts.” She looked away, perhaps agreeing with them. “It was fine for me to be around them when I was a kid, but when I got older it got complicated. My position in the human world made me a danger to them. I volunteered to stay away, but I think they would have told me to if I hadn’t offered. I think they’ll help you, though, if it’s within their power.”

“They’re that altruistic?”

“They’re that curious. You should get along well with them.”

She crossed her arms. “So you were just going to hand me over, and that’s it? You were going to send me to this Grotto place and then disappear?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to stay with me, anyway, and I didn’t know what else to do.” The thought that she might not want to leave was appealing, yet worrisome. “You know you’ll be safer without me. I can lead Severn away, you can get your answers. They’ll know who can help you.”

She rubbed her temple, and I wondered if it was a headache or just frustration. I thought headache. Her eyes had a glassy, distant look to them. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

My heart skipped. “You’re better off with them.”

“But you won’t be safe when you’re alone. We both know you can’t stay half-awake forever, and it’s only a matter of time until Severn finds you. At least I can keep watch while you sleep.” She pulled a sharp knife off of the wall and started toward the chicken coop before I could say anything else.

I stayed outside for a few minutes before I went back in. Of course I knew I couldn’t keep going on my own forever, but it was too dangerous to keep her with me. Possibly pleasant, if things kept going as they were, but dangerous. I turned and went into the house before I could follow that thought any further.

Kel sat on the sofa with his bare feet on the table, wiggling his toes.

“Been a while since you’ve been on land?” I asked.

“Yes. Everything seems to be working, though.” He folded his hands over his stomach and looked at me. I sat in a chair beside him and stared back. He tapped his thumbs together. “So,” he said.

“So.”

“What is this? You looked like you were going to strangle me when I showed up down there.”

“You’ll have to excuse that. I thought you’d just tried to drown Rowan.”

“Mmm. And she’s your… friend?”

“I suppose she might say that.”

“And she’s important to you.”

I understood what he was trying to get from me. “It’s not like that. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not that.”

“Uh-huh.” I could tell he didn’t believe me, but at least he let it go. “I didn’t think we’d see you again.”

“Neither did I. I meant what I said about leaving you alone. I’m not asking you to help me.”

“That’s good. We’ve heard what’s happening. We can’t be involved with Severn.” The merfolk had reason to be aware of what humans were doing. They’d seen what we’d done to each other over the years, and they tried to be prepared in case we decided to try to harm them or their home in the same ways.

Before I could ask, he added, “I don’t know whether Severn knows you’re here, but I haven’t heard that anyone’s looking for you, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t, but thank you.”

He wiggled his toes again. “I can keep my ears open for you as long as you’re here. I just hope it doesn’t cause problems for us.” That was the closest Kel would come to questioning my decision to come back. He didn’t have to tell me that the mer elders wouldn’t be pleased to hear I’d returned. “I’m assuming it’s no coincidence that you stopped here. And I would love to know what you’re doing with Rowan.”

It wasn’t as difficult for me to explain things to Kel as it had been to tell Rowan, either because I was starting to understand the situation better, or because he let me talk without interruptions. When I finished the story and explained why I’d helped her, leaving out any reference to my confused emotions, he smirked.

“That’s it? You just felt like you owed her something?”

My back stiffened. “Yes. And I appreciated her kindness. It was more than I’m accustomed to.”

“So if she had been an unattractive, smelly old man and had done the same thing, you’d have thrown away your life in Luid, helped him escape from that boat, and nearly killed yourself trying to convince him he was a Sorcerer?” He rolled his eyes. “Sure you would have. It had nothing to do with her being a sweet, intelligent, attractive young woman with a fantastic ass and a need for someone to save her.”

“She’s quite capable of saving herself, believe me. She just needed to be pointed in the right direction.”

“Right. And that’s not appealing to you either.” He leaned forward and took a sip from the mug on the table in front of him. “I still have so many questions, but we’ll stick with Rowan’s problems for now. You could be right about her. So why did you bring her here?”

“I couldn’t take her to anyone in Luid. Anyone in Tyrea, actually. There’s no one I can trust now, and until something is done about the binding, she’s in danger. If you can’t help, I’m not sure what we’ll do. I thought about taking her beyond Tyrea, to Belleisle, but I don’t think they’d help.”

“Certainly not you. They might take Rowan, if she went alone. That may be what needs to happen. We could get more information for you, but you know that our magic only works in us. We might not be able to fix this.”

I’d expected as much, but hearing him say it was disappointing. “Your healers are better than ours,” I said. “They might at least help the pain while everything else is being worked out. And you’ll be able to find someone who can help her.”

“Hmm. But again, I doubt Mariana and Arnav will allow you to come. You think she’d go with me if you stayed here?”

“No,” Rowan said. I’d become so accustomed to her presence that my extended awareness didn’t alert me when she’d come back in.

Kel looked from me to Rowan and back. He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. But Rowan, it might come to a decision between finding a way to free your magic, or hanging around with this guy.” He swung his feet onto the floor and walked to her, then touched her cheek and looked into her eyes for a few seconds. “Give me a day or two. I’ll talk to the elders.”

She took a step back as he released her. “You’re not staying for supper?”

“No, I have to get home, see what I can find out about your little adventure earlier, talk to the elders. Do you mind if Aren walks me down to the dock?”

“Take him. I have to get the food started anyway.”

They exchanged nice-to-meet-yous, and Kel and I stepped out into the cold. I knew better than to ask what he’d seen in her. Merfolk didn’t look into people’s thoughts the way I did, but in a far less invasive way they were incredibly perceptive. I wanted to know, but prying would be rude.

“Be careful with her,” Kel said. “She has a lot on her mind, more than a person should have to deal with all at once. Just give her time, she’ll work it out.” We reached the dock, and he stepped out of his clothes and handed them to me. I put everything in one of the wooden crates in case he needed it again. He looked out over the dull gray water. “Try to be honest with yourself about what you’re feeling for her.”

“I don’t—”

He held up one hand to stop me. “I know, you don’t want to feel anything. It’s against your family’s religion or something.”

“No, I mean I can’t let anything like that happen. I told her I’d try to help her. You know as well as I do that staying with me is a bad idea.”

Kel looked back at me and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think she’d agree?”

I didn’t answer. I had no idea what she thought or wanted.

“I’ll see what I can do for her,” Kel said, “if you’re sure that’s what’s best. It’ll be up to her, though.”

“Of course. Thank you.” I turned and walked back up the path, and Kel splashed into the water behind me. I took my time walking back toward the welcoming light of the house, trying to sort through my unwelcome emotions as I went.

Thus far, I had managed to ignore it when my body responded to her. I would do the same when I was tempted to let emotion overrule my mind. Even if I wanted her.

Gods, I want her.

I gritted my teeth and walked toward the house, ready to do battle with myself. It wouldn’t be for much longer, now.

Chapter XXIV

Aren

I DECIDED TO CHECK ON the horses before I went in to talk to Rowan. They’d wandered off to forage again, in spite of the more than adequate supply of food we’d left them in the stable. It wasn’t snowing yet, but the air had the heavy feel of an approaching storm, and I wasn’t prepared to lose the horses if it came during the night. I made the stalls as comfortable as I could, then went searching for them.

I found Rowan’s horse in the garden, digging up what root vegetables the summer people had left behind. I clucked my tongue and she came along easily enough. Mine wasn’t in the yard, so I took a lead rope and followed the only path into the woods.

I hadn’t gone far when a rustling noise from behind a thick stand of pines stopped me. I moved quietly in case it was something other than the horse. The lake was a safe enough place in the summer, but I didn’t know what creatures might take advantage of the never-frozen water during the winter.

It was nothing but the black and white horse, standing in a small clearing and rubbing her hairy side against a tree with a thick, twisted trunk. I clipped the rope to her halter and started to walk away, but turned back. The bright pink leaves blended in with the other autumn colors in the dim light, and I’d almost missed it. The horse had been rubbing her hide on a heartleaf tree.

“Good girl,” I whispered, and patted her neck. Rowan would need the bark. It might bring some relief, but it was no cure. She’d have to go with Kel. I just needed to convince her of that.

The first snowflakes fell as I returned to the house. Only a few, but there would be more.

“How did you know?” Rowan asked as I handed her the strands of heartleaf bark. “I was just wishing I had some. Can you give me a hand with the food?”

The meal was delicious, but Rowan hardly ate anything. She was also uncharacteristically quiet, and I wondered whether she’d used up her daily allotment of questions on Kel. More likely she was thinking about one or more of the questions neither he nor I could answer. Wondering whether she’d go with the merfolk if they decided to help her, what she would do after someone fixed her problem, how any of this had happened in the first place.

Instead of talking, we listened to the sounds of the storm building outside, the wind rushing through the trees and the icy snow tapping at the windows.

“I think I’m going to use the bark and go to bed,” she said after the table was cleared. “Do you mind washing up?”

“Of course not.”

She poured hot water into a teapot, then added some to a jug that looked like it had come from one of the upstairs washbasins. “I’m going to try sleeping upstairs,” she explained. “The fires have been burning all day, and I’ll take blankets from the other upstairs bed. I’ll come down if it’s too cold.”

She carried the jug upstairs, and returned as I was finishing with the dishes. She wore a blue, pinstriped nightshirt, thick wool socks, and had her hair brushed and pulled forward over one shoulder, her face freshly washed. She looked down and grimaced. “What do you think?”

I thought she could probably make an old grain sack look good if she decided to wear one, but didn’t say so. “Your cousin would be horrified.”

“No doubt.” She smiled, but when she came closer I saw that her eyes had that distant, glassy look again.

She was quiet again while she drank her tea, and seemed troubled. I wanted to reach out to touch her face, to smooth the tension from her brow, to tell her that she was going to get through this and it would all work out. Instead, I sat across from her and watched the snow falling outside the window. Nothing I did would help.

When the medicine was gone, she stood and said, “Well, I’m going to—whoa.” She dropped back into the chair. “Are you sure that was heartleaf? I feel like a big fluffy cloud just punched me in the face.”

“Oh, I forgot.” I tried not to laugh. “The trees here are stronger, remember? You probably should have used a bit less.”

“Oh, the thing with the dragons and more magic here,” she said, and waved a hand through the air in front of her. “I’ll get used to it.”

“Is it helping the pain?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Not yet, but I don’t care about it so much. I’m sleepy, though.” She stood and almost fell over again. I pushed my chair away and grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Let me help you upstairs,” I said. “You can lie down, but I don’t think you should go to sleep until this wears off a little.”

“I’m fine. My legs are just a little, you know.” She flapped her hands around to demonstrate. They were, too. We were only half-way up the stairs when they went out from under her again. I bent and scooped her up to carry her the rest of the way. She reached up and touched my face. “You’re pretty.”

“Thanks.” It would have hurt her feelings if I’d laughed, but it was difficult not to. She sounded so sincere. I carried her to the bedroom and set her down on the bed, where she wiggled under the heavy quilt.

I lit the glass-chimney oil lamp next to the bed and turned to leave. “Don’t fall asleep, I’m just getting more blankets.” The house wasn’t insulated against winter weather, and even with the door open to the warmth downstairs the air was cold.

She looked slightly more alert when I returned, but I still didn’t like the idea of her sleeping right away. I remembered the way she’d looked wearing that red towel by the lake, and my mind was flooded with ideas of ways to keep her awake, none of which were at all appropriate for the situation.

Just stop, I told myself. You only want her because you can’t have her.

Rowan shifted to make room on the bed. “Come here,” she said. “If you want me to stay awake, you need to help.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“Tell me a story.”

That’s probably a better idea.

I sat on top of the blankets she’d pulled up to her chest. “I’m not good at it, but I’ll try. What do you want to hear?” I thought I could probably remember a story I’d heard when I was younger, or I’d find something in that children’s book downstairs. Or perhaps some Tyrean history. To a person as unaccustomed to magic as she was, this land’s past would probably sound like one of her beloved fairy tales.

“Can I have any story?” She yawned, wrinkling her nose.

“Any one I can remember.”

“Any one,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes. I thought she was falling asleep, but her eyes snapped open again and slowly focused on my face. “I want yours. You never say much about your past. I want to hear your story.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. How about something with a dragon, or a princess or something?”

She shook her head, and a section of her hair fell over one eye. “You said any story you could remember. And don’t say you don’t remember, because I know you do. Besides, the princesses in stories are all useless.” She yawned again. “Always need a prince to save them.”

“You obviously haven’t met any Tyrean princesses.”

“Nope. Your story.”

It was almost the same trick she’d pulled with the dragon, and I’d fallen for it. “It’s not important.” I brushed her hair back behind her ear, and she shivered.

“It is to me. Please?”

I wondered whether there was a polite way to ask her to stop saying things that made me feel so warm and pleasant, and decided there wasn’t. I almost started with “once upon a time,” but remembered that those stories always ended with a “happily ever after.” I left it out. No one in my story had one of those. “The first thing you need to understand,” I said instead, and Rowan settled deeper under the blankets and rested her head on my arm. “Don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m not. This is worth staying awake for.”

“The first thing you need to understand is that marriages in the ruling family of Tyrea can be more complicated than they are in your country.”

She lifted her head. “Oh my God, you’re married.”

“No. Stop interrupting. Magic is a very good thing, but it causes a few problems. One is that two people who both have strong magic can’t have children together. We don’t know why, it just doesn’t work. It’s not usually a problem, because there are very few true Sorceresses. A Potioner could have children with whoever she chooses, but if the father is a Sorcerer, the child will most likely have nothing of either type of magic. If a family is going to stay in power, there needs to be an heir with strong magic, so a king will take several wives, all without magic themselves, but it’s somewhere in their family lines. My mother was my father’s fourth secondary wife.”

“Secondary?”

“There’s only one queen. All others are secondaries. Likewise if a Sorceress rules, as my grandmother did. Several husbands, one primary.”

“It’s all so romantic,” she muttered, and settled back down against my arm.

“Love isn’t a consideration. In fact, it’s discouraged. A ruler has more important things to think about, and love for wives or family is a dangerous distraction. It makes people do stupid things. Makes them weak.”

She didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, so I continued. “A king takes three secondary wives. It’s enough to nearly guarantee at least one child with strong magic, if he’s chosen his wives carefully. The selections are complicated, businesslike. My father met my mother when he was traveling in the Eastern provinces, long after he’d married the others. He took her as a fourth secondary wife, and justified it by saying that there was no child from his third marriage.”

The wording of that had always bothered me. No one ever said that they’d had no children, only that there weren’t any by the time my mother came along. “I’m told she was quite beautiful, and a kinder, more innocent sort of person than should ever have been brought to court. The other wives hated her. She was from too far away, and they were jealous of her.”

“Because he loved her.”

“I think he did, at least as much as he was capable. I was born a little over a year later, and she died three years after that. But that story can wait for another time. You could probably sleep now.”

“It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.”

I sighed. “I can, if you really want to know.”

She nodded without looking up.

“Severn is the queen’s son, and twenty years older than me. He had—still has—a lot of firm ideas about how things should be, and he’s had a burning desire for power for as long as I’ve known him. He knew that our father favored my mother over his, and hated her for it. He watched her carefully, and managed to intercept letters between her and some enemy of my father’s. Instead of exposing her, Severn and his mother went to the king privately with the information. Severn threatened to make my mother’s actions public if she didn’t do something. The queen and Severn were planning to visit her family—the queen’s, not my mother’s. When they returned, they wanted to find the last wife not imprisoned, but dead, as proof of the king’s strength and as punishment for what she’d done. After all, an extra secondary wife who had already produced a child shouldn’t have mattered to him. My father had to choose between losing his throne to Severn, or killing her.”

Rowan gasped. “He didn’t!”

“I don’t know whether he did it himself, but it was done. The queen was angry that he disposed of the body before her return, but he told her that he’d had enough, that even a king’s last wife deserved a decent burial, and he wasn’t going to have her present to make a mockery of it. She was still the queen after that, but I don’t know if he ever spoke to her again except for official business.”

“You say all of this like it’s nothing to you.”

“It was something at the time. No one told me what my father had done, of course. I didn’t learn that until just a few years ago, not long before he disappeared. I knew she was gone, though. I barely remember it now, but I was heartbroken. I cried. I behaved badly. I slept little, and when I did, I had nightmares and screamed for her. Things like that aren’t allowed to go on for long in my family. It’s weakness.”

I almost felt something then, almost remembered the pain, but I didn’t have any tears left—not for myself, for my dead mother, or for anything that came after.

Someone did, though. I felt wetness soaking into the sleeve of my shirt. “Are you crying for me, or for her?” I asked. “I’m fine.”

“For her, a bit. Mostly for that little boy who wasn’t allowed to love his own mother.” She sniffled, and I put my arm around her shoulders. Her hair smelled like the lake, fresh and clean. I rested my head on hers, just for a moment.

“I was fortunate, really. When my mother was in Luid, she chose loyal servants for herself who became her friends. Most of them left after she died, but her maid Mona stayed, and Mona’s husband John, who was a healer. They cared for me, and I’m fortunate that they did. My father wanted nothing to do with me. I think I reminded him too much of her. My mother had a house on this lake, a gift from my father, and they brought me here every summer.”

“To this house?”

“No, it’s on the other side of the lake. I thought Severn might think to look there. This house belonged to Mrs. Pritchen, a friend of Mona’s. I wanted to stay here because it has smokestone-lined chimneys. So we were here at the lake every summer, and I met Kel and the others when I was eight years old.”

“And you came here until you were…”

“Sixteen. That was a good summer.”

“And then what?”

“You know, I should go check the fire.” I tried to sit up, but Rowan dug her fingers into my arm and held on.

This part was harder. I didn’t remember my mother, but I remembered Mona and John. “I wanted to come alone that summer. Mona and John spent some time elsewhere. They were arrested as soon as they returned to the city without me, sentenced to death, and the sentence carried out before I knew anything about it.”

Rowan let go of me and sat up. “What? Why?”

“The official documents say they were convicted of abducting a member of the royal family, and that it was suspected they’d killed me. My father wasn’t pleased. The charges were obviously false, and it made him look foolish. I believed Severn was responsible, but couldn’t prove it. He told me to let it go, that I was too old to need them. He was right about that. I wasn’t a child anymore. But they were like family to me, and John was a good teacher. Too good. He helped me develop my magic enough to make Severn realize that he could use me.

“Severn oversaw my training after they died. I hated him, but had no choice but to do what he wanted. In time, I learned to set my resentment aside and forget—Ouch.” Rowan had grabbed onto my wrist, and was gripping so hard that her nails bit into my skin.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… is your entire family evil?”

“No. Power-hungry, certainly, and proud, and used to getting what we want. I did come back to the lake once after that, briefly, to tell the merfolk that I would stay away. We were at odds by then over my magic, and I wasn’t exactly welcome. The situation with Severn just made that decision easier.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone I’d ever cared about got hurt. My mother, Mona and John. There was a little girl I used to play with when I was a child, and she just disappeared around the same time as my mother, no explanation. Even people I didn’t care about weren’t safe. There was a theologian in Luid who I asked about the things my brothers and I did to people. I wanted to know whether our souls were lost, and I asked whether there was a hell, and if we were going there. He answered me, and when Severn found out, he had the man killed so that no one would learn about my doubts. I think Severn thought he was protecting me. That was long after I stopped coming to the lake, though.”

“What did he say?”

“Who?”

“The priest guy. What was his answer?”

It wasn’t hard to remember. I heard the words in my mind every time I thought about going against my brother. “He said that my duty in this world was to be loyal to my family, and that I would be rewarded for it. That if it was damnation I sought, I would find it ‘surely and quickly’ by defying those who had authority over me. I’ve certainly done that. I guess I’ll have to wait and see if he was right.”

Rowan was silent for a minute. Her body was still tucked in close to mine, but to me it felt like a chasm had opened between us. Words didn’t exist that could make her understand all of it.

I was about to leave when she pushed herself higher on the bed and whispered, “I’m sorry.” She kissed me high on my cheekbone.

I drew in a quick breath. It wasn’t often that someone surprised me. She pulled away and lay back on her pillow, dark hair spread out behind her, glowing in the lamplight. Wetness still reflected in her eyes, but she was calm, and seemed more at peace than I’d seen her before.

“Sorry for what?” I asked, and looked away. She was too much.

“For everything that happened. For making you talk about it.”

I hoped my story wasn’t going to give her unpleasant dreams. “I’ve had good times in my life, too. They were just less significant things. And don’t be sorry for asking. Maybe hearing all of that will help you understand why I am what I am.”

She closed her eyes. “I think it does, a little. Sleep well.”

I went to the door and turned back to say goodnight, but she was already asleep.

Chapter XXV

Rowan

WE WERE BACK IN THE cupboard at the inn, though now there was enough light that I could just see Aren’s face when I looked up. I knew it was a dream, but some things seemed clearer than they had when I was awake. The questions that never stopped clamoring for attention in my waking mind became insignificant, and there was nothing outside of that space that mattered.

I stretched up on my toes and clasped my hands behind his neck. “Kiss me,” I whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, and then his lips were on mine. A bolt of warm energy shot through me, and I was suddenly aware of how our bodies were forced together in that small space. I hadn’t noticed before how my breasts were pressed against his ribs, but I felt it now, and tried to pull him closer, to eliminate every bit of space between our bodies. I felt him smile, and he reached up to touch my face, to wind his fingers through my hair as our kiss deepened. His other hand traced the line of my shoulder, then trailed across my collarbone and slipped inside my open jacket, teasing me through the thin fabric of my shirt. His tongue—

A crashing noise jerked me from my dreams, and I found myself sitting up in bed, heart pounding. The room was dark, my headache was gone, and I was alone. I pulled the heavy blankets tight around me, as though they would protect me from danger as they did from the room’s frozen air.

There were no more noises. No wind outside, no crashes, no creak of the bed saying that Aren was up to check on things. I leaned out of bed, retrieved the socks that I’d kicked off in my sleep, and left the safety of my room. I paused at the top of the stairs, listening, then crept down and through the sitting room. Nothing seemed out of place.

The door to the little room off of the kitchen creaked when I opened it. Aren shifted in the larger bed. “’S a book,” he mumbled. “Knocked over a thing. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

I would have asked how he knew that, but he seemed to be asleep again, and enjoying a more restful night than I was. He lay on his stomach with the blankets pushed almost down to his waist. Though it was warmer in that room than it had been upstairs, there was still a chill in the air. I reached out to pull the blankets up.

I paused with my hand in mid-air, and squinted. How did I not see that before?

A massive scar covered half his back—or at least, I thought that’s what it was. The center of it, just beneath his right shoulder blade, looked like the remains of a badly-healed wound, a rippled mess of pale skin. Fainter scars branched out from it, spreading across his shoulder and ribs, silver in the dim moonlight that filtered through the curtains. They reminded me of the patterns that show on a window after a frost, or vines climbing a wall. I felt terrible for prying information from him earlier, but I knew I’d be asking about this in the morning.

I pulled the blankets up, and my cold fingers brushed over the unmarked skin of his arm. He shivered, and I wondered what dreams I might have disturbed.

I climbed into the cot and pulled the quilt over me. It was too cold to go back upstairs. As I drifted off, I hoped my dreams wouldn’t pick up where they’d left off. Pleasant as they’d been, I didn’t want him to see them.

As it turned out, I worried for nothing. I woke alone in the room with a faint pounding behind my eyes and a vague memory of dreaming about something burning. Though I felt relief that Aren hadn’t showed up in my mind, I was disappointed to have not found out where the first dream had been going. But what did that dream say about me?

Maybe I could blame it on the heartleaf.

I stretched and rolled out of bed. Aren was already dressed and sitting at the table. I muttered “good morning” as I passed him on my way upstairs. I shed the nightgown and pulled on a pair of warm pants and a thin sweater from the closet, then raced back to the warmth downstairs. I went to look outside. Snow had drifted halfway up the window overnight, and I couldn’t see over it. I supposed being snowed in wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to us. The horses were snug in the stable, and we had enough food.

Aren joined me at the window, and I tried not to notice how close he was standing. “Can you see anything?” I asked.

“Yes. Snow.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time.” I held my breath until he turned and went to add wood to the stove. “Were you too cold upstairs?” he asked.

“Yes. I was fine until I woke up, but you were right. It’s warmer down here. Um, if you don’t mind me asking, I noticed on your back…”

He grimaced. “The scar?”

I nodded.

“I think I mentioned Severn trying to kill me when I was younger. That’s what he left me with. He attacked me with pure magic. I would have died if John hadn’t been there to heal me, or if Mona hadn’t looked after me in the months it took for me to recover. No big story for that one.”

“So the magic made it all fancy?”

He smiled, and the memory of my dream hit me, the way that smile felt against my lips.

“I suppose,” he said.

“Can I see it again?”

He gave me a strange look, but shrugged. He sat facing backward on a dining chair and pulled off his sweater and the shirt beneath. In the bright light of morning the patterns were less visible, white against his already pale skin and showing only a hint of the silver color that the moonlight had brought out. I rested a hand on his shoulder, barely touching him. His skin felt almost feverish in its warmth.

“Do you mind?” I whispered.

“No.”

I traced my finger over the scar, brushing over the uneven skin in the center and trailing down to where the curves ended at the bottom of his ribcage, then around and up to his shoulder, over muscles that were hard and tense beneath his skin. The tendrils continued up, and I brushed his hair aside so I could see where they ended on his neck, curled like a fiddlehead fern behind his ear.

A faint tremor ran over his back. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding, whether he felt what I did.

Aren reached up and wrapped his hand gently around mine. “Rowan, I don’t think—”

A knock at the door interrupted him, and a look of panic crossed his face as he turned. I stepped back, and he walked to the window with long, fluid strides, appearing ready for whatever might be out there.

“It’s all right,” he said, and pulled his sweater back on. He unlocked the door and Kel shuffled in, carrying a large silver-brown fish by the tail. He wore the pants and shirt he’d borrowed the day before, and nothing on his snow-covered feet.

“Thanks,” he said. “So, what’s happening? Everyone have a good night?”

“Good enough,” Aren said, and went to put the kettle on.

Kel flopped into a chair. “Aren, Cassia says hello. She didn’t want to come up, said snow makes her skin itch.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Oh, Cassia’s my sister. She and Aren used to—” he glanced at Aren. “They were friends.”

“I see.” I looked at the fish, which now hung from Kel’s hand with its face resting on the floor, flat eyes staring at nothing. “So, about that trout?”

Kel seemed to have forgotten about it. “Oh, breakfast, if you haven’t eaten yet. I can clean it.”

“I’ve got it.” Aren took the fish and grabbed a slim knife from a kitchen drawer. “I was going to let the horses out, anyway. Might as well do this outside.”

Kel settled back into his chair and wiped his hands on the leg of his pants. “Decent sort of chap, isn’t he?”

“Seems to be, sometimes. Can I ask you something?”

“I assume so.”

I sat on the table in front of him and leaned in. “You and Aren haven’t seen each other in years, and I’m sure you have some idea of what he’s been up to during that time.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean. Disappointing, but not surprising given what and where he came from.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Bother me? No, it’s his life, not mine. I have no say in it. My people and I wished things could have been different, but he did what he thought he had to do, and he had the decency to keep us out of it. But I think what you’re wondering is why I’m not more cautious of him now.”

“Yes.”

“You seem comfortable with what you know about him so far, which is at least enough to make you ask these questions, so…” He spread his hands before him. “I don’t know why you’re so attached to him, but that’s between the two of you. As for me, my people are excellent judges of character, and we don’t second-guess our instincts.” Kel’s brown eyes grew distant. “I remember the last time I saw Aren before this. He was becoming so cold. Not cruel yet, but hard and empty. I was very surprised to see him yesterday, and you with him. He’s changed again. Not back to the person he was when he was younger, but he’s certainly not who I thought he’d become. I should tell you that I have no way of knowing whether this is permanent. You humans change like the tides. But for now, he’s someone I’m happy to call a friend. Good enough?”

I sighed, relieved. I hardly knew Kel, but I still trusted his judgment more than my own where Aren was concerned. “Yes, thank you.”

After breakfast, Kel asked if he could have a few minutes alone with Aren. “Of course,” I said. “I’m going to make a cup of heartleaf and lie down.”

Aren followed me to the kitchen. “Not too strong, though.” He looked like he was holding back laughter.

“I know.” I thought back to the evening before. I remembered what he’d told be about himself and his family, but what else? I didn’t recall much about going to bed, except… Oh, no. My face grew warm.

“Did I tell you you were pretty last night?” I whispered.

That damned smile again. “You did.”

“Oh.” I pinched bark into a cup—about a third of the amount I’d used the night before—and added the water. The strong dose had kept the pain away for longer than I was accustomed to, but I didn’t even want to think about what I’d tell him if I tried it again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I bet you’re fun when you’re drunk.”

I took my tea to the little bedroom and closed the door behind me. I drank it as it cooled, and fell asleep to the muffled, comforting sound of their voices.

I didn’t sleep long, and didn’t dream. I did wake thinking about Callum, though. That was over for me. No matter what happened, no matter what he knew about magic and whether I found a cure for my problem or not, I wasn’t going back.

But he didn’t know any of this. Was he still looking for me? I’d intended to send him a letter when we stopped in a town, but hadn’t had a chance to do it. I would have to find a way. I’d tell him I was safe, and tell him what I’d learned about magic. My parents and uncle Ches, too. I wasn’t going to be coming home any time soon, and I didn’t want them to worry any more than they had to.

Kel and Aren didn’t turn when the door opened. Kel lounged with one leg up on the sofa. A large sheet of paper was rolled up on the table, next to my dragon scale. “An eagle, though?” Kel asked Aren. “Really? You couldn’t have gone with something aquatic? It’s so much more fun.”

“You might be a bit biased,” Aren said. “Being stuck underwater isn’t convenient for all of the traveling I have to do. It’s nothing personal.”

I leaned over the back of the sofa and whispered, “It’s totally personal.”

Kel narrowed his eyes at Aren. “I knew it.” He swung his leg down and patted the space next to him, and I sat. The seat of the sofa was high, and my feet barely touched the ground. I crossed them under me, instead.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not in the least,” Kel said. “We’ve just been catching up, making some plans. It’s been interesting. But I should head home soon.” He looked at Aren, then back to me. “I need to know whether you’re coming with me.”

“Whether we’re—” I began.

Aren shook his head. “Rowan, they can’t get involved in what’s happening with me. Taking you in is different. Severn never needs to know where you went, and he’ll find another Sorcerer to use. It shouldn’t matter to him, as long as he gets me.”

“We’re happy to have you, Rowan,” Kel added. “We have trouble leaving a puzzle unsolved, and your binding could be an interesting challenge. I don’t know how much help we’ll be, but we’ll try. The elders are looking forward to meeting you. But I can’t bring Aren back with me.”

“How can you both be so calm about this?” I asked, and pushed myself to my feet again. I turned to Aren. “What are you going to do?”

“Get away from here before Severn knows I’ve been in contact with the merfolk. After that, I don’t know.” I looked harder into his eyes and saw that the calm was an act. I just couldn’t tell what was underneath.

“Then no.”

“Rowan,” Aren said, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“No. I’m sorry, Kel, and I appreciate the offer more than I can say. I would love to meet your people, and having you solve my puzzle would change my life so much…”

“But you’re not coming.”

“No.”

Kel considered for a moment. “Have you thought that it might be easier for Aren on his own? Easier to hide, or to escape if there’s trouble?”

I hadn’t. “Is that true?” I asked Aren. “Because if you don’t want me around, just say you want me to go.”

“You should—”

“No, I don’t want to hear what you think I should do. If you don’t want me around, I want you to say it.”

Aren opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked away. “I can’t do this.” He stood and walked out the front door, letting it swing shut and latch behind him.

I wanted to run after him and ask what that meant. He didn’t want to hurt me? Or did he have feelings for me that were as confusing as mine for him?

I sank back onto the sofa and slumped against the cushions. “It’s only a matter of time before they find him, isn’t it?”

“Possibly.”

“And Severn will kill him when he does.”

“If Aren’s lucky. But there’s nothing you can do about that.” His words sounded callous, but there was sadness in Kel’s voice.

“So you’re just going to let it happen?”

Kel drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s not up to me. Nor should it be. Our elders make decisions that affect every one of us, and this is what they’ve decided is best.”

“I understand.”

“So you’ll come with me? I’ll take you to the Grotto, you’ll meet my people. We can do tests to see what’s happened to you, how strong your magic is. Figure out how to help you, maybe who can help you—”

“Thank you so much, but I can’t leave him.” I tried to smile. “Foolish, right?”

Kel returned a smile that was warmer and more genuine than mine. “Not at all, actually.”

I walked him to the door. “I really wish I could come. If the rest of your people are anything like you, I think I’d have liked them very much.”

“They’d have liked you, too.” He held out his arms, and I hugged him around his waist. We walked together to the dock, where Aren sat on a crate, looking out over the cold, gray lake. He gave Kel a questioning look, and Kel shook his head.

“Can I have a little longer to talk to her about this?” Aren asked.

“Maybe. I’ll come back tomorrow if I can, but I shouldn’t risk being seen.”

“Thank you.”

I turned to climb the path back to the house. I knew what Aren was going to say, and I wasn’t ready to hear it.

Chapter XXVI

Rowan

AREN CLOSED THE DOOR HARDER coming in than he had going out. I was in the kitchen putting away dishes, trying again to make mindless work do my thinking for me.

“What are you doing?” he asked, nearly yelling as he stalked toward me. “You have to go.”

“Do I? I thought I had a choice in this.” I managed to keep my voice cool and level, but inside I was trembling. I couldn’t look at him.

“You do,” he said more quietly, but no less intensely. “But this might be your only chance to make this right. Even if they can’t fix this, they can keep you safe until they find someone who can.”

“Maybe.” I put down the plate I was holding and gripped the edge of the counter. “Do you want me to go? Tell me honestly.”

If I was mistaken in thinking that he might feel something for me, that would make my decision simple. I knew that going with Kel was the reasonable thing to do, but I wasn’t feeling particularly reasonable. He’d have to say it.

“Honestly?” He stood so close behind me that I felt him on my skin, though he didn’t touch me. “It doesn’t matter what I want. There’s nothing here for you. Nothing good, and no happy ending. You know what you should do.”

“I don’t think what I should do and what I want to do are the same thing.” I turned and nearly bumped into his chest. He’d taken off his sweater, and wore only a shirt that was thin enough that I could see the shape of his body behind it. His pulse beat hard at his throat.

He half-smiled, but his eyes were tired and unhappy. He reached out to touch my hair, then let his hand drop to his side. “Rowan, I think a lot of your problem is that you don’t know what you want.”

“Don’t I?” I followed him as he walked back to the sitting area.

“Not as far as I can tell. When I met you, you were having so much trouble making a decision about getting married that your cousin practically had to decide for you.”

“Because I knew that I didn’t want—”

He spun to face me. “Then you should have gone and found what you did want. Instead you were going to try to convince yourself that whatever you were getting was good enough, even though you knew better.”

“You think it would have been easy for me to say no? To pack up and leave?” My muscles tensed as I stepped closer.

“No. But if you go now, if your magic can be unbound, you can do anything. Anything. But you don’t even know if you want that, do you? You’re still afraid of it.”

I hesitated for a moment. My anger left me, but my heart continued to pound as I looked into his eyes. I wanted him. Wanted him to kiss me, to touch me. I swallowed hard, though my mouth had gone dry. “You don’t think you can want something and still be afraid of it?”

He sighed. “No, you can. And you should. What you’re saying no to is better than you can imagine. This decision should be so easy. You have until tomorrow to decide what you—”

I stepped closer again. “I don’t need until tomorrow. I know what I want.” I grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled myself up onto my toes, and kissed him. Hard. He froze for just a second, and then his mouth moved against mine. He touched my face, wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me in. His response was better than anything I’d dreamed, or ever could have. My legs felt like they were melting away. I pulled back, and he sank to the couch, breathing hard. I kissed his forehead. “Can I have that?”

He just looked at me for seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. His gaze left mine and dropped to watch his hand move to my waist. “This is a terrible idea,” he murmured as he pulled me onto his lap. “Have you even thought about—”

“I don’t need to.” I pressed my lips to his again and wrapped my arms around his neck, and let my jaw relax as his did, opening slightly to let him in. Warmth flooded my body as he let me fall back onto the couch. His lips never left mine as he turned to lie over me. For a moment I was afraid—uncertain in spite of my bold actions, lost in my inexperience. But my desire washed away my fear as he ran his hand up my arm and over my throat, over the outside of my shirt. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I arched my back to push against him. His touch sent waves of pleasure through me that settled between my thighs, and I groaned and ground my hips against him.

He drew in a quick breath and grabbed my thigh to hold me still. I pulled his hand back up to my breast. He made me feel dizzier than I had after the strong heartleaf medicine, and I wanted more. So much more. I tried to pull his shirt over his head, but he pulled back, lifting himself to his forearms.

“We can’t do this. Not now.”

I ran my fingers through his hair, and in my frustration pulled harder than I meant to. “Why? I’m not going, either way.”

“And I don’t want you to. You can stay as long as you want, but…”

I shifted under him, and he took another sharp breath.

“But what? Do you have some moral objection?” Because it’s pretty obvious that you want to.

“No. Maybe I should, but I don’t. If we knew no one was looking for us, it would be different.”

I placed the palm of my hand against his chest to feel the solid contours of his muscles, then trailed my fingers over his stomach. He reached down and threaded his fingers through mine, then moved my hand away.

He leaned down to kiss my jaw just below my ear. “But they are looking for us,” he whispered, and pulled away again. “I have to at least try to stay aware of what’s happening outside of this house. Every time you’re close to me, my focus slips. You saw how easily Kel sneaked up on us this morning when you were touching my scar. I don’t ever want to say no to you. But we should think about whether this is really worth dying for.”

You tell me, I thought. I wanted so badly to find out. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself.

“Rowan?”

“I’m thinking.”

He smiled and kissed me again, more gently than he had before. “I said I was going to keep you safe, and I’d like to spend a bit more time with you before—” The smile vanished, and he rolled off of me and sat up. “I can’t let them find you.”

I pulled a cushion over my face and screamed into it. “So what are we supposed to do? Just hang around here and I’ll try not to touch you, ever? That might kill me, anyway.”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it.” He stood and said something about finding a snowbank to lie down in, and walked out the front door.

Deep breaths, I told myself. I rolled onto my stomach and laid there until my heart slowed and the fire in my skin cooled. When I stepped outside, Aren had changed and was soaring over the lake. Probably the best thing for now, I thought, and wished I could set aside my emotions so easily.

He spotted me and swooped down. His landing wasn’t perfect, but it was better than his previous attempts. He perched on the fence beside me and nibbled at the sleeve of my shirt.

“Get off,” I said, but I leaned over and kissed the side of his beak. He winked at me and took off again.

This is the weirdest thing ever. I went back inside and found a book to try to keep my mind off of him.

It didn’t work.

I’d been cooking since I was old enough to stand on a chair and help Della measure flour, but that night I found that preparing even a simple meal of vegetables and the previous night’s chicken was nearly impossible. I forgot what I was doing every time Aren came close to me. When he touched my waist as he went past, I burned my hand on a pot of boiling water. We sat at the table before we ate, and he rubbed Sara’s salve into my skin. I could have done it myself. I didn’t want to.

Later, he showed me the map that he and Kel had drawn while I was asleep. It was a beautiful thing, a simple drawing of charcoal on yellowing paper. The eastern part of Darmid filled the left edge of the page, with the mountains, the isthmus that divided our lands, and my home province spilling east from there. To the right, Tyrea spread out like a living thing, arms and legs stretching into the ocean. A large island nearly touched the eastern edge, and smaller ones freckled the shores and bays. They’d sketched in mountains, rivers and lakes, and the country was divided by dash-lines into six territories.

“Where are we?” I asked, and Aren pointed to a lake that seemed far too close to the border with Darmid. He had to lean close to do it, and my heart stumbled over itself as his hair tickled my skin. I took a deep breath. “We can’t have only come that far.”

“It’s not a small country. You can see how flying is most convenient when I need to travel.”

“And is all of it like the land here, hills and forests and lakes?”

“No.” He pointed to an area in the south of the country, a round bay that cut into the land and was bordered on the east by a protective arm of land.

“That’s Luid,” he said. “It’s warmer there. We still see the seasons, but the winters are much milder. Summer can be unpleasantly warm, which is why wealthy Luidites have these homes to retreat to.” His fingers traced a path directly north from Luid. “Here’s Cressia. It’s not a place I’d recommend you visit. During my great-grandfather’s time dragons swept down from the mountains here.” He indicated a range bordering the northern sea. “They killed or drove out most of the humans, and for the most part, we’ve left the land to them.”

“Sounds a bit like what my people did to the dragons.”

“Perhaps. There are people who still live there in small settlements, and as a population they have stronger magic than people living elsewhere. Severn watches them very carefully.”

“What about the rest of the country?”

“You’d like most of it, I think. The silver forest in Tauren is said to be a good place to see unicorns, but that could just be talk to get people to visit and spread their gold around. There’s a valley in the east where the trees grow upside down with their roots in a canopy of clouds and their leaves spread out over the ground. There’s the Despair bordering Luid in the north, which is better protection from an army than any wall. Something in the middle of that place breaks your heart and your mind the closer you come to it. Most plants won’t even grow there.

“Grasslands through the middle here, mountains to the north and west—those would be the Eastern Mountains to you, of course. Gryphons, flying horses and the Ayer in the mountains and foothills, and more creatures you’ve only read about in other places.” He drummed his fingers on the paper. “I grew up with all of this, and it still often surprises me. I wish I could see what you thought of it all.”

“Well, we can’t stay here forever,” I said. “Where will we go next?”

“I don’t know. I have a few ideas.” He looked more tired than I’d seen him before, so much so that he appeared older than he had the first time I met him.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I will be. Constantly using magic takes a toll. Transformations and mind control are difficult, but at least they’re fast. This awareness and trying to stay focused is…” He smiled. “It’s just draining me a little. I’m going to rest my eyes for a few minutes.” He ran a hand over my hair, twirling the ends like I did so often, then went to the sofa and stretched out on his back.

I steeped heartleaf bark again, trying to move quietly so he could rest, then sat at the table and looked over the map again. The terrain was well marked, but Aren hadn’t labeled anything. Not natural features, not territories, not cities. He didn’t need to. He knew this huge piece of land like I knew the forest around Stone Ridge.

And yet he couldn’t think of a single safe place for us to go.

I went up to the bedroom to wash up, and Aren was still asleep when I returned. I thought about waking him up and telling him to go to bed, but I couldn’t disturb him. I put out the lamps and opened the window coverings to let the moonlight in, brought a blanket out from the bedroom and went to lay it over him. I’d meant to leave him to rest, but wondered whether he’d object to me staying with him. He’d wanted me earlier, but that was different. He seemed far less comfortable with comfort and affection.

I touched his face. He opened his eyes slightly, and I pulled back. For a moment he did nothing. Then he shifted his body to make space beside him. My stomach fluttered as I sat, then slowly lowered myself to rest my head on his arm.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I fell asleep with his heartbeat drumming in my ear.

There were no dreams about being chased by dragons, and no dancing. There was no closet on the stairs. Just a dark, gloomy forest I was very familiar with, though only from my dreams. The ancient trees dripped with moss, and the ground was covered with rocks, fallen trees, and ferns. Nothing seemed to be happening, which suited me well enough. I waited.

Aren walked toward me, seeming to appear out of nowhere, and sat on a lichen-spotted boulder. I took a hesitant step toward him. “Are you really you?” I asked.

“I think so. I was going to ask you the same thing, but this place definitely isn’t mine. Do you come here often?”

“Sometimes.”

He looked up into the dark forest canopy. “Such a cheerful spot.”

“There are worse places,” I said, thinking of the suffocation dreams. The binding dreams, I supposed.

“It’s interesting. I really should try to wake up, though. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t.” I sat on one of his legs and rested my head on his shoulder. “There’s nowhere we’ll be safe, is there?”

“No. Not for me, and not for you while you’re with me. I’ve been trying to tell you that. Severn’s not going to let this go.” He started to stand, but I pressed down on his shoulders, and he gave in easily.

“Did you check to see if he was nearby before you lay down?”

“I did, and there was nothing. That doesn’t mean I can relax.”

“You can’t stay half-awake forever. Just sleep for now, you need it so badly. We can leave tomorrow, as early as you want. They can’t possibly get here that quickly, even if you do let your guard slip a little. Right?” I pressed my lips against his throat and breathed in the intoxicating scent of his skin. He felt as warm and as real as anything I’d felt earlier that day, in spite of the dream-like quality of everything around us.

“You might be surprised how quickly Severn can move. But you’re right, I can’t keep this up much longer.” He held me close, and we sat like that for a few minutes, resting in the peaceful gloom of my forest.

He shrugged his shoulder, and I lifted my head. He cupped my face in his hand and ran his thumb over my lower lip. I shivered.

“Still,” he said with a half-smile, “if we’re going to risk being caught, it seems a shame to do it for sleep.” I was about to agree when he said, “Wait—someone’s coming.” An instant later we were both awake in the dark house.

“What’s—” I whispered, and the door banged open. Kel’s dripping silhouette appeared in the doorway. He hadn’t taken time to put his clothes on this time. His athletic form would have been distracting if I hadn’t been so terrified.

“Get out,” he said. “They’re coming. Niari was up in town a few hours ago, and she said there were a lot of unfamiliar men there. Severn may have been one of them.”

Aren sat for a moment with his eyes closed. “I can’t get him.” His jaw clenched. “He’s been blocking me right back. I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Rowan.”

“Don’t worry about it. Grab our things, I’ll get the horses ready—”

“Don’t bother,” Kel said. “There’s no time, you’re coming with me. Both of you.”

“What about—”

“You’ll never make it out of here over land without getting caught, and Cassia and I decided we can’t let that happen. She’s waiting in the lake. Take only what you need, and hurry.”

“Let’s go,” I said, before Aren could try to refuse. I shouldn’t have worried. He was up and putting his cloak and boots into his bag before I finished speaking. I did the same, and picked up my dragon scale off of the table on my way past. It glowed faintly as we stepped out under the stars, a strangely comforting sight. You’ve survived worse, I reminded myself. I pushed the scale to the bottom of my knapsack.

“We’ll go as quickly as we can,” Kel said, “but this isn’t the best starting place. I hope you can both hold your breath.” He didn’t stop when we reached the end of the dock, but tipped off the end into a dive that barely rippled the surface of the water.

“Turn your pack around,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I swung the bag around to my chest, pulled the straps over my shoulders, and glanced back toward the house before I jumped into the water. Tiny lights bobbed along the shoreline in both directions, and a few flickered among the trees, all closing in on the cabin. I turned back to the water, took a deep breath, let it out, took another, and jumped in.

Aren splashed into the lake a second later. Strong arms wrapped around my waist and back, pinning my knapsack between my body and Kel’s. I wrapped my arms as far as I could around his broad chest, and we shot through the water. I wanted to ask where Aren was, but there was no time.

I needed another deep breath to calm myself, but all I could do was keep my head down against the push of the water and hold on tight as Kel’s powerful tail propelled us through darkness that seemed to go on forever as my chest burned and my panic grew.

Chapter XXVII

Rowan

WE SURFACED IN NEAR-DARKNESS, and I gasped in cool, dank air that tickled my aching lungs. Kel held me up until I caught my breath, then helped me onto a cold stone ledge that seemed to be part of a large cave. My eyes adjusted to the dim light in time to see Aren reach the surface, accompanied by a long-haired woman. He held onto the ledge, as out-of-breath as I had been.

Kel watched him, head tilted to one side. “Aquatic forms aren’t looking so bad now, are they?”

Aren stared at him, then burst out in laughter that turned quickly into a coughing fit. Kel laughed, too, and said, “All right, get out of my lake.”

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Underwater cave,” Kel said. “No one should be able to follow us here.” He braced his hands on the ledge as though he were going to follow us onto dry land, then hesitated. “You know, this might be less awkward if you go ahead. Follow the light, see if there’s anything for us naked mer-types to cover up with. You two might want to get out of those wet clothes, too.”

Aren and I followed what light there was to its source, a small fire that burned hotter than seemed possible, hidden behind a rock outcropping. We found a pile of flat, smooth blankets, and I passed half of the stack to Aren.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I am,” I said, in spite of the fact that I was still weak-legged with fear and excitement that had caught up with me now that we were safe. “You know, a month ago I’d have called nearly drowning in an escape from an evil Sorcerer a big deal.”

Aren swallowed hard and smiled. “Good. Not that I was afraid that Kel was going to accidentally drown you or anything.” I wanted to put my arms around him like I had in our shared dream, but it felt wrong in the real world and far from the cabin. Too familiar. He turned and walked away.

I squeezed most of the water out of my hair, but couldn’t get my clothes dry. The things in my bag were wet, too. I hurried to strip down to my underthings and wrap a blanket around me, towel-style. When Aren and the others came back, they were wearing the same. Aren carried his own clothing in a dripping bundle. I tried not to stare at him and Kel as we sat around the fire to warm ourselves.

“We shouldn’t stay too long,” Kel said. “I’d rather not take chances.”

“It’ll be fine,” the mer woman said, and adjusted top of the blanket she wore, pulling it tighter. “Let them rest for a few minutes, at least.”

My first thought when I really looked at her was that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Dark hair hung over her shoulders in wild, damp waves that framed a face built from perfectly balanced features and flawless, cinnamon-colored skin. She’d wrapped her blanket around herself in a way that showed off generous curves and revealed most of her long legs, and when she smiled it was warm and confident. I tried to ignore my jealousy as I realized that Aren had been holding onto that body as she brought him here, and with no blanket to cover her. She just saved his life. Be happy about that.

“Hi, I’m Cassia,” she said. “You’re Rhona, right?”

I remembered what Kel had said. She and Aren used to be… friends.

I smiled back. “Actually, it’s Rowan, but—”

She clapped her hands over her mouth, then curled them under her chin. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m just terrible with names. I tried so hard this time, too. Shoot.” She seemed genuinely upset with herself.

“It’s okay. You’re Kel’s sister, right?”

“Half-sister, actually, and I don’t admit it unless I have to. I trust he’s been behaving himself?”

“Of course,” he said. “Don’t I always?”

Cassia rolled her eyes.

Aren, Cassia, and I sat by the fire for a few minutes, and I grew drowsy as the flames melted the chill from my bones. Kel paced between the fire and the water, and dunked his head under the surface a few times, apparently listening for something.

Cassia shook her head at him. “We’d better get moving before he faints from the pressure,” she said. He glared at her, and she added, “It’s probably a good idea to get past the first changing before we really relax, anyway.”

“Changing?” I asked. Kel and Cassia smiled, and suddenly I saw the resemblance between them. I wondered if all of the mer folk looked that good.

“The tunnels,” Kel said.

“Interconnected caves,” Cassia added. “Enclosed subterranean pathways. That change.”

“I still don’t understand. I mean, I understand the caves part,” I added, before Cassia could explain that again, “but not the changing.”

“They’re different every time you go through them,” Aren explained. “No one ever sees them change, but it’s impossible to remember how you got anywhere because the route is different every time.”

“And you can’t follow anyone because the caves change behind them?”

“Exactly. It’s a brilliant way to keep something hidden, and the fastest way I know of to travel.”

“But how?”

“Magic,” Kel and Cassia said at the same time, and laughed.

“So you’ve been in these caves before?” I asked Aren.

“Of course he has,” Cassia said, “when he used to visit the Grotto. He used to be one of our favorite people.” She mock-glared at Aren, but she was still smiling.

When she winked at him, my stomach clenched. I forced myself to relax. She wasn’t being any more flirty than Kel had been with me, and that had meant nothing. Maybe it was just a mer thing. “So we’re going to the Grotto now?” I asked.

Cassia beamed. “We are. You’ll be safe with us, and very comfortable. Our hospitality would be legendary if it wasn’t such a well-kept secret. Shall we?”

We gathered our things, and Aren and I slipped our feet back into boots that made wet squishing noises when we walked. I pulled my blanket tighter. Walking around in nothing but what amounted to a large towel would be awkward, but it was better than being wet. I stuffed my wet clothes into my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulders.

Cassia led the way with the rest of us in single file, Cassia before me and Aren behind. He asked Kel what had changed the elders’ minds about letting him come.

“Nothing yet,” Kel said. “We’re bringing you in as a…” He hesitated, and Cassia glanced back at him.

“Seeker of political asylum?”

“That’ll do. It will be up to Mariana and Arnav to decide if you can stay. Best we could do.”

“I appreciate it,” Aren said. “I hope you don’t get in too much trouble for this.”

“Well, we all do stupid things for people we care about, don’t we?”

Aren ignored Kel’s question.

The walls seemed to glow with a dim, greenish light that made me think of dragon scales. It wasn’t bright enough to be good for much, but it kept us from bumping into the walls or each other. The tunnel soon opened into a wide space with three more corridors branching from it. They all looked the same to me, curving off into darkness.

“Left?” Kel asked, and Cassia shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter to me. One’s as good as another.”

“Wait,” I said, “you don’t know where we’re going?”

“No,” Cassia said. “It’s always changing, remember? For me and Kel it’s a case of all paths eventually leading toward home, but we’re not going there, unless you want to end up underwater again. We’ll pick a tunnel, find a guide, and see what happens. Left it is!”

She set off down the right-hand tunnel. Kel shook his head. “She’s as bad with directions as she is with names,” he told me, “but she’s actually quite brilliant, and she knows the caves better than I do. Just don’t tell her I said so.”

Very reassuring, I thought, but followed Cassia. A few turns later we came to a place where orange light flickered against a wall ahead of us. Cassia turned and stepped through a round opening opposite it.

“Perfect!” she called, and leaned back out into the passage. “Come on in.”

The room was a rough oval shape with a flat floor and pitted stone walls. Another small fire burned beside the entrance, and a flat ledge with rounded edges protruded into the room, topped with a huge cushion.

“Rest area!” Cassia announced. “There’s food here somewhere, but I’m not sure what—” She pushed the lid off of a dusty crate and rummaged through the contents, leaning over so far that I had to look away.

“Someone hasn’t been keeping up with replenishing supplies. There’s water, though, and this.” She pulled out a small vial with a tiny, jeweled stopper, and held in her other hand what appeared to be a small, rock-hard bread bun. A drop of silvery liquid from the vial made the bun blossom into a fluffy, round loaf of bread. She held it out to me. “It’s not what I’d hoped for, but it will do.”

“It’s warm!” It felt like it had just come out of an oven, and the smell was sweet and buttery enough to make my mouth water.

Cassia looked confused. “Of course it is. You didn’t think we’d preserve stale food, did you? Anyway, you two can share that, we ate earlier. There’s a bed over there, blankets will be underneath. It’s warm in here, though, so I don’t think you’ll need those unless one of you will be sleeping on the floor.” That last part was almost a question, but neither of us answered. “Um… there should be another room off here with a hole in the floor for, you know. Oh, there. And I think that’s everything.”

“It’s amazing,” I said.

“It’ll do,” Kel replied. “Cass, we should go find a guide and let these people sleep.” Then, to us, “We’ll probably be a few hours. Try to get a bit of rest, if you can. I don’t know how much farther it’s going to be.” Cassia waved to us and followed him out.

The bread tasted as good as it smelled, even with nothing to put on it. “This is strange,” I said.

“Which part?” Aren lifted the big cushion and pulled out a blanket, which he spread over the top. I watched him, barely ashamed of how much I enjoyed the sight of him wearing nothing but the blanket wrapped around his hips. He spread his wet clothes out around the fire, and I did the same with mine.

“All of it. Underwater caves, changing tunnels, fresh bread in dusty boxes. Just all of it.”

“I suppose it is. There’s a lot I haven’t told you about. It’s good though, right?”

He turned back to me, and I dragged my gaze up to his face. “Very good,” I said, and he smiled. “And maybe you can actually sleep now. We’re probably as safe as we can get here, right?”

“I’m not tired,” he yawned, and lay down in the bed, nearly disappearing behind the edge of the mattress.

“Aren? That dream back at the cabin. Was that real?”

He rested his head on the edge of the bed. “Real as a dream can be, I suppose. Do you mean was I really there?” I nodded. “Then yes, it was real. I can change now, if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, not at all. I liked it.”

“Hmm.” He yawned again and moved out of sight.

I was exhausted, but couldn’t fight the curiosity that pulled me back to the crate in the corner. There was one set of clothes there, pants and a cream-colored shirt made of a fabric with a loose weave, too large for me or Aren. There was nothing else, no more magical vials or frozen-in-time foodstuffs. I pulled the lid closed and climbed into the bed. The sides were thicker than the middle, like a nest, and I rolled toward the middle when I lay down. I just had time to see that Aren was asleep as the fire shrank down to glowing embers.

He slowly rolled over to face me. The light was just bright enough that I could see his face, and his body above the waist. He’d left the blanket wrapped around him, but the thought of sleeping next to him like that made me warm all over. “I’m still awake,” he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

“No, you’re not.” He wrapped his other arm around my waist and pulled me close. His skin and hair still held the metallic smell of the lake water.

I wanted to remind myself that there was plenty of time, that we were safe now, but there were no guarantees of that. If the mer elders said he couldn’t stay, that would be the end of our safety, and then what would I do? I sighed.

His hand moved gently over my hip and rested on my thigh. We fell asleep tangled together, sharing our space and our air.

The fire flared to life as Aren climbed over me and sat on the edge of the bed, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

I reached out to touch his arm, and he pulled away. “Did you see that?” he asked. “Were you there?”

“No. Did you have a bad dream?”

He didn’t answer, but went through the passage into the toilet area. A minute later, Kel stepped into the room. Without sunlight I couldn’t tell how long it had been, or what time it was. It could have been midnight, dawn, or midmorning. It made little difference. I felt rested, and that was enough for me.

“Good morning,” he said, and I hurried to tighten my blanket around myself.

Aren stepped back into the room, appearing calmer. “Back already?”

“Actually, I was going to apologize for taking so long,” Kel said. “I hope that means you both slept well.”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Aren said, and stretched as I climbed out of bed.

Cassia appeared in the doorway. She and Kel were dressed in proper clothes, she in a simple, white dress and he in brown pants and shirt similar to what I’d found in the box. Something like a large, gray moth buzzed around Cassia’s head, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. “Good morning, Aren. Rowan.” She hesitated. “It is Rowan?” I nodded, and she seemed pleased. “I knew I’d get it. I found a dress for you, too, if you’d like it.”

The dress, like the other clothing, was huge, but the fabric pulled itself tight and fit itself to my body when I slipped it on. “Is everything here like this?” I asked, and Cassia laughed.

“Not all of it,” she said, and watched as Aren took his clothes back to the other room to dress. “These clothes are made by a woman in Tyrea. It’s an interesting gift, isn’t it?”

“It is.” I ran my hands over the fabric. It didn’t seem special now. Just a dress. “Is all of your clothing like this?”

“No, but we have plenty of options at the Grotto. We just leave these special ones where they might be needed most. We’ll send yours back here when you’re done with them. If we can find ‘here,’ right, Jasper?”

The moth thing buzzed closer, and I saw that it wasn’t an insect at all, but a tiny man with a round belly and long, thin limbs. The wings that fluttered on his back were the color of dust, and a thin layer of fuzz in the same shade covered his body. His disproportionately large, black eyes studied me, and then he grunted and buzzed back to sit on Cassia’s shoulder.

“Jasper’s a little ornery at the moment,” she explained. “He was sleeping.”

“Hibernating, actually,” Kel added. “Cave fairies like their sleep. He wouldn’t have wakened for anyone but Cassia.”

She turned her face toward the creature on her shoulder and smiled. “And we couldn’t do it without you, you know.” Jasper pinched her ear and turned red under his fuzz.

“The fairies know the caves well, and can find their way anywhere,” Cassia said as we stepped back into the tunnels.

Jasper rode most of the way, sitting on Cassia’s shoulder and making strange noises into her ear to tell her where to go, or sitting on her head and tugging on her hair to give directions. He didn’t seem to like anyone else speaking, so it was very much a silent trip.

The caves were like nothing I’d ever read about or imagined. We passed through one with a thundering waterfall, and later came to a place where massive, glowing crystals hung from the ceiling like chandeliers, and jutted out from the walls so that at times we had to turn sideways to squeeze past them. I was so mesmerized by a spectacular formation overhead that I didn’t realize I was walking into danger until Cassia grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side.

“Careful there,” she said. “We’re underground, but there’s still a whole lot more down under us.”

I looked down. A wide, black crevasse opened up in the floor next to my feet.

“Thank you,” I whispered through the lump in my throat.

“A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” She gave me a reassuring smile and squeezed my arm. “Just be careful. We don’t want to lose you.” And just like that, she won me over again. Cassia was becoming nearly as confusing to me as Aren was. I gave up trying to figure her out and just followed her deeper underground.

Chapter XXVIII

Rowan

JASPER LET US STOP TO eat in a cave that reminded me of my aunt’s garden, but ten times as lush and beautiful. The space was bright, though without an identifiable source of light, and plants covered every surface except for a few paths, climbing the walls and dripping with fruits.

“I love this one!” Cassia exclaimed as she pulled an emerald-green gem of a cherry from a branch overhead and popped it into her mouth. I followed her example and tried several of the fruits that looked at least somewhat familiar. Some were sweet, some rich and savory, but everything was good.

Our stop wasn’t long enough for a proper rest, but our guide seemed eager to keep moving, and we had to leave the garden cave all too soon. We walked until we reached a flat, stone wall that stretched so high above our heads that the top was lost in darkness in spite of the glowing crystals surrounding us. Cassia thanked Jasper, who patted her cheek and buzzed away without even a glance at the rest of us.

“He’s not usually like that,” she said. “They just get really pissy when you wake them up.”

She and Kel each pressed a hand to the wall, and a doorway opened in front of us as the stone seemed to melt away.

A bright light hurt my eyes after the dimness of the caves, and I lifted a hand to shield my eyes. The light had a strange, shifting quality, and brighter spots danced across a blue-marble floor. Kel led the way out of the tunnel, stepping into the light.

“Welcome to the Grotto,” Cassia said.

“Wow,” I whispered. The cavernous room was as different from the caves as it could have been. A high, cream-colored wall stretched out to one side of us, dotted with a row of doors in different colors and shapes, and over them a high balcony with more doors leading off of it. An empty banquet table occupied the far end of the room, and a huge mosaic, the pattern of which I couldn’t quite make out, decorated the center of the floor.

It was all beautiful, but it was the wall across from the strange doors that held my attention. It appeared to be made entirely of impossibly large, clear panes of glass. And outside of this enormous window was the bright blue water. Not the surface, as one might see from any other window, but beneath it. This was the source of the mottled light, sunlight that had filtered through the water and been magnified by the glass. As I watched, a school of thousands of small, silver fish swirled past, chased by a few dozen larger fish snapping at the back of the group.

“Is this still the lake?” I whispered to Kel.

“No, my dear. The caves brought us much further than that. This is the sea, though I’m not at liberty to say exactly where.”

I stepped closer to the window and looked down. A coral-covered wall dropped away on a slight slope, disappearing into darkness in the depths below. When I looked up, I couldn’t tell how far we were from the surface.

“Kel! Cassie!” A child’s voice bellowed from an open archway under the balcony, and two children in dirty pink dresses raced across the floor toward us. The little girls jumped into Cassia and Kel’s arms.

“We didn’t know you were going away,” the smaller one said crossly, and squirmed until Kel put her down.

“Kind of a surprise trip, kid,” he said, and mussed her curly, brown hair. The girl ducked out from under his hand.

The other girl gave Cassia a kiss on the cheek, then slid down to join her sister. They could have been twins if not for the difference in height, and the fact that the older one had blue eyes and the younger one a warm hazel. Both had clear, olive skin, round cheeks, and the same wild hair. The younger was about five years old, and her sister only a few years older. They stood side by side and stared at me and Aren.

A woman who looked a lot like the girls followed them out more slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Girls, I told you they—oh!” She saw that Kel and Cassia weren’t alone, and stopped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had guests, I would have cleaned myself up.” She gave us a bright smile and came forward again. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. I’m in the middle of baking and I don’t want to get you covered in flour.”

“Shawn makes the best pies in the world,” Kel said, “and she grills an excellent tuna, too, if you like cooked fish. Shawn, this is Rowan and Aren.” She nodded to each of us. The taller girl cleared her throat. “Oh, yes. And these delightful young ladies are Sadie and Lisbeth.”

The girls looked solemn as they shook our hands. Lisbeth, the younger girl, leaned toward her sister and said, “They’re not mer, either.” They giggled and raced toward a wide spiral staircase, climbed to the balcony, and disappeared into a room, slamming the blue-and-gold door behind them.

“You’re human?” I asked Shawn, and she laughed.

“I’ll take it as a compliment that you couldn’t tell,” she said. “We are, and temporary visitors. Sorry about the girls. I’ve been busy helping to get ready for the feast and haven’t had much time to pay attention to them today. They’re going a little crazy.” Shawn wiped her hands again, and flakes of pastry fell to the floor. “I really should get back to the kitchen, but it was lovely meeting both of you. Will you be joining us tonight?”

Kel snapped his fingers. “I forgot in all of the excitement. There’s going to be a party tonight. Dancing, fancy clothes, music, food. If you’re interested.”

“Oh, of course!” Cassia’s face lit up. “Rowan, you have to let us help you get ready. We’ll get a bath ready for you, and I’ll see who I can round up while you rest. It’ll be fun. Please?”

She seemed so excited that I had to laugh. “Sounds good to me. Aren?”

“Have fun. I’ll see you later.” There was hesitation in his voice, and he didn’t quite accept the invitation for himself. I squeezed his hand, and then Cassia grabbed mine and dragged me toward the stairs.

She’s even more enthusiastic about this stuff than Felicia is, I thought, and felt a moment of sadness that she couldn’t be with me to see all of this.

Cassia pulled me along the balcony, banging on doors and introducing me to more people than I’d ever be able to remember the names of, all of them merfolk, most wearing soft robes and getting ready for the party.

She found an empty room for me, one with a red door in the shape of a pointed arch. It was a large bedroom, with a wide, wooden bed suspended from the ceiling on thick ropes that attached to the floor beneath. There was a white stone fireplace surrounded by bookshelves, and a large, round tub half-sunk into the floor in the corner. A mismatched dressing table, wardrobe, and wash-basin occupied the space next to it. Cassia ran her fingers over the curved edge of a writing desk. “It’s all from shipwrecks. Does that bother you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Now, make yourself comfortable, get off your feet for a bit. It’s going to be a late night.”

“Cassia? Are they going to let Aren stay?”

She turned back to where she’d left me standing on the thick, blue carpet in the center of the room. “That will be up to Aren.”

I continued to explore the room after she left, but couldn’t stop worrying about Aren. Would the elders let him stay? If they didn’t, would he come tell me? Cold dread pooled in my stomach. He wouldn’t just disappear. Not now.

I went to the door to make sure Cassia hadn’t locked me in. It was heavy, but pulled open easily. Silly.

I took a book from the shelf and lay down to read. The ropes held the bed firmly in place, allowing only a little movement even when I pushed off from the floor.

He’ll figure it out, I thought. He has to.

I was finishing a story about a young mer-woman who was tricked into falling in love with a land-bound prince when there was a knock at the door. Cassia entered, followed by six of the women I’d met earlier. They brought platters of food and drink, and encouraged me to eat while they went to find dresses.

As they were leaving, another mer woman came in. I guessed she was older than Cassia, but it was difficult to judge any of their ages. She carried herself gracefully, and though her skin was unlined, her black hair was streaked with silver. Her smile was kind and warm.

“Cassia,” she said, “I remember your friend Aren, though he’s changed much since we last saw him, but I don’t believe I’ve met this young lady.”

Cassia took my hand and led me closer. “Mariana, this is Rowan. Kel and I brought Aren and her here because they were in danger and had nowhere else to go.” I sensed that Mariana already knew this, that asking was only a formality, but Cassia chewed her lower lip nervously after she spoke.

Mariana smiled. “You are welcome here,” she said to me, “as long as you can make yourself useful and your presence does not cause discord among my people. You are safe here from what would harm you above. Will you be joining us tonight?”

“I look forward to it,” I told her. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear. Kel told me about your other problem. We’ll want to begin testing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

She rested her hand on my arm. “It may be difficult for you, physically and emotionally, but it will be the best way for us to know what to do next.”

My stomach dropped, but I nodded. “Whatever will help.”

“Good. Try to relax and enjoy yourself tonight. Cassia, I’ll send the others in now?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mariana left, and Cassia turned to me. “She’s lovely isn’t she?”

“She’s amazing,” I said, and tried not to think about what the testing might entail. “She’s one of your elders?” I reached for a golden pear and bit into it, and the sweetest juice I’d ever tasted flooded my mouth.

“Yes. If we were human, I suppose she’d be our queen and Arnav our king. They’re very wise.”

One by one, Cassia’s friends came back into the room with arm-loads of dresses and shoes. The colors were like nothing I’d ever seen before in clothing. Rich, sparkling jewel tones layered on top of one another in what should have been an eyeache-inducing clash, but instead seemed warm and exotic and beautiful.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to try this all on,” said a red-haired woman when she saw my wide eyes. “We brought things for ourselves, too.”

“But there’s plenty to choose from!” added a blonde who had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen.

“All right, bath time!” Cassia called, and led the way to the tub, which was quickly filling with water from a pair of bronze faucets. No one seemed inclined to leave while I undressed, but they weren’t watching, either. Some were already busy trying on dresses. A petite young mer who might have been my age sidled over and stood next to me.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s normal for us to be unclothed around each other, but I can ask everyone to leave, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m in the Grotto, I’ll do as you all do.”

I stepped out of my dress and into the water. It was cooler than I was used to in a bath, but I didn’t take my time easing myself in. After I sank into the water and wet my hair, I sat on a sunken ledge inside of the tub. My new adviser sat on one of the steps on the outside, and smoothed her plain blue dress over her knees.

“Is it too hot?” she asked, and I shook my head. “Things are more different on land than most merfolk realize. We tend to assume that you’re comfortable with the same things we are.” She brushed her seaweed-green hair away from her face.

Compared to everything else I’d seen since we left the lake house, her hair shouldn’t have seemed so strange, but it was. Not the color itself, but how natural it looked against her warm skin and bright blue eyes.

“I’m Niari,” she added. “Sorry I missed meeting you earlier.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I reached for a bar of soap and cleaned myself under the water. “You seem to know a lot about land-dwellers. I thought merfolk didn’t spend much time up there.”

“Most don’t, but some of us enjoy it. If you don’t mind me saying so, I find the ways you live simply fascinating.” She held up a glass bottle of a thick, clear liquid. “Do you mind?”

“No, please.” She poured the soap over my hair and massaged it in, rubbing her fingers in tight circles over my scalp. Having a stranger touch me while I bathed was only uncomfortable for a moment. It felt incredible. “How do you find it different?” I asked.

“Well, compared to what you might be used to, I’d say we’re more relaxed. You all have lists of rules longer than I am tall. Rinse.”

I ducked my head under the water. When I came up, Niari continued. “It made me afraid at first. I thought that any people who were only a law away from theft and murder must be something like caged monsters, but you’re not. At least, most of you don’t seem to be.”

“Is that the only difference?”

“Not at all!” She leaned closer and grinned. “I have a particular interest in the mating habits of humans.”

“Aah.”

“You pair for life, or at least hold that up as an ideal. We’re much more casual about these things, more fluid. But we’re also not as easily damaged by separations as you are. You have fragile spirits, and you become attached to one another so easily. There was a time when I pitied you.”

“And now?”

“Not so much as I did.” Niari held up a towel for me. I hesitated, and she looked away as I checked to make sure no one was looking, then stepped out of the bath.

“It’s just a different world entirely,” she continued. “Your people have to procreate like salmon because of your short lifespans and high rates of mortality. We’re long-lived and very difficult to kill, so we bring new lives into the world less frequently. When we do, we raise them as a community rather than in the little family groups you keep. We’ve been accused of emotional detachment, but it’s not true. We care deeply for one another, and are loyal to our community and even to our human friends. But one adult relationship tends to be like any other. We’re not limited like you are.”

“Oh.” Opposed as I’d been to marrying before I was ready, I’d never thought of being with one person as a limitation. I wondered how Aren felt about that, after spending so much time with the merfolk, and growing up with a father who had five wives. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d have thought to ask.

Niari smiled. “I’ve met plenty of humans who were willing to accept mer-like terms for a short time. It just doesn’t seem to work for many of you on a permanent basis.”

I slipped into the dark-blue robe that Niari offered, and accepted a drink with smiled thanks from another mer-girl as she passed by. “When Cassia said that Mariana and Arnav were your elders, I just assumed that they were more permanent than that.”

“You’re actually correct there,” Niari told me. “They’re not the only ones, but it’s extremely rare. When two mer-folk have that kind of love and devotion to one another, like they’re really one spirit in two bodies, we call it a soul-bond. It’s absolutely unbreakable. Beautiful to see, but it’s not desirable to most of us.”

We sat on a firm, curved-backed sofa near the fireplace. A few of Cassia’s friends went to the tub and sat on the edge with their feet in the water, chatting and brushing each other’s hair like mermaids in a story book. A few more exclaimed over shoes that they’d laid out on the bed. A mer woman who Niari introduced as Dianna sat with us. She and Niari were as interested in my life as I was in theirs, so we had plenty to discuss.

It took me a while to realize that Cassia was missing. I asked if anyone had seen her, but no one had. Perhaps she’d stepped out for some quiet. I decided to do the same, thinking that I might see Aren and ask how things had gone with the elders.

I stepped out the door and away from the sounds of laughter and splashing water, and the sound of music drifted up from the large room. Someone was playing a piano. I’d only ever heard one once before, when my parents took me to meet the youngest son of a wealthy family. His parents had one in the sitting room, and one of their daughters played it for us. I’d been fascinated by the complexity of the music she was able to play, but this was far better. The heavy notes rolled over each other like waves before the music stopped, and then a lighter-sounding song started, something that people might dance to. A woman laughed, and in the silence that followed I heard soft footsteps leaving the room.

I stepped to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the wooden banister to look around. The pattern of the mosaic on the floor was clear from above, still lit by sunlight from the window—a mer woman and man with their tails wrapped around each other. The piano was in the corner beside the window wall, near the banquet table. Aren sat on the bench in front of it, back facing me, shuffling through a thick sheaf of papers. He placed a sheet before him and began playing again. He did it casually, as though there was nothing impressive about it, just something he was doing for a bit of fun. I supposed it was.

I hadn’t even known he liked music. Sometimes it felt like I was getting to know him so well, and then these things happened and reminded me that I really knew nothing at all.

Cassia came out from the balcony carrying more papers. She perched beside Aren, and they looked through the music together. She leaned in and said something as she pointed to one page, and Aren placed it and the few that followed onto the piano and began playing without any false starts or misplaced notes that I could pick out. It sounded familiar, some old song I’d heard back home, but I couldn’t think of the name. Aren said something to Cassia and she laughed, then rested her head on his shoulder.

I turned and went back to my room.

Felicia once told me that she could never be bothered to compare herself to other girls. She was so sure of herself, so certain that she was good enough that anyone would have to be crazy not to like her. I wished I had some of her confidence. True, Aren had wanted me before, but our bond wasn’t as permanent as what Niari had described. He was probably used to having whoever he wanted, and whenever.

It was hard to look at beautiful Cassia, with her alluring curves, her glowing skin and her shiny, perfect hair, and not feel unbearably plain. What was worse, Cassia was interesting and seemed like a gracious and genuinely kind person. I didn’t think I could blame Aren if he wanted to be with her again, now that he had the chance.

You don’t know that’s what’s happening, I scolded myself, and realized that was just the problem. I didn’t know what was happening between him and me, either. He hadn’t given me any reason to think he was mine, had he? He’d said I could stay. He’d kissed me, and more might have happened under other circumstances. Maybe I was reading too much into that.

The mer women were calling for me to come back and find a dress and have my hair done, and to admire a beautiful mother-of-pearl necklace that Niari wore. I’d never enjoyed dressing up and going to parties because I always felt like I had to impress someone, but no one here seemed particularly concerned about that. They were excited to have an excuse to wear beautiful clothes and to make themselves look good, but there was no sense that they were competing.

It seemed impossible. In my world there was always a competition, always someone judging who you were good enough to marry. I decided to go along with it, to try to set my uncertainty about Aren aside for a while and have fun with my new friends.

I joined in the excitement, admiring what everyone else was wearing. When Dianna said a dress looked beautiful on me I said “thank you” instead of deflecting the compliment like I normally would have.

When I looked in the full-length mirror, I saw that she wasn’t wrong. The strapless dress was an incredible peacock-blue that flashed green when I moved. It ignited the red undertones in my hair, and made my gray eyes look almost blue. The fabric wrapped tight at my waist and fell straight from my hips to the floor in folds of rich color. Even before Niari found me a pair of gold shoes that matched the stitching in the dress, and swept my hair back in a sapphire and emerald comb, I felt more beautiful than I ever had before. The girl in the mirror looked like some princess I’d never met, until I smiled and recognized myself.

Cassia came in and dressed in a sleeveless, turquoise dress that came up high in the front and plunged provocatively low in the back. She told me I looked lovely, and she didn’t sound like there was any reason I should think she wasn’t my friend. I told her she looked stunning, and she hugged me.

“Fun, right?” she whispered, and I nodded. I realized that whatever was going on, Cassia had no intention of hurting me. If there was something happening with her and Aren, in her world there was nothing wrong with it. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t.

Everyone chose a different style and color to wear, and by the time we were all ready, it looked like a rainbow had settled underwater for the evening.

“We find it so interesting that humans allow the females to be the more colorful ones,” Niari said as she slipped on her silver shoes and turned her ankles to admire the reflections from the lamplight. “In most species the male takes that role. It’s certainly fun for us!”

I had to agree. In spite of everything, for this one night it really could be fun to dress up and dance. Trouble still waited on the surface. The morning might bring pain, or difficult decisions. But tonight I was going to enjoy myself no matter what. Hard as it would be, all of the other questions would just have to wait.

Chapter XXIX

Aren

AFTER WE ENTERED THE GROTTO and Cassia dragged Rowan away, Kel showed me to a room beneath the balcony. I was drained, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Though I knew I was as safe in the Grotto as I could be, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had to stay aware of my surroundings. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so distracted at the lake house, Severn wouldn’t have been able to find us. I couldn’t let go of my awareness as I washed up, and knew Kel was coming before he knocked at the door.

“The elders will see you now.”

Mariana and Arnav waited for me in a small room with an ornate blue carpet and a fire crackling in the marble fireplace. The air was warm, and the chairs comfortable, but the silence that followed their invitation to sit was anything but. I took a seat, but found it impossible to relax.

When I was a child and a guest at the Grotto, the adult merfolk smiled and welcomed me, and they never failed to offer a drink of fresh spring water as soon as I arrived. When I was older they offered wine, but the ritual was the same. It’s a habit for them, essential good manners if one wants a guest to feel welcome.

There were no such offers from the elders this time, though a decanter of blood-red wine and three glasses sat on a table in the corner. That simple omission told me exactly how they saw me: a guest, perhaps, but not a welcome one.

“We didn’t expect to see you here again,” Arnav said at last. He reached up and rubbed his fingers over his gray-streaked beard. He and Mariana looked the same as I remembered them the first time I met them, so many years before.

“I didn’t think I’d be back,” I replied. “I never intended to cause trouble for you or for your people.”

Arnav leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, but Mariana sat straight-backed and tight-lipped. “And yet you came to the lake,” she said.

“I didn’t know where else to find help. Kel told you about Rowan’s situation?”

Mariana nodded. “I’ve just met her. She’s not what I expected, but I agree with Kel’s assessment of her.”

“And me?” I asked.

Neither of the elders answered until they’d exchanged a long glance that would have communicated volumes if I’d reached out to take it in. They’d have felt it if I did, though, and that would be the end of our meeting and any chance I had of staying.

“You’re aware of our thoughts on what you are,” Mariana said, speaking slowly.

Of course I was. It had taken me years to understand that I was a monster to them, an unnatural creation born of generations of careful breeding designed to create the strongest magical gifts possible. Merfolk revere magic, but they fear the way humans use it, our recklessness and greed. If they cared for me when I was a child, it was the way one might love a bear cub. I was a dangerous pet that they knew would show its teeth eventually.

“I’ve never used magic against any of you.”

“You have used it against others of your own kind,” Arnav said. He leaned forward. “This is not something easily overlooked by our people. To reach into a man’s innermost thoughts, to manipulate his emotions and desires, to make him into a puppet…”

“It’s unnatural,” Mariana concluded.

She didn’t use the word lightly. Unnatural means to merfolk what unholy means to humans. Abominable. Unthinkable. Unforgivable.

“Your very existence is unnatural, to an extent, but that is not something that you chose. You did, however, choose how you’ve directed your abilities.” She stood and walked toward the table in the corner.

I glanced at Arnav. He was watching me, frowning slightly, but not showing the anger that burned like poison in Mariana’s voice.

My own anger responded to hers, stoked by my pride. You know nothing about me, I thought. You have no right to insult me. I wanted to answer her, to make her understand exactly who she was speaking to, to remind her of everything I could have done to her people but hadn’t. I wondered what she and Arnav would think of me if I told them secrets they’d never heard from my childhood. About how I’d brought my dog’s body back to life after my brother killed it, and how I sent it after him, fueled by my magic and my pain.

If they were going to hate me and fear me, they might as well have a good reason. I wasn’t raised to bear insults without pushing back.

Perhaps I would have said something if I’d been alone, with nothing to lose. Instead I looked toward the fire, and I pushed the rage back down. I forced my jaw to unclench before I spoke, and reminded myself that these people might help Rowan.

They were waiting, both of them. Mariana poured two glasses of wine, then stood motionless beside the spindle-legged table. I realized that they were testing me. That meant there was a chance I could stay, if I responded correctly.

“I don’t know whether an apology is appropriate,” I began, “as I haven’t caused you any harm. I can tell you that I have no desire to continue using my magic to hurt people, though I have no plans to give up using it entirely. I can promise again that I will never use magic to harm one of your people. Or I can leave, if that’s what you want. I don’t know whether Rowan will stay. That will be her choice. I hope she will, if you think you might help her.”

Another long glance between them, and a nod from Mariana. She poured the third glass of wine, and the tension in her posture eased. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “You may stay, for now. It would be a shame for us to lose Rowan. We might gain valuable knowledge by studying her situation. And we wish to help her, of course.”

I accepted the wine, and we drank together.

“We believe you when you say that you desire change,” Arnav said after Mariana sat again. “We wonder whether you understand how difficult it will be.”

“I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that for long. Severn’s already found me once.”

“Nevertheless, it bears consideration,” Mariana continued. Her expression had softened. “You are giving up everything you’ve been taught was important, the things you take pride in. You will have to learn again who you are, decide for yourself what it is that you value, what you live for when your family isn’t all that you have and are. These choices will be tested. You will be tempted to return to your old ways. Have you thought about any of this?”

“No,” I admitted. “Right now my concern is finishing what I’ve started with Rowan. Getting her the help she needs. Making sure she’ll be okay later.”

Mariana tapped a long fingernail on the side of her glass. “We will help as we can with that,” she said, “and we wish you well with what comes after, though you understand we can’t remain involved. You may stay here with Rowan for the time being. You should go and rest now, before the party.”

I stood to leave. “Thank you.” I sensed that things were not entirely settled, that I would still be watched carefully, but it was enough.

“One other thing,” Arnav said as I turned away. “Do you still play?”

I wandered past the humans and merfolk who were setting up for the banquet and down one of the winding, downward-sloping hallways that led to the saltwater pools. Each pool connected to open water, a doorway to the merfolk’s ocean world. I settled onto a comfortable stone bench and closed my eyes.

“Do you want to be alone?” Kel’s voice. I shook my head without opening my eyes, and he sat beside me. “They found out what happened to Rowan in the lake.”

It took me a moment to think of what he was talking about. Those moments of panic seemed insignificant compared with everything that had followed. “Did they, now?”

“Nobody you know, not from this community. He didn’t intend to kill her, just to frighten you off. He had no right to be there, anyway. We took care of it.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t ask for details. Though the merfolk were kind and generous to their friends, they dealt with enemies as coldly and efficiently as my own family did.

“Did they ask you about Rowan?”

“They already knew what you told them.” I opened my eyes to watch the light dancing on the ceiling.

Kel slouched lower in the seat and stretched out his legs. “There were things I couldn’t tell them, though. Like why she wasn’t going to come here without you.”

“Your curiosity is going to get you hurt some day.”

He just shrugged and waited for me to go on.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I told her to come and not to worry about me, and she said no, and I said she could stay.”

“She cares for you.”

“She seems to.” I tried not to be happy about that. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it? She knows enough about me that she shouldn’t.”

“And what about you? What are your feelings for her?”

That word made me uncomfortable, and Kel knew it. I remembered what my father told me not long after my mother died, and what Severn repeated after Mona and John were executed. We don’t feel. We think, we do. We have, we are. It was a lie, of course. We felt pride, and pleasure, and disgust, and a thousand other things. But never what Kel was suggesting. Even now, I wouldn’t let myself think about her in those terms. Wouldn’t give in.

“If I cared for her very much I suppose I’d have made her leave with you to keep her safe, wouldn’t I? I could have lied, could have told her she was more trouble than she was worth, that I’d be better off without her.”

“You could have said that you didn’t want her.”

“Exactly.”

“But you didn’t want to hurt her.”

“No. I could have, though. She’d have been better off. Wanting her to stay with me was selfish.”

Kel was silent for several minutes, but I was done talking.

“Do you think she’s stupid?” he asked.

“No. She’s got more brains in her head than I gave her credit for when she agreed to marry that muscle-headed magic hunter.”

Kel laughed. “I wouldn’t judge that decision too harshly. She hadn’t met you yet.”

“Kel…”

“You told her the truth, or as much of it as you were capable of, and you let her do what she judged was best. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s probably better than her own people ever offered her.”

“Good. So I respect her as an intelligent person. I like her. I enjoy her company. Is that good enough for you?”

“You find her attractive.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Kel turned to me. “If you had moved on from the lake together instead of coming here, you would have done whatever you could to keep her safe and find help for her.”

“Yes.”

“And you could walk away from this right now?”

“If I had to.”

“Really?” He didn’t seem surprised by my answer, but it was clear that he didn’t believe me.

“Could and will if it comes to that. Kel, I know what you want this to be, and it can’t. I just want to see this through, whatever it takes.”

He stood. “I have to say that this is rather disappointing. You humans have no idea how fortunate you are. I know it makes me unusual among my people, but I would give almost anything to have what I see when she looks at you, and you at her. I can’t have that, but I want it. You can, and you push it away because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“No, you’re not allowed to be, are you?”

A small girl in a pink dress raced into the room and tripped over her own feet as she passed Kel. He scooped her up before she could hit the floor.

“Slow down, speedy,” he said. “New legs are hard to work, and they’re no good around water.” He set the child down and pointed her toward the door she’d come in, and she raced off like a re-directed wind-up toy. He turned back to me. “Aren, you can have your family’s stupid pride, or you can have Rowan. Don’t expect to have both. She deserves better than that.”

He followed the little girl out of the room. I gave him a few minutes’ head start, then went back to the main hall. Cassia stood near a seating area by the window, looking up toward the sunlight that cut through the water in hazy beams. She turned and smiled as I stopped beside her.

“If you’re going to ask me anything about my meeting with the elders, or anything else that’s happened in the past few months,” I said, “I’d rather not.”

“Bad day?”

“Could be worse. I’m not dead and didn’t get kicked out. Yet. I’d rather not talk about it, though.”

She raised an eyebrow, and gestured toward the piano that someone had rolled in and placed near the window. “Not to reference the meeting that shall not be discussed, but were you asked to play?”

“It’s the price of my admission to the banquet.”

“Excellent.” She grinned. “Better get practicing. You’re probably terribly rusty.”

It was strange to sit at an instrument again after so many years. Luid was a city of culture, of learning and art, famous theaters and music pouring from the houses, but not for my family. Let the masses be distracted, let those with lesser magic live their lives as they wished. We had a greater purpose. I would never have had anything to do with music if not for the merfolk.

The tension that had built up during my conversations with the elders and Kel slipped slowly away as my fingers remembered their places, as I laughed with Cassia over mistakes and old memories while we selected music for my small part of the evening. It was strange to be back in that place, with friends and music and laughter. I had no reason to expect it to last, but I’d enjoy it while I could.

Getting dressed took longer than I’d expected. The style the mer men were wearing was a structured suit, simple enough in the jacket and pants once I found something to fit, but the shirts seemed unnecessarily complicated, requiring added equipment to close the cuffs and a tight tie about the neck. I liked the dark, muted colors though.

In spite of the difficulties our clothing caused, we were all ready before the women came downstairs. They were as colorful as we were plain, and were obviously enjoying themselves. It took me a minute to find Rowan in the group. A young mer woman with green hair had her by the hand and was pulling her along, and Rowan laughed as she stumbled slightly in her heeled shoes. The world seemed to slow as I watched her.

Kel chuckled. “You poor bastard,” he said, and stepped forward to show Rowan to her seat.

The dress she wore hugged her body in all the right places and made her skin glow. She turned back to me and smiled. In that moment she wasn’t cute, or pretty. She was perfect.

So that’s that, I thought, and followed her. I wouldn’t give Kel the satisfaction of telling him he was right, but there it was.

Someone had set out cards with a guest’s name on each, one at every place setting. Rowan and I weren’t seated close to each other, but I stopped behind her chair to lean in and whisper, “You look incredible.”

“Oh,” she said, and turned as far as her dress would allow. Something about the curve of her neck as she looked up at me was nearly overwhelming. “You are… I mean, you look fantastic.”

Arnav clapped his hands to signal that everyone should find their seats, and I reluctantly left her. When I looked back, she was still watching me.

I was seated between the green-haired mer, Niari, and a human man. When I looked down the table I saw Shawn and her daughters, along with a few other humans. It was unusual for the merfolk to have so many “land-bound” guests at one time.

Over supper, the man next to me, who introduced himself as Jeck, told me their story. They were from a town in the North, in dragon country. It was a small town, but many of the people had strong magic. Orders had come from Luid for those with significant gifts to report immediately to the capital. They’d ignored the orders, and learned quickly how serious Severn could be when he wanted something. Some had escaped, but had been lost and freezing when they set up camp on a lakeside beach. The merfolk found them, and the humans had been staying at the Grotto ever since, acting as caretakers, cooking for the merfolk when they came up, making occasional trips to the surface, and trying to figure out what they were going to do next. He didn’t seem to know who I was, and I hoped no one would tell him.

I had Jeck talking to me on one side and Niari on the other asking me about life in Luid as we dined on fish, shellfish, fresh bread and roasted root vegetables. I think I answered and at least acted like I was listening, but Rowan kept distracting me. Before the meal was over she had the youngest mer child sitting on her lap, eating from her plate. She seemed to be making plenty of friends.

After much of the food and most of the wine were gone, a few volunteers cleared the tables. They brought out silver plates piled with desserts—my signal that it was time. I went to the piano and played a few of the songs that Cassia had helped me choose earlier. Music wasn’t a gift that my magic helped me with. I did a good enough job, but had to concentrate on the papers in front of me. I didn’t notice until after the fifth piece that Rowan was watching me. She looked melancholy, though her expression became animated again whenever someone spoke to her.

When the band finished their dessert and stepped up to replace me, people started pairing off and heading toward the dance floor. I offered my hand to Rowan before anyone else could. “Care to dance, my lady?”

She stood and gave me a strained smile as she took my hand. “I’m not very good at dancing,” she whispered.

“Doesn’t matter,” I told her. “It’s not very difficult. Is your head all right?”

“How did you—oh, never mind. It’s normal, I guess. Nothing to worry about.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

I pulled her closer as we moved across the floor. “See?” I said. “You’re not even stepping on my toes.”

She smiled and rested her head against the front of my shoulder. “No, it’s good. Just like a dream.”

When the song ended, Kel came and asked if he could have a dance with Rowan. “No offense,” he told me. “She’s just a lot prettier than you are.”

“Probably looks better in a dress, too,” I added.

I turned to walk away and heard Kel say, “I hope we never have to find out.”

Rowan laughed.

I sat at the table to watch the dancers go by. “Hey,” Cassia said, and sat next to me. “Everything good?”

“Excellent,” I said, and she rolled her eyes at the undisguised lie. “Thank you for your help earlier.”

“Not a problem,” she said, and pulled her chair closer to mine. She leaned back and crossed her legs, revealing a slit in her skirt that reached almost as high as the dress dipped low in the back. She watched me, appearing deep in thought.

“What?”

“You’ve grown up a lot since the last time you were here.”

“I should hope so. You’ve hardly changed, though.”

“Mmm. Walk with me a minute?” I looked back at the dance floor. Rowan was still with Kel, and seemed to be enjoying herself. I followed Cassia back to the empty pool room I’d been in earlier. She sat on the bench and patted the spot next to her. “Sit.”

“Cassia I—”

“Just for a minute.”

A trio of children ran in after us and sat at the edge of the pool, splashing their toes in the water. The oldest boy stripped off his clothes and jumped in, changing to his tail before he resurfaced. I sat next to Cassia, and we watched them play for a few minutes. Cassia laughed when the boy in the water slapped his tail on the surface and sent up a fountain of water that missed his friends but soaked the messy pile of his own clothes.

“Are any of them yours?” I asked. “Biologically speaking, I mean.”

“Oh, heavens no,” she said. “I mean, I adore them, but I’d rather be auntie to all of my little darlings than go through all of that. I already have enough to deal with.” A little girl waved, and Cassia wiggled her fingers back at her.

Kel came in a few minutes later. “Rowan’s gone to lie down,” he said. “Her head was getting worse, I told her to go.”

“Where is she?”

“I took her up to her room. She said not to bother you, but I thought you’d want to know. Una’s up there with her, one of our healers.” Kel narrowed his eyes at Cassia. “What are you doing?”

“Just catching up,” she said. The mer boy pulled himself from the pool and changed back to legs, then chased the other children out of the room, dripping and yelling. Kel gave Cassia another suspicious look, then turned and followed them. Cassia placed her hand on my thigh.

“Cassia, please don’t.”

“Just listen. It doesn’t matter much to me either way, really. But you look fantastic, and it’s been a long time for us. If you’re lonely tonight, or bored, or if you’ve missed me, or whatever other excuses you people need…”

“I thought you and Rowan were friends now.”

She seemed surprised. “Oh, we are. I like her a lot. But she didn’t say you were hers.”

“No, I suppose she wouldn’t have.”

Cassia bit her lower lip and looked at me from under her dark eyelashes. She really hadn’t changed at all. She was still flawless. “Are you? Hers, I mean.”

“I think I am.”

She patted my leg, stood, and smoothed her dress over her hips. “Good to know. It’s too bad, but I know how it is with you humans.” She leaned down and kissed my cheek. “Still friends?”

“Always.”

“Good. I’m going to see if Niles is still around.” She walked away, and I leaned forward and rested my head in my hands.

“Hey, mister, you okay?”

Dear gods, how many children do they have around here? I didn’t remember so many when I was at the Grotto before. “I’m fine, thanks.”

It was the younger of the two girls we’d met earlier. I couldn’t remember her name. “Are you guys living here, too?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

She plopped herself on the seat next to me. “Yeah, but Kel said he’d dance with me, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

“I’ll let you know if I see him.” She followed me back to the dance floor and rejoined her family, and I went to find Rowan.

Niari told me that Rowan’s room had a red door, of which there were two. I knocked at the first, and Kel opened the door.

“Your little lady friend is looking for you,” I told him.

“Lisbeth?”

“Could be.”

He glanced behind him into the dimly-lit room. “She’s awake, but groggy,” he said. “Una gave her something that should let her sleep. I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

“You’re a good person, Kel.”

“I know,” he said. “Don’t say it too loud, though. People will think I’ve gone soft. I have a reputation to consider. Wait… no, that’s you.”

I laughed. “You’re such an ass. I’ve missed you.”

He grinned. “I know that, too.” We switched places, and I closed the door behind him, shutting out the music, laughter, and clinking of glasses from below.

A single lamp flickered on the fireplace mantel, its light reflecting off of the blue dress laid over the back of the sofa. Rowan rested under a heavy blanket on the bed. She opened her eyes slowly. “You didn’t have to come.”

“No, I did. You said it wasn’t too bad.” I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It wasn’t at first. And I didn’t want to leave. That was the best party I’ve ever been to.”

“Maybe because there were no terribly dull people trying to marry you.”

She gave me a groggy smile. “Maybe that’s it. Anyway, you can go back. I’m not even awake. She gave me something that tasted like seaweed.”

“It probably was. You sure you don’t want me to stay? I think I’m finished down there.”

“No, go on. I heard the music, there’s still plenty of party left. Have fun.” She paused. “Is Cassia still there?” She sounded slightly clearer-headed than she had the night she took the strong heartleaf, but she could barely keep her eyes open.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“No reason,” she said. But it didn’t sound like no reason.

Rowan’s hand rested on the pillow near her face, and I reached out to touch her fingers. “Cass is a good friend. What I had with her before… that kind of thing never lasts longer than a summer with a mer. It was perfect for both of us at the time. It was what it was, and I didn’t have to worry about losing her as a friend when it was over.”

“And now?” Her eyes had closed again, and I wondered whether she’d remember any of this in the morning.

“Now I’m glad I have friends down here. It’s good to be back with them and to hear what they’ve been doing since I left, even if sharing my side of the story isn’t so pleasant. And it’s good to be able to relax a bit, knowing that we’re safe and that these people will take care of you. I’m sorry if you thought there was anything else.”

“Okay.” She pulled the blankets up over her cheeks, which had become flushed. “But if I wasn’t here?”

“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be here. And even if I were, it wouldn’t be anything like what you and I have… Rowan?”

She was asleep, her breathing deep and regular. I stayed for a few more minutes, and then went back to the party. I was pleased to have that much of the discussion out of the way, but more than happy to leave any more of it for another time.

Chapter XXX

Aren

ALL WAS QUIET IN THE Grotto the next morning when I left my room to go up to Rowan’s. The food and dirty plates had been removed from the table, but a few wine glasses still sparkled in the sunlight, and dirty linens littered the surface of the table. By the end of the day it would all be cleared away, but for now everyone seemed to be sleeping.

Well, almost everyone.

Niari was in Rowan’s room clearing away a few dishes and collecting Rowan’s dress and shoes. “Good morning,” she said, her voice huskier than it had sounded the night before.

“Is everyone still at home?” I asked. They all would have returned to the water for the night. Being on land could be fun for a while, but most mers found that it became uncomfortable if they stayed up for too long.

“Mostly. Their homes, or each other’s.” She grinned wickedly. “You’re looking for Rowan? Una came and took her to the healer’s room for tests. If you help me get this stuff to the kitchen, I’ll take you there. You probably won’t be able to see Rowan, though.”

I frowned. If Rowan had known about the tests, she hadn’t mentioned anything about it to me. “What are they doing?”

“Darned if I know.” She tossed the blue-green dress over one shoulder and stacked five delicate teacups into a teetering stack that she carried in one hand. “Some kind of testing of what she can or can’t do, I suppose. Trying to figure out what’s got her blocked up. I don’t understand it. I’m going to the library to help with research. The elders are already there, and a few others. Everyone else is probably in bed.”

Niari gestured toward a small stack of papers that sat folded and sealed on the table next to the bed. “Letters,” she explained. “To her parents, a friend, some guy. My hands are full, can you get them? I said we’d have the humans send them back. Just telling folks she’s safe, I think, but not saying where she is.”

I wondered what the letters said, especially the one addressed to Callum Langley. Did she tell him what she was, or only that she wasn’t coming back? Whatever it was, she probably said it more kindly than he deserved.

I handed the letters to Shawn when we reached the kitchen, and she promised to do her best to make sure they crossed the border and made it safely to Lowdell.

I’d never been to the healer’s room before. Niari led me down a long, dim hallway to a closed door made from solid oak. She knocked softly, and Mariana opened the door just enough to step out. A pained moan came from inside the room.

Rowan.

I tried to see in, but Mariana pulled the door closed behind her and gave me a sharp look that made me take a step back.

“What are you doing in there?” I asked, and Mariana grabbed my arm to steer me away from the door. She watched to make sure I wasn’t going to cause trouble, then nodded to Niari to indicate that it was all right for her to leave us.

“Only what we have to do. This is what Rowan wanted. She said she’d rather we learn what we could and be done with it. She’s handling it quite admirably, all things considered.”

My stomach clenched. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“Not now, no.” She released my arm, but her voice remained cold. “We’ll be through soon, but she’ll need time to rest here before she goes anywhere. I know this must be frustrating for you, but you’ve done all you can for her.”

It was more than frustrating, it was infuriating. I wasn’t accustomed to being useless, but Mariana was right. There was nothing I could do. “I’ll go help with clean-up,” I told her. It wouldn’t take my mind off of Rowan, but at least it would accomplish something.

“Excellent idea. I’ll have someone let you know as soon as she’s ready to see you.” She opened the door, releasing a cry from within the room. I wanted to break the door down, to make them stop whatever they were doing to her.

It’s what she wants, I reminded myself. She could stop it herself, any time.

Mariana closed the door behind her.

I stood for a few minutes in the silent hallway, fighting the urge to break my promise to the elders, blast the door in, and make them stop. But then Rowan would never find her cure.

I ignored the ache in my chest, and hurried back to the main hall.

It was many hours before I heard anything else, and each dragged on longer than the one before. It’s hard to tell what time it is when there are no clocks and you can’t see the sun clearly. The other clean-up volunteers avoided me, seeming to sense that I wasn’t interested in speaking, and then left me alone to pick at the piano when the cleaning was finished.

I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Had it been only a week before that I’d thought Rowan talked too much, that her company was irritating and that I might have made a mistake in helping her? All I wanted now was to have her in my arms again, and to hear her laugh.

The light was fading from the water outside the window when Kel found me. “We’re in the library,” he said. “Arnav wanted to talk to her alone first, but she said she’d rather have you there.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just come with me. It’ll be… she needs you, okay?” He wouldn’t say anything else.

The library was a huge room. Even so, papers and books overflowed from every shelf. The merfolk’s curiosity extended to many subjects, but their watery cities were no place for the materials they collected on land. Someone once told me that the Grotto’s library held a more complete history of my own land than our universities did. I had no doubt that it was at least a more objective one.

We entered the round room near the painted ceiling. Three balconies separated us from the floor, with doors leading off of each level. Glass cases set into the walls between shelves featured collections of gems and stones, dragon scales, insects, plants, maps, and anything else that could be kept and preserved.

Rowan should have been wandering around looking at everything. Instead, she sat curled up in a soft chair on the bottom level near a table that was covered in books and loose papers. Mariana sat at the other side of the table, and Arnav paced behind her, paging through books he pulled off of the shelves seemingly at random, then shaking his head and returning them. I greeted them, then took the chair next to Rowan’s.

“I’m sorry I had to leave the party so early last night,” she whispered. Sitting as she was with her hair damp and pulled back into a pair of plaits, she looked as though the morning’s trials had erased five years from her age. “I hope no one thought badly of me.”

“No,” I told her. “You’re the mystery woman, now. When I went back, everyone was asking about you.” I hoped that would please her, but she seemed too distracted.

Kel came over and gave Rowan’s hand a squeeze, and Niari offered an encouraging smile as they followed a few others out of the room through a lower-level door, leaving me and Rowan alone with the elders.

Mariana reached for several flat, cream-colored pages covered in fresh ink. “Aren, you thought that someone may have placed a binding on Rowan when she was young in order to keep her magic a secret.”

“It made sense to me.”

“It seems you were correct.”

I’d never been less pleased about being right, but at least we knew.

Mariana turned to Rowan. “There’s no way for us to know who did this, or exactly how, but what’s happening here is consistent with the bindings that were once performed on Sorcerers in Tyrea as precautions or punishments. According to our records, it was done by Potioners, using a formula we haven’t tracked down.”

I winced. Potioners. No wonder I hadn’t found records in the old Sorcerers’ records. They’d have had nothing to do with each other.

Mariana caught my expression, but said nothing about it. “The methods used in your case seem to have been somewhat…” She looked to Arnav.

“Sloppy?” he suggested, and Mariana nodded.

“That will do. Not surprising, given where you come from.”

“Does that mean it will be easier to get rid of?” Rowan asked, not sounding hopeful.

“I’m afraid not,” Arnav said. “Now, most records are not complete. People who had this done to them were able to disappear quite effectively because there was no trace magic to track them by. It was hidden, completely useless.”

Rowan didn’t say anything, so I did. “Why has she been able to use it, then?”

“This interested us,” Arnav said, “these instances of her healing you, but never herself. It’s happened twice now?” Rowan nodded, but didn’t look up from studying her hands as they rested against her thighs. “When we say the methods were sloppy, we mean that while the binding is rigid, it’s not without flaws. This may be one of them. A certain amount of stress on the mind or emotions plus a build-up of magic, perhaps aided by proximity to a magic-user, caused some sort of leak.”

Rowan lifted her head. “If it’s relieving pressure, why did it hurt so much?”

Mariana stood and set the papers down in front of her. “We don’t know. It may be some sort of punishment for using magic, a failsafe of sorts. Or it may just be your body’s reaction to that unfamiliar power. We can’t know without speaking to whoever did this. So much depends on the individual magic-user. Do you know of anyone in your country who might have been able to do this? Perhaps someone who worked with potions or herbal remedies?”

“No. But my mother would.”

Mariana and Arnav glanced at each other. “Are you sure?” Arnav asked.

“I’m sure. My grandmother once told me that my father wanted to name me Holly, but my mother convinced him to change it before my naming day. Rowanwood is supposed to protect against…” She stopped and took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice cracked. “Against witches. She knew what I was.”

I knew what she was thinking. “You’re not a monster,” I told her.

“I know.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“So what do we do?” I asked. “If we find the person who did this, can it be undone?”

“No. I’m so sorry, Rowan.”

I couldn’t sit still anymore. I stood and paced behind the chairs. Mariana kept her gaze trained on me as Arnav spoke. “We won’t say that there’s no way to fix this, only that no one has ever found one before. We found two documented cases of Sorcerers attempting to use the magic trapped within them to break their bindings.”

“And?” I asked, growing impatient.

“In both cases the toll of attempting such a massive and unfamiliar use of magic destroyed them completely,” Mariana said. “One physically ruptured at every one of his joints, and died in great pain. The other vanished completely.”

Rowan shuddered. “So what happens if we just leave it? If I keep the binding and try to manage the pain?” Arnav hesitated, and she patted his hand. “It’s okay, I think I know. You can say it.”

He looked away. “In a case like this, according to what records we’ve found, the people all had pain much like you have, which became worse as time went on. You seem to be at a very late stage of this.”

“Then what?”

Rowan was watching Arnav, and didn’t see Mariana reach up to wipe a tear from her own eye. “They died, my dear,” she said. “Many went mad from it first, but it ended the same for all of them.”

“Oh,” Rowan said. “Okay.”

“What?” I spoke more loudly than I’d intended, and Mariana gave me a sharp look. “There is nothing okay about it. This isn’t how this ends!” Rowan turned toward me, then stood and walked over. She wrapped her arms around me, and I squeezed her harder than I probably should have. “There has to be something. How long does she have?”

Arnav sat in the chair that Rowan had just vacated, and Mariana walked over to stand beside him. “We don’t know, exactly. Weeks. Months, perhaps. No more.”

Rowan didn’t react to the news.

“There’s not much we can do,” Mariana said, speaking to Rowan. “After this morning’s testing, we can only offer advice. Don’t try to use magic again. You’re lucky that the past two times didn’t kill you outright. They certainly weakened you. Don’t expect to be so fortunate a third time.”

My blood turned cold. I almost killed her.

“Other than that,” Mariana continued, “all we can offer is a safe place to stay, and help with the pain.”

“That’s not good enough,” I said. “What if she went to Belleisle? They might know how to help. They wouldn’t turn her away, would they?”

Mariana tilted her head slightly to one side. “I don’t know. We haven’t had anything to do with that land in years. They have their own problems to deal with there, but Ernis Albion is a compassionate man, and I understand he’s now married to a gifted Potioner. It’s possible they’d take her in for a time.” She emphasized the word ‘her,’ and Rowan lifted her head.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “But there’s a chance?”

“There’s always a chance,” Mariana said softly. “I’d suggest going the other way to see what you could find out from your parents, Rowan, but it would be too far to go in your condition, and for such a slim chance of learning anything useful.”

“I’ll go.” Kel stepped back into the room. “Rowan needs to be where she’ll get help, not answers. But I can go.”

Arnav closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well. If you three are agreed on this—”

“Four.” Cassia appeared behind her brother. “I’m going, too.”

Mariana narrowed her eyes at the pair of them. “We’ll have to discuss this. Rowan, I’m sorry we can’t do more. Please let us know your plans after you’ve had some time to think about things.” She and Arnav excused themselves, and went out into the corridor with Kel and Cassia.

Rowan pressed her face against my chest, muffling her words. “Did she say I’m going to die?”

“She did, but they’re wrong. You’re going to get better. We’ll find a way.”

She looked up at me. “Do you believe that?”

“I do,” I said. “I have to.”

The Grotto was dark and quiet when we left the library. The merfolk had gone back to their homes, and there was no sign of the humans.

“They were going to town today,” I said. “They took your letters.”

“Oh, right.” We stopped in front of the kitchen. “You hungry?” she asked, and I shook my head. “No, me either.”

I extinguished all but one of the lamps, and carried the light over to the sitting area near the window. Rowan followed. She seemed completely drained. Not sad, not afraid, certainly not ready to go find anyone else to help her. Just flat and defeated, and she looked as worn out as I’d been feeling the past few weeks. I sat on the sofa, and she curled up beside me.

The water was a wall of black outside of the window, sprinkled with tiny, softly glowing, blue lights. I turned the lamp’s flame higher and set it on the table. Maybe seeing something new would make her happy for a few minutes.

“Can I ask what you told them?”

“Who?” she asked. “Oh, in the letters? I don’t remember exactly. I told Callum and Felicia what had happened—not about you being an eagle and all of that, but about you helping me. Not a lot of details. I explained what I could about what magic really is to Callum.” Her continued belief that he couldn’t be a part of the plan to kill off people like her touched me in a surprising way. It was more loyalty than he deserved, but I wouldn’t be the one to disillusion her. Not now. “I told him I’m not coming back, and not to look for me. Maybe he’s not, anyway. I hope not. I told Felicia I’m sorry I won’t be at her wedding.”

“And your parents?”

“I sent my love to Ashe and my sisters. I told my parents that I know what I am, and that whatever happened to me when I was little to keep my magic inside is what’s causing my pain. Maybe my mother knew that already, I don’t know. I don’t think I was very nice about it.”

They don’t deserve nice, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want her to defend them.

“I should have waited to send the letters,” she said after a minute of silence. “Maybe I would have said nicer things if I’d known I wasn’t going to see them again.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell her that of course she’d see them again, that after we found someone to help her, she could send them a message to meet us near the border. I wanted to say that she had a long life ahead of her, as much time as she wanted for that sort of thing, more than she ever could have expected in her old life. But I couldn’t.

All of the learning I’ve done, the lengths I’ve pushed my magic to so that it would grow, the secrets I’ve kept so that I could accomplish it… and I can’t do anything when it really matters.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one thing I could do, though she might not like it.

I didn’t realize how hard I was gripping the arm of the seat until Rowan reached over and pried my fingers open and twined hers into them.

“It’s okay,” she said. “None of this is your fault. You’ve done more to help me than anyone has. Ever.”

She gasped as a face materialized from the darkness beyond the window. Huge and hideous, it seemed to be all blank, white eyes and a gaping mouth filled with teeth like mismatched swords and knives. It filled the window and stared into the room for a few minutes, flexing its massive jaw, and then turned and swam away, its long body weaving its way back into the darkness.

“What was that?” She didn’t sound afraid. Maybe once you’ve touched a dragon and come out alive, a monster behind a glass wall isn’t so frightening.

“Kel called it Fangface. I don’t know what it is,” I said. “It was here last night after you went to bed and almost everyone was gone. It stays in the depths during the day and comes up at night. It likes the lights.”

She shivered. “I hope the merfolk are all safe in their homes.”

“They know how to handle these things.”

We waited for a while longer, but Fangface didn’t reappear. “I didn’t realize you were up so late last night,” Rowan said. “You should be getting more sleep while you can. While it’s safe.” She stood, still holding onto my hand. “It’s been a really long day. I need to go to bed, but I don’t want to be alone. Will you stay with me?”

As if I could say no.

Chapter XXXI

Rowan

THE FOG BEGAN TO LIFT from my mind as Aren followed me up the smooth curve of the staircase and back to my room, but everything still felt wrong. I knew I should be feeling something. Sadness, perhaps, or a sense of loss. I should have been grieving the end of the life I’d hoped for, even if I’d never managed to pin down exactly what I wanted that life to be. Instead, I felt nothing but exhaustion after the morning’s trials and the emotional upheaval of what the elders had told me—or rather, had told us. Aren had actually taken the news worse than I had. He seemed to want to find a solution, to keep searching until we’d exhausted every possibility.

All I wanted to do was rest.

I stepped behind a screen to change out of my clothes and into the pale blue sleep pants the merfolk had left for me. The fabric was thin, and softer than anything I’d ever felt before, like wearing a cloud. The top was made of the same, and looked more like underwear than a proper thing to wear in front of people, just loose fabric and thin straps. I slipped it on, then shook the braids from my hair, leaving loose, clean, still-damp waves hanging over my shoulders. Not suitable for visitors, but the thought of Aren seeing me in it pulled me out of my emotionless stupor and sent pleasurable shivers over my skin.

I stepped back into the room and found Aren standing near the fireplace, which burned with a smokeless fire. He seemed distracted and troubled.

A week ago I wouldn’t have noticed that, I thought. He kept his thoughts and emotions buried far below the surface, but I was learning to recognize when he was trying to hide something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. He turned toward me and stared for a few seconds, not trying to hide the way his gaze traveled over my body, drinking me in. My skin prickled in spite of the fire’s warmth, and I realized that the only thing I wanted, the only thing that might make me feel alive, was to be close to him.

“Nothing,” he said at last, and turned away to sit on the edge of the bed. “Everything, really, but there’s nothing you can do about that. I’m just trying to think about what we should do next.”

“Are we going to go to that island place?” I climbed across the bed and sat behind him.

“I don’t see what other choice we have. Ernis Albion is a powerful Sorcerer with no ties to Severn, and his current wife is a Potioner. If someone like her did this to you, maybe she’ll know how to fix it. It’s just a lot to think about, and traveling there won’t be easy, especially if your pain gets worse.”

“I’m sorry.” I reached out a hand and laid it on his back, over the center of his scar. “If this is too much, you don’t have to do it.”

He looked back over his shoulder and smiled sadly. “I want to. It’s just… this isn’t what I expected it to be. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t think I’d actually care so much if things didn’t work out.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, this isn’t exactly what I expected when I stopped to help that eagle in the forest.”

His attempt at a laugh caught in his throat. “Who knew an act of compassion could muck things up so horribly, right?”

I pulled myself closer, so that my knees rested on either side of his hips. “I don’t regret any of it,” I whispered, and brushed his hair aside to kiss the back of his neck. “There’s still a chance for me. This hasn’t exactly been the fairy-tale adventure I always dreamed of, but it’s brought me here with you. I wouldn’t change anything.”

He sighed, and reached up to take my hand and press it against his lips. A warm ache spread through my chest, a mixture of sadness and a strange sort of gratitude. I sat back so I could run my fingers lightly over his shoulders, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

This wasn’t like it had been at the lake house. Here, there was no reason for me to stop touching him. The heat of pure desire washed over me, and this time, I relaxed into it.

I pressed my fingers harder into him. The muscles under my hands were hard and knotted. I once heard someone talk about a person having the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I thought it would feel something like this. I reached under his arms to unbutton his shirt.

“Shouldn’t you be the one getting special treatment?” he asked, but held his arms back as I pulled his shirt off.

“Just tell me what you’re thinking. I want to hear your voice.” The beautiful part of his scar was almost invisible in the firelight, but I could see it well enough to trace it again with my fingers before I went back to kneading his shoulders with both hands. His skin burned under my fingers, and under my lips when I brushed them against his back. He tensed, then relaxed slightly.

“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go to Belleisle,” he said. “It’s not part of Tyrea, and they’ve never had particularly good relations with my family. That might actually make you safer there, but… well, if Ernis Albion might be able to help you, we can’t stay here. Especially not if you’re running out of time.”

“No, I suppose not.” The prospect of having very little time left didn’t bother me. At that moment, there didn’t seem to be any reason to worry about anything outside of that room. What would be would be. Such a strange way to think after years of making plans or fighting against them.

I let my hands slip down Aren’s back and around his chest, and he drew in a quick breath as my breasts pressed against his back, only a wisp of delicate fabric sliding between us. He reached back and moved his hand over the outside of my thigh. A tremor ran through me, a feeling like the air after lightning has struck close-by. My body hummed with an energy I couldn’t control, and all I wanted was for him to touch me more.

I moved sideways off of the bed to stand in front of him, and he put his hands on my hips, pulling me closer. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, then pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, those deep brown-and-green pools that made my knees so weak.

I took a shaky breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?”

“Not at all.” He reached up to run his fingers over my jaw, and I turned to kiss his fingers.

“No,” I agreed. “We never should have met each other, really. And I’m pretty sure I should still hate you, but I don’t. I did though, you know.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t love you.” Why was it so hard to say that? Perhaps because we’d been together for such a short time. Maybe I’d given up on finding what I was feeling now, thinking that it was only true in stories, and I didn’t trust it. I was past denying it, though, past trying to protect myself. “But I think I do.”

His gaze flicked away from mine. “In spite of what I am?”

“Because of who you are.”

He pulled me closer again and kissed me, long and deep. I forgot about my pain, about dying, about home. I pushed him back on the bed, my lips never leaving his as my knees pressed into the bed on either side of him, and he pulled my hips down onto him. His hands slipped under the loose fabric of my shirt, and I groaned into his mouth. He pulled the shirt off over my head. We rolled so that I was on my back and he lay beside me, kissing me and touching me until I thought that the feeling would kill me before anything else had a chance to.

“Rowan,” he whispered, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

He looked like he was going to say something else, but hesitated. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband of my pants and pulled them low, wiggling my way out of them, then reached for his.

He seemed to forget what he was going to say.

I woke to the feeling of Aren placing a gentle kiss between my eyebrows. “Mmm,” I said. “Can I wake up like that every morning?”

The darkness under his eyes and much of the tension that had always been in his face were gone. He looked younger and more relaxed, if not as untroubled as I felt. Though he wore a faint smile, there was something in his eyes that didn’t match it. My own problems were still there, but it felt like they’d drifted farther away during the night.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I don’t think it’s still morning, though.”

My stomach growled as if in agreement. “Feels like about half-past morning.”

I rolled out of bed with a strange combination of self-consciousness at my nakedness and a sense of confidence, of all being right with the world.

The fire had burned out while we slept, and the room was cold. I reached for my sleep clothes and pulled a long sweater over my head on top of them, then leaned back to kiss Aren. He smiled then, a real smile, as he closed his eyes. I had to fight the urge to lie down and touch him again. I had more urgent needs to think about.

In the kitchen, I found a cold box filled with left-over food from the banquet, and piled a plate with everything that would travel well back to the room and could be eaten without forks or knives. Pastries, fruits, a few sweets.

“Good morning,” sang a soft voice behind me. Niari sat at the long table, holding a cup with steam rising from it. “Did we have a good night?” She sipped her drink, and her eyes grinned at me over the top of the mug.

“We did. Were you looking for us?”

“Not me, no. I came up with Kel and Cassia. They wanted to look over some maps. There was no one in Aren’s room when Kel knocked, so we decided not to check yours.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

Niari tilted her head to one side, and her high ponytail fell over one shoulder. “You look better than you did yesterday,” she said. “We were worried about you. You looked half—” She stopped herself. “Well, just flat after your testing. You seem better now. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“No. We didn’t really talk about it last night.”

“I’m sure. Care for a cup?”

I didn’t want to be rude. I sat, and Niari poured me a cup of something that smelled like a field full of berries. I drank it quickly. “Thanks,” I said. “I should be getting back. I’ll see you later?”

“Of course.”

Kel and Cassia were in my room talking to Aren when I returned. I set the plate on the table, next to the maps they had spread out there. “I’ll just go get some more clothes on,” I mumbled. Aren was already dressed and looking at something Kel was showing him on a large map, but he looked up and gave me a slow smile that made me think I might melt into a puddle on the floor.

Cassia snapped her fingers. “You,” she said to Aren, and pointed back at the map. “Brain. Here.”

Kel laughed.

“Rowan, come with me,” she said. “We’ll find you something nice.” She led me down the balcony to a room that was filled with clothes. I reached for a pair of dark green pants with pockets on the legs, but Cassia took them and set them aside.

“Save those for when you’re traveling,” she said, and reached past me for a light-blue dress with a wide neckline and a shorter skirt than I was accustomed to. “Try that. And really, take whatever you want when you go. We have too much of this stuff here.”

“Thank you.” I pulled the sweater off and put on the undergarments she handed to me, then the dress. I turned so Cassia could close the back for me. She had judged the fit perfectly. “So what’s going on?”

She shrugged, and pulled at the waistband of her own ankle-length skirt, which she wore with a sleeveless top that showed the lower portion of her flat belly. It was casual and plain, but something about the way she held herself made her look like a warrior ready for battle. “Mariana and Arnav are going to let us go. Someone needed to visit the South shore on a diplomatic issue anyway. We might as well do it, and if we go over land we can stop in to pay your parents a visit. Think they’ll like me?”

“My brother will.”

Cassia raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I hope so. But really, I need to get away for a while and do something different. I’m getting bored here.”

“Well, I appreciate it. I don’t imagine going to Darmid is an appealing prospect for you. Are you sure it’s safe?” I didn’t think most people would recognize them for what they were, but a magic hunter would.

“Safe as we are anywhere these days.”

“So you’ll be careful?”

“We always are.” She smiled and found a brush to run through my hair, just as Felicia used to do. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I was in two places and times at once. I remembered another person, frightened and trying to do as she was told, relatively normal and absolutely safe. Was that really me?

“You just worry about getting yourself better,” Cassia continued, and I opened my eyes. “Aren would never admit it, maybe not even to himself, but he needs you.” She shook her head. “You poor creatures are so vulnerable that way.”

Kel and Aren hadn’t moved in the time we were gone. “If you put the maps in a waterproof bag, though,” Aren was saying, “you could swim around the mountains instead of crossing over them.”

“We could. We’d still have to cut down the other side at the isthmus, but that could work.” They both looked up as we walked in.

“Are we making any progress?” Cassia asked.

“Not really,” Kel told her. “It’s too bad the caves don’t go farther west.” He turned to me. “But you can take them almost all the way east. If you’re going that way, I mean. Cassia can arrange to have the fairies take you.” He looked at Aren, who didn’t say anything.

“Of course,” Cassia said. “Much faster than over land, if we find you a good guide.”

Kel was still looking from Aren to me and back. “Have you talked about what you’re doing?”

“Only a little. We’ll be going east.”

“When?” Kel asked.

“Soon,” I said. “It’s lovely here, and you’ve all been so wonderful to me. But I miss the sky. I think I’ll go crazy if I stay underground much longer.”

Kel exchanged another glance with Aren. “Sounds good,” Aren said. “I don’t think I’ll be welcome here for much longer, anyway.”

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Kel said. “Early. We’ll have a guide meet you at the doors we came in, and someone to do introductions. I’ll ask Arnav to send a message to Belleisle to let them know you’re coming. Cass, we should go.”

I hugged Kel. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Take care, okay?” he whispered. “Whatever happens. We’ll see you again soon.”

Cassia forced a smile and kissed me on the cheek, and then they left us.

“What’s going on?” I asked Aren.

“It’s nothing,” he said, and picked up a bright-red apple. He carried it with him to the bed, tossing it from hand to hand, then stretched out with his head on a pillow. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I’ll be fine as long as you’re around,” I said.

He turned toward me, and for a brief, frightening moment I was reminded of the way he looked the first time I saw him. Cold. Hard. Calculating. It passed quickly, but left me unsettled.

“Do you think you could have come here without me, if you knew you would have done well on your own?” he asked.

“No, I’m glad I didn’t leave you. This worked out better for both of us, right?”

He flexed his left hand, making the rapidly-disappearing scar stand out. “It did. This time.”

“Aren, what’s wrong?”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s nothing. Ernis Albion, the Sorcerer you’re going to see, doesn’t like my family. I’m not excited about the reception I’ll get, but Arnav will send that letter explaining what I’m doing with you.” He smiled. “It will be fine. I can only imagine what you’ll do with your magic when it’s freed.”

There was something in his expression I didn’t quite trust. “Aren, is there something you’re not telling me? They will let you stay, right? You don’t have to protect me from anything. I can handle it.”

He frowned. “I said they would.”

“You did, I’m sorry. Will you tell me more about Belleisle now?”

“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss that as we travel. Let’s just enjoy the peace here while we can.”

I released the breath I’d been holding and laid down beside him with my head resting on his shoulder.

He offered me the first bite of the apple, then took one himself. “Rowan, I—” he hesitated, then pulled me closer. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

“I know.” I smiled and kissed the underside of his jaw. I knew too much about his family and his history to expect him to say he loved me. That was close enough, for now.

“Good. I know they’ll be able to help you. I should have taken you to Belleisle first.”

“I don’t think this part of the trip was a complete waste of time.”

He kissed me. “Not a complete waste, no.”

The peace and happiness flooded back. Maybe this would work out, after all.

Chapter XXXII

Rowan

THE GROTTO WAS BEAUTIFUL AND the caves and tunnels fascinating, but after another two days of walking, nights spent in less-comfortable caves than we’d found before, and several more hours of travel in a tunnel that became smaller as it ascended, I was ready to see the sun.

Stepping out onto the snow and into the cool, fresh air was like being reborn. I laughed as the brisk breeze lifted by hair and twisted it around my face, and I raised my arms as though I could fly up into that beautiful, blue sky. I was too happy to feel embarrassed by the childish gesture.

We had emerged from a small opening in rocky earth surrounded by trees, a forest that fell silent at our appearance. One by one the winter songbirds resumed their twittering and their flitting between the trees. Thin afternoon sunlight blanketed the snow-spotted ground, broken only by the shadows of naked trees. I turned back to see Aren climbing out of the cave, followed by the two buzzing shapes that had been our guides and unintentional chaperones during our journey. They lingered at the cave mouth, reluctant to fly into the wind and the light.

I knelt close to them, and the fairies flew over to hover near my face. I couldn’t understand their language, but they knew enough human speech for me to speak to them. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful. Is there anything we can do for you in return?”

The wild-haired female who had been introduced to us as Beryl whispered something in Jasper’s ear and he shook his head. That made her laugh, a high-pitched sound like sleigh-bells. She buzzed back into the cave followed by Jasper, who waved us off over his shoulder before he disappeared into the shadows. Strange little creatures. I hoped we’d see them again.

My boots crunched over the snow as I caught up with Aren, who stood with his hand pressed against a massive tree trunk, apparently trying to get his bearings. Without an interpreter, there had been no way for the fairies to tell us where we had ended up.

“This has to be the stone forest,” he said. “They’ve brought us all the way to Artisland.”

I laid my own hand on the tree, and was surprised to find that the rough bark felt like it was carved from rock. “That’s in the far east, isn’t it?”

He nodded. His jaw was clenched tight, and I recognized the tension returning to his face. He closed his eyes, checking our protections. I didn’t know how the shifting of the tunnels had helped us travel so quickly, but I was grateful for it. My own pain wasn’t too bad at that moment, but we needed to get out of Tyrea and to safety as soon as we could. Aren seemed less pleased, though.

He turned his head, listening. “Water flowing that way,” he said. “Lots of it. That will be the Sisswinn River, which will take us to the bridge to Belleisle if we follow it downstream. Less than a day’s journey, if we keep moving.” He pressed his lips into a hard line, clenched his fists and flexed his fingers, then set off toward the river.

I followed, but the uncertainty I’d felt back at the Grotto returned. Aren had seemed fine as we journeyed through the caves, answering all of my questions, explaining that his father and this Ernis Albion had had a falling out years ago, and that differences in approaches to magic had caused a rift between Tyrea and Belleisle long before that. But he said they were known as kind and generous people, and that if anyone could help me without risk of turning me in to Severn, it was this Albion. He’d seemed confident. Happy, even, though he’d retreated to his more familiar moodiness at times. I’d believed him, not wanting to question him again after we’d been through so much. But now I wondered. “It’s safe there, right?”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Safe enough.” He stopped and turned to me, arms out, and I slipped into his embrace, enjoying even the rough feel of his clothing against my face. “We should go,” he whispered, and turned away before I could read his expression.

“Aren, just tell me what’s wrong. We’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t answer. We moved as quietly as we could with our feet crunching over the snow. The landscape and season seemed to be to our advantage. We would see anyone approaching from a great distance between the trees.

Then again, I thought, that means we can’t hide, either.

We certainly left enough of a trail for anyone following us, but that couldn’t be helped. The snow wasn’t much trouble most of the time, but in a few lower spots it was nearly waist-deep. I followed in the path that Aren broke ahead of me, but there was no way to go back and erase those tracks.

Aren was on high alert, looking around and watching the sky above us. I did the same, but didn’t see anything other than high clouds gathering, and the tiny birds that continued about their business in the trees. A few squirrels had strong words for us, but otherwise we seemed to be passing unnoticed. Still, Aren seemed distant and uncomfortable. The sun wasn’t yet touching the tops of the trees when he suggested that we make camp for the night near a large deadfall of trees piled in a messy tangle some distance from the river.

“Why?” I asked. “We’ve got plenty of light left. Wouldn’t it be wiser to get as close to the bridge as we can?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think we’ll get across tonight, and this is a good spot to camp. No snow, sheltered from the wind.” He sat on a log and rested his elbows on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. “Would you rather keep going?”

I set my backpack on a bare, dry patch of ground. “I don’t know. I was hoping for a bed, but if you don’t think we can make it tonight, this is perfect.” I smiled, but he didn’t return it. The damp chill of the surrounding air crept into my stomach.

He stared at his hands for a few more seconds, then stood and rooted through his pack, pulling out food and unrolling bedding. I didn’t know what else to do, so I went to pick up kindling and firewood from around our campsite and piled it nearby.

Things didn’t get better as the afternoon moved toward evening. Aren was even more reticent than usual, nearly silent as we cooked the oats and dried fruit that Niari had sent with us. He reached out to touch me once in a while, but looked away every time I caught him watching me.

Halfway through the meal I couldn’t take any more. “I’m going to go crazy if you don’t tell me why you’re acting so strangely. Whatever it is, it’s—”

“We could have been there tonight.” His hair had fallen forward to cover his eyes, but he didn’t bother to brush it away. “I’m sorry. I just… I wanted a little more time with you.” He set his bowl down and pressed his fingertips to his eyes.

My heart skipped. Not for the first time, I didn’t want to hear what I thought he was saying. “Please tell me you mean time alone. Do you think we won’t be allowed to see each other when we’re in Belleisle? Because you said—”

“I can’t go to Belleisle. At all.”

My hands shook, and I set my own things on the ground. “You said we’d be safe there.”

“I said you would be safe there.” He stood and paced around the fire. I wished he’d stop. My head was spinning anyway, and starting to hurt. “Maybe if it was just the problems between Albion and my father, there would be a chance. But it’s more personal with me. There was a riot a few years ago in the town where Albion’s wife grew up, here in Tyrea. It got out of control, people got hurt who shouldn’t have, and her sister was killed.”

“And you did that.” A spark of anger ignited inside of me. I stood and crossed my arms over my chest.

“On my father’s behalf and my brother’s orders, but yes. I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracked.

“Because it was the only way to save you. Gods, Rowan. You…” He winced. “You always seem to let your heart get in the way of your head. You said you loved me. I didn’t think you’d come without me, so yes, I lied.”

“You had no right!”

He took a step back. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” I breathed deeply, but it didn’t calm the hurt. “Aren, I’ve spent my whole life with people lying to me and trying to control me because they thought it was the right thing. You know how that hurt me, but you’re doing exactly the same thing.”

His mouth dropped open. “It’s not like that. I care about you. I want you to be safe.”

“That’s what they said.” I crouched in the snow and rested my face in my hands, blocking out the light. My emotions were making the headache worse, and I couldn’t think straight. “I thought you respected me more than that. I’m not a child, Aren. This wasn’t your decision to make.”

“And what would your decision have been?”

“We would have figured something out!” I glared up at him, but he refused to meet my eyes. “I don’t know what. You haven’t given me many options. Maybe I’d have surprised you. Maybe I’d have gone alone, left you to be hunted down and… and I’d be fine never knowing what happened to you.” I brushed away the tears that blurred my vision, not willing to let them fall. “I guess we’ll never know.”

“I guess not.” His lips narrowed as he studied the ground at his feet.

No apology. I was beginning to think he didn’t know how to do it.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, and knelt beside me. “I also never meant to…” His voice caught in his throat.

“What?”

He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to love you.”

My heart leapt at his words. I wanted to believe it. But it was wrong. “You wouldn’t use that word before,” I whispered, fighting the lump that held my voice back in my throat. “Please don’t use it now. Not after you’ve lied to me.” I wanted to forgive him, to see only his good intentions, but his manipulation stung like a slap in the face. “I trusted you.”

He stood and stepped back, eyes narrowed. “Maybe that was your mistake, then. How many times did I warn you, explain how I’ve used people, tell you how I’ve hurt and manipulated them to get what I want?” His face hardened, closed off. “Why would it be any different if what I want is for you to be safe? Because that’s all I have left to want.”

“Damn it, Aren! That’s not love!” Anger flashed again, and pain. “I don’t even know whether you’re being honest now, or lying to push me away.”

“Which would you prefer?” His voice was cold. “You’re going to have to tell me what I’m supposed to do now, because damned if I know what you want.”

“I want you to leave me alone. How far is it to the bridge?” I knew I was being irrational. He wasn’t going to hurt me any worse than he already had, and I’d be safer if he took me to the bridge in the morning. But reason was drowned out by emotion and the physical pain that clawed at my head and my heart. I rolled up my bedding.

“A few hours’ walk, straight down the river.” His voice softened, but I didn’t know whether that was genuine, either. “I know you’re angry, but you can’t leave.”

“No?” I slung my pack onto my back. “Tell me more about what I’m allowed to do. You know best.” Calm down, Rowan.

His lip curled in a snarl, and he raised one hand. I winced, and the anger dropped from his face. He ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t… Damn it. I don’t understand any of this.” He looked down at his hands, held open before him.

“I want you to be safe and find a way out of this binding,” he said, “and I want you to get there before Severn finds us. I want you to go, but I don’t want to let you go.” When he looked up, his eyes seemed wet. Maybe it was just the firelight. He shrugged, and his shoulders slumped forward.

My hands were freezing in spite of the fire, and I tucked them under my arms to warm them. I wanted to forgive Aren and figure out a way to move on, but to what? And could I forgive so easily? There was a time when I would have, because I’d have been afraid to do otherwise. But I’d changed since I met him. Toughened up. Learned more about the world.

I sighed. “I need time to think. Just let me go for a while, okay?”

“I’ll go. Stay by the fire.” He reached out to take my hand, and all I wanted was to fall back into his arms.

“Thank you, but I need to walk. You value rational decisions over emotional ones, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I just can’t do it when you’re looking at me like that.”

He nodded toward my bag. “Will you come back? Or are you going to keep walking until you get there?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “Yes. I’ll come back.”

He didn’t look like he trusted that answer. “I’m going to change and scout the area. I don’t sense Severn, but something doesn’t feel right. Come back if you get cold.”

“Yeah. We’ll talk when I get back.”

After he walked away into the darkness, I slipped my bag off and left it. You can’t run away from this. Come back and end it, one way or another.

The sun had set while we were fighting, and there was little moonlight to guide my way even when I reached the wide river. I stayed close to the banks where the trees were thin.

The tears I’d been holding back came, and froze my cheeks even after I wiped them away.

The pain in my head began to fade, as did my anger. He didn’t know any better, I thought.

“He should have,” I muttered. He’d meant well, but he’d hurt me. That seemed to be the pattern of our relationship, from the day we’d met to the night he proved my magic, until now. I trusted him, he betrayed me, I got hurt and felt naïve and stupid about it until he was charming and I forgave him. I kicked a rock out of the way, and it splashed into the river. “That’s not a relationship.”

If I could have stayed with him, perhaps he would have changed. Or maybe I was the fool for thinking he would.

Something snapped deep in the forest. I stopped and listened, but didn’t hear any footsteps in the snow behind me. No wings in the trees, either. “Aren?” I called. I slowed, but kept walking.

It couldn’t have lasted anyway, I told myself. It was this, or being on the run forever. Is that what you wanted?

“It hasn’t been all bad,” I whispered. We both had a lot of learning to do. Maybe—

A gust of freezing air blew into my face from downstream, and I gasped as it cut through my cloak. When it didn’t let up, I moved into the shelter of the trees.

I thought I heard something again, and froze. But the woods were silent, save for the river and the wind in the trees. I decided to go back, anyway. The darkness and silence gave me chills on top of what the cold was providing.

I stepped into a large clearing and paused. It seemed too dark, even compared to the rest of the forest, and it felt wrong. Like someone was watching me, though I didn’t see anything. I backed away.

A searing light blazed up from the ground in the center of the clearing and I ducked, throwing my arm across my eyes. When I opened them I was blind, my vision eaten up by white spots. Something moved in front of me and I turned to run, but a pair of strong hands grabbed each of my arms and hauled me back. The light remained, now a flickering orange column of fire burning high as the treetops, against which I could only see shadows.

I blinked hard to make my eyes adjust. Another hand gripped my arm, and something rammed into my stomach. Pain exploded through my abdomen. I tried to gasp, but my breath wouldn’t come. I doubled over, but the arms holding me wouldn’t let me fall.

My breath came back in a ragged gasp. I let my legs drop out from under me, and when the men didn’t let go of my arms I pushed back and shook myself as hard as I could. A woman laughed. I tried to kick, but only managed to catch one of them in the shin.

Someone stepped in front of me, blocking the light, and wrapped a hand tight around my throat. He squeezed until I stopped fighting. My vision cleared, and I struggled to keep my feet under me as I recognized the white-haired figure as one I’d seen before, though never clearly.

He released me and bent closer. One of the men pulled my hair, twisting my neck so that I looked up. “Do you know who I am?” His voice sent chills through me.

“Severn,” I whispered, and fought the urge to scream. If Aren heard, he’d come find me, and I didn’t want him to. Maybe Severn couldn’t find Aren, and he’d settled for me instead. Maybe Aren could still get away.

“Such a little thing to be wandering the woods at night,” he said, and sneered. “You really should have someone watching over you.”

Though he didn’t look like Aren, his expression was familiar. That, and the shape of his eyes. The small similarities made me shudder. I stayed silent. “No mind,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. But what to do with you in the meantime, hmm? You’re not as important to me as you once might have been. It turns out that your people were all too happy to get rid of a mid-level magic-user that they had in custody. And you’re not much use as leverage, either. Did you know that your betrothed refused to negotiate for your safe return?”

When I didn’t react, he smiled. “That doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort, and didn’t order his men to loosen their crushing grip on my arms or to let go of my hair. “Perhaps if you offered a small demonstration of the powers my brother is so convinced you have, I might be persuaded to keep you around. Take you back to Luid. See what happens.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I whispered, and he laughed.

“My dear, I know everything I need to about you. Aren told me so much. But what to do with you while we wait for my dear brother?” He glanced at the men who held me. “Maybe these fellows have some ideas.”

He leaned back, and I saw a group of five more uniformed soldiers, two women among them, watching us closely.

Severn leaned in again to whisper in my ear, and the hand that had been holding my hair dropped to my shoulder. “Call for Aren, bring him here, and I’ll let you die peacefully.”

The cruelty in his voice sent tremors through my body, and fear wrapped its cold hands around my heart. I felt myself growing weak, and then something else. My limbs tingled, my heart raced, and claws of pain dug into my skull. The firelight at the edge of my vision shimmered.

The magic. Not now, please. I’m not ready to die.

I whipped my head forward. Severn was quick, but I hit his cheekbone with my forehead as he pulled away. It strained my neck and sent me nearly to my knees, but at least it was something.

He glared at me. “Take her away,” he said. “I don’t want to see her again. Tell Grissom and Delain to come back and wait. He’ll be here soon enough when he hears her scream.”

The men wrestled me back to my feet and pulled me toward the fire. I twisted and fought as hard as I could, but the headache was getting worse. It was as though the insides of my skull were expanding, and the pressure was causing so much pain that I couldn’t think.

Sweat stung my eyes as we passed the fire, which burned hotter than any I’d ever felt before, but my body shook as though it was warmed by fever instead of flames. Jumbled, terrified thoughts screamed through my mind. One of the men whacked me on the back of the head, sending star-bursts of pain forward. I bit my tongue and held back a cry.

Suddenly the man on my left let go and screamed. The one on the right pulled me away, but I felt a strong, cool breeze, and the tips of long feathers brushing against my face.

I tried to yell for him to go back, but couldn’t make any sound. The guard spun me around and pinned my arms behind me, using me as a shield. He held me up even as my knees weakened and I slumped against him.

I lifted my head and watched a scene that seemed like a dream unfolding at half-speed before me. An eagle was attacking a dark-haired man. I’d once doubted Aren’s choice of forms for use in battle, but now saw how wrong I’d been. His long talons ripped at the man’s face while his massive wings beat around the head, confusing him. The guard’s face quickly became slick with blood from wounds in his cheeks and scalp, and one of his eyes hung limp against his cheek.

It would have been terrifying if anything had mattered to me at that point, but I felt completely separate from all of it.

The screaming man stumbled backward into the fire and almost pulled his foe in with him, but Aquila—no, Aren, I thought—shrieked and slashed down with his beak into the hand that held him, and the man flung him off. The smell of burnt feathers filled the clearing, but Aren flapped away as the guard fell into the flames and disappeared.

Aren flapped down to land on the bare ground at the edge of the clearing, then pushed upward again, lifting off a moment before a net hit the ground. He landed on a tree branch on the other side of the clearing, panting. The rest of Severn’s guards had frozen in place, but someone yelled and they moved forward together. The first to reach Aren was a large man wearing elbow-length dragonhide gloves. Aren shrieked and took off, climbing high, hovering, then dropping toward the man. He put his hands up, but Aren got his talons around the man’s thin neck, and they fell to the ground together, rolling toward one of the women.

I found my voice and yelled. The guard holding me clamped a hand over my mouth, but Aren had heard. When he pulled free, leaving the man lying still in the dirt, he was ready for her. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and pulled back when he slashed with his beak. He backed under a tree and disappeared into the shadows.

I looked to Severn, who stood in the flickering light, face devoid of expression, taking in what was unfolding before him. If he cared that his people were being sacrificed, he didn’t show it.

The woman screamed. Aren lunged from the trees at face height. His talons caught her throat as he passed. He fell to the ground, one wing held out to the side, bent.

The guard pressed both hands to her wound and stumbled toward Severn, crying, “Help me, please!”

Severn only watched her for a moment, then waved his hand at her. The blood flowing between her fingers turned into flames that consumed her almost instantly.

Aren fought hard. When I looked back, the remaining soldiers were splattered with blood. But he was tangled in their net, and a man wearing heavy gloves held him tight. Aren’s blood-streaked head was pinned against his breast, and he shrieked as the man crushed his injured wing.

Severn smiled as he stepped forward. Aren glared fiercely up at him.

Severn removed his gloves and reached out to touch the golden feathers that stuck out through the netting. “Pretty,” he said. “It’s a shame, really. We could have accomplished so much together if only you’d been honest about your abilities and let me guide your power better. Seems like such a waste. Now change back. I want to look you in the eyes—your human eyes—before you die.” Aren struggled against the net. “And if you try to harm me, I’ll have them kill her. Drummond, put him down and step away. All of you, step away.”

Aren looked at me.

Fight and live, I thought. I’m done.

Aren nodded as well as he could bound in that net, and Severn stepped forward and reached for the strings, which dissolved under his touch. He stepped back—too quickly, I thought. Aren glanced at me again, shook his feathers out, and changed.

One moment he was there, and then not. He reappeared so quickly that if I’d have blinked, I would have missed it. He crouched on the ground, still glaring up at his brother. He stood, and I wondered how it was possible for someone to look completely self-assured and calm standing naked before the one person he’d been afraid of for so long. Severn wore boots with low heels, but Aren stood tall enough to look straight into his eyes. His injured arm hung limp at his side, the forearm twisted awkwardly inward.

Severn drew a twisted knife from beneath his cloak. Dark-bladed, like the one Aren used.

“A bit old-fashioned, don’t you think?” Aren asked.

Severn shrugged. “Unlike you, I enjoy getting my hands dirty, but I suspect that things may be rather complicated with you and my magic. Besides, if I do it right, this will be more fun.” He pressed the tip of the knife into the front of Aren’s shoulder, the exact spot where I’d rested my head when we danced. Blood blossomed around the knife and flowed freely toward the ground as Severn pushed harder.

Aren gasped and tried to pull back, but the guard behind him wrapped his hands around his arms. Light flashed, the fire dimmed briefly, and the guard fell away.

Aren leaned forward, bracing his good arm against his knee. “Did that hurt you?” Severn asked. “Drain you? You never were as good at that as I was. And I don’t imagine it’s easy while your magic is busy trying to heal you.” He placed the tip of the knife under Aren’s chin and flicked it upward, cutting him again. His other hand shot forward and grabbed Aren’s broken arm, twisting it. Aren gasped and fell forward.

I twisted out from behind the guard’s hand. “Stop it!” I yelled. Severn grinned.

Aren’s back heaved as he took in deep breaths of the smoky air. He looked up at Severn, then slowly stood, holding his arm against his side. Blood poured from his shoulder in a river that flowed over the hard curves of his tensed muscles, and when he raised his chin a tiny stream dripped from his face. “I’ll survive.”

“I doubt it.”

Someone groaned. When they both turned to look at me, I realized that the sound had come from my own throat.

“Oh,” Severn said. “I did say that if you showed up I’d let her die quickly. Shall we take care of that now?”

Aren’s jaw muscles flexed. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said through clenched teeth, and lunged forward to grab the knife. Orange flame flashed between them, and Aren pulled back, hissing.

“Then stop fighting,” Severn growled. He motioned toward me, and the guard dragged me toward them.

“Aren, fight. Run. I don’t—”

The guard twisted my hand up between my shoulder blades, cutting off my words as I sobbed. Aren lunged at him, but halted as Severn turned his knife on me. I sank to my knees and Aren dropped beside me. He put one arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I leaned in, pressing my face to his blood- and sweat-slick skin.

Severn laughed, a low, cold chuckle, and I looked up. “Gods, Aren, look at you. Pathetic. I always knew you had your mother’s weakness in you, but I never thought I’d see this day.”

I felt Aren tense.

Severn inhaled sharply, air hissing through his teeth. “Don’t.” The guard who’d been holding me fell to the ground, then climbed to his feet in a daze and began backing away. When I turned to look at Aren, he had his gaze locked on the guard. The man disappeared into the darkness and returned with a black horse that tried to shy away from the fire.

Severn kicked out, and his heavy boot caught Aren in the side of the head. I tried to catch him, but my body was too weak, my limbs uncoordinated. We both fell to the dirt, and my stomach muscles seized in a spasm of pain. Aren pushed himself up on his good arm.

Aren wiped the blood from his chin. “I’m not going to stop fighting until you let her go.”

Severn tilted his head. “You know you can’t win.”

“I’ll try.”

“Hmm.” Severn looked at his guard. “Take her to the horse. Aren, make this easy and she can go. I want to be done with you. Now.”

Aren narrowed his eyes at his brother. “I don’t believe you.”

“We’ll give her a head start while I deal with you, then.”

“She makes it to the bridge. And I won’t fight you. No magic. Nothing.”

Severn rolled his eyes. “Fine. But I make no promises after. If she returns to Tyrea, she’s fair game.”

Aren turned to me. “I think that’s the best I can do for you.”

“No,” I groaned as the guard pulled me away, dragging me over the dirt.

“It’s all right,” Aren said. “Just go quickly. I have no doubt that they’ll be after you as soon as I’m dead.”

The guard pushed me against the horse’s broad, sweaty side. The saddle leather scraped my face. I turned back. “I can’t. You go.” I remembered his objection when Arnav said I was going to die. “This isn’t how it ends.”

He tried to smile, but looked so sad. “I think it is. I’ve done many things wrong in my time, but this isn’t one of them. You’re going to live and be safe.”

Severn rolled his eyes. “Dear gods, you’re disgusting,” he said. “You should thank me for putting you out of your misery.” He grabbed Aren by his injured arm and lifted him, then spat in Aren’s face. Aren didn’t seem to notice.

Severn checked the blade of his knife and tested it by slashing at Aren’s arm, several shallow cuts that painted his skin with blood. Aren twitched and his lips pulled back in a snarl, but he didn’t resist. Severn touched the blade to Aren’s throat, just hard enough to hurt, to draw blood. Taking his time. Enjoying it.

Aren’s face relaxed. He’d known this end was coming since he decided to help me.

And that’s love.

Silence descended over me, blocking out the sounds of the fire, the river, and the wind. That power that I now recognized as my own magic roiled inside of me, ready. I sensed that I could hold it back, perhaps for long enough to make it to Belleisle.

I wondered what a place called “beautiful island” would be like, and decided I would never know. One more time.

A rushing noise filled the silence, as though a mighty dam had been opened, and everything inside of me was tossed in the power of the force that gripped me. Light bright enough to wash out even the pain in my head burst around me, and I fell to my knees. My arms swung out in front of me, and the magic tightened every muscle in my body in excruciating spasms as it swept out of me and toward the people who stood near the fire.

The horse behind me screamed and bolted.

Aren’s eyes widened, and Severn turned toward me, startled. The remaining guards yelled, but all fell silent at the same instant. I tried to hold on, to watch what happened, but the white light ripped through me and stole my sight, leaving me blind and falling into a darkness I welcomed with everything that was in me. I was ready for the end, and went hoping that Aren would be spared from whatever it was that I’d unleashed.

Chapter XXXIII

Aren

I HAD ONLY A MOMENT to react, to realize that she had released her magic and to shield myself from that flood of raw, destructive power. I began to change and halted the transformation in the instant when I was without a body. Everything in me screamed for physical form, and trying to hold it at bay was like drowning, like trying not to take the breath that would kill me. It was the most dangerous magic I’d attempted since my first transformation, but there was nothing else I could do.

Even without a body I felt the blast pass through me, though it felt more like a hot breeze than the punishing wave that crashed over the others. I had no eyes to watch what was happening, but I was aware of lights being extinguished all around me. Severn’s burned red, and didn’t disappear like the others. Instead it seemed to rush away, growing smaller and more distant in the instant before the others were destroyed.

I felt myself slipping away, being pulled in a thousand directions, scattered. I fought to call my physical self back to me. For a moment is seemed that it wasn’t going to happen, that I was as dead as any of the others. Then it came rushing back, blessed weight and form, blood and bone and muscle, as though grateful not to have been forgotten. The world took shape around me and I gasped in air that now burned with cold. Severn had taken his fire with him.

Piles of cloth littered the moonlit clearing. I crawled toward one, but there was nothing there. No bones, no ashes, nothing to indicate that someone hadn’t just stepped out of his clothing and gone about his business elsewhere.

I was fortunate that the first items of clothing I found were large. I struggled into them as quickly as I could, but my muscles refused to work together properly. When I tried to stand, my legs bucked under me. Perhaps this was the price I was to pay for my experimentation.

At least I was alive.

I pulled a dirty cloak around my shoulders and dragged myself to where I last remembered seeing Rowan.

She seemed to have disappeared, too. The pile of cloak and boots seemed far too small to hold a body.

“Rowan,” I called, my voice a hoarse whisper. No answer.

I dragged myself closer and found her curled on her side. The faint moonlight played off of her pallid skin, giving her a ghostly appearance. I collapsed beside her and pulled her close. Her body was limp, and she didn’t respond to my voice or my touch. I shook her gently, and her head rolled from side to side. She wasn’t breathing.

“No,” I groaned. “What did you do?” She could have got away. I wanted to be angry with her for releasing the power she knew would kill her, but I couldn’t. Hadn’t I been willing to do the same for her?

I tried to push myself up, but my arms gave out, and I lay with my head resting against her chest. I closed my eyes.

Thump.

I reached out and pressed my fingers to her throat. There was movement. Barely a tremor, but her heart was beating. I put my face near her mouth, and felt a slight warmth as she exhaled. It was enough. I didn’t know how, but she was alive.

We needed to get away from that place as quickly as possible. I didn’t know what she’d done to Severn, but he was still alive somewhere, and certainly furious. It seemed we both knew tricks that the other was unaware of.

Or maybe he knows all of mine, after all, I thought. He’d been prepared for my eagle form. I cursed myself for underestimating him again. No, he would be back sooner or later, and I didn’t have the strength to protect us. I couldn’t stand, let alone carry or even drag Rowan anywhere. Some connection between my mind and my body had been broken when they were separated. All I could do was try to keep her warm and hope that both of our conditions were temporary—and that she’d done enough damage to Severn to keep him away for a while.

I tried to imagine all of the magic I had ever used coming out of me at once, and thought it might have looked something like what had just happened. I didn’t doubt that the binding had been broken, but there was no magic in her that I could feel, and when I tried to reach out to her mind there was nothing. It wasn’t like before, when she’d been there but inaccessible. Now she was completely absent, her body an empty shell. She wasn’t sleeping, not dreaming, not drifting nearby. As long as her body was alive, though, it was possible that she could be brought back.

I’d exhausted my own supply of magic in finishing my transformation, and anything that came to me went straight to healing my body. But that didn’t leave me completely helpless. I curled my body around hers, laid my mending arm over her waist, and wrapped my cloak around both of us. Still the cold night air pressed in around us, greedy, stealing every bit of warmth.

My people know a number of deities, the great unnamed Goddess and a seemingly limitless pantheon of lesser gods. They’d shown little concern for me over the course of my life, and for the most part I’d done them the same courtesy. Now, though, I closed my eyes, and I begged.

Get us through this night. Let me get her to safety. Keep Severn away, and I’ll do anything. I’ll change. If you demand it, I’ll go back and face whatever I now owe to my family. Just let her come back, let her live. I didn’t even know who I was praying to, only that I needed to hold onto those thoughts to keep me from going mad.

No sense of peace or assurance washed over me, only exhaustion that threatened to pull me away. I would have to rest, and try to get Rowan away in the morning. I dozed a few times, but my sleep was fitful and interrupted by noises and disturbing dreams. By the time the sky began to fade to gray, and the stars disappeared, I could control my body better, but still lacked the strength to carry Rowan.

As I saw it, there were three options. One was to change again, fly as quickly as I could, and try to bring someone back to the clearing to help. That was no good. It would be too much of a risk to try another transformation before my magic and my body recovered fully. Or I could try to get Rowan back to the caves. But the fairies would be gone, and we’d be lost.

The last option was to follow through on my original plan to take her to Belleisle, and leave her there in the hopes that Ernis Albion and his wife would take care of her.

My chest tightened. The thought of leaving her there had been wrenching enough before, when she would have been able to take care of herself. She’d have hated me for lying to get her there, but she was resilient and clever. She would have moved on. She was far stronger than she realized.

Was.

Now she was helpless, at least until she woke, and leaving her with strangers seemed unthinkable. But there was nothing else I could do, and the longer I waited the more likely it was I would lose her completely. It was time to go.

As I searched the clearing for anything that might be of use to us, I found that the destruction was more shocking than it had seemed in the dark. Not only were there piles of clothing scattered about (from which I picked the warmest and cleanest items I could find, as well as a few weapons), but branches had fallen from trees, and in a space just outside of the fire circle I found bridles, saddles, and assorted horse gear in jumbled piles. It would break Rowan’s heart if she ever found out she’d done that.

Something crashed in the trees behind me, and I lurched back toward Rowan. A black horse appeared, wide eyed and snorting. His reins had become tangled in a branch, and it dragged behind, frightening him.

“Shh, it’s all right,” I murmured. He shuffled sideways, and I followed. He pulled back, and I stayed close. We continued the dance for a few minutes, until he allowed me to remove the branch.

I scratched behind one of his ears. He had thick legs, a wide face, ridiculous mule-ears, and his left flank was covered in ugly scars. In that moment, though, he was the finest horse I’d ever seen.

“Never in my life have I been so happy to see an animal,” I told him.

Getting Rowan onto the horse was awkward. I nearly dropped her once, and something fell from one of the big pockets on her pants. I set her gently on the ground again and picked it up. It was the dragon scale she’d taken from Ruby and kept with her all this time, nearly unrecognizable now that its hard surface was cracked in a dozen places. A few pieces snapped off when I touched it. I gathered up the pieces and tucked them back in Rowan’s pocket.

It was a strange way to ride, trying to hold Rowan, wondering if she could feel anything and whether I should be worried for her comfort, stopping occasionally to make sure she was still breathing.

The air grew misty as dawn approached. We reached a place where the river moved more quickly, gaining momentum as it neared its end. It plunged over a cliff and into the ocean in a great waterfall.

We followed the coast along the edge of the cliff until an island emerged from the fog, and then a bridge. I’d never seen the bridge before, and now understood why Belleisle was so often described as being nearly inaccessible. Sheer gray cliffs defined the strait on both sides. A long, arching bridge seemed to grow directly from the land, tapering toward the middle into an invisible junction. The curve was high and steep, the wind and waves hard. I turned the horse back toward the forest and kept riding south.

The rest of the ride seemed impossibly long when I thought about the need to get Rowan to safety, and terribly short when I thought about what would happen when we arrived. In truth, it took perhaps twenty minutes to reach the bridge that had seemed so distant in the haze. It looked even more treacherous from where we stood at the point where the solid stone structure melded into the mainland. There were no hand-holds or railings to offer support or protect from the elements, and the smooth stone arch seemed to narrow toward the middle, making every step more dangerous than the one before.

I left the black gelding at the edge of the forest and carried Rowan onto the bridge, holding her close, supporting her with my arms under her knees and shoulders. She felt so much heavier than she had when she was awake and aware and full of life. My muscles began to ache as we started across the bridge, and the place where my left arm had broken the night before felt the strain in a sharp line of pain. But I kept walking. The wind whipped our hair and clothing, and high waves crashed far below.

No more hesitation, I told myself. You owe her this.

A man started toward us from the island side of the bridge, an unburdened mirror of my own journey. We would meet in the middle, and I supposed that was the closest I’d ever come to seeing the mysterious land of Belleisle.

Apprehension clawed at my stomach, and I wanted to turn back. Crossing the bridge might have been the best thing for Rowan, but it felt like I was abandoning her to an unknown fate, and each step I took was the most difficult thing I’d ever done. I reminded myself that part of the reason we so despised the people of Belleisle was that they were weak—kind and compassionate. That could only help Rowan now.

The man who met us wasn’t Albion. He was my age or slightly younger, blond and strong and capable-looking. I hated him immediately.

We met in the middle. He slowly removed his gloves and folded his arms across his chest while mine shook with the weight I carried.

“You know why we’re here?” I asked, my voice not nearly as strong as I’d have liked it.

“We do,” the stranger said, sounding as though “we” encompassed all of the people who really mattered. “My father received a letter from the merfolk yesterday, and we’ve been expecting you. Expecting her, I should say. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that you won’t be going any farther.”

My jaw tightened. “I thought as much.”

The man held out his arms, and after a moment’s hesitation in which I almost dropped her, I let him take Rowan. By then my muscles were so tight that I could barely straighten them, but I’d have taken her back in a second if he’d offered her. He didn’t.

“How convenient for you,” he observed as he studied Rowan’s face. “You get to leave her here and forget about her, and no one would think poorly of you for it, because you can’t come anyway.” He gave me a cold look. “That is, if they were inclined to think of you at all. She’ll be well cared-for here. Not that it matters to you, I’m sure.”

If he hadn’t been holding the only thing in the world that mattered to me, I’d have pushed him off of the bridge right then. Instead I held my tongue, took a step back, and asked, “Will he be able to help her?”

He shrugged, causing Rowan’s head to rock to the side. Her hair danced in the sea air, appearing bright red in the hazy sunrise light. “I don’t know. Perhaps if you’d brought her here sooner it would have been easier. Still, my father is a powerful man.”

You’re not though, are you? I thought. There was no magic in him. I hope that hurts. I hope it burns you.

“There may still be hope,” he added. Not to encourage me, certainly, only to remind me that Albion would do what I obviously couldn’t.

I decided that when I died I’d come back and haunt this man’s nightmares until the end of his life, and I’d enjoy every moment of it. He turned and walked confidently back over the narrow bridge as though it spanned a garden stream instead of a wild and windy stretch of ocean. I could barely see Rowan, save for the top of her head and her boots. I realized I hadn’t said goodbye to her.

I considered falling off of the bridge then and letting the waves consume me, but a lifetime of fighting for self-preservation had left me with an aversion to suicide.

Severn and his people will be here soon enough, I thought. Maybe I’ll even welcome them.

I turned and made my way back to the forest, and turned the horse in the direction we’d just come from, back to the place where it had all ended.

We passed by the clearing without stopping. There was nothing there for me. We followed the path Rowan had left through the snow back to our campsite, and I gathered the things I’d left scattered when I went after her. I changed into my own clothes when I found them behind a tree, and packed up bedding that was now damp and frozen.

“What now?” I asked the horse.

He flicked a massive ear at me and went back to excavating a hole under a tree.

There was nowhere for me to go, and nothing to do. For the first time in my life I was completely without purpose or direction. True, I’d thought I was lost when I first betrayed Severn and took Rowan away from him, but then I’d decided to help her find the answer to her problem. It had been difficult and only somewhat successful, and had led me far from the course I’d expected, but it had been a direction.

Now what did I have? I couldn’t go home to Luid, to my rooms in the palace, to the university libraries that were my second home, or to any of the places I was familiar with. Mariana and Arnav weren’t going to take me in again, and I had no way of finding Kel and Cassia, wherever they’d gone. I could try to leave the country, but Severn would have people watching for that. Even if I could have slipped away somehow, the thought of being that far from Rowan made me feel ill.

No, there was only one place I wanted to be. I had to at least try to see her again, to make sure she was with the right people.

And what if I could help, and I’d given up too easily?

But I couldn’t just cross over the way I was. I’d have to fly again.

The horse carried me back to the cave entrance, and I left my things there. We wandered westward for the rest of the day, and in the evening I found a farm where a young family agreed to let me spend the night in their barn in exchange for the horse. They seemed suspicious of my generosity. In fact, I was just glad to have found a good home for him. Rowan would have been pleased.

I slept in the hay loft on an itchy blanket that kept me alert, but I didn’t use magic to protect myself. Instead, I let my reserves recover in anticipation of what was to come.

The next morning, the thought of transforming again made my stomach churn, and memories of nearly losing myself crowded my mind.

This is Tyrea, I reminded myself. There’s more than enough magic here. I’ve done this a hundred times before, this is no different. I laughed at myself. Hadn’t I just been thinking that I had nothing left to live for, no purpose to speak of? If I truly didn’t care whether I lived or died, I wouldn’t have been so nervous.

So stop whining and live.

A moment later I had done it, and was climbing toward the sky on wings that felt as weak as my human arms had.

The clarity and detachment that always came with my eagle’s body were missing. My thoughts stayed with Rowan, and my concern for her and the need to see her again only grew as I flew closer to the island.

By the time the island came into view, I felt as though the turmoil within would tear me apart. In my desperation I ignored my mind’s warnings that there would be protections around the island. I flew on, not caring what happened to me. If I went to her, I could be killed. If I didn’t, I’d surely go mad. For the first time I truly understood why my father was so afraid of love.

There was nothing, not even a whisper of protective magic as I passed over the water to the forested lands beyond. The road from the bridge ran through a tiny community, but no one so much as looked up as I passed over. I soared high, hidden in the clouds, descending occasionally to check my course, gliding as often as I could to save my strength. I had seen a few old maps of Belleisle, and thought I could find the capital city if I followed the road.

Forests passed under me, bare branches and pines, small lakes and ponds, swamps and towns, grasslands, hills, like a miniature version of my own country.

The sun was setting behind me when a city appeared beyond a high, grassy hill, surrounded by a low wall that appeared to be more for definition than for defense. In a trick of the light the buildings seemed to shine, bright and clean. Green-copper roofs contrasted with red and white stone walls, and the cobblestone streets flowed in a rough pattern of concentric circles near the center of town, breaking formation as they spread toward the ocean on one side and the hills on the other.

I settled in an old oak tree next to the outer edge of the wall to wait for morning.

Chapter XXXIV

Aren

DAWN LIT THE CITY. HORSE-drawn carts entered by the gates nearest me, and their occupants set up booths in a street market that quickly filled with customers, many of them laughing as they bartered with the vendors. I wondered whether life here was always so pleasant. It wasn’t unlike the life of people in Luid. Not my life, of course, but I’d seen it. Not at all what I’d expected from people who were supposed to be so different from my own.

The largest building visible from my perch was wide and white, with a tall clock tower rising from one end. The governor’s home and offices, if I recalled correctly. Not Ernis Albion’s home, though. If this had truly been a smaller version of Tyrea, he would have ruled, and I would have found Rowan there. Albion had never taken that office, though no one could have stopped him if he’d wanted to. It was one of many things my father had never understood. Power was a game to him, and anyone who refused to play wasn’t to be trusted.

I flew around the outside of the city walls, past a busy and well-guarded harbor and several more gates, over farms and a smaller village that sat apart from the city proper. I caught sight of a building that looked like a hospital, and a school with children rushing to the doors as a young woman rang an over-sized bell to call them to class, but nothing that I could identify as the home of the island’s most powerful Sorcerer.

A flash of light-colored hair caught my eye as I passed by a small gate, and I dropped closer to investigate. There was no doubt, even from a distance, that this was the man who had taken Rowan from me on the bridge. Even had I not been able to recognize his features, the haughty tilt of his chin would have given him away. He attached a full burlap sack to the back of his horse’s saddle, mounted, and rode west on the road out of the city.

I followed, staying well back and out of sight. He turned north and continued toward the shore until he passed through the iron gates of a well-kept property at the end of the road. He stopped to close the gates behind him, then disappeared around the back of a red-brick house, larger than any I’d seen in the city.

I kept to the cover of the trees, gliding just over their tops, and made my way around to the back. I settled into an orange-leafed elm with a wooden bench encircling the base. The position gave me an excellent view of the property, and the leaves would shelter me from the wind.

Their lack of security troubled me. There should have been something to keep intruders away, some warning of approaching danger, even if most people wouldn’t recognize me as such. Perhaps they didn’t usually need such precautions here, but I was proof that that could change very quickly. I began to worry that I’d made a terrible mistake, that this Albion wasn’t as powerful as everyone thought he was. Elegant and well-kept as this place was, it was hardly extraordinary.

The sounds of mid-day meal preparation coming from a door below me were nothing special, though the odors that wafted up reminded me of how long it had been since I’d eaten.

The young woman who walked toward the whitewashed barn didn’t see me. Neither did the middle-aged woman who went to the low-walled vegetable garden and picked slugs off of the plants, tossing them to a small flock of brown hens that followed her up and down the rows.

The next hours were among the most tedious of my life as I waited for some hint that I’d come to the right place. I saw no sign of Rowan, heard no one speak of her. Every time the door opened I hoped it was Rowan coming out, or someone carrying her clothes out to the wash-line, or a few people discussing a new addition to the household, but there was nothing. Around mid-afternoon an older man appeared. He looked like the descriptions I’d heard of Ernis Albion. He was tall and slim, with short, graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing glasses that someone as powerful as him shouldn’t have needed. He passed near, spoke quietly to a pair of young girls who were returning from a horseback ride in the woods, and returned to the house without so much as looking up.

This is wrong, I thought again. He should know by now.

The older woman was back in the garden, and Albion seemed to be following her instructions as they picked vegetables.

Where are their servants? I shifted on my branch, lifting my feet and stretching my stiff toes. The woman started toward a bench inside the garden, but Albion gestured toward the bench beneath my tree. I froze.

“I just thought we might get out of the wind for a few minutes,” he said as he eased himself down onto the bench.

“Whatever pleases you.” The woman sat and began snapping the ends off of beans.

“How’s our patient today?” he asked, and took a handful of beans to work on.

The woman gave him a sidelong glance. “No change. I thought Bernard would have told you.”

“I suppose he must have. Perhaps I’m becoming forgetful in my old age.”

She picked up a gardening glove from between them and slapped his arm with it. “Not if I can help it. Maybe I should put you on the regimen she’s on, eh?” She sighed. “Not that it’s doing much good so far.”

That would make her Albion’s wife, Emalda.

Albion patted her knee. “Give it time. I have complete faith in you.” He looked upward and spent a minute studying the back of the building. “Have you thought about moving her to this side? The morning sun might do her some good. I believe there’s a guest room available.” I followed his gaze to one of the small balconies that jutted out from the building at regular intervals on the second and third levels.

“Hmm,” Emalda said, not looking up. “If you think it would be better, I’ll have Marie put fresh linens on while supper’s cooking, and we’ll move the girl after. It’ll free the infirmary up for students, and she’ll be closer to my rooms that way. Yes, that will do nicely. Excellent plan.” They sat in silence as they finished their work, then stood together to go back to the house. Emalda stopped and looked up at the window. “Ern?”

“Hmm?”

“How long will we keep her? She’s certainly no trouble, but how long do we keep trying?”

He took her arm. “I don’t know.” He turned back and looked straight up at me. My heart jumped. “I suppose we’ll just wait, and pray that something happens to change the situation.” He turned away before Emalda saw him looking at me, and they went into the kitchen.

I waited for my feathers to lie flat and my heart to slow, then stretched my wings and flew toward the forest. I passed over the trees and came to the coast, where a white lighthouse perched precariously at the top of a steep cliff. A fat brown rabbit sat near the base. I killed and ate it. I doubted I’d find a better meal any time soon.

If Albion knew what I was, surely he knew who I was. He didn’t seem eager to be rid of me, though, or alarmed at my presence. Perhaps he was so confident in his own power that he wasn’t concerned. His attitude toward Rowan seemed appropriate. She was getting help. But apparently they couldn’t cure her.

What to do, then? I had to see her. Perhaps then I would know better.

He had been very clear about where and when she was to be moved, and it would make for an effective trap if that was his intention. I told myself that I’d need to carefully weigh the risks of going back, but I already knew what I was going to do.

The sounds of clanking dishes and animated conversation flowed from the kitchen windows when I returned to the house. Something broke, and several young voices laughed. I searched for a different hiding place, but the other trees were all too far from the house. I settled back into the elm on a high branch that reached toward the balcony, nearly touching it, but I stayed well back, hidden.

A tall window swung open with a soft creak.

“She’ll need fresh air, Ernis,” said Emalda, leaning out over the tiny balcony and breathing deeply. “We should leave this open, unless it gets too cold. Bernard, get some more quilts from downstairs, will you?”

The blond man passed close to the window a few minutes later and spread blankets over a lump in the bed, which was mostly hidden in shadows.

Don’t you touch her. I supposed I should be grateful to him for bringing Rowan here safely and for leading me back to his home, but it was all I could do to keep myself from flying in through the window and ripping his eyes out.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. This was so unlike me as an eagle.

Albion came to the window, and looked past me at something in the fields. He smiled to himself, with an expression I didn’t understand. I found reading emotions difficult when I wasn’t human. It didn’t look like a dangerous smile, but I had no idea what the man was thinking.

A clinking noise drifted from the room, metal striking glass. When I edged along the branch to get closer to the window I smelled peppermint and a few other herbs. I risked moving closer to the window to try to see Rowan, but the angle was all wrong. I shuffled back toward the trunk and dug my claws into the branch so I wouldn’t soar through the open window to her. Patience, I told myself. They’ll have to leave some time. The door opened again, then closed, and finally the room was silent.

I waited and listened for a few more minutes. I heard voices and sensed presences in other parts of the house, but not in that room. I pushed off, landing on the wide stone railing on the balcony. My wings made too much noise as I flapped to catch my balance, but no one came to the window.

And there she was. Not in trouble, certainly. She looked clean and comfortable, resting under several warm quilts that lay flat over her body, pulled up to her shoulders. It meant she wasn’t moving at all. Any time I’d seen her sleeping before, the blankets had ended up twisted around her legs and the bed sheets creased from her tossing and turning. I couldn’t see her face, hidden as it was in the shadows. I had to get closer.

She didn’t stir when I flapped into the room, or when the bed’s footboard creaked as I settled onto it.

“So,” said a voice behind me.

My head snapped around. Ernis Albion rested in a chair in the corner of the room closest to the window.

“What are we going to do about this?”

Chapter XXXV

Aren

MY TALONS SCRATCHED THE HARD wood of the bed as I turned to face him.

Albion made no sudden movements, did not speak. My skin prickled, fluffing my feathers, and I lifted my wings slightly. I had no real idea what he was capable of, or what he was thinking. He had been waiting for me, and I’d let my need to see Rowan make me careless. I deserved whatever I got for it.

His hand twitched, and I spread my wings farther to the sides, ready to fly out the window, or straight at him if I had to. That strange smile came to him again and he moved his hand more slowly, lifting a tea cup from the table beside him.

“Calm down, boy,” he said. “I think I know why you’re here, and I’m not going to hurt you for it.” He took a sip from the cup and grimaced. “I thought I might try what my wife has been giving to your friend, to see if it might wake me up a little. Probably a good thing she can’t taste this.” He set the cup down and stood slowly, keeping his arms spread and his hands open, non-threatening. I settled my wings, but every muscle in my body remained tense, ready to fly or to fight.

Albion moved toward the bed, moving in a wide arc around the end where I perched. He took a handful of Rowan’s hair and let it fall through his fingers. “Was it like this before? I don’t imagine it would have been easy for her to hide this at home.”

I hopped onto the mattress and side-stepped into the shadows at the head of the bed. I narrowed my eyes, and moved closer again. The strange tint I’d seen in her hair on the bridge hadn’t been an illusion. What I saw now was a complex color built from shades my human eyes would never pick up. To them, it would all be an unnatural, deep red. I shook my head from side to side.

Albion walked back to his chair and sat again. I stayed where I was, but never let him out of my sight. He reached for his tea again, then seemed to decide against it and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m curious about what caused her current condition. It seems Bernard didn’t get many details from you when you met.”

I shrugged as well as I could.

“So you don’t speak in animal form.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t try to answer. “I don’t, either. I need to ask you some questions that might help me decide what to do here, but I suppose you’ll need to change first. Will you need clothes?”

I nodded.

“I’ll find you something suitable, and see if I can keep everyone else from disturbing us for a while. I won’t be lying if I say I’m working on something to help her, will I?”

When he was gone, I used one foot to pull the blankets down a little and rested my head on Rowan’s chest just above her heart. She felt colder than she had the last time I touched her, but other than that, her hair, and the thin white nightgown she now wore, nothing seemed to have changed.

Albion returned and set a pile of clothes on the bed. Pants, a belt, a shirt. He also brought a plate of sandwiches. When he left again I changed and dressed quickly, and examined Rowan’s hair. Definitely a magical change. A minor thing compared to the rest of her troubles, but I wondered what she’d think of that when she woke. My human eyes picked up things I hadn’t noticed before. Hollows under her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the shine of whatever Emalda had put on her lips to keep them from drying out. These people were doing what they could for her, but I doubted Rowan could stay like this for much longer. I brushed my fingers over one oddly-colored eyebrow. She didn’t move. Her face was a perfect mask.

Albion returned a few minutes later, lit a few lamps, and sat on a sofa across the room from the window. He appeared far more relaxed than I felt.

“Sandwich?” he asked.

“Thank you.” I was too hungry to refuse.

We ate in silence, and I watched him, trying to figure him out. He was more intimidating now than he had been when I was an eagle. It wasn’t physical. He was shorter than me, and looked like a strong wind would send him flying. Part of it was how relaxed he seemed. If he wasn’t threatened by me, he had to think he was more powerful than I was. He could have been right. I felt the magic in him, familiar and yet not, ready for when he needed it. I didn’t trust him.

He poured two glasses of a yellow drink. “Now, questions. I imagine you have some as well?”

“I do, but I think yours are more likely to help Rowan. What do you need to know?”

“Quite a lot. I received a letter from Arnav telling me about her situation, but there are many details missing. A few weeks ago I heard about this… turmoil, I suppose, in your family. You disappearing for the second time in a month, and this time with something that belonged to your brother.”

“She never belonged to him.”

“No, of course. This is just what I heard. Very confusing reports.”

I set my drink down on the low table. “You have people watching us?”

He smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “Not exactly. That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? But I do have people who live in your land and keep their ears open, and tell me when something interesting happens. And this was interesting. From what I’d heard before, you were one of your brother’s top advisers.”

“He has others. But I would have been his Second one day.”

“It’s a lot to walk away from, isn’t it? Did you know that Severn has had twenty-seven people hanged since you disappeared with her?”

“No.”

“A few who were supposed to be watching you the day you left, but most were people who were already in the jails or prison for crimes that deserved rather less than execution. Your brother has quite a temper.”

A quick flash of pain shot through my shoulder as I remembered my own experiences with it. “Rowan learned that, too.”

I told him about the night Severn appeared—catching her, the deal I’d made with him, the destruction that followed. Albion’s brow furrowed. He was beginning to look familiar to me, but I couldn’t think why.

He shifted in the chair and crossed his legs. “Do you have any thoughts on why this happened? Why she let that magic go when she knew it would kill her? Or how she did it?”

“I don’t know how. These bindings are supposed to be unbreakable. As to why, she must have been terrified and didn’t know what else to do.” I squeezed my eyes closed. “She did it for me. She shouldn’t have, but she did. Does that tell you anything helpful about the situation?”

“No, but it is interesting. As is the fact that while you were talking…” he nodded toward Rowan.

Her head had turned slightly toward us. It could just have been her muscles relaxing. There was still no expression on her face, and no other movement.

Someone called to Albion from somewhere else in the house. “Can you come back tomorrow?” he asked. “The old lighthouse is well-stocked, if you’d like to sleep there. Slightly dusty and drafty, perhaps, but better than the woods. I have evening lessons now. Did you know we took in students?”

“I did. My father never trusted it. He thought you were raising an army.”

Albion chuckled. “Not exactly, but I—”

Footsteps approached in the hallway. I stood and ran to the window, changed without stopping, and threw myself out the window and into the air as the door opened. I flew hard toward the forest, and no one followed me.

It wasn’t the most comfortable night, but I wasn’t about to complain. I needed to spend time in my own body. One of the great dangers of transformation is becoming too comfortable in another form, until eventually it becomes impossible to become fully human again. I slept on a lumpy cot under a pile of blankets, and in spite of the cold I woke several times covered in sweat, shaken by nightmares.

I was awake to welcome the sun when it rose, and I changed again so that I could perch on the railing outside of the lamp tower, warming my feathers as the gulls took flight below me.

After a quick pre-flight preening I plummeted from the lighthouse, spreading my wings at the last moment to cut through the salty spray of the waves before turning back toward the house and Rowan.

I found my clothes from the previous day neatly folded and waiting at the end of the bed, and a breakfast of fruit and cold meats waiting on the table. I ate quickly, then sat on the bed and talked to Rowan while I waited for Albion. I held her hands, touched her face. Anything to get her attention.

“Please come back,” I whispered. “The world needs you. I need you.”

There was still no one there in that cold, beautiful body.

The door creaked behind me, and an orange fox nosed its way into the room and stood waving its tail back and forth. A moment later Albion stood in its place, fully clothed in the loose brown robes he’d worn the day before.

“Good morning,” he said, with a respectful nod that made me uncomfortable. He should have displayed his power and kept the advantage, not treated me as an equal.

“No change overnight?” I asked.

“No. Emalda is taking care of her body as well as she can, but hasn’t been able to reach her mind yet. Have you had any ideas?”

“Not yet. But if you think she can hear me, maybe I’ll just stay here.”

“By all means,” he said. “I’d like to stay as well. I do have some more questions, and you said you did, as well. Perhaps I could explain how I change into clothes when I change forms, if you’re having trouble with that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Sure.”

He explained a theory about “essences” that made little sense at first, but that I thought I might be able to sort through later. Magic is very much an individual phenomenon, and he couldn’t give me instructions on how to do anything, only tell me how he shaped his own thoughts to make it happen for himself.

He answered my questions as well as he could, and we discussed magic theory for a while. I expected him to ask me about my own experiences, perhaps to gain information about my power or about my family, but he didn’t. He seemed to have no agenda other than to offer help, and to keep me there until Rowan showed some sign of hearing my voice.

He had to go for lessons before lunch, leaving me alone to talk to Rowan again, and he brought food and drink with him when he returned. While we ate, we talked about dragons and the scale that Rowan had destroyed.

I found myself growing comfortable with him, but suspicious of his motives. It made no sense that he should be so open and trusting. When the meal was over I asked, “Why are you being so kind to me?”

He paused with a glass of cold tea halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“You shouldn’t want me here. I’m glad you want to help Rowan, but this isn’t at all what I expected. My father is no friend of yours, and I think your family has reason to hate me. I assume that your wife doesn’t know I’m here. I was surprised when I was able to get onto the island, and then into your home, and now you’re feeding me, talking to me like a friend or a student. I’d like to know why.”

He leaned back in his seat and scratched at his beard. “No, Emalda doesn’t know. She won’t be pleased when I tell her, which I should do soon. It’s unfair of me to keep secrets, but I thought it was worth the risk. Perhaps she’ll see it that way. I knew you were coming before you crossed the water. If you’d come with ill-will, you wouldn’t have made it. I allowed it because you came for her, and I was at a loss when I tried to think of anything else that might help her. As to why I’m being kind to you…” He shrugged, and his lip twisted up at one corner. “Perhaps I’m just a nice person.”

“I appreciate you taking Rowan in more than I can say. But letting an enemy into your home for a purpose is one thing. Treating him as a guest is another.”

He sighed. “Did you know that your mother was from Belleisle?”

“Was she?” That was news to me. Another reason for Severn to mistrust her, I supposed.

“Oh, yes. Lovely girl. Somewhat rebellious, of course, as one must be to run off with a man like your father. Still, a part of you belongs here. Not that it changes anything about what or who you are.”

“No.”

“But thus far you’ve behaved respectfully and given me no cause to treat you badly. And I would very much like for this girl to wake and tell me her story. There’s much I’d like to know about what she’s experienced. I don’t want to chase you off if you’re the key to bringing her back.”

“Do you think that I am?” I wanted to be. I wanted her to need me.

“It’s possible. My son, Bernard, mentioned something yesterday, some old stories where a princess was somehow cursed into a long sleep. Do you know any of those?”

“I’m familiar with the concept. Why? Does your son consider himself a heroic prince? Does he want to kiss her and break the spell?” I couldn’t keep the disdain from creeping into my voice.

Albion looked away and smiled sadly. “Not precisely, but in the absence of any other options, he thought it might be worth a go. He hasn’t tried, but you can see why he’d want to. Bernard has no magic. Perhaps he thought that if he woke her she would fall in love with him and they’d be married, just like in the stories.”

“How terribly romantic.” The thought of him touching her made me ill.

Albion shrugged. “There are practical considerations, as you well know. He has no magic himself, but if Rowan’s magic returned to her, their children could be quite amazing, given his family background.”

That was something I could never give her, along with safety, an end to her pain, and the kind of love she’d grown up waiting for. As she’d said herself, I didn’t even know what that word meant.

I turned to look at her again. This was never going to work, I thought. I was never what she needed. I’d wanted to help, and had done nothing but hurt her. I’d thought things could be different this time.

The room seemed to be becoming smaller, the air thicker. It was time to leave, at least for the day. “I’m sure you have other things to do today,” I said.

“I do, in fact. Is something wrong?”

“No.” I needed to get outdoors so I could breathe. “Please tell your wife that I mean no harm to you or your family. I just want Rowan to come back, and then I’ll leave.” Though I felt uncomfortable doing it with a near-stranger in the room, I stopped on my way to the window, leaned down, and kissed Rowan on the forehead.

Albion gasped. “Do that again,” he said. “Her finger twitched.” I did, but nothing happened. “Try again. Kiss her on the lips.”

“This is rather awkward, I’d rather not—”

“It’s important.”

He was actually suggesting that it might work like in the old fairy tales, just like his idiot son.

This is ridiculous, I thought. I took a deep breath, leaned in, cupped her face in my hand, and kissed her cold lips.

Albion waited a moment, then sighed. “Nothing I could see,” he said. “I’ll have Emalda check her over, anyway. It was probably a silly idea.”

I looked down at Rowan. She looked so peaceful. A real-life fairy-tale princess if ever there had been one. “Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe I’m just not the prince she’s waiting for.”

I changed and flew out the window. Albion said something, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy trying to decide whether it would be better if I didn’t come back.

Chapter XXXVI

Rowan

IT WAS SO PEACEFUL THERE.

Time didn’t seem to exist. There was no night or day, and the light filtering down through the forest canopy never seemed to change. I drifted off to sleep sometimes, but couldn’t have counted how many times it happened, even if I’d thought to try. It wouldn’t have meant anything to me, anyway.

I was curious about the place when I first arrived. I had no idea how I’d gotten to the forest, or what might have happened before I was there. But once I’d taken in the details of what was around me—the shimmering surface of a narrow river, the damp, earthy scent of its banks, the delicate ferns and the ancient, mossy trees that surrounded me—I completely lost track of the idea that there had been a “before.” There was only the forest.

A path ran through the clearing where I rested. In one direction it curved between the trees, leading toward a place that seemed brighter. In the other direction it seemed to lead deeper into the woods. It was much darker that way. Bare branches and brambles choked the path, and arching tree roots waited to trip unwary travelers. It seemed like I’d eventually have to choose to go one way or the other, but there was no hurry. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I wasn’t bored, though nothing ever happened except for an occasional breeze ruffling the highest leaves in the canopy.

The voice came so gradually that at first I didn’t notice it as being something apart from the forest. It was nothing more than a whisper in the breeze that sounded like words in a language I didn’t understand, and I forgot about it as soon as it stopped. When it happened again, it was clearer and more familiar. I lifted my head from where it had been resting on my arms, trying to find where the sound was coming from, and trying to figure out why it seemed to mean something. And then it was gone, but not quite forgotten, a lingering whisper clinging to a back corner of my mind.

The voice was clearer the next time I heard it, and for the first time since I’d settled in the forest, I remembered that there was something beyond that sheltered spot by the river, that there had been a before, and that there had once been other people.

I wandered around the edges of the clearing and up and down the river bank as far as I could, trying to tell where the voice was coming from, but it was no use. The sound was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The wind began to blow stronger, and for the first time, the light around me grew dimmer. The wind whispered my name. I’d forgotten that I had one.

A warm gale swept through the clearing. It twisted around me, blowing my hair into my face and sending a strange energy through my body, and then it disappeared completely. The voice disappeared, too, but it had done what I thought it came to do. I remembered that there was somewhere else I was supposed to be.

I sensed that my time in the forest was over, and I needed to choose a path. I just didn’t know which way I was supposed to go.

Chapter XXXVII

Aren

EMALDA WAS WAITING WHEN I flew in through Rowan’s window early that evening. She wore a black dress and a scowl, and the way she had her graying hair pulled back into a tight knot at her neck only emphasized the severity of her expression. Her pale blue eyes could have been cut from a mountain glacier.

I perched on the end of the bed and she watched me for a few minutes, then frowned and looked away while I changed and dressed.

When Emalda turned back, she waited for me to speak. I didn’t try to read her thoughts. I didn’t need to. The hate was obvious, the disgust and the pain. She poured three cups of whatever she’d prepared for Rowan and passed one to me, careful to not let our fingers touch.

“My father was a beekeeper,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “He always told us that what’s good for the queen is good for the hive. I’ve been hoping this would do something for Rowan, but it certainly won’t hurt us. Drink.” She took a sip from her cup, and I did the same. The tea stung my mouth and made my eyes water, but the taste wasn’t terrible. “What do you think?”

I cleared my throat. “I think it could probably wake the dead.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” She finished her drink in a single gulp. “Would that I could have brought my sister back. Did you know she was a low-level Sorceress?”

“No.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? She had a special talent for reading people’s bodies and determining what their troubles were, so her abilities complemented mine perfectly. We did good work in our town when we were younger. Long after I married and moved here, someone back at home irritated your father, and you were sent out to take care of the problem.”

“I’m—”

“I’m not finished.” Tears shone in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I’ve waited five years to have you in front of me, and you’re going to listen. Dorin was a peacemaker. I was visiting her when you stopped by our town. I told her not to go, but when she heard there was trouble in the square, she had to try to make people stop fighting. When I found her she was unconscious, bleeding from her head, bruised everywhere. There was nothing I could do except try to ease the pain. She suffered for two full days before she let go.”

“I don’t suppose it would help if I apologized.”

“No,” she snapped. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t think you can be sorry. There’s too much of your father in you.” She stepped closer, fists clenched. “I don’t want you here. Nothing would make me happier than to turn you out and let you and your brother destroy each other. But my husband thinks that this poor, misguided girl needs you, and he seems to think he can accomplish something with you, as well. He’s wrong. It’s too late. But if it satisfies his curiosity or eases his guilt, perhaps that alone is worth something.”

“His guilt?”

“About what happened to your mother. He still wonders what might have happened if she had brought you back here instead of staying with that monster. He would have let her come back. They sent letters, talked about it before she died. She refused. He loved her, though, even after what she did to him.”

My mouth went dry as I realized why Albion looked so familiar. “She was his daughter.”

“You didn’t know?” That seemed to please her. “By his third wife, before me. He has the decency to take his wives one at a time, but he’s been around for a long time. He sees your mother in you, and it blinds him to what you really are.”

Someone knocked at the door, and it creaked open. “May I join you now?” Albion asked Emalda, and she nodded.

“Of course,” she said. She took the third cup to Rowan and poured a few drops at a time into her mouth, then checked her pulse and pinched the skin on the back of one hand. She turned back to Albion. “He can stay until she wakes, or until we decide his presence is doing nothing to help her.” She looked at me. “After that, you are no longer welcome in my home or on this island. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It was hard not to say anything else. I knew she was right to be angry, but I wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to so disrespectfully by someone like her. It had been bad enough to be insulted by Mariana, who had earned my respect and who had once cared for me. To take such abuse from a stranger was much more difficult.

Emalda left us and closed the door behind her, and Albion let out a long breath. “She’ll be back.”

“I do hope so,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

Albion frowned. “I’m sure she’s not easy for you to get along with, but she has good reasons for feeling the way she does about you. I’m surprised she’s willing to let this happen at all. Emalda is a better woman than you know. Not everyone would make these compromises.”

“But she’s not making them for me.”

He had turned to check on Rowan, and spoke without looking back. “She told you.”

“Why didn’t you say something when I asked yesterday?”

“I thought you had enough on your mind without all of that.” He stood straight and crossed his arms. “Perhaps I was concerned that you’d hold me responsible in part for what happened to Magdalena, because of the letters.”

“No. Learning that she wasn’t a traitor is the best news I’ve had in years.” The letters that got her killed had been nothing more threatening than correspondence with her father. One more thing Severn would answer for if I ever saw him again.

Albion sank into the chair nearest the bed. “There’s so much I’d like to tell you, and to ask you, but there’s not time. Rowan is holding up for now, but we don’t know how long her body can go on like this. Emalda had an idea last night, though. You can get into people’s minds?”

“In a sense, but—”

“Were you ever able to do it with Rowan?”

And then I understood what he was suggesting. “Not while she was awake.”

Albion nodded. “I wondered. Would you be willing to try it now?”

“You mean sleep here?”

“It would be easier than moving her to the lighthouse.”

I sat down to think. It was probably impossible. Rowan wasn’t sleeping. If she was dreaming or thinking anything at all, it was at a far deeper level than I’d ever tried to reach. It would be dangerous. I could lose myself completely, and even attempting it would leave me vulnerable to attack.

But if there’s a chance…

“I’ll need to be alone with her,” I said. “I can’t have anyone else in the room.” Albion didn’t say anything. “Emalda wants someone watching, doesn’t she?”

“She suggested supervision, yes. She may be concerned for the girl’s safety—”

“Rowan has been with me for quite some time. I’m not going to hurt her now.”

“Indeed. But there may be a concern of what could happen in a circumstance like this. Also, there’s the possibility of the students finding out. We have strict rules about propriety, and Emalda wouldn’t want to make an exception for someone like… well, for you.” He sounded apologetic. It didn’t help. “Let me speak to her. Perhaps if I slept in there?” He gestured toward an open door that led to a smaller bedroom. “I think that’s the best I can offer. I’ll close the door, if it helps.”

“Not really. Better you than her or someone else, I suppose.” A headache was brewing behind my eyes. “I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”

I returned long after dark, having spent the hours between visits flying, trying to tire myself and make it more likely that I’d sleep.

And I planned.

Albion seemed trustworthy, but then, so did I when I needed to. Even if he meant no harm to me or Rowan, there were still other people in the building. There was that window that would be so easy for someone to get in through. I would have to leave a significant part of my awareness in the room, ready to pull me back if there was trouble. To do otherwise might let me deeper into Rowan’s mind, but the risks were too great. It would have to be enough.

Emalda offered to make me something to help me sleep, but I declined. I needed to be able to wake quickly, and I didn’t trust her. The woman looked like she’d just swallowed something bitter every time she looked at me, and it seemed an unnecessary risk.

After she left and Albion retired to the adjacent bedroom, I focused on leaving a portion of my awareness in the room. I lay down beside Rowan and tried to clear my thoughts so I could drift off.

Jumbled and confusing images of the past few months filled my mind. After some time, dreams began to crowd in. Rowan was running away from me, and when I looked down, my hands were massive, scaly things with dangerous claws. I dreamed I was consumed by fire, and then that I woke with Rowan safe beside me, back at the Grotto. There was a dream where Rowan was asleep in a tower like a story-book princess, guarded by a red dragon and missing for a hundred years. But none of those versions of Rowan were real or reachable.

I reluctantly relaxed my hold on reality, and slipped deeper into something that was like a dream, and yet not. The world expanded around me and lost the surreal, slippery quality that always gave my dreams away. This was a different state, one I’d never experienced before.

I flew over a large expanse of water in my eagle body. There was land in the distance, but the wind was pushing me back as fast as I could fly forward. The colors of the clouds and the water were muted, and the sound of the waves and wind seemed to not quite reach me, but this place felt far more real than any of my previous dreams. If I was going to find Rowan, it would be here.

I tried diving down to get under the wind, but huge waves threatened to soak me. There was no getting above the storm, either. Lightning flashed through the clouds each time I tried. The wind pushed me back again and again, and each time it did, the bedroom flashed into my mind—the window with moonlight shining through, shadows of the elm tree on the floor, the wind whistling at the corner of the building. Two doors fought for my attention, one I would never be invited through, and another that sat open just enough that I couldn’t be sure no one was going to come through. Albion was awake on the other side.

The more I focused on the real world, the harder the winds pushed me back in the dream. A sudden gust sent me tumbling toward the water, and I barely managed to climb back into the air before a massive wave could soak my feathers. I was growing tired, and knew I couldn’t keep flying for much longer. Staying would be far too dangerous. I sensed that an accident in this strange world would have very real consequences. There was also a chance that if I went any deeper I would lose myself completely in her mind. I decided to pull back and try again after I’d had a chance to wake and come up with a better plan.

The bedroom began to solidify in my mind, and one more thing caught my attention. Rowan. There was the tiniest hint of a frown on her brow, and her hand twitched—the one I could see myself holding. She was responding to my presence, but it wasn’t enough yet. I knew then what I had to do.

I gave up.

I let go of the consciousness that held me to the room and to my body, not knowing whether I would be back. It didn’t matter. What mattered lay beyond the storm. I let myself fall completely into the dream, and the colors and sounds of that place blazed to brilliant life.

I found a channel of calm over the water, between the howling winds that still grabbed at my wings if I drifted to one side or the other. I flew forward, and rushed toward the land ahead me.

Towering stone cliffs rose from the water, and storm waves pounded on the jagged rocks at their base. A warm breeze pushed me from behind, and I rose over the edge of the cliff. Dark trees formed a line just past a rocky, barren field next to the cliffs. Strange vines wound their way through the trees, and mosses blanketed the rocky ground. Some unfamiliar bird trilled in the distance, and I realized that this place reminded me of the dreary woods in Rowan’s dream.

I flew over the trees, searching for a path, a clearing, any indication that I’d find what I was looking for.

“Rowan!” I’d expected to have nothing but bird noises come out, but my own voice echoed out over the endless forest. How long had I been flying? Every muscle in my body burned from the effort, but I couldn’t rest. I was running out of time. If I woke, I might not get another chance to come back.

“Rowan!” I called again, desperately listening for the response I wanted more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life.

There was nothing. My hope faltered. Perhaps I’d been wrong, and this was nothing but an empty dreamscape.

Then, from somewhere near a river that was just barely visible, sparkling beneath a break in the trees…

“Aren!”

I turned and forced my aching wings to beat harder, pushing toward the river, my heart pounding. Please don’t let this be just a dream, I thought. I dropped toward the treetops.

Chapter XXXVIII

Rowan

NOTHING HAD CHANGED, EXCEPT THAT now I was waiting. I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around what it was that I was waiting for, but I held desperately to the idea that there was something. When I felt myself drifting back into the haziness that had held me before, I brought the voice back to mind. If I could remember it speaking my name, I could remember myself, if only in a vague way. Layers of fog in my mind kept me from remembering exactly what my name was, but I knew the voice had said it.

I heard it again, once. It was distant and muffled, not speaking any words that I could understand, but hearing it again filled me with relief and longing. “Don’t forget me,” I whispered.

I paced the edges of the clearing, counting my footsteps and finding it impossible to keep track of the numbers. The dark path was still dull and shadowy and vaguely frightening, while the other path remained bright and inviting. It smelled good, too, like there might be a meadow just around that bend in the path, filled with warm sunlight and sweet peas and clover. Maybe strawberries. I stepped onto the path, intending to go just far enough to see, when a sound froze me where I stood.

“Rowan!”

The voice again. So close and so clear, coming from somewhere above me. I noticed my heartbeat. Had that been there before? Certainly not so loud or so fast. I knew that this was important. Rowan was my name, I was sure of that, but who did the voice belong to? I felt the memory becoming clearer, but still just out of reach.

“Rowan!” the voice called again, and everything came flooding back—the world I’d grown up in, my family, my past, magic, and pain, and a long journey. And…

“Aren!” My voice was far too quiet. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and shouted again. “Aren!”

I kept yelling, not really aware of what I was saying, desperate to be heard. A shadow passed over the clearing, and I looked up in time to see a winged shape gliding overhead, gone before I could wave my arms to attract attention.

Which way had he gone? Suddenly I couldn’t keep any of it straight in my mind. I ran to the river and shielded my eyes against the sun, searching the sky, seeing nothing.

“Rowan?” His voice was behind me now. I spun around to see him standing at the place where the dark path met the clearing. Almost. I almost saw him. He didn’t seem real, and I could make out the shapes of the trees behind him. I stepped slowly toward him and halted a few steps away. I was in shadow there, and I could see him better without the sun in my eyes.

“I can hardly see you,” he said.

“I’m here.” My voice cracked again.

He held out a hand and I tried to take it. There was nothing there but warmth. Nothing I could hold on to. An empty pit opened inside of me. “Are you alive?” I asked. He certainly looked like a ghost.

He smiled. “Yes.”

Another thought occurred to me. “Am I?”

“So far,” he said. “I don’t know for how long, though. You’ve been gone for too long.”

“I thought so.” I took a long look around the clearing. “I want to go back with you.”

He looked behind him, listening for something. “This way,” he said. As I watched, he flickered out, then returned. “I don’t think I can stay here.”

“You’ve been in my dreams before.”

“I don’t think this is really a dream,” he said. “Not for you. Maybe that’s why I can’t see you properly.”

“Guess we’d better go then.” I wanted desperately to take his hand, but all we could do was walk beside one another, occasionally overlapping when we climbed over a fallen branch or dodged a boulder. He kept disappearing, and appeared less substantial every time he returned. A crashing noise grew louder as we stepped out of the forest onto unfamiliar, stony ground. I could barely see Aren in the bright sunlight.

He pointed out over the water. “That’s how I flew in.”

I stepped closer to the cliff. There was no way down. No path, no handholds, no boat at the bottom to carry me home, just rocks and crashing waves a terrifying distance below me. I stepped back. I’d always been afraid of heights.

When I turned toward Aren again, he was gone. I waited, but he didn’t reappear. I wondered whether he could still see or hear me, or if he was awake now, waiting for me to follow. I walked along the cliff, but everything around me stayed the same.

Ahead of me and behind me, the edge of the land stretched out in a straight line as far as I could see. Below me, that horrible drop to the rocks, the water, and waves that crashed so hard that the spray wet my skin. The path into the forest was still there, ready and waiting. I knew that I could go back, that the sweet-smelling path to the meadow would be there for me. But I also understood that while going that way would lead me to a beautiful place, maybe a better place, it would never lead me home. My body would die. I would never see Aren again.

I turned back toward the cliff. My heart slammed, and my stomach tried to climb into my throat.

I hope this is a dream.

I closed my eyes, leaned forward, and dived off of the edge.

At first it didn’t feel like falling, aside from the wind rushing into my face. The sound of the waves quickly grew louder, though, and nothing happened. I didn’t transform into a bird or a fish, the waves and the rocks didn’t disappear. The roaring beneath me only grew louder. I forced my eyes open and was faced with the unforgiving surface of a huge rock, so close that I could see the barnacles clinging to its cratered surface. I threw my arms around my head, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good.

The impact knocked the wind out of me, but was considerably softer than I’d expected. It didn’t even hurt, once I managed to draw a breath. The air didn’t smell like salt, but like air-dried laundry, and I felt warm again. My body was heavy, though, and it was a struggle to pull my arms away from my face, to drag them down over the soft, smooth surface my body rested on.

When I manage to force my eyelids open, I found myself in an unfamiliar room. Moonlight flooded in through a large window near the end of the bed. My neck was stiff, but I managed to turn my head to the left. Furniture—a sitting area with sofa and chair. A glass vase of flowers and a teapot on a low table in the middle. A bookshelf, too far away for me to be able to see what kind of books it held. Interesting, but not at all what I was looking for.

I took a deep breath and forced my head to turn the other way.

Aren lay beside me, still asleep. His breath was heavy, but uneven. Dreaming. Was he trying to get back to me? Or perhaps he’d made it back, and found that I had disappeared.

I only enjoyed the sight for a moment while I worked up a bit more strength, enough to try moving my fingers, to lift my hand to his face. His cheek felt rough under my fingers.

I lifted my head and slowly shifted my body toward his, every movement a little easier than the one before it. I thought I might cry. Instead, I leaned in and kissed him, brushing my lips gently over his, then pressing harder, not wanting to let go.

His eyes snapped open.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” I whispered. “What took you so long?”

Chapter XLIX

Aren

“ROWAN?”

SHE KISSED ME AGAIN, and laughed. She was back, no question—bright eyes, mischievous grin, and looking like she’d just wakened from nothing more than an incredibly restful nap.

I looked past her at the door that separated her room from Albion’s, waiting for it to open, but nothing happened. He didn’t know she was awake, or he was giving us a little more time. Either way, I would take it.

Rowan laid her head back down on the pillow, and I ran my fingers through her hair. She sighed and closed her eyes. I pulled my hand back, and her eyes blinked open. “Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t want you falling asleep again.”

She smiled. “For the first time in a long time, sleep is the last thing on my mind.” She touched my face again, brushing her thumb over my eyebrows, smoothing away the tension. “You look like you could use a little more, though.”

“Probably. But not now.” Her hands were still cold, but felt so good touching me.

“You can sleep,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’d always thought heartache was a sentimental concept imagined by someone with no understanding of the human body and even less sense, but I was learning I’d been wrong. This hurt.

“I want to ask where we are, and what happened,” she said, and traced her fingers over my face, pausing over the faint scar on my chin that magic had yet to heal completely. “But I need to say something first. Back at our camp—”

“I’m sorry for all of that. For lying, for not trusting you to decide for yourself, trying to push you away. I—” I hesitated, searching for an excuse or a way to gloss it over, but there was none. “I was wrong.”

Her face broke into a warm smile. Perhaps she understood how difficult those words were for me. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. “I said some horrible things. I was just so angry. But I do love you. And I was coming back.”

“It’s okay to be angry.” I took her hand, and her fingers curled between mine. “Maybe not as often as I am, but sometimes. And I promise, no more lies. No more keeping information from you for your own good.”

“And maybe we’ll try to be more understanding of each other when we get it wrong.” She turned to look around the room, taking in everything that the moonlight revealed.

“Don’t let your curiosity kill you,” I said, and she laughed quietly.

“Is this Belleisle?” she asked, and I nodded. “And they’re letting you stay?” She sounded cautious, as though she knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted this time.

“Well, for now. Just don’t talk too loudly. It’s temporary.” The door to Albion’s room opened wide enough to allow his fox face to peer into the room. “Never mind.”

“What?” Rowan turned toward the door, still moving slowly, and gasped. She pushed herself up to sit with her back against the pillows and watched the fox slink into the room. He leaped onto the bed, landing so lightly that he seemed to be made of air, and sat with his enormous tail wrapped around his black-gloved paws, head tilted to one side, watching Rowan.

He looked at me next. “Not yet, please,” I said, and he gave a little nod before turning back to Rowan.

“Rowan,” I said, “may I introduce Ernis Albion. My grandfather.” She looked from him to me in surprise, then back. “He and his wife have been caring for you. If I’m not mistaken, you’re to stay here while you recover. Perhaps longer, if your magic returns.” The fox nodded again. “They’ll teach you how to use it properly.”

“Oh,” she said, and held out one hand. The fox stepped closer and sniffed it. They looked into each other’s eyes, and I wondered whether he could read something in her that I couldn’t. He spun and bounced to the end of the bed, made a playful bow to us, and trotted out of the room.

“What was that all about?” Rowan asked.

“I was just about to tell you. I’m still not welcome here. I was able to stay as long as I might help bring you back, but no longer. You’re here now, which means my time is up.”

Anger flashed across her features. “But that’s so unfair!” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be here without you. You saved my life.” She pulled herself closer to me and curled up with her face pressed to my chest.

I traced circles on her back with my fingers, unsure how else to make her feel better. She didn’t move or speak, but I felt my shirt growing damp. I wondered whether she cried so much when I wasn’t around.

“We make a good team, you know,” I said.

“We do. So what am I supposed to do without you? I don’t even know these people.”

“I might point out that you didn’t know me a few weeks ago, either. They’re good people, Rowan. This is my fault, not theirs. They have students here, and they don’t want my kind of influence around them. Or around you, I suppose.”

I could tell she wanted to say something to that, but she seemed to change her mind and instead sat up and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown. “Is there no chance you can stay? Like with the merfolk?”

I remembered the hate in Emalda’s eyes when she looked at me. “No. If there’s any way I can come back to see you, I will, but it’s better for everyone if Severn knows I’m not here. Especially for you. These past few weeks, though… they’ve been amazing, in spite of the crazy parts.”

“The best.”

It wasn’t long before the day’s first light glowed in the window, followed all too quickly by a bright, clear sunrise, and a knock at the door. Albion entered, followed by Emalda, who carried a tray loaded with breakfast foods, a towel-wrapped teapot, and several labeled glass jars filled with dried leaves, berries, roots, and scraps of bark.

I stood and moved out of the way, and Emalda took over the space around the bed.

She smiled at Rowan, a warm, kind expression I hadn’t seen on her before. “Hello, my dear,” she said. “Welcome back.”

Rowan returned the smile, but she looked wary as her eyes searched Emalda’s. “Thank you. Aren tells me you’ve been taking excellent care of me.”

Emalda’s smile tightened at the sound of my name, then relaxed. “Well, it seems he’s done well too, hasn’t he?”

“I never would have found my way back without him.”

“Is that so?” Emalda glanced back at me. “I’m very glad. We were beginning to think you were lost forever. Are you hungry?”

Rowan’s stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear, and she grimaced. “I think I might be,” she said, and Albion carried the tray of food over to the bed.

Emalda came toward me, her lips pressed together in a hard line.

“She’s out of danger now,” she said quietly. “I’ll do some tests after she’s eaten, see what she needs to get her strength back. It seems to me that she’s empty of magic right now. It might not come back, you know.” She looked up and stared straight into my eyes, challenging me. “Does that change your feelings or intentions toward her?”

“No. But it might change your son’s.”

She raised an eyebrow, then glanced over her shoulder and saw Rowan watching us. “Might we speak in private?”

Emalda started toward the other room, pausing at the bed to test the temperature of Rowan’s forehead. “Please eat. We’ll be back.”

The room Albion had slept in was much smaller and more plainly decorated than Rowan’s, with a desk beside the narrow bed and a door opening into the hall. “Extra student room,” Emalda said, and gestured for me to sit in a hard-backed chair. She stood looking out the window. “We have a problem.”

“I know, you need me to go. If I could just stay until she’s comfortable here—”

“Please don’t interrupt me.” She waved her hand toward the door. “The problem is this. Not her. She seems like a sweet girl, and we’re happy to help her. If what you’ve told Ernis about her is true, she’s the sort we’d take as a student under normal circumstances, though she would have started at a much younger age. She can work to pay her tuition, and I know Ernis will be interested to learn from her experiences. But she seems quite attached to you.”

She drummed her fingers on the window sill. “Ernis and I spoke this morning when he came to tell me she was awake. He thinks that for now it would be best if you stayed. He says it’s for her, but I know he has a personal interest in your situation. He’s left the decision entirely to me.” She turned to face me straight-on. “Tell me, are you sorry for the things you’ve done?”

It’s none of your business. “Yes.”

“Were you sorry when these things happened, or only now that it matters to me, someone who has every intention of separating you from the only person who seems to be important to you? Though I doubt you care as much for her as she thinks you do.” Contempt dripped from her voice.

I wasn’t going to open up to her or beg for forgiveness, and I certainly didn’t owe it to her to explain what Rowan meant to me. Still, I pushed my pride aside and answered as I had to.

“I wasn’t sorry at the time, but I am now. For all of it.”

Her lips tightened. “If only I could believe it. I can’t know for certain, can I? I lack your gifts.” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing you say will bring my sister back, or any of the others.”

She went to the door and looked in on Albion and Rowan, and her expression softened. “I’m doing this for him, not for you,” she said softly, and looked back over her shoulder at me. “You can stay. Not in this house, and not for long. If you want to be here, you’re going to work. Goodness knows there’s enough to be done around here, especially once the rest of the students return. You will have no unauthorized contact with the students, you will follow the rules as I give them, and you will not use any form of magic on any living creature on this island. I expect that if your presence becomes a threat to any of us—”

“I’ll leave before that happens.” It took a moment for my mind to process her words. Had she really just said that I could stay? The strict conditions troubled me—not because I couldn’t follow them, but because they were obviously a way for Emalda to try to control me. I didn’t know how much of her contempt and disrespect I’d be able to take. I was already feeling the pressure of it. But still, I’d be with Rowan. My heart leapt at the thought.

“I’ll accept your conditions.”

She nodded and turned back to the other room. “I think it’s best for her that you be here for now, until she’s more comfortable and we know what her situation will be. I hope you understand that she’ll have some decisions to make that may be difficult for both of you.”

I had already considered the fact that we’d been pushed together by extraordinary circumstances. It was possible that she wouldn’t see me the same way when our surroundings changed, that she’d see who I was more clearly, that she would realize that she didn’t need me. “I’ll stay for as long as she wants me, and as long as I’m permitted.”

“I suppose that’s settled, then.”

I followed Emalda back into Rowan’s room, light-headed with relief. Rowan sat in one of the soft chairs laughing at something Albion was saying. She stopped when she saw us.

Emalda pursed her lips and busied herself with organizing the herbs on her tray. Rowan watched her, then turned to me. “Are you… I mean, can you…”

“Yes. For now.” Rowan gasped and jumped up from her chair, almost falling over as she tried to run to me. She laughed when I caught her in my arms and pulled her close.

“And none of that, miss,” Emalda said over her shoulder. “I’ll have no bad example set for the students, especially if you become one.”

Rowan just grinned and held me tighter.

Albion and Rowan exchanged a seemingly endless stream of questions as Emalda carried out her tests, which involved checking Rowan’s strength while she held different plants under her tongue, then having her taste different mixtures from the kitchen. Though the teas probably tasted terrible, I thought that this testing was vastly preferable to the merfolk’s experiments.

I sat in the corner beside the window, joining in the conversation when invited, but staying silent most of the time. Emalda’s fists clenched every time I spoke, and it annoyed me.

I felt as though I hadn’t slept at all. My eyes kept drifting closed, and my muscles ached as though they’d actually pulled me through a storm. My mind raced, though. The realization that we’d never be safe as long as Severn was alive began to overshadow my elation at being allowed to stay, and I started planning again.

I wanted nothing more than for Albion and Emalda to leave so that I could be alone with Rowan and talk through my ideas with her—an exciting notion, now that I’d accepted it. But there was no chance. They held her attention all afternoon.

In spite of her insistence that she’d never want to sleep again, Rowan grew tired and began yawning well before sunset. Emalda hurried through the last few tests and said she’d send someone up with enough supper for both of us. “But just for tonight,” she added as she hoisted her tray and left the room. “Then he’s out.”

I moved to the sofa, and Rowan lay down and rested her head on my lap. Birds twittered in the branches outside of the open window, and a few younger students yelled as they played outdoors. Otherwise, all was quiet. I thought Rowan had fallen asleep, but she opened her eyes and took my hand, winding her fingers between mine and resting them on her stomach.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“After the handsome prince wakes the girl. Isn’t that the end of the story? The happily ever after part?”

It hardly seemed like it. She still had a lot of work ahead of her to get her magic back and learn how to use it. As for me…

“I think life just goes on,” I said. “Severn is going to come for us. You might be his worst enemy, now.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’ll stay while you get settled, but then I leave.” She winced, but had obviously been expecting this. “But I’m not going to run away from Severn this time. I’m going to destroy him.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I think you’ll have work to do here. If your magic comes back, you’ll have to work hard to learn to use it. Ernis and Emalda will help you, but it’s not going to be easy.”

“No, I suppose not. But if you’re going to need me to save your ass again some day, I might as well be prepared.” She smiled, but worry creased her brow.

“Not the happy ending you were hoping for?”

She shrugged. “There’s always more to the story, right?” She struggled to sit up, then pressed her lips to mine. I tangled my fingers in her wild hair and pulled her closer still, and for a brief moment felt the tiniest spark of her magic. She pulled back, rested her forehead against mine, and sighed. “We can have happily ever after later.”

“Of course,” I said.

I didn’t believe it, but I wanted to.

The story continues in… Torn, Book Two of the Bound Trilogy

Available March 2015

Afterword

KATE SPARKES IS THE AUTHOR of the Bound Trilogy (Mature YA Fantasy) and a forthcoming Urban Fantasy novella series. She lives in Newfoundland, Canada, and gets her best ideas while walking beside the ocean.

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THE PARIAHS

David Adams

Prologue

Kozog

THE SHADOWLANDS

ONE YEAR BEFORE the destruction of Atikala
and the events of Ren of Atikala

The Army of the Open Fist marched on Irondarrow Keep, thousands of booted feet pounding their way to reinforce the assault on the fortified dwarven stronghold. Druids and wizards handled the more serious threats; management of the rank and file was left in the hands of the junior members and sellswords.

Sellswords such as Kozog the half-orc, and his battle comrade, Brea Fleethand the half-elf.

Through blood, smoke, and the scoured ruin of the Shadowlands, he and the Open Fist had fought their way to a day’s journey away from Irondarrow’s gates. They faced fiends, cultists, and the stitched-together horrors wrought by dwarven hands. Kozog’s spear and Brea’s rapier had put down scores of foes during the journey, and now at the edge of the Shadowlands, with their tents unpacked, their equipment readied for the next day’s march, and all manner of preparations made, the two of them had earned a moment of quiet reflection beyond the edges of their camp.

Tomorrow the real war would begin, but tonight was their own.

“The Shadowlands has a subtle beauty to it,” said Kozog, folding his dark green hands behind his head as he lay on the ground, staring up at the night sky. The stars seemed to twinkle less in these lands, afraid that—should they draw attention to themselves—they too would be swallowed by the barren landscape and snuffed out forever. “I hadn’t really noticed it before now.”

“I’m not surprised you hadn’t seen it,” said Brea as she played with a strand of her long brown hair, her eyes also searching for some light, some movement in the dark firmament of Drathari’s ceiling. “Our eyes were fixed on the ground.” She stretched, hair falling around her pointed elf ears. “I wouldn’t call it beauty. Foreboding, perhaps, but not beautiful.”

Kozog felt another debate coming on and embraced the feeling. “Beauty is a very personal concept. The stars here do not shine; I see this as conformity. Order. Uniformity. Equality. Here there is a serene stillness where the turbulence of our existence comes to a graceful, aching halt. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. All is now as it will be forever. There’s a certain comfort in that.”

“What good are the stars if they do not twinkle?”

A simple question but difficult to answer. “They represent something powerful,” he said. “A puzzle, a riddle, and not one intended to be solved. The lights are the souls of this world. Some are bright, some dim, some eternal and some fleeting. Yet they all exist, with every one of them in their place, imperceptibility dancing to some tune us poor mortals cannot hear.”

That drew an easy laugh from Brea. “Which one of us is the bard again?”

He acknowledged this curious observation with a non-committal shrug. “All I know is that there is comfort in knowing one’s place in the universe, even if that means our light is less beautiful than it otherwise would have been. What say you, then, of the night sky?”

Brea’s wisdom was at once deep and shallow to him; to him, her elven flightiness and detachment lead to lofty, impractical observations that had little to do with a grounding in reality, but he appreciated their perspective nevertheless.

She considered, her eyes half open. “It is joy. Every light illuminates the world just a little bit; every soul is valuable, every one of us important. We must all shine as bright as we can, for as long as we can, and we have to work together; a lone light is bright, but when a cluster of stars come together, they can light up the sky. That is what we have to be; we must shine, be allowed to shine. To be free.”

Kozog slid a hand into his tunic, finding the wooden five pointed star of Tyranus, running his fingernail along the familiar edges, keeping it tucked under his clothing. That God was long dead but Kozog’s devotion remained strong. “I see.”

“I think I should keep my eyes skyward from now on.” Brea gestured around her. “Better than the ground below. These Shadowlands are a blight, and as their name might imply, a dark spot on the world; a scar where a terrible injury was inflicted on our planet. There’s no passion here. No life. Nothing grows here. No exports. No industry. No culture. Nothing is produced but misery, seeping out into its neighbours like pus. I would scour this place clean if I had the power.” She shuddered, truth seeped in every word. “When we leave, never do I wish to return.”

“Our duty takes us places we would rather not go.” Kozog shifted his position, the cold ground uncomfortable. He would rather be at home in his warm bed, but nothing worth doing was easy. “Interesting how we can view the same scene and see different things.”

Silence reigned for a time.

“You know,” Brea said, “I sometimes think that if you stripped away the labels, took away our religious symbols and our allegiances…we are not so different.”

She had said some strange things in their time together, but this one was the oddest in weeks. Kozog turned his head to look at her. “I do not think we could be more different, but explain.”

“We see the same evils, more or less. We see the night sky with its silent stars, we see the dead land all around us, and we see that these things are bad. To take away the metaphor; we both see suffering in Drathari and know it is unjust. What we disagree on are the solutions.”

“A charitable way of putting it.”

Brea smiled, showing the dimples on her cheeks. “That is part of my philosophy. To celebrate those who would stand with me, and to drive a knife to those would stand against.” The dimples only showed up when she smiled so wide it must hurt.

In times of war, she didn’t smile anywhere near enough.

His laugh drifted across the unnatural stillness of the Shadowlands. “Perhaps we do have more in common than I thought.”

Kozog prepared for more quiet, enjoying these moments of calm reflection, but a series of faint pops met his ears, a mocking echo of his laughter. He sat up on his elbows as figures advanced towards them, dark cloaks over their heads. Their leader, a thin, gaunt looking man with hollow eyes had a blade in his hand.

“Strange that Freelanders would be so far from the body of their army,” the stranger hissed, revealing a tongue forked down the centre. “No matter. Their folly is our advantage.” He twisted his veiny neck and spoke over his shoulder. “Gut them both. Take their bodies back to Irondarrow.”

So polite of their enemies to announce their intentions. Brea, somehow already standing, as though she could slide from lying on her back to a battle stance in a heartbeat—offered her hand. Kozog took it and stood with a groan, spear in hand.

“There’s a lot of them,” said Kozog, sliding his hands along the wooden shaft of his weapon, readying against their approach. “Three to one. Hardly fair odds.”

“Hardly fair to them.” Brea’s weapons slid into her hands as though they were extensions of her arms, her rapier and dagger held before her. “We slew a summoner a only a day ago. These must be remnants of her cult. Minions respect only strength; she was the greatest of them. These ones will fall handily.”

Kozog picked out the details of the hooded men behind the tiefling leader, the damp cloth clinging to their forms, revealing the truth beneath. Horned human skeletons, emaciated and hunched, with sharp teeth and elongated claws.

Babaus. Demons, slimy dwellers of the pits.

“The odds may not be as strong as you imagine.” He tightened his grip as the demons broke into a run, howling as they ran towards the pair of Pathfinders. “The tiefling leads babaus.”

A babau was a dangerous foe indeed. Three of them…well, they were in trouble. As Brea began to sing, there was a subtle tremor to her voice that belied her confident exterior.

Kozog spoke a word of power, igniting the tip of his enchanted spear in smoke. The first of the demons charged headlong onto his weapon, suicidally so, impaling itself on the tip; it thrashed, clawing wildly at him, seemingly impervious to the hit. Kozog roared and shook the shaft; the babau impaled upon it struggled until it finally succumbed, slumping limp, black slime pouring all over Kozog’s hands. The creature's body liquified into ink.

The odds were now better but his weapon was stuck. One babau leapt towards Brea, filthy claws outstretched, another leapt towards him; its slick leathery hide glistening in the moonlight.

Kozog ducked, spear still lodged in the dripping body of the fiend. Dirty claws slashed across his chest, tearing into his skin, but Kozog barely felt it. He released his spear; the body of the slain demon fell forward, its weapon clattering to the ground. Kozog swung his fist, driving it against the babau’s face; the creature seemed to barely feel it, snapping at his hand with its razor sharp teeth.

As Kozog gave ground, backing away to engage his enemy, Brea attacked hers.

He loved watching her fight. Brea was not a fighter as much as she was a dancer. Every thrust and parry was a symphony of steps, perfectly placed motions endlessly honed through passion; her joy, her art, powered her and guided her, and it paid off. Her enemy collapsed as bloody flowers bloomed in the cracks of its thick hide, her blades finding the gaps, out-fighting the frenzied demon in a whirling blur of mithril and steel death.

Kozog was much less subtle. He simply reached forward, ignoring a vicious slash across his shoulder, grabbing his longspear and tearing it free. With a roar he applied the tip of his weapon to the remaining babau’s face.

The fallen bodies became liquid, and then evaporated. All that remained was the leader.

“Impressive,” he said, his forked tongue writhing. “But I can always acquire more demons.”

“Do feel free,” said Brea, her ichor-slick rapier extended. “These ones proved hardly a challenge.”

She had been hurt as well—a tear in her tunic showed the metal chain links underneath it, stained a dark tan—but they were both still in the fight. Kozog levelled his weapon. As did Brea.

“Blood and darkness,” the tiefling hissed, and suddenly the world was aflame.

Kozog squinted, shielding his eyes from the bright light. They stood in a ring of fire. The tiefling strode into the flames unharmed.

Definitely long odds. His cloak ignited and he shrugged it off. Brea’s was magically enchanted, but one look at her face and he knew.

They were in trouble.

Grimacing against the heat, Brea leapt away first, folding her arms to protect her hair. Kozog far less gracefully ploughed through the gap she left. The two of them collapsed on the other side, rolling around on the ground, extinguishing the flames that licked hungrily at their clothes, searching for flesh. The flames became smoke.

The demon teleported directly over Kozog, and with supernatural speed and power, plunged its dagger down into his chest.

That would have been the end of him, but Tyranus protected his faithful servants even in death. The blade’s edge struck Kozog’s holy symbol, hidden under his shirt, breaking it in half. The blade left a deep wound but his holy symbol had stolen enough of the dagger’s momentum to save it from piercing his heart. A green blood-flower blossomed on his chest.

“Kozog!” Brea let her rapier lead, stabbing wildly at the foul creature.

“I’m okay.” He swung out with his fist, slamming it into the tiefling’s temple. The fiend-blooded human howled, falling to the ground.

Brea leapt upon him, dagger raised. The tiefling, eyes wide, spat a spell of power into her face.

The mithril in her hand glowed a fiery red. Brea shrieked and tossed the weapon away.

Kozog rolled over on top of the tiefling. The acrid scent of brimstone and blood filled the space between them; Kozog closed his hands over the demon-man’s throat and squeezed.

The tiefling thrashed. Kicked. Squirmed. Whimpered. Gasped. Died.

Kozog waited, giving the Dark Lady a few more seconds to fully take the soul as his strength faded.

Victory.

Then Kozog’s strong arms weakened, his blood seeped into the dead ground below, and he slumped over the body of the man who had tried to kill them both.

Chapter I

Kozog

WATER. SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO drown him.

Flailing wildly, Kozog calmed when he heard Brea’s voice.

“Hey, hey, calm down you big lump. It’s me.”

Brea wouldn’t drown him.

The world was brighter; the sun was climbing up the edge of the nearby mountain range, staining the edge of the sky a light gold.

“How long?”

“You were unconscious for hours. You lost a lot of blood. There’s green everywhere.”

He tried to sit up, failed, and tried again. His body ached. “Why didn’t you at least bandage the wound?”

She put down the cold cloth and held out her hands. They shook slightly; thick blisters had formed over her skin, red and inflamed. “Can’t. I was hoping you could fix us both when you woke up.”

Kozog reached for the holy symbol underneath his shirt. Both pieces. They were bent, twisted beyond recognition, beyond use. This was a sign from his dead master. “Tyranus gives, and Tyranus takes away.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “Even if he answers my prayers, I can’t cast without channelling my Lord’s holy energy.”

“Holy, mmm?”

The two stared at each other, and then exchanged a laugh. Tyranus had been the lord of obedience and service, along with contracts and binding; most considered him a malicious entity. “Same, same,” said Kozog, groaning as he stood, wobbling on his feet.

“I actually meant just bandages,” said Brea, sliding to her feet with lithe grace. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“That demon would have finished me if you hadn’t grabbed it. I’m alive. That’s worth celebrating.”

He shook his head. “You owe me nothing; you are alive because of your own skill. Your courage in attacking him with your dagger forced him to burn you instead of me; if not for that, he would have repositioned and I would have fallen. You saved me, and in doing so, saved yourself.” He smiled. “You underestimate yourself, Brea Fleethand.”

She blew out her breath, flipping back her fringe. “I didn’t imagine you would ever say that.”

“Why would I not?” He used his spear as a walking stick, heading back towards the Freelander encampment. “You think I do not value your strength?”

Brea fell into step beside him. “I don’t know what you value. You’re a mystery to me. On one hand, we have fought together for over a year, and aside from attempts to coerce people into signing overly legalistic contracts, you don’t strike me as an evil soul. On the other hand…you serve the Lord of Papers.”

“I certainly do, even if the Lord does not answer prayers these days.”

“That makes no sense to me.” She rubbed her burned hands against her sleeves.

“Faith is its own reward,” said Kozog, eyeing her hands disapprovingly. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

A simple answer, well stated. Kozog was still recovering also, but he found his strength returned with words. “How can I help?”

“Distract me,” she said. No easy task. “Tell me…how did you join Tyranus’s church?”

That was as good a topic as any. “As many who were raised in Valamar, I joined the state religion because it was expected of me. I had strength, and the church needed that strength.”

Brea looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t believe you.”

Kozog did not understand “Why would I lie about such a thing?”

“Because ideals like yours, like Tyranus’s…people aren’t born with them. They become that; over time, strong hands beat the love of freedom out of you, and soon, you start to love the lash.” She rubbed her burned hands against her forearms as though cold. “You didn’t join the church because of some preconceived notion of duty, did you?”

Kozog bit down on his lower lip to stop the answer escaping on its own, but the words tumbled out anyway. “No.”

“Then why?”

He said nothing.

Brea’s voice was gentle despite her obvious pain. “What are you afraid of? There must be more to life than the church.”

“The church is not life. A common misconception amongst those who see Tyranus’s worship from the outside. The church is one thing: Power. Power is power. Axiomatic it might seem, but from power flows other things. Protection. Influence. Wealth. All these things give one the freedom to find life’s meaning.”

She laughed, a loud, long trill sound that seemed to go on and on. “Freedom, freedom, freedom. Are you considering moving permanently to the Freelands? Having a nice house, settling down, raising some little half-orclets?”

“Hardly,” he said, although there was an edge to his tone that was somewhat less than totally dismissive. “It is an entertaining thought, though, I will admit. The Lords of Valamar are now so distant from the land I have sworn to serve and the voice of my patron so silent. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit it was a tempting offer.”

She leaned toward him as they walked, a wide smirk painted on her face. “Just imagine it. We could travel together, north to Everwatch, freeing slaves and being heroes. We’d be an amazing team. Just you and me.”

He considered, letting the thoughts tumble in his mind for a time, but he had seen the truth of the matter and found it not to his liking. “A pleasant daydream, and entertaining, but no more than that. Our responsibilities are not so easily discarded.”

“No,” she said, her voice becoming quieter. “I guess not.”

From ahead, a shout of alarm drifted across the empty land. Freelanders. They had been found; a small team crested a ridge, running towards them. They stopped walking and exchanged a look.

“Will you tell me one day?” asked Brea.

“Why I joined the church?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “You can trust me.”

“I know. It is a story full of pain and surprises; I will not burden you with it now.” He reached out and clasped her shoulder. “And I want you to know, Brea, you can trust me with anything. Your life if necessary.” He smiled, then took his hand back. “Just don’t sign anything I give you.”

She just shook her head, blowing out a sigh as the Freelander field medics surrounded them, bandages and ointments in hand.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, the stars overhead bathing their little section of the Shadowlands in their unflickering light. “I figured that part out all by myself.”

Brea

Paladin Commander Banehal—not that anyone would ever dare address the tall, imposing, dark-skinned human with his title—welcomed Brea to his command tent with a firm nod. Before him lay a wooden table covered in maps, scrolls, and orders; the parchments were layered so thick they overflowed onto the floor.

“What news?” Banehal asked, standing, his eyes falling on her wounds.

They stung, but her pain was numbed by salves and ointments. “We were ambushed on the outskirts of camp,” Brea said. “My companion, Kozog, is recovering in the wounded tent. His wounds are severe, but he will survive.” Her words came with difficulty; even discussing such possibilities rankled her. “If only by the skin of his tusks.”

“I am pleased your companion will survive,” said Banehal. “Less pleased that dwarven aggressors dare to strike so close to our heart.”

“Not dwarves,” said Brea. “Demons. Babaus. A handful or more.”

Banehal’s grip tightened beside him. “You did well to escape. My order has long quarrelled with demons, a task made much more difficult by the Godsdeath. I will dispatch our few golems to find and destroy them.”

“They are all dead,” said Brea, fighting a shiver that ran down her spine. She had fought a flesh golem, once, and it had terrified her. “As is their leader, a fiend-blooded human.”

Banehal smiled, although it was the tired, wounded smile of a man pushed too far for too long. “Then that comes as some comfort. We are but reinforcements to the main push on Irondarrow, and our presence is sorely needed; by dusk tomorrow we shall be joining with the Army of the Steel Sky and the Army of the Frozen Fang, and then pushing into the dwarven stronghold. We can ill afford distractions, especially ones of demonic origin.”

“Agreed,” said Brea. “The sooner we take Irondarrow, the sooner my contract will be fulfilled.”

“You will be paid,” said Banehal, his tone even but sincere. “Freelanders settle their debts.”

“I always settle mine,” Brea agreed.

The implication was seemingly not lost on Banehal. He considered. “This news is troubling, regardless. I will have extra men assigned to border patrols; our troops will need their rest, certainly, but we will do nobody any good if we are slain in our sleep.”

“I’d prefer to avoid it if possible.”

“As would I.” Banehal put his hand to his chin, rubbing his stubble. “And yet, it makes no sense. Forgive me, Lady Fleethand, but while the two of you were…doing whatever it is you were doing on the outskirts of the camp, you are not high value targets. What would a gaggle of demons stand to gain from attacking you? They risked exposing their presence for little gain.”

Brea’s temper rumbled inside her, a voice that cried out for blood and vengeance for the slight against her strategic value, but the voice was quietened by the knowledge that he was right. “I agree,” she said. “Then again, demons are not well known for their foresight.”

“A common misunderstanding.” Banehal shook his head. “They think and reason just as we do, and while they tend to be…shall we say, impulsive, they also have wit enough to employ strategy to what they do. These are no feral marauders, Lady Fleethand, and their actions are as mysterious as they are deliberate.”

It was a position she found difficult to refute. She had seen demonic entrenchments in the Shadowlands with her own eyes, seen them work in tandem to assault their foes, even retreat when the Open Fist’s forces repelled their assaults. They were fierce, certainly, and ferocious, but they were not heedless of their surroundings.

Even a frenzied beast wanted to live.

“Wise words, Paladin Commander,” she said. At his grimace, shook her head. “My apologies. Wise words, Banehal.”

“It is not in my nature to berate someone for something they cannot control, but I do thank you for acknowledging my preference in this regard, Lady Fleethand.”

Paladins despised titles. It was something she did not claim to understand. No kings, no titles, no laws. That was their creed.

She admired that last part, certainly. There was a certain freedom in moral flexibility that she wished, in some way, Kozog could experience: being able to be live one’s life unbeholden to others.

The fact that a paladin was willing to even work with their forces spoke highly of the nobility of their cause, but she knew Banehal would abandon them the moment they no longer served what he perceived to be the greater good. This made her less inclined to trust him.

Not that she truly trusted anyone. Kozog’s words drifted back into her mind. You can trust me with your life…

It stung her, in some way, that the reverse was not true, but the thought was quickly banished. They had business to attend to.

“Anyway,” she said, her hands throbbing. “I am in pain, and I must see to Kozog. May I be dismissed, Banehal?”

“Of course,” he said, dipping his head politely.

Brea wasted no time in leaving for the white linen tent dedicated to the wounded.

Chapter II

Kozog

KOZOG HATED BEING SICK. HATED being injured. Hated being weak.

Still, it was better than the alternative.

Eventual death was something all creatures accepted, and half-breeds like him were no exception. The orc in him instilled a willingness to endure suffering to reach his goals, whereas the human gave him the cunning and the tenacity to see them through.

Truly, though, Kozog knew somewhere in his green heart that his death would probably be in battle. He had seen enough of war to know that the suffering of the dying was typically profound. The occasional faint groan or whimper heard through the canvas attested to this.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice. Brea smiled warmly as she slid up to his bed.

Thoughts of death and misery evaporated, and Kozog could not resist a smile in return. “Hey. Not dead yet.”

“Good,” said Brea. “We’re so close to Irondarrow. It would be a shame to have come this far and die right before the gates.”

“Agreed,” he grunted. “Although our part in the battle to come can only be minimal. I can walk, even if I shouldn’t, and you can fight, even if you shouldn’t…so in all likelihood our weapons will be sheathed for the initial engagement.”

“A siege is long,” said Brea, the usual levity in her voice dampened by the cold truth of her words. “Weeks. Months. War engines will do most of the work; when they are whittled down to nothing by attrition, then flesh will take its place. We will have our fill of blood and slaughter yet.”

“A mollifying, and yet equally sobering, thought.”

Brea ran her hands through her hair. “Right, well, on to business. Let me take another look at that wound. I’ll check your stitches.”

“Right,” said Kozog. He and Brea had worked together before, and had sewn each other up plenty of times.

Brea peeled back the green-stained bandages, the corners of her mouth falling as her sharp eyes took in the work. “I would have done better.”

“I know. But you had to give your report. It will heal, fear not.”

She folded his bandages back, the gentle touch enough to make him wince. “Girls dig scars,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

Kozog nodded in agreement. “Scars show you have morals. Principles. Show you have stood up for something; better that than to be a weakling doormat, always underfoot.”

“And women find them especially attractive,” said Brea, her tone gilded with…something.

Did they? He had no idea. “If you say they do.”

“Well,” said Brea, “I would know.”

A silence fell that, for some reason, Kozog found mildly uncomfortable.

“Do you think we’ll ever retire?” asked Brea.

“Mmm?”

“Retire,” she said. “You know. Like I said—go back to Valamar, settle down, raise a family.”

Kozog laughed politely. “Do the thing with orclets? I don’t think so. One day, one of these wounds will be too deep to scar, too savage to survive, and that will be the end of me. You too, if you keep this up.”

“Live by the sword,” said Brea, “live a good, long time.”

“Until someone with a bigger sword comes along.” Kozog winced and rubbed his bandages. “That’s why you always need to carry the biggest sword.”

“More talk of strength and might.” Brea rested her chin in her hands. Why did she keep talking of such things? “Is power so important to you?”

For a time, Kozog didn’t know how to answer. Brea was not ready for the truth; not yet. He answered as simply as he could. “I think that if you dedicate your life to war, every day is a risk. Eventually your risks don’t pay off. So if you’re going to fail at something, it might as well be something you love.”

She seemed to accept that; Brea’s smile revealed her white teeth. “Sounds like good relationship advice, in another context.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t know. Life in the church has not left me with many chances to engage in…extracurricular pursuits.”

“I suppose not,” said Brea, tapping on her chin. “That’s a shame. My own upbringing was, well…I’ve experienced many such things. You really are missing out.”

Kozog knew Brea had needs, but this was something else. His discomfort grew, and not just because of all the exposure his stitches were receiving.

“If you say so,” was all he could say.

Brea just shook her head and he could sense frustration coming from her. “Well, you need rest.” She seemed to want to say more, but instead, patted his shoulder in a comradely fashion. “Sleep, you big oaf. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“That we do,” he said.

Kozog watched as Brea left, walking amongst the wounded, and he smiled at her back until it was no longer in his sight.

Brea

In the calm quiet of her tent, with the pre-dawn light filtering in between the stitches of the canvas, Brea readied herself for war.

Her rapier and mithril dagger were first to be strapped to her hip, along with an array of spare daggers. Every pouch was stuffed with scrolls, spare magical reagents, bandages and supplies. Each piece of gear was carefully considered in terms of its utility versus weight. Every pound of equipment she bought would slow her down, and speed was life. But if she left a piece of vital equipment behind and later needed it, that mistake might be fatal.

Each decision was pragmatic and even, with no room for keepsakes, lucky charms, or emotional connections. Dwarven arrows and demonic hordes would give none of these things consideration.

Her fingers ached, both hands still bandaged. Banehal had assigned her to rear guard alongside him; a position less likely to be directly assaulted, but one where her music could carry over the battlefield, bolstering the troops. It was a sound decision. A safe decision.

And one that meant she was closer to Kozog.

Brea hoisted her backpack and tested the weight. Her load was less than it would be on the road, but she could feel the weight dragging at her shoulders. Her pragmatic human side, the inner voice that whispered it was better to take something and not need it, than need something and not have it, quarrelled with her elven need for grace and mobility.

A compromise had to be reached. Something had to go.

But what if you need to climb something? Her human half whispered.

Shut up, roundears.

Reluctantly, Brea took out her lantern oil, her thin length of coiled silk rope, and her flint and steel.

She could immediately sense the difference. The backpack now hugged her body, flush and even, the weight distributed properly. She jogged in a circle around her tent, the spring in her step returning. A perfect blend of form and functionality.

Satisfied, she dismantled her tent, threw the bundle and her remaining equipment onto her mule, and then strode across the muddy field playing host to the Open Fist warcamp, heading toward the command tent.

Her path took her past the white tent for the wounded. Kozog could have no part in this battle, even as rear guard. He was strong as an ox and tough as iron, yet a simple length of steel had laid him low. If it was not for his presence, she would be dead.

This time, if demons came for her, she was on her own.

Brea forced those thoughts out of her mind. She would be surrounded by armed soldiers, including Banehal and his command staff. If she was forced to fight, the battle would already be lost.

Her boots were splattered in mud by the time she arrived at the modest command tent. It had already been packed and made ready for transport, loaded onto a wagon with four oxen standing by.

Banehal smiled as she approached. “Good morning.”

“Am I late?” Brea asked. The command tent was significantly larger than her own. Had they packed it in the dark?

“No, I am early,” said Banehal. “And efficient.” He checked one of the straps on his imposing set of plate armour. “How is Kozog?”

“I haven’t seen him this morning,” said Brea, defensiveness creeping into her tone. She didn’t know why. “I came straight here. A good thing I did, as we are clearly ready to move.”

“Ready we are indeed,” Banehal answered. “Still. Our travel will be slow and tedious. When we are on the road, perhaps you should drop back and see him.”

“We only work together, nothing more.” Brea made sure her hair was tied back appropriately, but it also gave her an excuse to break eye contact with the paladin. “And he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“As you would have it,” Banehal said, and then with a grace that surprised her given his heavy armour, took hold of the wagon to climb aboard. “Come,” he said, raising his voice so the camp could hear it. “The Army of the Steel Sky and the Army of the Frozen Fang await our aid. Prince Galrum Duergirn of Thunderhelm consorts with dark powers, to the ruin of us all, and we have come to purge these abominations from this world. Friends, we have demons to kill!”

The army exalted, a wild, passionate series of cries that died down as the sun broke the horizon. They gathered up their possessions, made their last preparations, and then the war party’s wagons rolled away from the rest of the camp. Brea kept her eyes forward, on the looming peaks that signalled the end of the Shadowlands and the beginning of the Thunderhelm territories, mountains full of dwarves and demons, her green-skinned friend behind her and a prolonged siege ahead.

The journey was made in silence. Banehal didn’t speak except to give a curt order or to make suggestions to the driver. He seemed so grim, dark and sullen against his normal disposition. Paladins despised war but recognised the necessity of it.

The sun rose, the chain of wagons ploughed through the damp strip of mud that served as this region’s road, and the mountains drew closer and closer. Excitement grew in her belly; the thrill of combat, the security of knowing their cause was righteous, and the promise of a purse full of gold on her return to the Freelands.

She smelt it before she saw it; a mix of ashes, mud and death. Banehal clearly smelt it too; he moved beside the driver as the wagon crested a rise, revealing the grand entrance to Irondarrow Keep, with their allies camps stretched before it.

The Freelander war camp had been burned to the ground.

Thin wisps of smoke rose from blackened tents. The ground was stained dark in splotches, as though water had been spilt there, although Brea knew the truth.

Demons always carried away the dead.

“The Prophets wept,” whispered Banehal. “What happened here?”

“Seems pretty simple to me,” said Brea, simply, as she surveyed the ruined and blasted war camp from atop the wagon. “We lost.”

Chapter III

Kozog

MARCELIN

CAPITAL OF VALAMAR,

THE First Kingdom of Man

Three weeks later

“Well,” said Kozog as he led Brea through the cramped streets of his home city of Marcelin, deftly stepping out of the way of a nobleman’s horse and rider, “at least we got paid.”

Brea had been in a sullen mood since Irondarrow. Kozog was sanguine about the whole thing. Coin was coin; his contract had been fulfilled, and his wounds had begun to fully heal, a process complicated by a stubborn infection. His wound leaked pus in the mornings, which concerned him, although it did not smell of rot and seemed to be on the mend. The pallor it cast over Brea, however, concerned him more.

She had chosen to come with him to Valamar instead of returning to the Freelands. That in and of itself was a strange choice. He had expected the opposite; to return to the Freelands with her, take another contract, and continue their adventures together.

Still, the opportunity to show Brea around Marcelin was worth it.

“The coin was good,” Brea said. “I still can’t believe Banehal paid us in full for a siege that never happened.”

“Paladins do that kind of thing.” Kozog absently rubbed his chest as he weaved his way through the cobbled streets. “Personally, I find it surprising the Irondarrow dwarves were able to crush the siege so quickly, even with the aid of demons, but such things are no longer our concern.”

“Mmm,” said Brea, her tone one of someone truly listening.

Kozog led her towards the well-kept, red-bricked street that was host to his family manor. It stood just as he had remembered it; tall and imposing, with wrought iron gates that were securely locked and barred, well-tended gardens full of fruit and flowers, and with a notice of foreclosure resting at the entrance.

It took him a second to process the addition. It was a heavy canvas parchment nailed to a wooden tripod. He tore it off and passed over it with a barrister’s eye.

It seemed legitimate. The watermark of the Marcelin Lords was thick and ran through the paper, the ink appeared to be of the proper type, and the signature at the bottom was practised and well formed, with no breaks or gaps where a forger may have lifted their quill to verify their work.

“What’s that?” asked Brea.

Kozog scowled and showed it to her. “I am uncertain, but it appears as though my family home has been reclaimed by a debtor’s agency. Strange, as my family has coin to spare and no significant debts.”

Brea briefly scanned the document and then shrugged her shoulders. “So? It’s still yours.”

“Not according to this document. The Lords of Valamar have seized the property for reasons which are entirely unclear.” He squinted, trying to read the glorious, holy fine print. “Something about the church’s authority or some such.”

“That’s not good.” Brea put her hands on her hips. “So, how do we break into the place?”

Kozog glared at her. “We are not breaking into my family home. This seizure notice is legitimate.”

“Right. Well, where to now, o’ fearless green leader?”

He placed the seizure notice back on the tripod and reattached the nail. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My mother owns several houses in the city, she may have taken residence at one of those. I’m not sure where the staff are. I’m sure she will know.”

“Staff.” Brea’s eyes narrowed. “You mean slaves?”

“I mean staff,” Kozog said. Together they began walking away, down the street. “We pay them. They are free to leave. Staff. Slavery is legal in Valamar but my family keep none.”

That seemed to mollify her. “Why not?” she asked.

Kozog shuffled uncomfortably. “It is…inefficient.”

Brea’s elven features became a storm. “In…efficient? This is an issue of morals! Of keeping innocent women and men in bondage!”

“What if they’re not innocent?” It was a simple question. “What if they are criminals, working to pay off their debts? Do civilised nations not have prisons, and in prisons, is forced labour not commonly a part of a criminal’s punishment? How is this different from state sponsored slavery?”

“The difference is in how,” said Brea. “Forced labour is a legal punishment for crimes. Slavery is taking people who have committed no crime.”

“So we can make slaves of the guilty?”

Brea shook her head, stepping daintily over a pothole as though sensing it with some magical power. “We can have a system of laws and governments that punish people for their transgressions as part of the social fabric of any society, but we cannot have the strong preying upon the weak.”

“The state—and not just Valamar, but all states—have ultimate authority and, despite all appearances, rule through might. If a person disobeys the state’s commands, they are punished, and if they refuse to submit to the punishment, force is employed. The same principle is applied in the Freelands, where the militia protect the people.”

“So really,” said Brea, “all we truly disagree on are the rules of the state.”

Now she was beginning to see. He liked it when he was able to convince Brea of something, it happened so irregularly. Kozog smiled. “Can I get that in writing?”

Brea playfully pushed his shoulder. “Never in three hundred years.”

“I’ll mark my calendar.”

They walked on. The sun fell and the shadows of the city grew long. The first house they arrived at, a tall, narrow suburban structure made of wood and stone decorated with gold filigree, was securely locked and similarly marked with a notice of seizure. As was the second. By the time the third was visited, the city watch were lighting the torches that lined the streets.

“How many houses does your family own?” asked Brea, shaking her head. “And what’s with the gold?”

“Many,” said Kozog. “Property is a stable investment. Many of these have been in my family’s hands since they were built; a hundred years, or more. The filigree is just a way to inflate the value of the property; it makes them seem more ostentatious than they really are. The commensurate increase in value more than makes up for the cost.”

Brea snorted playfully. “Hearing orcs talk of investment and property returns is certainly an odd thing.”

“The population of Valamar contains a number of orcs,” said Kozog. “As well as half-orcs such as myself. It is a city of structure and order; one of the benefits of order is that those who display talent and aptitude may rise through the ranks, acquire wealth, and prosper. Regardless of their race or disposition.”

“As long as they follow the church of Tyranus,” Brea said, a little snappiness creeping into her voice. “And tolerate slavery.”

“Tolerance is accepting the things we do not like.” Kozog sighed, running his hand through his dark hair. His chest ached from all the walking. “I’m tired. There’s one more house in the quarter we could visit, but it is some walk away. We may wish to consider rest.”

“Oh,” said Brea, the ghost of a smile crossing her features. “I’m sure we could bed down together, but all we’ve got is camping equipment. It’d be too intense.”

Kozog stifled a yawn, shrugging off his pack and dropping it down on the street. “If that is your wish, there is a park nearby. It is zoned for public use.” He checked his bedroll, and verified that his tent was bound and wrapped in the centre. “We could sleep there.”

A red tinge developed around Brea’s cheeks. They were far from alone in the crowded city and Brea had left her mule at the docks. Only Kozog had his sleeping gear. “Together? In the same tent? Intriguing.”

“Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. Was Brea too warm in this place? Pinkskins were odd. “Where else would we sleep?”

“Oh, I’m sure we could bed down, and I’d certainly welcome such a thing. However…” A playful smile danced over her lips. “I’m afraid you and me together would be too intense.”

Kozog had absolutely no idea what she was going on about. “What?”

“Yeah.” She sounded it out. “Two-in-tents.”

“I…I don’t get it.”

“Urgh. Of course you don’t.” She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear. “Listen, I’m wearing my special Freelander undergarmets. If we were going to sleep together…well, mmm. Let’s just say you might like them.”

“I’m not sure that they’ll fit me.”

She threw her hands in the air and whirled away from him, folding her arms. “You’re impossible! Never mind. I’m not going to go to sleep in some filthy city park. Kozog, where is this house of yours?”

Confused, and with no idea of what just happened, Kozog pointed. Brea stomped off down the road in that vague direction.

“Freelanders are crazy,” he muttered to himself, picking up his pack with a soft groan.

Brea

That big green idiot.

Brea stomped on the pavement with each step. She had a vague idea where she was going—every single house stupid Kozog and his stupid family owned was exactly the same—and the vague pointing Kozog had made would be enough.

She’d let her emotions get the better of her, as they so often did when she was tested. Brea did not see this as a bad thing; her passion was her power, more than her song or her steel, and she embraced the anger within, focusing it as a source of strength as she marched down the street.

Row after row of houses only subtly different. Row after row of mostly-human Valamarian citizens, walking the streets by torchlight, all subtly different but fundamentally identical.

What a horrible place; a world of same-ness where individuality was crushed and the symbol of Tyranus adorned every door, every sign, every uniform of the city guard. Expressions of individuality were rare and almost shameful, a dollop of colour here, a twist of architectural styling there. All too oppressive for her elven side. Why would Kozog choose to live here?

The glint of gold at the end of the street quelled her bubbling anger. Elven eyes could see just fine by torchlight; a human might never have been able to pick out the gold from that distance, but to Brea, it might as well have been made of the stuff.

She stormed up to the door and bashed her fist on the door. “Hey!” she shouted. “Kozog’s parents! You in there?” Thump-thump-thump.

To her surprise, the door swung open and suddenly Brea was staring down the length of a wickedly sharp longsword, held by a middle-aged orc woman with a dark scowl on her face.

“Elf,” said the woman, “you have ten words to explain why you’re here before I run you through.”

“Kozog sent me,” said Brea, turning her palms up.

The orc scowled, and then after a moment, sheathed her sword. “You have seven words left,” she said, beckoning inside. “Consider them carefully as I make you some tea.”

Cautiously, Brea stepped into the foyer and through to the main room. The house was modest, with cheap wooden floors and walls, sparsely furnished. Every inch of it was covered in dust. Boxes of goods, some open to reveal lockboxes, weapon sheaths, and spell component pouches packed in woodchips, lay in every room. The wood had been doused in some kind of perfume, making an overpowering scent that gave her a headache.

“You live here?” Brea asked, wrinkling her nose. “Why?”

“You’re spending a lot of words to retrieve a precious little information.” The orc stepped into the kitchen, disappearing from sight, but Brea could hear her moving around, pulling out drawers and taking items off shelves. “Are you one of those degenerates who ruins perfectly good tea by adding things to it that are not tea?”

Was the orc trying to trick her into using more of her words? By her count she had three left. “No,” Brea answered.

“Good,” said the orc from the kitchen. “So you have two words left, so I suppose I’ll get your name.”

Brea rolled her eyes. “Brea Fleethand.”

“And I am Sheyra. In case you have not deduced it, I am Kozog’s mother.”

Brea said nothing and ground her teeth, pondering idly if that counted as words.

Soon, Sheyra returned with a tray, carrying a steaming pot with two silver cups. She folded her legs to sit, laying the tray out on the ground, and gestured for Brea to sit as well. “Accommodations are sparse,” Sheyra apologised. “So the floor shall be our dining table.”

Brea pulled a face, waving her arms around in wide, looping circles.

“Oh, elf, you can speak.”

“Half-elf,” Brea corrected.

Sheyra sipped at her cup, red eyes watching her with curiosity. “Interesting. Half-elves I’ve known tended to emphasise either their elven side or their human side. Rarely do they accept the duality of their existence, as children of two proud people, rarely accepted as equals by either.”

Brea’s temper smouldered. Discussing her nature with a stranger seemed inappropriate. “Thank you for…commenting on my linage in such an eloquent manner.”

“Oh, I mean no offence by it, merely an observation.” Sheyra sipped some more. “And so, Brea Fleethand, proud half-elf, why are you here?”

“Kozog sent me, like I said.”

“And where is my son, mmm?”

Brea shrugged helplessly. “He annoyed me, so I left him behind. He’ll be along presently.”

“I hope so,” said Sheyra, idly sipping on her tea. Brea noticed, for the first time, that Sheyra’s other hand was resting remarkably close to her sword hilt. “After all, anyone can claim to know anyone.”

Brea half-lidded her eyes. “Is everyone in this city as paranoid as you?”

“You’d be paranoid if you had your assets seized, your life threatened, and old enemies reappearing to strike you from the shadows years after you thought them dead.” Sheyra set down her glass and folded her hands in her lap. “So, Brea. How do you know Kozog?”

“We’ve been working as sellswords in the Freelands for the past year, year and a bit. We make an excellent team. We used to have a bigger party—our most recent contract was with the Army of the Open Fist—but these days it’s just me and history’s most oblivious orc.”

Sheyra smiled. “Well, that’s a bit unkind. History isn’t over yet.”

She was like Kozog, but knew how to tell a joke. Fascinating. Brea laughed despite herself. “True enough.” She hesitated, levity fading. “Kozog showed me a nice house, pretty gardens, nice fence. Why is it foreclosed? What’s all this about enemies?”

“It is a complicated matter,” said Sheyra. “I shall start at the beginning. Kozog is a half-orc. I am full-blooded orc, as you can see. There are no prizes for guessing his father’s race.”

“Well,” said Brea, tapping her knee. “Technically, he only told me he’s a half-orc. Not necessarily what the other half is.”

“If it was not human, you would have known after a day, let alone a year. A half-human, half-orc produces a strange temperament; strength with control. Ambition with cunning. All four are neither uniquely human or orc; speaking personally, I have learnt these things through constant exposure to humans, to making mistakes—painful mistakes—and having my behaviour corrected. Kozog will be spared those lessons, as he is born with what I was forced to learn.”

Brea considered. “I understand what you mean,” she said. “Half-elves are often conflicted, drawn between their elven and human sides, but nothing like that. The way you say being a half-orc is…I could not imagine.”

“I would expect you know more than you imagine,” said Sheyra, “or more than you pretend to know. There are many differences between the elves and orcs; but to the chagrin of both, there are similarities, too.”

Brea squinted, thinking of her earlier exchange with Kozog in the street and his complete inability to…anything. “Are you quite sure?”

“Of course,” Sheyra said. “Both orcs and elves prefer to dwell in the wilds. Both claim a sacred connection to the land; both draw their magic from primal energies simultaneously too complex and too simple for most humans to understand. Both excel at the art of war.”

“I suppose,” said Brea. “But we have many differences.”

“Of course. Take how we quarrel, for example. The fair folk never forget, but they do forgive, if the wrongs have been righted and the proper apologies made. Orcs on the other hand; they never forgive but do, sometimes, forget.” Sheyra smiled. “Unfortunately, I have a very good memory.”

“Another thing Tyranus has taught you?”

“Amongst other things,” Sheyra admitted. She inclined her head. “So.”

Brea blinked. “So-ooo?”

“So, you mentioned you were working as a sellsword. I am in need of a such a person. My current lodgings should not deceive you; we are a wealthy family, with connections, but I have a problem. I was going to have Kozog deal with it, however I sense you have a certain…moral flexibility that he, sadly, is not burdened with.”

“It’s hardly a burden.”

Sheyra smiled knowingly. “Everything is a burden, my dear.”

Brea tossed that thought around in her mind for a moment, then stretched her back. “My purse is full, so the fee will be steep.”

“I am more than happy to pay for quality.”

Brea considered, folding her hands in her lap. “What is it you need?”

“My family manor has been confiscated by the Lords of Valamar, amongst other assets. I require them to be un-confiscated.”

Brea didn’t want to have to admit it but her immediate conclusion was that paperwork was boring. “That honestly sounds like a job for a barrister. Such as your son.” She shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to do? Break into the place and loot everything of value?”

“Not everything of value,” said Sheyra. “Although feel free to borrow anything you need. As it happens, you’re more correct than you know. I need you to get something from that home.”

A playful titter escaped. “Oh, Kozog is going to love this. He’ll probably pop a tusk if he could hear us talking about this.”

Sheyra smiled. “Oh, probably.” She cleared her throat. “But yes. The Lords of Valamar have presented ‘evidence’—fabricated evidence, mind—that my recent business deals have been far too lucrative to be legitimate, and that my fortune comes from consorting with demons. I require something from within the manor; a ledger of financial transactions, stored in the basement, below a loose stone in the southeast corner. This should show that there is nothing untoward taking place and should explain the…discrepancies that they claim they have found.”

“Steal a book,” said Brea, flicking back her fringe. “Should be pretty easy.”

“The house is locked down,” warned Sheyra. “And I am not aware of the precise method. The Lords regularly vary their methods to prevent underhanded meddling.”

“Underhanded meddling is something I’m good at,” said Brea. Her tone turned serious. “The fee will be four thousand gold pieces, and a thousand gold pieces of slaves purchased and freed. Freelanders, if you have the option.”

“Slavery has always left a sour taste in my mouth,” said Sheyra. “Consider it done.”

“Then we have a deal.” Brea paused. “But I’m not signing anything to that effect.”

“A shame, I had such a long contract prepared.” Sheyra stood, and then extended a muscled, orcish hand to Brea. “Thank you for your discretion with this. Now, you kids go have fun.” Her expression turned playful. “Try not to break him.”

Brea took it, squeezing firmly. Kozog’s mother certainly had a warrior’s grip. “How did someone like you have such a…Kozog for a child?”

“Oh,” said Sheyra. “The apple never falls far from the tree. My son is strong but rigid minded, a weakness I fear. Perhaps you can cure him of…his father’s influence.”

Never one for subtlety, Brea tapped her foot on the floor. “Who’s his father?”

“Oh, that’s a mystery for another day.” Sheyra smiled a wide orc smile. “Goodnight, Brea Fleethand. Take care of my son.”

“Well, he’s not exactly my responsibility.”

Sheyra examined Brea with a curious stare. “You two are not—.” Realisation dawned. “Oh. Kozog mentioned, in his letters, a batty half-elf struggling to contain her various needs. He neglected to mention she was so comely. I was not sure you were she.”

Unless he was hiding another half-elf under his cot. Brea bristled. “That would be me, yes. I can only assume.”

“Well, he rarely speaks kindly of non-Tyrantians. His tone was confused, but genuinely kind. I think you have inspired something within him. It’s sweet, in a demented kind of way.”

Brea felt her face warm. “Thank you?”

“It’s a compliment. Tyranus is many things but he tends to inspire a steely heart. Our Lord teaches caution, guarded emotions, and concealed strength. To break that open is certainly…” her eyes shone. “Well, sufficient enough to say, you are so far unique in his life, as far as I’m aware.”

“Okay,” said Brea, uncertain as to what that could mean exactly. “I suppose.”

Sheyra gestured to the door. Brea followed, mulling over what the two had discussed.

As they arrived, Brea could hear ragged breathing on the other side. She pulled open the door to reveal a sweaty Kozog, his face pale.

“You left me,” he said, hunching over, trying to fill his lungs with air.

“And what did we learn?” said Brea.

“Do not annoy the Brea.” Kozog sighed, wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve. “So, did you at least find out what’s going on?”

Chapter IV

Kozog

“SO, I GUESS WE ARE breaking into your family home,” said Brea, for about the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

“Shut up.” Kozog groaned and peered through the iron fence, trying to put his earlier words out of his mind. No such luck.

“Aww, poor Kozzy is all mad because his mummy told him to break the law.” Brea deepened her voice, grunting and scratching under her arm. “Urgh. Me Kozog. Me no break into family home!” Her voice returned to normal. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like.”

He stared at her. “Are…you okay?”

“Yes, of course. I’m imitating you.”

“But I don’t sound anything like that.”

Brea put her hands on her hips, the way she usually did when she wanted to argue an annoying point. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

Kozog didn’t have the energy to argue with her. His chest hurt something fierce; he concealed the pain from Brea, but it came through in…frustration. “If you say so.” He gestured to the wall. “Let’s go.”

Brea climbed it as though it were the easiest thing in the world, practically walking up it like a spider, straddling it at the top. Kozog dug his fingers in, strained his muscles, and hoisted himself up—teetering at the top before falling head first, crashing onto the grass on the other side.

Brea seemed very amused atop the wall, stifling a giggle. She waggled her eyebrows, flipped off the edge and landed in a crouch beside him.

“Don’t say anything,” grumbled Kozog, climbing up to his feet. His chest wound stung, but he grit his teeth and kept his composure.

He did not want to appear weak in front of Brea again.

“I didn’t say a word,” said Brea, cracking her back and casting a curious eye towards the manor. Now they were inside its walls, the size and beauty of the garden seeming to give her pause. “You grew up here?”

“Not really,” said Kozog. “My family and I moved here a few years before I went to the church. The other place was much nicer.”

Brea swept a hand around the yard, at the topiaries and the manicured grass, to the water pond and the stone garden. “Nicer than this?”

Her question didn’t make sense. “Of course. That’s what I said.”

Brea’s eyes seemed like they would drop out of their sockets. She opened her mouth to speak, shook her head, and then closed her mouth, slipping across the grass towards the border hedge, making her way to the house.

Kozog ambled behind her. There was no sense in being stealthy just yet; he could never be as soft-footed as Brea could, even on his best day, but he tried to keep up, using the various bushes and trees for cover.

“Which way?” asked Brea, her voice low.

“The side will be easier,” he said. “If the Lords did secure the property, they would be unlikely to secure the servant’s quarters. We may be able to gain entrance that way.”

Another look of disapproval crossed Brea’s face but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Fine. Where is it?”

Kozog gestured to the smaller building off to the side. “There.”

The two crept over to the servant’s quarters. The windows had been boarded up. Brea tried the door; it was locked. “Can we break it down?” she asked.

“That thing is solid darkwood,” said Kozog. “Unfortunately I neglected to bring any siege weapons.”

Her eyes flicked to him. “Why would you need such security to contain free employees?”

“It’s not designed to keep them in,” Kozog said, blowing an exasperated sigh. “It’s to keep other people out. You know. Burglars. Burglars like us.” He ran his finger along the crack of the door; it was flush with the wall. “See? Hinges on the inside. That’s how you can tell.”

“Fine,” Brea grumbled. “Even if we had a really big axe, breaking this will take too long and make too much noise.” She turned her eyes to the main building, to the smoking room.

Kozog followed her gaze. The smoking room’s windows were likewise boarded, but there were vents at the ceiling which were closed with glass louvres to keep the rain out. There was enough space for the two of them to get through.

“We could pry off one of those bars,” said Brea. “Then break a window.”

The colour drained out of Kozog’s face. “Those sheets of glass took months to arrive! They were shipped in from the north at vast expense, and—”

“They don’t call it breaking in for nothing,” said Brea, idly playing with the tip of a braid. “You got any better ideas?”

He didn’t. “Fine, fine. C’mon. You have the sharpest eyes and I the strongest arms. I’ll give you a boost. Once you get inside, I’ll follow you. When we go to leave, the servant’s quarters should open from the inside.”

Brea regarded the vent. “I can’t reach it. I could jump but I’ll need both hands to pry the grille off.”

Kozog intertwined his fingers. “I’ll get you up high enough.”

“Not too high,” she said, glancing up at the overhang. “I don’t want to hit my head.”

“Just sit,” he said.

She sat in the offered hands, settling against his fingers, her chainmail clinking as she got comfortable. Kozog lifted her up over his head, his face only inches away from the wall.

“Higher,” said Brea.

Kozog stretched, shifting his feet closer together. He wobbled precariously.

“Higher. I’m almost there.”

Groaning, Kozog extended his arms and legs as far as they would go, standing on his tip-toes and pressing his fingers into her backside to get a little more height.

“Enjoying yourself there?” Brea snipped, squirming.

Kozog’s arms trembled. They were fully extended. “Believe me, I wish I were holding your backside under better circumstances. Hurry up and pull off the grate before I drop you.”

She wriggled around in his hands. It made holding her even more difficult. “You just be careful where your fingers are going,” she said.

Kozog teetered unsteadily. “This is a very awkward position and your posterior is covered in metal, in case you forget!”

Brea craned her neck, trying to see in the window, but she was still too tall. “Oh, boo hoo. Suck it up you big broccoli face.”

He snorted in shock. “B-broccoli face?”

“Hey! Keep me steady, why don’t you?”

Kozog inhaled and focused, groaning in pain. “I’m trying!”

“Yes, you definitely are trying. Trying my patience!”

“Your patience?” He puffed, the ache in his arms intensifying, his wound on his chest burning. “Knife ears!”

Brea gasped. “Knife ears? I beg your pardon!”

“You called me a broccoli face!”

She twisted, slapping at his wrists. “That’s because you. Are. One!”

“And you’re a knife ears, so shut it! Just hurry up!”

Snap-crack went the grate. Brea tossed it over her shoulder. She reached down for her tool kit. “Hey,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Are you looking at my butt?”

Kozog swiftly dropped his eyes back down. “No.”

That answer seemed to offend her. “Why not?”

He nearly dropped her. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll have you know, my backside brings out the best in everyone.”

How was that even possible? He would have to ask his mother. “…noted?”

“Good.” Brea inhaled, squinting up against the frosted glass. “Coast is clear inside. Hold on and I’ll break the glass.”

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” Kozog grumbled loudly. “That’s my house.”

“Oh, wait, is smashing windows…illegal?” She put her hands to her cheeks in faux-shock.

Kozog rolled his eyes, adjusting his footing. His fingers were completely numb. “Yes, as a matter of law! This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

Brea laughed. “I know! But it’s just so entertaining watching you squirm!”

“Urgh…” Kozog groaned. “If you don’t move, we’re going to get spotted. Just hurry up and break it.”

Her voice became sing-songy. “But that’s prop-er-ty damage!”

“It’s my house.”

Brea puffed out her chest. “Technically, it’s your mother’s. It won’t be yours until she’s dead.”

“Great,” Kozog groaned. “Out-lawyered by the elf.”

“Technically,” Brea said, her tone thoughtful. “It’s not even hers, since it got seized by the city. This is the property of the city.”

With absolutely nothing else to add, and completely out of rebuttals, Kozog blew a raspberry.

Brea laughed, and a crash followed a shower of glass all around him. “In we go,” she said, pushing the last shards away.

“Three felonies and a misdemeanour before breakfast.” Kozog took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around his chest to try and restore circulation. “I can worm us out of this one, no worries, no worries…”

Brea pulled herself up. “Just give me your hand and stop being such a big green baby.”

It wasn’t childish to consider their actions. Kozog scowled and folded his arms. “I should have let you fall on your head.”

“Mmm, giving a little kiss to the ground? Pass.”

He shook his head in confusion. “You can’t kiss a planet, Brea. It has no lips.”

Brea’s voice was muffled as she stuck her head through the broken glass, inspecting the building beyond. “I’ve kissed far more interesting places than one’s lips, Kozog.”

More interesting? Intriguing. “You have?”

“Oh, you have no idea what it’s like.” Brea’s head returned, her smile positively impish. “You take some guy’s manhood in your mouth, and even the mightiest warriors are completely at your mercy. Every little twinge, every flick of the tongue, becomes ecstasy to them; you control their every ounce of pleasure, you set the pace, you master their whims. They beg and whimper and they are yours.” She smacked her lips. “And, of course, the finale is remarkably tasteful as well.” Her tone shifted in some subtle way “Never had an orc before…”

What in Drathari did any of this have to do with anything? “That shouldn’t be a problem at all. The city has a fine array of courtesans, male and female. Probably more than one orc. After we’ve retrieved the book we could find one.”

The teasing turned frosty and the edges of her mouth turned down. “I’m sure we could. In fact, one could say there’s one quite close that would do nicely.”

Kozog scratched his head, glancing over his shoulder. “I think the slave markets are some distance that way, if you wanted to go back there. It’s not close though.”

“I know what way it is.”

“Then why did you—”

Brea’s face looked like she had inhaled a lemon. “Urgh.”

Kozog closed his eyes. “I’ll take that as a never mind.”

“Oh,” Brea snipped, “he does learn.”

He extended his hand and Brea practically yanked him up the wall.

Brea

The moment Brea’s feet hit the plush red rug and sank in a full inch, she knew she was stepping into another world.

Every part of the Kozog family manor oozed wealth. The walls were plaster, decorated with thick drapes from distant lands. At least one was elven in styling; the others, she had no clue. The floors were a sturdy hardwood, polished to a mirror shine, with a rug carefully laid out around each window. The walls were dotted with cupboards. Several chairs, the rich leather dyed a royal blue and trimmed with gold, sat around a circular table that was lavishly furnished with a bright red cloth. A huge sword made from obsidian glass hung on the wall.

Aside from the glass, and a layer of dust that coated everything, the place was immaculate.

“And I thought it looked fancy from the outside,” she said, her anger forgotten. Her rump stung from Kozog’s fingers digging into it; she stretched, working out the aches, and then helped Kozog ease down from the window. “This room alone must be worth a fortune.”

“We’re just here for the book,” cautioned Kozog. He ran a finger along the windowsill, scowling darkly at the large amount of dust he gathered.

“Actually, your mother said I could help myself, within reason, to whatever I wanted. As part of my fee.”

Kozog narrowed his red eyes. “Is that in the contract?”

“Verbal agreement.”

“And therefore not enforceable in any court of—”

Brea stopped listening at this point, although Kozog droned on in the background, a white noise to her search that was oddly calming. She crept across the room toward the only exit, testing the door. It was unlocked.

“—section J, paragraph two, line one, with-regard-to marine salvage law. A person who recovers another person’s ship or cargo after peril or loss at sea is entitled to a reward commensurate with the value of the property so saved. The concept has its origins in antiquity, with—”

“Shh,” said Brea, holding up a finger.

“What?” asked Kozog. “This is relevant.”

“It’s not relevant,” hissed Brea. She put her ear up against the door, straining to hear anything. Nothing from the room beyond.

Kozog ambled to one of the cupboards, opening the wood with a creak that was too loud to her ears. Within were several bottles of golden alcohol.

“Here,” he said. “Why don’t you take these fire-wine bottles instead of the furniture. Also, because that’s technically a gift, it’s better for tax purposes.”

“Hmmph,” said Brea, considering the ‘tax write off’ with suspicious eyes. “Last time I got drunk, back at the Freelands, I nearly sold my soul to Tyranus.”

Kozog laughed good-naturedly, scooping up the clinking bottles and stuffing them into his backpack. “I remember that night. You asked if it was a new job contact and I said no. But then you said you’d sign it anyway. Fortunately my quill was broken after I sat on it. So we used our fingers to write stuff on a parchment until we both passed out.”

She bristled at the memory. Brea had anticipated that, after Kozog had cuddled up to her on the cold floor of the inn, the particular night would go completely differently. Nestled in under his arm, she had told him things; spilt her heart to him, and the whole time he had not said a single thing…quietly and respectfully listening to her every babbling, stammering word.

Or so she had thought. He had not been cuddling. He had been asleep.

“Why do you even carry those things around, anyway?” she said, her tone snippy.

“Oh, you never know when someone is going to go all-out and pledge their souls to my Holy master, Lord Tyranus, God of Contracts and Bindings.”

Brea shook her head. “It’s funny for you,” she said, biting down on her lower lip. “After that, my sex life has never really recovered.”

Kozog chuckled. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

His expression dropped and he stared. “Mine? What did I do?”

“I’m spending so much time with you that I can’t exactly go off and have a little fun now, can I?”

Kozog, his stupid face all scrunched up from trying to understand a basic concept, held out his hands. “I know you have…needs. I’m not stopping you. I’ve never stopped you from doing what you want.”

Brea sighed, leaning forward to put her forehead on the wood of the door. “No,” she said, “I guess you’re not.”

“But…you don’t want to for some reason?”

“Yeah. For some reason.” Brea straightened up. “Look, we should split up. Check the next room. Try not to let you big dumb orcish feet kick over anything too loud. Or too valuable.”

“My feet aren’t big.” He moved beside her, toes dragging across the rug.

Brea pointedly stepped on his toes. “Too loud!”

“I’m doing my best!” Kozog grumbled. “Anyway, why are we looking in those rooms? Isn’t the ledger in the basement?”

“Because mummy-dearest said that the house was secured. I want to find out in what way, preferably without any of us getting shot by poison darts, or magically shackled, or set on fire.”

“That would be preferable,” said Kozog.

Brea turned the door’s handle and pushed him through. “Go,” she said through clenched teeth. “Search. Find the traps and try not to die. If you do die, try to scream a lot so I’ll know to run.”

They split up, searching first the ground floor of the house, then the upper. All Brea found was wealth upon wealth, gold and silver and precious wood, gemstones, everburning candles, paintings, carvings, busts and artwork of all descriptions and tastes. There seemed to be little consistency in it; apparently orcs had a wide palate for the artistic, stuffing every room with imported fineries.

It didn’t make sense to her, but as she waited by the hatchway that lead down to the basement, listening to Kozog’s heavy boots thump around upstairs, it slowly dawned.

The art was not appreciated for anything other than its value. It was a store of wealth, impossible to tax and too large and heavy to pickpocket, protected securely by the house. In normal circumstances Brea could imagine fifty or so staff dwelling here; cooks, cleaners, maids and butlers. There would be no way anyone could steal a ten foot wide painting.

As a bard, this realisation made her feel vaguely hollow. Kozog’s mother’s words echoed in her ears. Strong but rigid minded.

What were her songs to him?

Subconsciously, as though drawn by some urge she could not contain, she began to sing. It was a light, soft, wordless melody that drifted out of her lips completely unguided; just notes, rising and falling, moving with the ebb and flow of a tune she invented.

She stopped when she saw Kozog out of the edge of her vision.

“That was beautiful,” he said, smiling a half-moon.

It normally took a lot to stagger Brea, but at that confession she found her voice caught in her throat.

“I thought you were in danger,” Kozog said. “I came quickly. I don’t think you even noticed.”

“It’s an elf thing,” Brea said, fairly sure he would believe that. “Sometimes we just like to sing.”

“It’s completely okay,” said Kozog. “I enjoyed it, truly, and I wish you would do so more often; not only when we are in peril.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said, a warm glow spreading across her face.

“Although,” Kozog said, casting his eyes to the wooden trap door, “if anyone is waiting down there for us, I think we lost the advantage of surprise.”

How could he do that? Bring her such warmth and happiness, and then take it away. Not deliberately, just…by being him.

“It’s fine,” said Brea. That was a lesson she had taken from her parents; any time anyone insisted some slight was fine, it was not fine.

Once again, Sheyra’s words came back to her. The fair folk never forget, but they do forgive. Technically true. Brea added her own caveat. Eventually.

Maybe.

Kozog grabbed the trap door and hoisted it up. “I’ll go first,” he said, and together the two of them disappeared into the gloom.

Chapter V

Kozog

THE GLOOM DIDN’T BOTHER HIM; the thin sliver of light filtering through the open hole into the ground was more than enough light to see by. He put foot in front of foot, walking down the stairs into the dim light, letting his eyes adjust.

It was just as he remembered it; a dank, musty cellar full of bottles of wine and wooden crates that they hadn’t unpacked from the move. More art. Kozog didn’t know why his mother collected so much.

“Looks clear,” said Kozog, resting the butt of his spear down on the ground and waving over his shoulder for Brea to follow.

He almost hit her in the face. She was standing right next to him; quiet like a cat. Kozog had not heard her move.

“Careful,” she hissed.

“Sorry.” Kozog inhaled, taking in the damp scent. “Where is this ledger?”

“Loose stone, southeast corner.” Brea stepped forward cautiously, her eyes fixed on one of the stones. “I think I see it.”

A faint hum filled the air. Kozog gripped his spear cautiously and a section of the wall, earthy and covered in moss, melted away to become a woman with delicate features and a strange, pale, unearthly beauty to her.

A woman wearing no clothes at all, save a dagger strapped to her hip via a thin leather band. She stared at him with dimly glowing crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through him, a curious smile on her face.

Kozog could practically smell the demonic influence on her, but the stranger made no move to engage. “Another demon,” he said, flicking his tongue over a tusk.

“Can’t these guys take one night off?” spat Brea, her weapons in her hands. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The strange woman smiled as she stepped up to Brea, unsheathed her dagger, and in one impossibly swift motion, drove it into Brea’s heart.

Time stopped. A tiny flower of red blossomed at Brea’s back, the stigma the narrow point of the blade, fine links of her chainmail punctured. It was a picture painted perfectly in his eyes; Brea, still standing despite the blade’s penetration, the woman smiling as though she had only offered a cup of tea, and the slow drip of blood onto the floor.

How had this happened? Why didn’t she parry, or block, or—

Brea crumpled in a heap. The demon casually sheathed the bloody blade.

Kozog’s spear found his hands and a bloodthirsty roar bellowed out, primal and wordless. His legs coiled and sprung forward, tip of his spear aimed to the creature’s heart a thick trail of smoke engulfing his hands.

The woman daintily stepped out of the path of his furious assault and, ever so gently, touched a finger to his forehead.

Kozog froze in place, his face twisted and distorted with pure hatred.

“What do we have here, mmm?” said the demon. Her voice was honey and gravel, impossibly sweet but concealing a deep, echoing power. A succubus. “They said that Sheyra would come herself; who in the hells are you?”

Unrestrained fury burned in his veins as he struggled to move his fingers, to bring his weapon against the one who had slain Brea. It didn’t move.

“A half-orc,” said the succubus, stepping around Kozog’s immobile speartip, sliding up against his front, scraping one of her nails along his breastplate. “Fascinating. I smell Sheyra’s blood in your veins; her son, possibly. Not unlikely given her... tolerance for humans.”

Kozog mentally thrashed against the telepathic shackles. No movement. At his feet, he could see her. blood splattered against the damp, mossy floor of the basement.

Brea’s flesh was pale white, drained of blood. Drained of life.

Dead.

The succubus pressed her lips to his. They were cold as ice, and Kozog felt a dark lance in his mind; images flashed before his eyes. Fragments of his life, all of his recall pushed through the kiss into her. Simultaneously, the strength in his muscles faded.

“I pity you, half-man,” the succubus said, her voice at once soft as silk and hard as iron. “Looking into your heart I see the truth. You are the mule of humanity. Misbegotten filth-skin who crawled out of the gutter and thought he could stand among his betters as an equal.” The demon kissed at his cheek, working her way down to his neck, suckled at Kozog’s skin as one might a boiled sweet. “One who studied, trying to be one of them. Unfortunately you will never escape your nature, little orc. A savage. A killer. You are dirt to these men, mule. You must know they snicker behind your back, watching you strut around dressed as them, talking like them. You are a trained pet. Something to amuse themselves, made even more pathetic that you do not recognise it.”

Meaningless babble. He didn’t care what she said. His heart was full of rage.

More of his life energy drained out through her lips. Kozog felt as though he had run for miles; his legs ached, his arms were only held aloft by whatever dark spell she had spat at him.

“Delicious,” murmured the succubus. She, seeming to have consumed her fill, raised her head. Another kiss and Kozog’s lips could move.

“I’ll kill you for this!” he snarled.

“No, you won’t.” She hooked her hands into his breastplate, pressing herself against him. “You’ll be a corpse when I’m through with you. When. It will be a time of my choosing.”

Kozog’s tusks trembled with fury. “Why don’t you just kill me, beast? Send me to her!”

“Anyone can kill,” the succubus mused, as though considering dinner wines. “Flesh is weak. It is the destruction of hope that is the sweetest victory.”

“I’ll never believe a word you tell me.” He spat the words with all the hate in existence.

“You see,” said the succubus, “here-in lies the first of your mistaken presumptions about demonkind and what we do. Your belief in our words is not required. I tell neither truths nor lies; I only take what you conceal in your heart and bring it to the surface. I use only your own perception and create nothing, false or true. I know nothing of Kozog save what I learn from your mind.” She smiled, exposing a mouth full of shark-like teeth. “To hurt you I simply remind you of your own failings.”

Kozog willed the monster to die with all the mental energy he had.

“You feel for this half-elf,” said the succubus. Kozog could feel the thoughts being pulled out of his head. “Perfectly understandable. Bastard half-breeds would be drawn to each other; mutts and mongrels, rolling in the dirt together.” Her dark smile grew. “How could you ever think she would be interested in a greenskin? Could she lie with you, a snot-blooded creature, bent and retched, a warped mockery of her human roots? Look at her pale skin, her perfect hair, and her kind eyes. Yours are sullen and empty; full of only rage, hidden beneath the thin, easily pierced veil of civilisation.

“Did you know in Nuriel, the New Kingdom of Man, the nobility often import monkeys, dress them in halfling’s clothes, and train them to perform tasks? Some are quite impressive; copying documents, operation of complex machinery, or activating magical items. Some say they are almost human.” She hummed quietly. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“When I’m free, I’ll tear out your throat, you fiend-blooded monster.”

“Promises,” said the succubus, purring in her throat. Her form melted away, ears elongating, and her dark hair turning chestnut and spilling down over her shoulders. The perfect facsimile of Brea.

“You can practice on me if you want,” she said in Brea’s voice, perfectly intoned. “In every way you wish. Imagine that I am her; my body is still warm, unlike hers…flesh intact, blood in my veins. I can be her for you.”

“Release me and we might find out,” said Kozog, fighting the sickening feeling in his gut as he looked at the perfect mirror of Brea.

“You lie poorly.” Gently, the succubus slid the spear out of Kozog’s immobile fingers, dropping it on the ground. “But there is no sense in taking chances, is there?”

“No chance I can take while my hands don’t move,” said Kozog. “How about another kiss? I’m liking you as Brea.”

She laughed, deep and powerful, a stark mirror to Brea’s playful trill. “All eventually fall for my charms,” she said, casually hooking her arms around Kozog’s shoulders. From behind her, a pair of stunted bat wings grew with the sound of stretched sinew and bone. “Even if I am wearing someone else’s face. Maybe I will keep you alive. Maybe. Just for me to toy with for a little before you die.”

“How about that kiss?” asked Kozog.

She leaned forward, her lips barely away from Kozog’s. “Such pleasures I could give you,” she said in Brea’s voice. “Far more than any mortal female. I can make you abandon your elven friend in a heartbeat.”

Kozog smiled when she kissed him, and snapped his teeth down on her lip, jamming his tusks into her cheeks.

Black blood sprayed all over his face. The succubus howled a wild, otherworldly wail that belied her extra-planar nature, and the guise of Brea faded away to reveal a red-skinned, warped woman with huge bat wings and a scorpion’s tail.

The fel magic holding his limbs rigid faded; he tore his tusk out of her flesh, one breaking off. He slumped and staggered, struggling to keep his footing. His whole body felt as though it were made of lead.

“Mule!” the succubus screeched, slashing at him with fingertips ending in elongated claws, drawing lines of blood across his shoulder. “Beast! Orc! Animal!”

Kozog grit his teeth against the new wound, guns bleeding from his broken tusk. He sprung forward and slammed his forehead into her face. Black odorous filth sprayed from her crumpled nose, in a tangle of wings, tails and flailing fists, they collapsed onto the ground, punching, biting, and kicking.

The succubus’s tail snapped over her shoulder. The tip dug into Kozog’s forearm. Poison pumped into his veins. He head-butted the demon. She clawed his flank. He kneed her in the groin. She kneed him back.

Kozog’s rage faltered as dark poison pumped into his body, but picturing Brea, dead and broken, drove him beyond its burn. He punched, kicked, gored and roared like a lion.

Her claws latched onto his chest, finding the wound below his heart. Something about it surprised her; her eyes opened wide with fear and shock, and for a split second, her guard was down. “Az’shelas?” the demon asked, a word he did not recognise in any tongue he spoke.

Kozog’s hand found the dagger at her hip, drew it, and reversed its grip. “You talk too much,” he snarled, and drove the tip between her eyes.

Her form melted away. The succubus’s body became a misshapen, almost formless creature of black liquid ash with dark flaming wings, neither male nor female; a genderless construct spun of pure ruin.

The succubus’s body twitched, jerked, then burst like an overripe sack, spraying rancid black liquid in all directions, covering the floor and Kozog’s body. The world around him shimmered, translucent and distorted for a moment, and Brea’s body faded away.

Instead, she stood with her back against the wall, the wound on her chest vanished. Her hands were outstretched, trembling, as though choking the life out of some unseen foe. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair wild and dishevelled.

A moment’s confusion stopped both of them. Kozog, with the demonologist’s training the church had given him, knew what had happened.

Every demon’s words were lies but there was more power to them than that. The could also reach into one’s head, their heart, and paint a false reality. The perfect tool for corrupting the pure; it took particular discipline to resist the truth of one’s own senses, and although Kozog knew of it intellectually, he had not experienced it personally.

Before now.

Their eyes met. Brea shrieked. “No more illusions! No more trickery! You’re not Kozog, he’s dead!”

Kozog knew that Brea, although lacking the specialist training he had, had clearly come to the same conclusion. “Wait,” he said, holding up his filth-stained hands. “It’s me. It’s really me. She was in our heads, Brea, trying to break us. She’s gone now.”

“You’re lying!”

What could he say to prove he was who he said he was? “My mother, who you met, is named Sheyra.”

“The demon knew her name,” said Brea, her fists clenched in a fighting stance. “That tells me nothing.”

Of course she did. Kozog’s eyes fell to her exposed fingers. “Your burned your hands,” Kozog said. “On your dagger. The tiefling’s spell heated it, back in the Shadowlands. Then you rode with Bane’hal to Irondarrow keep.”

Brea tensed. For a moment, Kozog thought she would not believe him, and then the tension flowed out of her whole body. “Thank everything.”

He stood, flicking his fingers to clean off some of the demon’s blood. “Again, it was just an illusion.”

“I know.” Brea pointed at his other hand, and the weapon held within it. “Wait, is that the cow’s dagger?”

Kozog smiled, holding out the black metal, slick with dark blood. “Mmm hmm.”

“How did you get it? She was holding it just before, in my mind, as I choked the life out of her…”

He casually wiped the weapon clean on a scrap of cloth. “I promise you,” said Kozog, inspecting the last flecks of blood on the hilt. “She only missed it for an instant.”

Brea

The servant’s quarters, as Kozog had promised, unlocked from the inside. She cleaned off as much of the demon’s blood off Kozog as she could, and then the two of them slipped away into the growing twilight.

She hid her trembling hands from him until her nerve returned, after Kozog led them to a cheap and nasty inn near the edge of town and checked them in.

The place was a dilapidated, deserted hole in a wall surrounded by Marcelin’s unwanted and unwashed. She didn’t care; it seemed safe enough, and she flopped down on the diminutive bed at the centre of their tiny room. Was this a room for a halfling?

“Mine,” she said. “You get the floor. Nap time.”

“Actually,” said Kozog, standing in the doorway. “This is where I leave you.” He held up a hand. “For the moment.”

She rolled onto her back, staring at him. “Wait, you’re not staying here tonight?”

“I would, but it’s probably better I don’t stay here. That was a genuine demon, and a powerful one too, all within the walls of Marcelin. I have to report this.”

“Lots of paperwork,” said Brea. “That should make you happy.” She considered, sliding out of the bed and moving out to the doorway. “How will you explain how we got down here in the basement? This building is supposed to be in lockdown.”

“That part will be easy,” he said. “I’ll blame it on some crazy Freelander I saw breaking into my house. This kind of thing should pass magical interrogation as, technically, you were the one who entered first. Clearly I, as a civilly minded priest of the church of Tyranus, who is oath-sworn to upload the law and protect the people from thugs and brigands—”

“Hey!”

“—should, with heavy heart, be forced to violate the seizure order in order to apprehend the suspect and preserve justice.” He smiled. “Unfortunately, the villain got away. However, in doing so I was able to discover a demonic infiltrator in the basement, which I defeated.” He pointed to his missing tusk. “And suffered terribly in the doing so. A humble sacrifice, willingly made, to preserve the peace.”

“Won’t it look suspicious, you finding a demon in your own house?”

“Demonologists often speculate that demons arise in areas of profound corruption with obvious signs of their taint, or alternatively, in areas more pure than others. Honestly, as there are no gaping maws to the Hells in my bedroom, this will work in my favour.”

“This is all okay,” said Brea. “Except it makes a criminal out of me.”

“All elves look alike,” said Kozog. “I’ll be sure to give a vague enough description that nobody can pin this back on you, knife-ears.”

“Bah, broccoli-face.” Typical. She sighed, tossing her hands into the air, and then regarded him. He seemed…sickly. Weak. Tired. Afraid? “Hey, greeny. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kozog said, which Brea could tell was a huge big stinking lie. There was that word again. Fine.

“You sure?” she asked. “Because you look like shit.”

He laughed and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. When it finally did, the words came from within; she knew he spoke his mind without reservation. “I don’t want to sleep just yet. Sometimes when I sleep I see my mother’s eyes, ten years ago. I see the pain, the terror as she tried, all in vain, to stay the hand of her husband’s executioner. She had spells, connections politically and socially, as well as might in battle; but still my father fell. The pain she felt…I was only nine when I saw it. I cannot put it into words. It is something only an orc feels. Teetering on the edge of madness and terror; of fear and fury. The bloodrage. I felt this today, and now I am afraid that one day it will consume me. I tremble, thinking what the only outcome for me will be.

“For years, my mother was possessed by a hopeless desire to throw her life away for something useless and pointless and incomprehensible: hot-blooded revenge. Yet, for all her passion and desire, she failed. To succeed if I am ever in her boots, I will need power, and in Valamar you have the church or you have nothing. My mother taught me that.”

“So that’s why you joined,” she said. “The church, I mean.”

“Yes.”

Brea would need some time to digest that. “Well, we can talk about it later. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do?”

“Not sure,” said Kozog. “Banehal might have another contract for us. Maybe head back to the Freelands? I’ll meet you there.”

That wouldn’t work. “Banehal didn’t return to the Freelands,” she said. “He told me he had gone hunting slavers around Everwatch.”

Where I should be…

Kozolg hesitated. “You seem uncertain. Do you think Banehal betrayed the Army of the Open Fist?”

“No,” said Brea. That wasn’t it. “He was loyal and the defeat was as much of a shock to us as it was to him. I’m certain of it.”

“How can you know?”

“He’s a paladin, and he’s still got a full head of hair. Couldn’t be older than twenty.” She pursed her lips. “There’s an elven saying: Never trust an old man in a profession where the good die young.”

Kozog seemed to accept that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So,” asked Brea. “Neither of us have anywhere to go. We’re pariahs. What next?”

“I figure we split up for a bit, and regroup back in the Freelands.” Kozog hesitated, his red eyes flicking away. “If you wanted.”

“Oh,” she said, a whimsical smile playing over her lips. “We have a lot of adventures to share together, yet.”

“Until the end of my life,” Kozog promised.

“What if I die first?” asked Brea. It was a simple question. “What would you do then?”

“I never really thought about it. The alternative seems far more likely.” He absently rubbed at his broken tusk, leaning up against the door frame. “Few people know how long a half-orc can truly live. Misadventure claims us far before that. Our lives are brutish and short; yours are beautiful and long and full of wonder. I have no illusions. You’ll have many more comrades after me.” Something crept into his words she didn’t fully understand. Regret? “If us lasts my life, it must be fleeting for you. As if I were entangled with a half-orc who would be old and withered in five years, dead in ten. No small commitment, but hardly…” he could barely end it. “Important.”

“You are important.” Brea stressed the words. “But you’re far more likely to die from face-punching than you are from being old and grey, warm in your bed. Not at this rate. What are we going to do about that tooth?”

“It will regrow.” Kozog smiled crookedly. “You tell me that knife-ears can live for a hundred years but can’t regrow their teeth?”

“I never really thought about that,” Brea said. “But no, we can’t.”

“An example of how we’re different.” Kozog managed a weak smile, rubbing the wound over his chest. “Okay, time for you to go to bed, you silly little criminal.”

“Brea the Bandit.” She arched her back, closing her eyes. Artfully, employing all she had learnt throughout her life, Brea carefully dropped a hip, inhaling a breathy sigh. “Mmm,” she purred, “I’ve been such a bad girl. Maybe you should come in and spank me for a bit.”

He considered, and then, with a warm smile, slowly extended his hand.

“It’s okay,” said Kozog, patting her on the head. “Everyone makes mistakes.” He waved cordially. “Sleep well. I’ll see you soon!”

Epilogue

Heartbreaker

FOR A SUCCUBUS, DYING MEANT a trip home and a year’s banishment in the lower planes.

And it hurt like hell.

Heartbreaker’s body reformed in her spawning pool nestled deep within the pits, surrounded by roaring flames and the screams of the pitiful mortal souls sent to the heat and the dark.

Killed by her own weapon. How terribly embarrassing. She unfurled her wings, slipping out of the black fluid that had reformed into her body. A waterfall of the stuff trickled in from a gargoyle statue’s mouth; the water was waist deep, more than enough for a hundred reformations.

She knew she should be careful. One could only afford to be killed once every generation or so, lest the fluid levels get too low, and some ambitious, lower ranked demons decided to make a claim on it. She had seen such things; such a battle would drain her resources away, as the two killed each other over and over, until one wasted away and the victor claimed the dark for themselves.

In the pit, one’s ability to have power was directly related to one’s ability to hold onto it.

Heartbreaker let the unholy rejuvenation fluid run off her, shaking her wings and wringing out her tail. She had been killed a score of times, or more, and each time was painful, uncomfortable, and distressing.

This time, the death was particularly rankling. She had been killed by someone infected by az’shelas, one of the pit’s more subtle creations. More of a disease than a living creature, the living called it a rotbringer. A foul demon who entered a mortal’s body through a wound, causing infection and decay to spread until they eventually could seize control of the host and use their body as their puppet.

When she had discovered the infection, she had thought az’shelas was in charge of the half-orc, but that mistake had cost her.

No matter. The half-orc would be long dead before her vengeance could be delivered.

Such a shame.

Read more of the world of Shattered Dreams in the novel-length story Ren of Atikala!

Brea and Kozog will return in The Pariahs: Freelands!

Afterword

I’M NOT THAT INTERESTING REALLY. I’m thirty, I live in Australia, and I've always been thinking of stories for as long as I've been alive. I have way, way, way too many to tell and far too little time to tell them.

I've been writing stuff all my life, but I still couldn't tell all the stories I wanted to. It was only in 2011 that I actually started shaping and weaving those random, jumbling, chaotic masses of thoughts into coherent narratives and began self-publishing.

I write a little science fiction, a little fantasy, a little humour and comedy, and a few other things all over the place.

The Pariahs is a new thing for me, set in the world of Ren of Atikala, a place called Drathari. A place where the gods are dead and life is nasty, brutish, and short. Ren of Atikala is about a kobold who lives in this world but knows little of it; Kozog and Brea are different, still growing into their own stories.

Special thanks to Clara Barrs, for bringing Brea to life.

Want more information about new releases for the Kobolds series? My new novel, Ren of Atikala: The Scars of Northaven is now available. To get it when it comes out, sign up for my “new releases” newsletter here:

http://eepurl.com/toBf9

Check out my webpage here:

www.lacunaverse.com

Like my Facebook page here:

http://www.facebook.com/lacunaverse

Or email me here:

dave@lacunaverse.com

Books by David Adams:

The Lacuna series

Lacuna

The Sands of Karathi

The Spectre of Oblivion

The Ashes of Humanity

The Prelude to Eternity

The Requeim of Steel (coming 2015!)

Magnet

Magnet: Special Mission

Magnet: Marauder

Magnet: Scarecrow

Magnet Omnibus I

The Kobolds series

Ren of Atikala

The Scars of Northaven

The Empire of Dust (coming 2015!)

The Pariahs

Pariahs: Freelands (coming 2015!)

The Gods Are Silent (coming 2015!)

…and many more!

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THE FIRE SEER - A COALITION OF MAGES NOVEL

Amy Raby

Chapter I

Hrappa

TAYA TROTTED HER BLACK MARE past the flat, unwelcoming stares of the Hrappan townsfolk. She faced forward, reminding herself not to take it personally. It wasn’t who she was that bothered them. It was what she represented.

The sunlight was fading as she rode up to the Hall of Judgment. A haughty-looking servant in belted indigo awaited her on the steps. Taya dropped lightly from the mare’s back and brushed the travel dust from her clothes. She’d come in Coalition regalia, as per instructions. Over her short riding pants, she wore a green robe of soft cotton. A belt of worked silver with a fire agate mounted on the buckle encircled her waist. Her hair was pulled up into a fan-shaped headdress, and her arms jangled with bracelets—silver, since her people did not wear gold.

The servant’s gaze raked her. “You must be the drain-cleaner we sent for.”

Taya blinked in surprise. “No, I’m Coalition.”

“Ah,” said the servant, taking the mare’s reins. “I never would have guessed.”

Taya’s cheeks warmed. Sometimes she didn’t notice right away when a person was being insincere.

The servant straightened. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Lumbering up the stairs was Piru, her pack elephant. He was a dwarf variety, no larger than her mare, but tame and loyal and incredibly strong. “Put him in a stall next to the mare. Has my partner arrived?”

“He arrived yesterday.”

He. So her partner was a man. Taya didn’t care one way or another, so long as he was competent, but she’d been curious.

The servant circled the elephant dubiously. “Where’s the lead rope?”

“You don’t need one. Just take the mare and he’ll follow her. His name is Piru. Give him a good feed of hay and scratch him behind the ears.”

The servant gave her a look that said, I’d sooner rub a sand viper’s belly.

Poor Piru. Maybe Taya would be able to visit him in the stable herself. “Is my partner available for me to confer with before I see the magistrate?”

“The magistrate wants to see you immediately. Your partner is with him.” The servant pointed. “Straight inside, first hallway on the right, second door on the left.” He whistled, and a boy padded up the steps. The two of them spoke briefly, and the boy took the mare’s reins and led her away. Piru started to follow but hesitated, turning his gray head to Taya in confusion.

“Go on,” she urged, and Piru trotted off, ears flapping. Taya smiled.

She straightened her headdress, noting with exasperation that several locks of her hair had come loose. She tried shoving them back in, but other pieces fell out, and she decided just to leave it be. She wouldn’t make a perfect impression, but how could she be expected to after traveling all day?

Aside from its huge size and arched entryway, the Hall of Judgment was like most Hrappan buildings, a flat rectangle of baked brick. The building was stuffy inside, but now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, it would cool off. Taya turned into the first hallway on the right and looked for the second door on the left. It was guarded by a lightly armored man with a bronze mace at his belt. She caught the guard’s eye and he nodded, granting her permission to enter.

The room was unexpectedly large. A gentle breeze threaded through two windows overlooking a leafy courtyard. A high seat rested upon a raised dais, undoubtedly the chair from which the magistrate handed down his decisions, but it was empty. Three men sat around a table in the center of the room.

One of the men was old and sick—disturbingly so. His stomach was bloated and misshapen, his hair lank, and his face sweaty, as if sitting in a chair was a great effort for him. Taya suspected he was near death.

The man sitting next to him was young and healthy. Both bore the facial tattoos of the ruling caste and were well dressed. The third man, who had his back to her, wore Coalition green and silver and was obviously her partner. Seeing him, her anxiety about the mission eased a little. He looked like the sort of man one could depend on—tall and strong, with a confident manner. He was a quradum, one of the Coalition’s magic-using warriors, and his role was to protect and advise her. Given the hostility of the townsfolk here, she might need protection. As for advice, she welcomed any guidance on her inaugural mission. She hoped her partner was as seasoned as he looked.

The younger man stood to welcome her but the sick man only gave her an apologetic look. Taya gathered he was not capable of standing. Her partner rose, too, with leonine grace. As he turned, she moved toward him eagerly and froze in shock.

She knew that face.

Even if she had been uncertain in her recollection, the facial tattoos were unmistakable. The sunburst on his forehead and the lines just beneath his eyelids, all in dark red, marked him as a member of the royal house. She was looking at Mandir isu Sarrum. Taya felt sick.

Recognition dawned in Mandir’s eyes as well, and he went as still as an onager jack who catches the scent of a lion in the grass.

“Welcome to Hrappa,” said the older man, in a weak voice that carried the echoes of well-worn authority. “I am the magistrate, Ashur isu Dayyanum. I’m sorry I cannot stand to offer you a proper greeting. I have been ill these past seasons.”

Taya tore her eyes away from her partner. Manners first. “My name is Taya. I’m sorry you’ve been ill.” She approached the table and held out her hand, pressing her five fingers to the magistrate’s. “Have you seen a Coalition healer for your condition?”

“I have the Curse of Lalan. They can do nothing.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. If he had the Curse, there was, indeed, no cure. It did not spread from one person to another, but it was lethal.

The magistrate continued, “This is my son and heir, Kalbi isu Dayyanum.”

Taya touched fingers with the son. Their names, Ashur and Kalbi, were interesting. “Traditional” names, the people called them, but since joining the Coalition, Taya had learned that such names were actually remnants of the forbidden language, the mother tongue. Parents had handed them down for generations, having no idea what they were preserving. Her own name, Taya, had no such significance; it was from the river tongue and of modern origin.

“And...you already know your partner?” said the magistrate. “I was led to believe you would be strangers to one another.”

Taya turned to Mandir, folding her arms to indicate she had no intention of touching fingers with him.

“Indeed,” said Mandir, mirroring the gesture. “Taya and I have not seen each other for a number of years, but we trained together as children.”

“Such fond memories,” said Taya. “Mandir almost killed me once.”

Mandir forced a laugh, as if she’d made a joke.

“Ah,” said the magistrate, taking it as one. “I could tell you some stories about my own misspent days.” He indicated the empty chair. “Have a seat. We’ve business to discuss.”

Taya sat, edging her chair away from Mandir’s. How had this happened? Mandir was a year older than her, but he’d entered the Coalition the same year as she had, and he’d been sentenced to a Year of Penance for his crimes. That should have put him a year behind in his instruction. He should not be a fully qualified quradum! In silence, she fumed. Someone had bent the rules for him. Mandir was the son of a prince, and once again his connections had saved him from having to face the consequences of his misdeeds.

She longed to toss a barb in his direction—So, Mandir, how was your Year of Penance?—but she contented herself with shooting him a nasty glare.

He was looking her over in an appraising manner, which irritated her even more. He’d always coveted her body, even as he’d insulted everything else about her. Well, let him look. Let him see the green robe and silver belt that showed she was every bit his equal despite her low birth. Let him see the fire agate that marked her as a fire seer. Caste didn’t matter in the Coalition, only ability.

Boldly, she scrutinized him in return, searching for physical flaws, but she was disappointed. His hair and clothing were perfect, not a strand out of place, and her onetime hope that his gangly teenage body would over-mature into coarseness had not come to pass. Instead, he’d filled out into a man with size and muscle and sleekness, putting Taya in mind of a jungle cat.

His eyes were the color of overripe wheat, his hair dark as a monsoon cloud. She tried to stare him down so he’d know she was no longer a scared fourteen-year-old farm girl he could play cruel games with, but there was more in his eyes than just arrogance. Was it fear? Surely he had nothing to fear from her, unless it was the fact that she would not hesitate to go to the authorities if he overstepped his bounds. The Coalition might not forgive his excesses forever. But that was his problem, not Taya’s. He’d made a mess of his life by messing up other people’s lives. Three people had been expelled from the Coalition, their magic permanently destroyed, because of him. He’d gotten off easy, and he deserved no pity.

Mandir turned to the magistrate and said, “Tell us about the suspected jackal.”

Taya blinked. She needed to focus on the mission, not on her partner, but she couldn’t help noticing, now that she was over the initial shock of seeing him, that his voice had changed. It had deepened into a rich, velvety tenor.

“Three people have been murdered, all of them killed in ways consistent with a jackal,” said the magistrate. “Two by fire, one by flood.”

“Who was the first victim?” asked Taya.

The magistrate’s head dipped. “My younger son Hunabi.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Taya. “How was he killed?”

“Burned alive in the middle of a cotton field.”

“How many children had you?”

“Two sons, Kalbi and Hunabi.” He indicated the young man sitting next to him.

Taya nodded. Until she could clear him, the elder brother, Kalbi, would be a suspect. Ruling-caste families were typically polyandrous, with their sons marrying the same woman in order to keep family estates intact. It was a situation that caused tension if the boys did not get along. “How many years separated Kalbi from his younger brother?”

“Three.”

“What was the nature of the brothers’ relationship?”

“I am no jackal,” broke in Kalbi. “I did not kill my brother.”

“I was not making an accusation,” said Taya. “I’m collecting information.”

“The boys were close,” said the magistrate. “They were in harmony.”

“Were they married, or contracted for marriage?”

“A contract was under negotiation at the time of Hunabi’s death. We have set it aside while our house is in mourning.”

Taya exchanged a look with Mandir. The marriage contract might be significant; it would need investigation. “We’ll need details on the marriage contract. What about the other murders? Who were the victims and when did they occur?”

The magistrate opened his mouth to answer. Then a shudder wracked his body, and he closed his eyes.

“Are you all right?” asked Mandir.

“No.” The magistrate turned to his son. “Fetch my attendants. And Rasik.” Kalbi leapt from the table and hurried from the room. The magistrate continued to speak, his voice thready and weak. “The other two victims were girls. The daughter of cloth merchant Bodhan isu Kasirum and the sister of farmer Zashkalim isu Ikkarum. I will assign Rasik to you. He is my clerk, an educated servant, and he knows all the particulars in these cases. He will guide you around the city of Hrappa as you hunt your jackal.”

Footsteps alerted Taya to Kalbi’s return. Another man was with him, the servant who’d taken her livestock at the front steps. The servant frowned, folding his arms in mock indignation. “My lord, have you been at the whiskey again?”

“If only, Rasik,” said the magistrate. “I require you to place yourself at the disposal of these Coalition representatives. Set them up in guesthouses, see that they’re fed and looked after, and show them around town tomorrow morning.”

Rasik made a face. “Perhaps Sukal, or Illia—”

“I give this task to you. And mind your tongue. You know the Coalition.” He turned back to Taya and Mandir. “Forgive his indiscretions. Servants with his skills are nearly impossible to replace.”

More servants arrived, bearing a litter, which they squeezed through the narrow doorway. Something about the magistrate smelled strange, like rotten fruit. It was disconcerting. Taya was relieved when Rasik beckoned her and Mandir from the room.

Chapter II

Hrappa

TAYA FOLLOWED RASIK OUT OF the Hall of Judgment and across the street to a line of small residential homes. From the outside, each appeared to be a simple rectangle with a wooden door.

“I’ve got you in adjacent houses,” said Rasik. “They share a courtyard.” He opened the door of the nearest and entered. “This one is the lady’s.”

Taya followed. The house was small but serviceable. The main room, clean and well swept, had a table and chairs and some shelving, which, to her surprise and pleasure, already held her saddlebags. At the other end of the room was a simple bed: a straw pallet on a wooden frame made up with blue cotton sheets. Windows opened out onto a courtyard. She took a brief look at the washroom, which contained an empty basin, a clay ewer filled to the brim with fresh water, a toilet, and a drain leading to the sewers outside.

“An attendant will draw your water daily,” said Rasik. “If you need more, the well’s just south of the Hall. Here’s the courtyard.”

He led them through a second wooden door into an outdoor pavilion, where a stunning Amaltas tree spread its green canopy over a carved stone table with matching benches. The tree was not yet in flower, but Taya could only imagine how lovely it would be when its golden blossoms draped over the courtyard like fat bunches of grapes. The space was fully enclosed by the frame of Taya’s guesthouse and three others just like it. Cool evening air pricked at Taya’s arms. The house had been stiflingly hot, and probably always would be in the evenings, except in inclement weather. She noted a cook-pit and some flowering bushes.

“I’m sure you’ll want to eat outdoors on a day like today,” said Rasik.

Taya eyed Mandir. “Actually, I prefer to eat indoors.”

Mandir frowned.

Rasik shrugged. “If you enjoy sweltering.” He indicated the doorway to the house on the right. “Your home, sir. It’s identical to the lady’s. The other two are empty. Someone will bring dinner shortly.”

“Will the other two remain empty?” asked Mandir.

“As far as I know,” said Rasik.

“Inform me at once if anyone is to take up residence in them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Taya. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Of course,” said Rasik. “Try not to set anyone on fire.” He turned and left through Taya’s house.

After one last, longing look at the breezy courtyard, Taya headed indoors.

“Where are you going?” called Mandir.

“Inside,” said Taya.

His footsteps sounded on the stone behind her. “We should eat together, in the courtyard. We have things to discuss.”

“On the contrary. We know nothing about the case so far.”

“Not about the case,” said Mandir. “Other things. It’s been five years.”

“There’s nothing I want to discuss with you.” Taya avoided eye contact and held her speed to a walk, knowing Mandir was the sort of predator who would respond to flight by giving chase. She reached the house just ahead of him, closed the door in his face, and slammed down the bar.

He tried to open the door, discovered he could not, and pounded on it. “Taya! Let me in! I’m your quradum!”

Taya’s heart beat wildly. To provoke Mandir was madness, but she had to establish some boundaries. Without limits, there was no telling what he’d do. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she called through the door.

The pounding stopped. She waited by the door, hardly daring to take a breath, until she caught a glimpse of movement through the window. Mandir was actually leaving. He crossed the courtyard to his own house, went inside it, and disappeared.

Taya breathed a sigh of relief. She went to her saddlebags to begin unpacking. As she searched through them for the most critical items, she kept vigil at the window to make sure Mandir didn’t come back. She was just pulling out her silk dress when she realized where he might have gone instead. She ran to the front door just in time to see it fly open with a bang.

Mandir stormed across the tiny house like an enraged bull. “Don’t you ever bar that door to me,” he said, lifting the bar from the courtyard door.

Taya clenched the silk dress in her hands. “Don’t you come barging into my house!”

“I am your quradum,” said Mandir. “As your assigned protector on this mission, I require free access to your person at all times.”

“Access to my person,” Taya repeated incredulously.

“At all times.”

“I trust I get to keep my clothes on?”

Mandir grinned. “Your mind goes some funny places, banana girl.”

Taya despised that nickname. She hadn’t even grown up on a banana farm; her family grew date trees. Mandir had never bothered to ask about her roots. He’d just made assumptions.

Mandir pointed to the dress in her hands. “Is that your silk?”

Taya glanced down. She’d nearly crushed the dress in her hands. “Yes.”

“Flood and fire! Have you no respect for fine fabric?” Mandir took it from her, gently shook it out, and laid it on her bed, straightening the wrinkles. “Also, your hair’s a mess.”

“Thanks for noticing,” said Taya. “So how was your Year of Penance?”

“Enlightening.” Mandir pulled out a chair and sat down, making himself at home.

Taya fumed. Clearly her old nemesis hadn’t changed a bit. “You never served it.”

He looked up in surprise. “Of course I did.”

“You couldn’t possibly have!” cried Taya. “If you had, you would have missed a year of your studies. You would have become a qualified ilittum not this year but the next. Yet here you sit in your green and silver.”

“When my Year was up, I spoke to the Triarch about my situation and was granted an accelerated schedule of classes that allowed me to finish on time.”

Taya frowned. That might actually be true. She didn’t doubt Mandir could learn the material faster than anyone else; he’d been the top student in nearly every class at Mohenjo Temple and mocked her while she’d struggled with the basics of reading and writing. But it wasn’t fair that he was always granted special dispensation. People of low caste made one mistake and they were out. Mandir made mistake after mistake and was granted what seemed to be an unlimited number of second chances, plus extra opportunities to catch up when he was behind. Caste wasn’t supposed to matter in the Coalition. But in some ways it did. “Funny how you always seem to bounce back,” said Taya. “Yet there were three Coalition boys who were expelled because of you.”

“Honestly, Taya,” said Mandir. “You don’t care a fig about those boys.”

“You’re right. I don’t care about them. I care that you weren’t expelled along with them.”

“How long are you going to carry that grudge?” asked Mandir.

“Forever,” said Taya. She had every reason to hold a grudge against someone who’d tried to kill her, and for as long as she deemed necessary. “Is this your first mission?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“Your first as well?” asked Mandir.

Taya nodded.

“Relax, we’ll do fine. You always worried too much.” His eyes dropped to the fire agate on her belt. “So you’re a fire seer now.”

“I know you thought I’d never amount to anything.”

“I never thought that,” said Mandir.

“Let’s put it another way,” said Taya. “You tried very hard to make sure I wouldn’t amount to anything.”

Mandir said nothing.

“You can get out of my house now,” said Taya.

Mandir didn’t move. “I’m not the boy I was five years ago.”

“I’m not the girl I was then either.”

“Just because you’re a fire seer doesn’t mean you can order me around.”

“I’m not ordering you around. I’m telling you to leave me alone when we’re not working on the mission,” said Taya. “And I can see you’re exactly the boy you were five years ago.”

“Trust me, there are a few differences.”

Taya looked him over. Indeed there were a few differences, not that she cared. She liked men who respected her, who didn’t see farmer-caste girls as worthless pieces of trash to be laughed at, fucked if they were pretty, and then tossed away. “I know what you are, Mandir. We’re not having dinner together, or speaking to each other at all other than what’s required for this mission. And after the mission, we’re parting ways forever. I’m letting the Coalition know I won’t be partnered with you again.”

Mandir leaned back in his chair. “That’s how it’s going to be?”

“That’s how it’s going to be.”

“Well, I’m taking dinner in the courtyard. It’s an oven in here.” He rose, walked to her front door and barred it, then headed for the courtyard door. “I’m barring the doors of the empty houses. Keep your courtyard door unbarred at all times. That’s an order from your quradum. There’s a jackal on the loose, and I need to be able to reach you. Understand?”

“If you’ll stay out,” said Taya grudgingly.

He held up his hand in a touching-fingers gesture. “Good night, banana girl.”

Chapter III

Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago

TAYA WAS FOURTEEN AND TERRIFIED. Of the twenty or so initiates who sat with her, whispering among themselves on the floor of rushes, not one of them appeared to be of her caste. Seven of them were ruling caste; they bore the requisite facial tattoos. They had found one another and were comparing bloodlines. The rest seemed all to be artisan caste. Taya had made the mistake of blurting out her full name to the first girl who had asked. That girl had turned away in contempt, and now no one would speak to her.

The door opened, and the room fell silent. A woman wearing the green and silver of an ilittum swept into the room and faced the crowd. “In ages past, not long after the Great Atrocity,” she began, “the Valley of the Lioness was home to many quail, yet the quail lived apart, each bird jealous of its own patch of ground.”

Taya blinked in surprise. She had been expecting a lecture, or instruction of some kind, not a story.

“A hunter came to the valley and began trapping the birds,” the ilittum continued. “One by one, he caught them with his net. The birds that survived knew that if they did not change their ways, they too would end up in the hunter’s net. So they held a meeting. They decided that from then on, they would stay together, all in one flock, to foil the hunter.

“The hunter came upon them as they were feeding thus, all together, and he thought, ‘Aha! I shall catch them in my net all at once, and feast tonight.’ So he threw his net over the flock. But the quail cried to one another, ‘Now! Together!’ They flew up and lifted the net with them. They lifted it right out of the hunter’s hands. They carried the net over the Lioness and dropped it in the water, where it was lost forever. And that is why, to this day, we never find quail alone.”

The ilittum spread her arms. “Welcome, children, to the Coalition. There was a time when our people were like the foolish quail. We lived apart and hoarded our Gifts, even the precious fragments of the mother tongue, which is the language of magic. In those days, we fought amongst ourselves, and our enemies picked us off until few of us remained. But like the quail, we have learned wisdom. We have joined together and combined our strength. As long as we remain united and loyal to one another, as long as we preserve the secret of the mother tongue, our kind shall endure forever.”

Taya’s heart beat faster. All her life, she’d heard the Coalition spoken of with scorn and hatred for their secrecy and stringent laws. She’d never before heard the reasons behind those laws. Of course the magical had to stick together.

“Now, to business,” said the ilittum. “All of you possess the Gift and have been granted the rank of initiate. Beginning tomorrow, you will commence your training. It will take nine years of instruction for you to learn the mother tongue and its proper use. When your training is complete, you will assume the rank of ilittum, and for the rest of your useful lifetime, you will serve the Coalition in whatever capacity suits your particular talents.”

An artisan-caste boy raised his hand. “Do we get paid?”

Some of the children tittered.

The ilittum smiled. “As a member of the Coalition, you will have the best of everything. You will be treated like a prince or a princess everywhere you go. You will receive all Coalition services for free. And when you are qualified and actively serving, you will be paid. Currently, the illitu receive six gold sticks per season.”

Some children gasped, and even the ruling-caste boys looked impressed. For Taya, the amount was incomprehensible. She could send much of it home to her family and still have more than she would ever need for herself.

“Let me remind you of a few important things,” said the ilittum. “You were all born into either the ruling caste, the artisan caste, or the farmer caste. But in the Coalition, there are no castes. When you join us, you will give up your old caste and just be Coalition.”

Taya sat up straighter. Since she was farmer caste, this was good news for her. She glanced slyly around the room and noted, with satisfaction, the alarmed looks on the faces of the ruling-caste children.

“In the Coalition, we are all equals. This goes for girls as well as boys, women as well as men. Some of you may be accustomed to households in which men are the leaders and women are the followers. But the Mothers grant their Gift in equal strength to both sexes; therefore, in the Coalition, men and women have equal rank. Should you join us, you must accept this.”

Taya supposed the boys might have some trouble with that. For her part, she liked the Coalition more and more.

“Now we come to the difficult part.” The ilittum assumed a stern look. “It is not only your privilege, as a recipient of the Gift, to join the Coalition, it is your duty. You must spend at least one week with us, learning our ways. If, at the end of that time, you desire to return to your family instead of joining us, you may do so. But first you will drink this.” The ilittum reached into her pocket and drew out a cloth bundle. Unwrapping it, she revealed a tiny ceramic vial. “This is kimat. Drink a sip, and your magic will be disabled for a day. Drink the whole bottle, and your magic will be destroyed forever. If you choose not to join the Coalition, you must drink kimat to destroy your magic. Who among you knows what a jackal is?”

Many hands went up.

“I’m glad most of you know. For the benefit of those who don’t, a jackal is someone magical who operates outside the authority of the Coalition,” said the ilittum. “If you were to leave here without taking kimat, you would be a jackal. The penalty for being a jackal is death by fire. You will join us or you will take kimat. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ilittum,” the class intoned.

Taya shrugged. Why did they even have to offer a choice? Her mind was made up. Who could possibly want to take kimat? Why would anyone not join the Coalition?

Chapter IV

Hrappa

MANDIR TRIED NOT TO STARE as Taya vaulted, lithe as a dancer, onto the back of a delicate black mare. Every move she made drew his eye. Where was the self-control he’d worked so hard to develop? What had the Coalition been thinking, pairing him with her when they knew his history, and hers?

Rasik walked up, leading Mandir’s blood bay gelding. Mandir grunted acknowledgement and took the reins. Seizing a hank of mane, he vaulted up, not quite as gracefully as Taya. Mounting was trickier for men than for women; he had sensitive body parts to protect.

When Mandir was a child, his mother had owned a tomcat who’d spent hours staring up at the pigeons in the barn rafters. The cat had no way of reaching them, yet he couldn’t stop watching. Mandir felt like that cat as his gaze slid inexorably back to his partner. Flood and fire. Seeking a distraction, anything at all, he scanned the streets for danger, half hoping he would spot a threat, but there was nothing.

“What’s his name?” called Taya.

“Whose name?” said Mandir.

Her head dipped to the blood bay. “Your horse.”

“He doesn’t have one yet. I just got him.” After a moment, “Yours?”

“Pepper.” She stroked the mare’s silken neck, and the mare nodded contentedly.

Jealous of the damned horse, Mandir turned away. He’d been fifteen years old the day he first laid eyes on Taya, and he’d been obsessed with her from that day forward. If his fixation had been sweet and innocent, it might have been manageable. But it wasn’t. His desire had never been to hold Taya’s hand and write her love poems. What he’d wanted to do with her, to her, even at that tender age...well, he couldn’t blame her for being frightened of him. He’d tried everything to free himself of the obsession, from tormenting her and pushing her away to, later, reversing tactics and actively pursuing her in hopes that one torrid night might satisfy his twisted lust. The torrid night had never taken place—she’d refused him repeatedly—and nothing had tamed the beast within except to leave Mohenjo Temple entirely.

To see her now, after five years...bantu kasu annasi, it was hard. He couldn’t explain why Taya fascinated him. Her beauty was earthy rather than exotic, her dark hair, golden eyes, and sun-bronzed skin appealing but far from unique. Her curves were spectacular—that he would grant her—but he’d never known a woman more inept with clothes and hair. She couldn’t seem to get her hair into the headdress tightly enough, and it was always half falling out or lopsided. In fact, it was lopsided right now. His fingers twitched. He wanted to ride over and fix it, but if he laid a hand on her she’d burn him crisp as a jerky strip.

Her flaws both irritated and mesmerized him. The little bits of hair sticking out of her headdress drove him crazy, yet they also fed his fantasies. It was all too easy, seeing the partial disarray, to imagine her hair out of the headdress entirely and spread out, fan-shaped, on his pillow. Furthermore, he suspected that women who insisted on their hair and clothing and makeup being perfect all the time were reluctant to engage in certain activities that involved getting messy. A woman like Taya, on the other hand...

Rasik mounted a brown gelding and circled in front of them. “Let’s get on with this. Where to? Hunabi’s murder site, or do you want to see the city first?”

His question seemed to be aimed at Mandir, so he answered, “Ask Taya. She’s in charge.”

Taya’s eyes met his with a look of surprise and gratitude. Then she turned to Rasik. “Where is the murder site? The magistrate said a cotton field. I take it that’s outside the city walls.”

“We don’t run irrigation canals into the city,” said Rasik.

“Take us to the murder site then, and you can show us the city along the way,” said Taya.

Mandir let Taya and Rasik set off first and took up a protective position, guarding their flanks. He’d watched Taya like this, from behind, far more than she knew. Indeed, he’d practically stalked her for years. He wasn’t proud of it. Even as a child, he’d been ashamed of it—not that his behavior was ugly but that his obsession targeted a girl so ridiculously beneath his station. When his ruling-caste friends had laughed at him, he’d gone out of his way to tease Taya and be cruel to her, trying to convince them he didn’t secretly love her. Now those friends had flown, scattered to the winds like dandelion seeds, and the only person whose opinion mattered to him, Taya herself, despised him.

If he could do it over again, he’d play out his life differently. But wishes were river mist; they had no substance and only obscured one’s vision. Still, he could apologize for what he’d done, and he ought to. He planned to, at the first opportunity. Taya might not respond well, but if he accomplished nothing else he would at least ease his conscience.

Rasik was gesturing at some building for Taya’s benefit. Mandir had seen the city already, having arrived a day earlier, and even if he hadn’t, Hrappa was like every other agricultural river city in the Valley of the Lioness. They were all laid out in the same pattern: well planned, with city walls surrounding three separate districts. The farmer caste lived nearest the gates, the artisan caste in the middle, and the ruling district in the rear. Since the city gates were the first point of failure when the Lioness flooded, the back of the city was the most desirable real estate. But the less fortunate could always retreat to the Citadel, the great fortified building on high ground in the middle of the city, if floodwaters breached the walls.

Rasik said something Mandir couldn’t hear. Apparently it was clever or funny, because Taya flashed him a grin. Jealousy and anger flooded Mandir.

No, he told himself. No, no, no. There was his beast again. For four years as a troubled initiate he’d wrestled unsuccessfully with it, damaging himself and damaging others. And then one night he’d almost killed Taya. It was an accident. He would swear until the day he died that it was an accident. He’d meant to scare her, intimidate her, not harm her. But he’d lost control of the situation. She had suffered burns and nearly died of smoke inhalation, and the Coalition had intervened.

At the time, he’d resented his punishment, but since then he’d learned to appreciate the way it changed his life. During his Year of Penance, he’d come to terms with and tamed his beast. Then he’d finished his training at Rakigari Temple and became a fully trained ilittum. Finally Taya had ceased to haunt him. Sure, he fantasized about her at night sometimes, and often when he made love to another woman, he imagined she was Taya. That was probably why his affairs so often ended badly. But at least he was no longer out of control.

Or was he? The moment he’d laid eyes on Taya here in Hrappa, all the old feelings had come rushing back.

“Murderers!” The voice jolted Mandir from his thoughts. “Betrayers!”

An elderly peasant was running at them with a knife in his hand. Mandir kicked his horse into a gallop, driving the animal in between the peasant and Taya. There he reined up sharply. With a few harsh words of the mother tongue, he called fire into the hilt of the man’s knife, turning it red-hot.

The man yelped and fell to his knees, clutching his wounded hand to his chest. The knife fell into the dirt. Mandir glanced back at Taya. She appeared stunned but unharmed. A knot of onlookers gathered about them, some of the faces worried, others angry. While Coalition law permitted Mandir to punish the old man for the unprovoked attack, even burn him to death if he chose, Mandir didn’t have the stomach for it. And he didn’t like the look of this mob. The attack had been so inept it might have been a suicide attempt, or a setup of some kind. He wasn’t going to take the bait, not with Taya at risk.

“Someone fetch water to soak his hand,” Mandir called to the crowd. He nodded to Taya and Rasik, who clucked to their horses, and they cantered away.

“What was that for?” asked Taya when they were out of the mob’s range. “Is hatred for the Coalition so strong here?”

Mandir’s eyebrows rose. “It’s strong everywhere.”

“Not where I grew up,” said Taya. “I mean, yes, people didn’t like the Coalition. But they weren’t murderous.”

“How often did the Coalition pass through your village?” asked Mandir.

“Almost never,” she said.

“Hrappa is a farming town,” said Mandir, “but it sits on the Silk Road. Coalition ilittu pass through here all the time.”

“That shouldn’t make people angry,” said Taya. “The Hrappans can sell them supplies. It ought to be good business.”

Rasik swung his horse around. “Three Coalition men passed through here last season on the Silk Road. They grabbed two farm girls and ravished them. One of the girls didn’t survive.”

Taya was stunned into silence. After a moment she recovered her voice. “But men of all sorts commit atrocities. Not just Coalition.”

“When the Coalition do harm, we have no recourse against them,” said Rasik.

“Of course you do,” said Taya. “Rape is proscribed by law, even for the Coalition.”

“Coalition members are subject only to Coalition justice,” said Rasik. “We reported the crime to your organization. They took no action. Why should they? No money in it for them.”

Taya shook her head, disbelieving. “I’m sure you’re wrong about that.”

“I believe him,” said Mandir. “I’ve seen cases like that before.” Poor Taya. Part of her charm was that she’d led a rather sheltered life, the first fourteen years of it in a remote farm village so backward it made Hrappa look sophisticated, and the remaining nine secluded in a Coalition Temple. It had made her easy to tease, back at Mohenjo.

“Even if that’s true,” said Taya, “and I’m sure it’s not, we’re not all like those three men. I would never hurt somebody like that, obviously, and Mandir...wouldn’t either.”

Mandir heard the hesitation in her voice. Did she think he might force himself on a woman? Her opinion of him must be low indeed.

“Maybe you don’t commit the atrocities, but you’re part of the organization that allows them to happen,” said Rasik. “Your organization also takes children from their families and burns people alive if they don’t comply with your laws.”

“I’m hardly going to apologize for enforcing the Coalition’s laws,” said Taya. “When people use unlawful magic to commit murder, as someone has done here in Hrappa, they must be stopped. And you’re forgetting the good work the Coalition does. We heal people and plants and animals. And we keep the mountain tribes at bay.”

Rasik rolled his eyes. “The mountain tribes are nothing but starving, disorganized savages—hardly a threat. As for your healing, it’s not charitable. To heal a sick animal, you charge half the animal’s market value. To heal a person, you charge so much that he must choose between death or poverty.”

“We must cover our expenses,” said Taya. “Healing may seem like a simple procedure to you, but it took years of training for the ilittum to learn the skill.”

“Also,” said Mandir, “the mountain men are neither disorganized nor savages. You only think they’re harmless because you’re not the one out there fighting them.”

“Are you telling me your people lack for gold?” said Rasik, pointedly looking Taya up and down.

Mandir spurred his horse forward, placing it between Taya and Rasik. “She’s under my protection. You keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Is that a new Coalition law?” said Rasik. “I’m not allowed to look at your women?”

“Leave him be,” said Taya to Mandir.

Rasik sent his horse into a trot, heading for the city gates. Taya followed.

Mandir cantered after them, annoyed at everyone, including himself, but he couldn’t remain in ill spirits for long. A gentle breeze brushed his face as he passed out of the city gates into the river lands. Taya’s black mare, seeing the fields open up before her, threw up her head, opening her nostrils wide to take in the scents. She half reared, eager for a run.

“Easy,” Taya soothed, turning her in a tight circle to regain control.

Mandir rode up beside Taya and murmured, “That mare’s as spirited as you are.”

Taya’s brow furrowed with suspicion.

Mandir sighed inwardly. Could he not pay her a simple compliment, tease her in the most harmless way, without making her think his intentions were ill?

“This way,” said Rasik, clucking to his brown horse and sending him eastward, away from the river.

Taya’s high-mettled black mare followed him, and Mandir fell in line behind the two of them. He despised floodplains. There were never any roads because every year the Lioness overflowed and destroyed everything. It was the curse and gift of Agu the Water Mother, who humbled mankind by laying low his works. But after the inundation, the soil was so rich the farmers could grow anything.

The farmers had been industrious. Although the season was early and the young plants had barely emerged from the ground, the land was already a mazework of irrigation canals, sluices, and gates. Mandir gave the bay his head, letting him pick his way through the mess.

“I had not realized so much cotton was grown in Hrappa,” said Taya.

Mandir blinked. How did she know what the farmers were growing? The plants were just tiny things, and they all looked alike.

“Many of our farmers have contracts with our cloth merchant requiring them to grow cotton,” said Rasik.

“Are you sure these aren’t banana plants?” said Mandir. He hated it when Taya knew more than he did, which meant it was time to tease her. He could always get a rise out of her with a reference to her banana-farming past.

Taya sent him a look of contempt. “A banana plant would be higher than your head. And they’re never grown in floodplains.”

He grinned at her. “My mistake. You’re the expert on bananas.” Flood and fire, what was he doing? He should just leave her alone.

“For your information,” said Taya, “this is cotton, and that, and that.” She pointed to several vast fields. “Over there is a melon field. That’s wheat, behind it is mustard, and to the right is naked six-row barley. But you can see it’s mostly cotton.”

“As you say,” said Mandir, disappointed she hadn’t responded with as much indignance as he’d hoped.

“This is where the boy was killed,” called Rasik.

He’d ridden ahead, so Mandir and Taya hurried to catch up. Rasik sat his horse in the middle of a large bare patch of ground, a neat rectangle bounded on all sides by irrigation channels and sprouting with young weeds.

“I don’t see any evidence of fire,” said Mandir, dismounting from the blood bay for a closer look.

“The ground was still wet from the inundation and had been freshly tilled,” said Rasik. “It was little more than bare, damp soil. Only the boy himself was burned.”

“What was done with the body?” asked Taya.

“He was given to Isatis,” said Rasik.

Taya hopped off Pepper. Mandir involuntarily moved toward her, mesmerized by the motion. She was lovely enough when standing still, but when she moved, she had the grace of a gazelle. “Are you going to scry?” he asked.

She jumped, apparently unaware he’d been so close. “Yes, of course. I can’t guarantee Isatis will tell me anything, but if she does, we’ll know it’s the truth. Agu mostly lies.”

Taya ground-tied Pepper and headed toward the murder site.

“The Water Mother lies?” said Rasik. “What does she mean by that?”

“Exactly what she said.” Mandir took one more look around the horizon for possible enemies—unlikely in such open country—and settled down to watch Taya work.

Chapter V

Hrappa

TAYA PACED THE BARE GROUND, searching for hazards, anything flammable that might catch while she scried. Scrying required great concentration because of the high level of language proficiency Isatis demanded of her, and she didn’t want to have to devote even a corner of her mind to worrying about safety and keeping the fire under control. She also looked for signs of Hunabi’s death, anything to indicate where his body had lain, but time and weather had erased the physical evidence.

“Where was the body found?” she called to Rasik.

“Move to your left.”

She obeyed.

“Back a step. There—more or less.”

Here Hunabi had burned to death. She called fire out of the air in front of her. In the distance, Rasik gasped. She smiled at his naiveté. Calling fire in midair was an easy trick; even untrained jackals could do it. Scrying was the difficult task. Come in power, Mother Isatis, she called in the mother tongue. Come in greatness. She rotated in a circle, slowly, with her hand outstretched. Fire flowered from her hand, blossoming into a great wall that encircled her in a sweltering wheel of death.

She was in the world of Isatis the Fire Mother. The heat was brutal; she could not survive long in the Fire Mother’s embrace.

She spoke in the mother tongue, her words crisp and clear. Mother, you are death and you are rebirth. You are the seed of vengeance, the lioness in the grass, the light that shows the way in the darkness. I am your humble daughter, who loves and fears you. I come to ask a favor.

Isatis responded, filling the wall of fire with images. A pack of onagers galloping by. A flood so vast it tore down trees. A pair of lovers sneaking away for a tryst in the fields. All images from the past. Some of them might be centuries old.

Taya spoke again. A boy died here, your prey, when the soil lay dark and heavy from Agu’s receding. I would know more of how he died.

Images followed: men burning on stakes. A woman flung onto a burning funeral pyre. A man struck with a flaming arrow.

Taya paused, momentarily flustered. These were images of anger. She’d offended Isatis, but she was not sure how. Even the slightest mispronunciation or misuse of a word could draw her ire. Taya would try again. Great Mother, it was not the boy’s time. He had many fields yet to sow. This was a slight deception. Hunabi had been destined for a bureaucrat’s life, not a farmer’s, but Mother Isatis was old-fashioned. She liked farmers.

This time there were no images in response at all. The flames burned clear and empty.

Taya swallowed, her throat parched, her body boiling with sweat. Great Mother, you hunger for the flesh of the unworthy. Grant me this vision. I will find his killer and satisfy your craving.

Instantly an image appeared in the flames, and Taya had the disconcerting feeling that Isatis had been waiting for her to name exactly that bargain. She peered at the image. A young woman and a young man quarreled in the middle of an empty mud plain that could be the very place she now stood. The young man could be the murder victim. She wasn’t sure, but he was about the right age, and of similar coloration to Kalbi, the magistrate’s living son.

The woman was visibly upset—frightened of the man, Taya thought, but also angry. The young man was angry too. Words were exchanged, though Taya could not hear them, since fire visions were soundless. The quarrel seemed to be the woman’s, because twice the man tried to walk away and the woman grabbed his arm and turned him back around. Taya watched closely, observing and memorizing details—what the couple were wearing, their size and age, the color of their hair and eyes. Isatis would never show her a vision a second time.

The man walked away again and then, without warning, burst into flame. Taya had been half expecting it, but it took her by surprise all the same, and it took the woman in the vision by surprise too. Her screams looked so real, and her eyes were so wide and horrified that Taya instantly wrote off the possibility that the woman herself was the jackal. Hunabi fell to the wet ground and rolled to suffocate the flames, and as his frame dropped from the middle of the scene, he revealed a third figure, another young woman, who had been standing behind him in the distance.

Taya estimated this new woman’s age at seventeen or eighteen. She was dressed in peasant’s clothes—homespun cotton, undyed, with an indigo belt. Her dusty brown hair would look pretty if cleaned up, Taya thought, but it didn’t appear she’d looked after herself, or been looked after, for some time. The girl was too far away in the vision for Taya to judge her eye color or register any identifying marks.

Hunabi dug himself into the mud, trying to extinguish the flames, but the flames reignited, again and again. Meanwhile, the woman Hunabi had been arguing with ran away. The mother goddess showed Taya Hunabi’s entire death, which lasted a long time. The teenaged girl stayed for all of it, stone-faced. Then the vision faded.

May your greatness endure forever, Mother. Taya let her fire walls drop. Exhausted and sweating, she staggered out of the field to her black mare. Rasik and Mandir stared. She knew she must look a fright. Striking bargains with Isatis was hot work. She pulled her copper cup from where it was tied to the saddle pad and swirled it gently. She called to the invisible water droplets in the air. The droplets materialized and began, slowly, to fill the cup.

“So,” said Mandir. “Was Isatis in a talkative mood?”

“She was,” said Taya. He would have to wait until later to hear what she’d seen. It was Coalition policy not to reveal the contents of visions to people outside the Coalition, and Rasik was present.

A few swallows of water had gathered in her cup. She gulped them greedily and began to call more.

Mandir appeared at her shoulder and poured some water from his own cup into hers, apparently having called it himself.

“How do you do that?” asked Rasik. “Make water out of thin air.”

Taya leaned against Pepper and closed her eyes, too tired to answer the question. It was funny how people not accustomed to Coalition ilittu were impressed by the simplest tricks. Calling water was a second-year talent.

“As initiates at the temple, we learn some interesting things,” said Mandir. “One of them is that there is water in the air all the time, even on dry days like today.”

“Nonsense,” said Rasik.

“On damp days you can almost feel it,” said Mandir. “The heaviness in the air, that’s water. But on dry days it’s there too, just not as much. We merely call it out of the air and into our cups.”

Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the heat of Mandir’s body nearby, and his arm moving in counterpoint to hers as he swirled his cup. He stopped her hand for a moment and added his water to hers. She opened her eyes and drank. She was beginning to feel less parched.

“Should we head back for now?” asked Mandir. “Perhaps stop by the public baths?”

“Yes,” said Taya. A bath sounded delicious. Then, like it or not, she’d have to discuss with Mandir what she’d seen, write it up—her least favorite part of Coalition work—and figure out how to track down an adolescent murderess in a town the size of Hrappa.

Chapter VI

Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago

THE FOOD AT MOHENJO TEMPLE was weird. Sitting alone at a table in the dining hall, Taya picked through it, searching for something appetizing. The flaky white stuff was probably fish, just not a variety she’d eaten before. And the barley she recognized, though it was mixed with unfamiliar yellow and green vegetables. But what were those little brown things that looked like fungus? What were those red round things on the side of her plate?

Her stomach churned in warning. Maybe she’d made a mistake coming to Mohenjo Temple. She couldn’t imagine taking the kimat and leaving, but nobody wanted her here, and everything was so different and strange. Would she ever adjust to this new way of life?

Perhaps she just needed to take the newness in small doses. She decided she would eat the fish and the barley, no matter how bad they tasted, and leave the fungus things where they were. As for the red round things, she’d try one and see what she thought of it. She’d never eaten anything red before.

She popped one in her mouth and started to chew. Instantly she regretted it. The fruit—if it was a fruit—was tough and bitter. Her eyes watered, and she glanced around the hall to see if anyone was watching. Could she remove it from her mouth without being seen?

“Flood and fire!” A boy sat down across from her. “Do you not know how to eat lirry fruit?”

Taya shook her head. Apparently not.

“Spit it out, dummy!”

Red-faced but too well-mannered to spit, Taya fished the fruit out of her mouth.

“This is how you eat a lirry fruit.” The boy picked up a fruit from her tray. He pulled a knife from his belt, sliced a gash in the fruit, and squeezed the pulp into his mouth. “See? You don’t eat the rind. It’s not edible.”

“Oh. Thanks. I’ve never seen one of these before.” Taya picked up a lirry fruit and imitated him, squeezing the pulp into her mouth, careful not to spill any droplets of juice. It was surprisingly tasty—sweet and almost creamy, with no bitterness at all. She looked shyly up at the boy. He was one of the new initiates, like herself, only he had facial tattoos, which meant he was ruling caste. She felt flattered by his attention.

The boy smiled. “Where are you from? Your accent’s funny.”

“Downriver,” said Taya.

“Swamp country?” asked the boy.

“Almost. North of the delta—banana country.”

“My name’s Mandir,” said the boy. “Mandir isu Sarrum.”

Taya froze. Isu Sarrum? This boy was not only from the ruling caste, but the royal family. What was he doing here at Mohenjo Temple? She stared at him, studying his features. He was young, around her age or a bit older. But he was tall for his age, well-built, darkly handsome. His eyes were strange. Was that cruelty she saw in them?

“Now you’re supposed to tell me your name,” said Mandir isu Sarrum.

“Taya.”

“Taya isu what?”

She hesitated. What was a royal going to think of someone like her? “Taya isu Ikkarum.”

“Ikkarum?” Mandir laughed. “You’re farmer caste? I noticed your hair, but I figured they just cut it shorter where you come from.”

“I’m farmer caste,” she said softly. Now he knew why she’d never eaten lirry fruit.

“You lie,” said Mandir, taking another fruit from her plate. “Farmers never have the Gift.”

“But they do,” said Taya. “Sometimes.” The Coalition representative who’d brought her here had tried to explain to her why farmers rarely—but sometimes—possessed the Gift. Something about how the Gift traveled in bloodlines, often disappearing for generations and suddenly popping up again. Something about how the nonmagical sons and daughters of Coalition ilittu were released into the artisan and ruling castes. She’d smiled and nodded and pretended to understand.

“Even if you were a farmer with the Gift,” he said, “the Coalition couldn’t teach you anything. Do you even know how to read?”

“They will teach me to read,” said Taya.

“That’s stupid,” said Mandir. “You’ll be years behind, and you have an entire language to learn, not to mention history and numbers and things.”

“I’ll work extra hard.” She did not say out loud what the representative had told her in confidence, that while farmer-caste initiates were at an early disadvantage at the Temple, they often did well in the long run because they were accustomed to hard work, unlike initiates from the ruling class, who’d grown up indolent and lazy.

A line appeared in Mandir’s forehead, as if he couldn’t figure out what to make of her, when three other ruling-caste initiates sauntered into the hall.

“Hey, little prince!” called one of them. “That your sweetheart?”

Little prince? Taya knew he was from the royal family, but she’d assumed he was a distant cousin or a nephew or something. Could Mandir be the get of the king or prince of the valley?

“No,” said Mandir, scrambling up from the table. He joined the boys and walked away, but after a moment, he glanced back at Taya with a half-smile and said, “Bye, banana girl.”

Chapter VII

Hrappa

AFTER A REFRESHING AND MUCH-needed stop at the public baths under the Citadel, Taya reined up in front of the guesthouse. She hopped off Pepper and handed the mare’s reins to Rasik.

After Rasik rode off with their horses, Mandir asked, “Your house or mine?”

Taya sighed. “This is business, Mandir.”

He grinned. “Look where your mind goes—straight into the sewers.”

“You’re not funny,” said Taya. “My place, to talk about the vision from Isatis and nothing else.”

“Let me fix your headdress.”

“No,” said Taya.

“It’s crooked.”

“I don’t care.” Allowing him to put his hands on her would send entirely the wrong message. Not only that, but Mandir was way too physically attractive. She didn’t want her body responding to what her head and heart knew would lead to disaster.

“Yes, but it bothers me.”

“Good,” said Taya, opening the door to her guesthouse.

She sat down at the little table and waited for Mandir to join her, hoping they could get this over with quickly. Mandir barred the front door and moved about the house, inspecting each nook and checking the outdoor courtyard, which struck Taya as silly until she recalled the old man with the knife. Finally Mandir sat down with her at the table. “What did Isatis show you?” he asked.

“Everything,” said Taya. “I saw Hunabi’s death, and I saw our jackal.”

“Isatis showed you the jackal?” Mandir straightened. “We’ll be done here before the cotton blooms. Who is he?”

“She. A young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Farmer caste, I would guess, by the way she was dressed.” Taya related what she’d seen in the vision.

Mandir rubbed his chin. “A man and a woman arguing. Then another woman shows up and murders the man. Lovers’ quarrel?”

Taya frowned. “I don’t know. I think if two women were fighting over the same man, the jackal would have killed the other woman. Killing the man defeats her purpose.”

“Depends on the purpose,” said Mandir. “And she might have killed both of them. There were two more murder victims after this one, both women. One of them could have been the one from your vision.”

“That’s possible,” said Taya, nodding. “We’ll call that woman who saw what happened the witness. She must know who the murderer is.”

“Or knew,” said Mandir. “If you were a murderer, would you leave a witness alive?”

Someone rapped at the door. Taya jumped in her seat, but Mandir laid a hand over hers. “It’s probably the attendant with lunch.” Taya yanked her hand away, but Mandir was already on his feet, heading for the door. He answered it and spoke to the attendant. “Send for Rasik. We need to speak with him.” Then he returned with two plates, each heavy with flatbread, barley, and strips of lamb.

“Why Rasik?” Taya asked.

“I want the details on Hunabi’s and Kalbi’s marriage contract, the one that was under negotiation before the murder happened,” said Mandir. “It might explain what we saw in your vision.”

Taya nodded, cutting a pocket in her flatbread and loading it with the barley and lamb. They ate in silence until Rasik arrived. Mandir asked him about the marriage contract.

“There are no details,” said Rasik. “No agreement had been drawn up.”

“Who was the girl?” asked Mandir.

“Kana isu Kasirum, the daughter of Bodhan isu Kasirum.”

“What?” said Taya. “I’ve heard that name—Bodhan. Was this girl one of the murder victims?”

“You’re thinking of Kana’s sister,” said Rasik. “She was murdered. Kana is still alive.”

“Thanks, Rasik, that’s all we need for now,” said Mandir. Rasik departed, and Mandir barred the door again. “It’s clear where we should go next,” he said, sitting back down at the table. “We need to speak to Bodhan and his daughter.”

Taya nodded eagerly. “If there was a love triangle going on, Kana might be the jackal. Or the witness. And even if she’s not, the trip won’t be wasted. We need to talk to Bodhan anyway, to investigate his daughter’s murder.”

“Isu Kasirum,” mused Mandir. “Bodhan is a cloth merchant. Why would the magistrate, the highest ranking man in the entire city of Hrappa, marry his sons into a lower caste?”

“How should I know?” said Taya. “I’ve no experience with the customs of the ruling caste.”

“The most common reason is money,” said Mandir. “Perhaps the magistrate has a financial problem. Or the girl might be an extraordinary beauty, or there might be a lack of suitable marriage partners in the ruling caste. But nine times out of ten, it’s money.”

“Rasik said a lot of the farmers have contracts to grow cotton for a Hrappan cloth merchant. I’ll bet this Bodhan is the merchant he was speaking of. What about the nature of the marriage? Could that have something to do with the murders?” Ruling-caste polyandrous marriages seemed, to her, foreign and strange. The farmer and artisan castes did not practice that sort of marriage. It was forbidden to their castes by law, though it was said to produce stronger children.

“You mean the fact that the artisan-caste girl, who probably grew up thinking she’d marry one man in a single marriage, suddenly found out she was going to be marrying two brothers? And maybe didn’t like the idea?”

“Well,” said Taya, “I hadn’t got that far in my thinking. But I don’t know much about it. How do ruling-caste women feel about marrying two or more men?”

Mandir shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a ruling-caste woman.”

“But you’re a ruling-caste man. You’ve spent time in that kind of household.”

“Not in that kind of household, no,” said Mandir.

“You’re the son of Tufan isu Sarrum. He’s in a multiple marriage with his brothers, to the princess Danitia. I know she’s not your mother, and Tufan had multiple households, but surely you had some exposure to...your father’s legitimate marriage.” She winced inwardly, realizing she might be touching on a sensitive subject.

“I never so much as set foot in the palace,” snapped Mandir. “You’re the woman, so you should be answering this question. Before your Gift was discovered, you probably expected to be contracted in marriage. Didn’t you?”

“Of course. Negotiations were already in progress.”

“And how did you feel about it?”

Taya hesitated. “It’s not relevant. Farmer-caste marriages are different. A farmer’s wife must keep house, spin thread, mend clothes, join her husband in the fields at harvest time—”

“Forget that, it’s not what I’m talking about,” said Mandir. “How did you feel about the prospect of sleeping with a man who was chosen for you and who you barely knew?”

“Well, no woman looks forward to that part,” said Taya. “Unless she just happens to be married off to a man she’s fond of, which is rare.”

“All right, so imagine you’re being married off to two men, and you’ll be expected to sleep with both of them.”

“At the same time?”

Mandir rolled his eyes. “What sort of perverts do you imagine my people are? Alternating nights, Taya.”

Her cheeks warmed. The ribald jokes she’d heard in her old farming village had implied a truly shared bed for polyandrous families; it had never occurred to her that those jokes weren’t based on reality. “Well, it’s unlikely I’d be in love with even one of them, let alone both. But it’s said that the more fathers, the stronger the seed, and the stronger the child.”

“See, it’s complicated,” said Mandir. “It could be the daughter was in love with one brother and not the other, and murdered the one she didn’t like. But she’d be taking an enormous risk in doing so, and would she really sacrifice the well-being of her future children?”

Taya shrugged. “There are some women who care about nothing but their own happiness. Never mind the children, or anyone else who gets in the way.”

“And we cannot speculate, knowing nothing about this particular woman,” said Mandir. “Let’s go to Bodhan’s household and have a look. You saw both the jackal and the witness in your vision. Would you recognize them if you saw them in the flesh?”

“Yes,” said Taya. Then she hesitated. “Well...the witness, definitely. I saw her up close and I remember a lot of details. The jackal, probably, but she was farther away.”

“We need a signaling system,” said Mandir. “When we see Bodhan’s daughter, I want you to sketch a ‘W’ on the palm of my hand if you recognize her as the witness, a ‘J’ if you recognize her as the jackal.”

“Or we could use code words,” said Taya.

“Code words are too obvious, especially if we end up using them repeatedly.”

So much for Taya’s plan of having no physical contact with Mandir. “All right, signals then. What if I see her and I’m not certain if she’s either?”

“In that case, make a single slash mark across my palm. If you know for sure she’s neither the jackal nor the witness, make two crossing slash marks. Show me.” He laid his palm on the table and closed his eyes. “Make each symbol for me.”

Reluctantly, Taya took Mandir’s hand. It was warm and dry. She sketched each symbol on his palm, one at a time, and Mandir named them without looking.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Taya, “I have tablet work I have to do now.”

Mandir’s eyebrows rose. “Tablet work?”

Taya nodded. “All visions from Isatis must be documented.”

“Can it wait? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Whatever Mandir wanted to discuss—something personal and uncomfortable, no doubt, knowing him—Taya wanted no part of it. She shook her head. “I have to do it before the memory fades.”

“We’ll talk later, then.” Mandir took his plate and departed through the courtyard door.

Taya fetched several tablets and a stylus from her saddlebags and, relieved to be alone, settled down to her task. She hated having an audience for this sort of work. Despite nine years of concentrated effort at the temple, writing remained slow and difficult for her. Mandir had teased her about it incessantly when she was younger, and to her shame, she had never overcome the fault. She’d been afraid the Coalition wouldn’t qualify her as an ilittum at all, but her unusual fluency in speaking the mother tongue and in the practical use of magic had made up for her deficiencies in literacy, and she’d scraped through.

She sprinkled water on the tablets to wet the clay, picked up her stylus, and began. First she committed to the tablet the setting: the time of day, the dry weather, the weedy patch of ground where she’d summoned Isatis and been granted her vision. She then launched into physical descriptions of the man and women in the vision, including every detail about their size, coloration, and clothes. Then the sequence of events. She toiled over the work for an hour, and then another. She sighed, shaking out cramped fingers. She had almost reached the point where Hunabi had burst into flame when her mind refused to focus anymore, and she flung the stylus down in exasperation.

Why was she so awful at this? At the temple, when she’d practiced the individual components of writing, it hadn’t been so bad. She could form letters readily enough, she could spell words, and she could compose sentences—as long as she dealt with only the one task at a time. When she put them all together, she was hopeless, overwhelmed. Many of her farmer-caste peers had similar struggles. She felt sick inside. Mandir had been right the day she’d first met him. She wasn’t cut out for Coalition work.

She flicked a bit of clay off her palm and stared resentfully at her worn, callused hands. She might have shed the telltale isu Ikkarum from her name, but the marks of hard use she could not remove. They told the truth of her humble origins. They would inform everyone she ever met that she didn’t deserve to wear the green and silver. She should be out in the fields digging in the dirt, or serving as the latest fuck toy for some ruling-caste princeling who’d wearied of his shared wife, to be set aside when he was done with her, perhaps with a pittance of copper sticks as a consolation prize.

Taya brushed away the tears that welled at the corners of her eyes. She was not going to fail at this. She wasn’t. She would finish this if it took her all night. She took up the stylus and began, laboriously, to write.

Mandir sauntered in through the courtyard door, looking refreshed, as if he’d taken a nap. He looked around for Taya and spotted her at the table. “Aren’t you finished yet? What’s taking so long?”

“Get out,” Taya snapped, not in any kind of mood to deal with Mandir. She placed a protective arm around the tablet she was working on, to block him from seeing it.

“What are you writing, an epic?” Mandir picked up the first tablet, which she’d already filled, and said, “Oh, you just started.”

“I’ve been working on this for hours, bollhead.”

“Look, you can’t have been working very hard, and I don’t want to sit around all afternoon. Have you felt the change in the air? There’s a storm coming.”

“If you want me to finish quickly, leave me alone.” Taya glanced out the window. It was still sunny out, but Mandir was right: the air did feel different. It was too humid, too still, like the air had been crammed into too small a space and was ready to burst.

“Maybe I can help you,” said Mandir.

“No. Just leave.” The last thing Taya wanted was to let him see her slow, childlike writing. He would pounce on it and make fun of her. He always had.

“Why should you have to do this yourself? We’re a team.”

“Writing is a one-person job,” said Taya. “Your job is just to protect me.”

“Protect and advise,” Mandir corrected.

“If this is what constitutes your advice, I’ve had enough of it.”

Mandir folded his arms. “So far I’ve been nice to you, Taya. If you’d like that to change, provoke me some more.”

Taya sighed. “Please, let me work in peace.”

Mandir’s brow furrowed. He peered closely at the tablet he’d picked up, then at the half-completed tablet in front of Taya, then at Taya’s clay-stained hands and the weary stoop of her shoulders. His face softened. “Have you really been working all this time?”

Taya held her tongue. There was nothing she could say that would not condemn her. She was either lazy or she was stupid. And Mandir was too astute not to have worked out which one it was. She glared at him, wordlessly daring him to mock her. If he so much as laughed, she was ready to set him on fire like the jackal had done to that poor boy in the mud.

Mandir sat down at the table and beckoned for the tablet and stylus. “Hand those over.”

Unsure of his intentions, Taya shook her head.

“Do you want to get this done or not? Quit balking, and give them here.”

Taya obeyed, responding more to his tone of voice than to his words, and then berated herself for having done so.

Mandir picked up the stylus and turned the tablet so it faced him. “You dictate, and I’ll write. Go.”

Taya swallowed the lump in her throat, blinked back the tears in her eyes, and began to dictate. As Mandir’s hand flew across the tablet, her heart burned with jealousy for the unearned natural talent he possessed. She waited for his mockery. He knew her weakness now; it was only a matter of time before he used it to hurt her. But he only wrote, keeping his silence.

Twenty minutes later, the work was done.

Chapter VIII

Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago

TAYA STEPPED INTO HER FIRST Coalition classroom with trepidation. She looked around for Mandir isu Sarrum, the only fellow first-year initiate who’d been remotely friendly. He’d also been a little bit mean, so she wasn’t sure he liked her. Her heart fluttered with hope and desire as she caught sight of him. He was so handsome and clever. Well above her station, she knew, but one could dream. Mandir was sitting with the three other ruling-caste boys. He saw her, and his expression changed just enough to indicate that he remembered her from the dining hall, but then his gaze slid away as if he’d deemed her beneath his notice.

Taya’s heart sank. She took a seat at the other end of the room.

On her desk was a clay tablet with something written on it in big letters. Looking around, she saw that everyone had a similar tablet, and every tablet had something written on it, but they were all different things. She felt pleased with herself for recognizing that the words were different. But her stomach knotted up as she realized she was probably the only initiate in the room who couldn’t read them.

Mandir rose from his chair and walked across the room. Taya tracked his movement. The boy was larger than life; she couldn’t help but be aware of him. She hoped he might be coming to talk to her, but of course he wasn’t. He had gone to talk to some ruling-caste girl two seats away.

Taya sat quietly, feeling very alone. All the other initiates were talking to their friends, and she didn’t have any friends yet. Nobody wanted to be friends with the farmer girl. She couldn’t even read the words on the tablet while she waited for class to start.

Mandir headed back to his seat, passing behind her.

Suddenly she felt an awful, painful tugging at her hair. Strands tore. She grabbed at her headdress—too late! Mandir had ripped it out of her hair.

Taya’s hair fell free, just brushing her shoulders. The class laughed. Mandir, who’d returned to his seat, dangled the pale yellow headdress in front of her as if baiting a dog. Taya blushed furiously. Farmer girls never wore headdresses, and didn’t grow their hair long enough for them. But Coalition girls were supposed to wear them. It had been a struggle to put the thing on this morning; she’d had to use pins. Now Mandir had exposed her for what she was, with her too-short hair.

“Give it back,” she demanded.

“Come and get it,” he teased.

Taya’s muscles tensed for action, but she stayed where she was. It was no use getting into a physical contest with Mandir isu Sarrum. She could not win.

When he saw she wasn’t going to take the bait, he tossed the headdress over her head to a girl across the room, who neatly caught it.

Taya considered charging at the girl—this was a physical matchup she could handle—but if she did, the girl would just throw it to someone else. While Taya was mulling over her options and lamenting the fact that none of them would result in anything but further embarrassment, the girl suddenly threw the headdress right at her. Surprised, Taya caught it, just in time to hear an instructor rap out, “Class. To order.”

Taya hadn’t seen the instructor come in. She quickly sat down, with her headdress clutched in her hands.

“You,” said the instructor, pointing at Taya. “Why are you not wearing your headdress?”

The class tittered.

Taya, too humiliated to confess the circumstances, froze in her seat.

“See that you come to class properly dressed next time.” He strode out in front of the class. “Initiates, you are here to learn the mother tongue. It is the language of your ancestors, the language of magic. Who among you already knows some of the mother tongue?”

Not a single hand went up.

“Nobody?” said the instructor. “Nobody knows the mother tongue?”

“It’s forbidden,” volunteered one student.

“Yes, it’s forbidden,” said the instructor. “Nonetheless, you all know some of it. You, what’s your name?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at a boy in the front row.

“Abi,” said the boy.

“Abi, what does your tablet say?”

“It says isu.”

“And what does isu mean?”

“It’s part of a name,” said the boy.

“Right,” said the instructor. “Like your own name. Abi...” He gestured impatiently. “Come on, what’s the rest?”

“Abi isu Nappahere.”

“So you’re a metalworker, or at least you were before you became a Coalition initiate,” said the instructor. “The word isu is from the mother tongue. It means ‘from.’ Nappahere is also from the mother tongue. It means ‘metalworker.’ You are Abi from the metalworkers.”

Taya was stunned. Had she really been speaking fragments of the mother tongue all her life? She looked with interest at the other words on the tablets. Were they all mother tongue words in common usage? If only she could read them!

“Let’s try another,” said the instructor. He pointed at another student. “Your word.”

“Paharu.”

“Means ‘potter,’” said the instructor. “So isu Paharu, class, means?”

“From the potters,” intoned the class.

“Let’s try something harder,” said the instructor. “You’ll find pieces of the mother tongue used in other ways too, not just in names.” He pointed at another student. “What’s on your tablet?”

“Bantu kasu annasi,” said the student.

The initiates laughed.

“All right,” said the instructor. “What does bantu kasu annasi mean?”

“It’s a curse,” said the student. “You say it when you’re frustrated.”

“But what does it mean?” said the instructor.

The classroom was silent.

“It has a meaning,” said the instructor. “Bantu kasu annasi is from the mother tongue. We’ll take it in reverse order. ‘Annasi’ means ‘to us.’ ‘Kasu’ means ‘help.’ And ‘bantu’ means mothers. What you think is a meaningless curse is actually an invocation to the mother goddesses: ‘Mothers help us!’”

Taya felt awed. She’d heard those words so many times, even said them once or twice and got a tanning for it, but had no idea they were the mother tongue or even that they’d had a meaning.

“Now, you may be wondering why some of the old tongue persists in our language, particularly in names and curse words, when we speak primarily the river tongue,” said the instructor. “The answer lies in our history. You will be studying that separately, so I won’t go into detail, but the short answer is that for several hundred years, the river country was occupied by the mountain tribes, and our language at the time—the mother tongue—was nearly obliterated and replaced with their language. We speak that language to this day.”

A student raised his hand. “But the mountain people speak the mountain tongue. Not our tongue.”

“Yes and no,” said the instructor. “Both languages derive from the same roots. Our ancestors later expelled the mountain people from the river valley, but we kept their language because by then it was what we all spoke. Today we call it the river tongue because it has diverged a little from what the mountain people now speak. No more argument on this topic for now; you’ll learn more about it in other classes. Let’s keep going.” He pointed at Taya. “What’s your word?”

Taya’s cheeks flushed. “I-I don’t know.”

“Your word,” said the instructor, shaking his finger impatiently. “On the tablet in front of you.”

“She can’t read,” called Mandir from across the room.

The class tittered.

“You’re illiterate?” said the instructor.

Taya bit her lip. She didn’t know what “illiterate” meant.

“The word on your tablet is sarrum,” said the instructor. “It means ‘king.’ We have an isu Sarrum in our classroom, do we not?” He looked at Mandir.

Mandir nodded.

“Mandir isu Sarrum. What does it mean, class?”

“Mandir from kings,” they intoned.

“You,” said the instructor, pointing at Taya again. “See me after class.”

Chapter IX

Hrappa

SINCE IT WAS NOT FAR, Taya opted to walk with Rasik and Mandir to Bodhan isu Kasirum’s house rather than ride. Black clouds squatted on the horizon, looking surly. They posed no immediate threat, but when the clouds covered the sky, she and Mandir would have to take shelter in case of flood.

The streets were crowded with townsfolk hurrying to conclude their business before the storm broke. The air felt oppressive and heavy, and despite all the rushing about, the mood in the streets was subdued. Even the dust clung to the ground, refusing to be kicked up. The houses of baked brick, which were so bright in the sunshine, now looked drab, framed against a graying sky. The few swatches of color were the bright greens that peeked out from walled gardens.

They crossed from the ruling district into the artisan district. Here the houses diminished somewhat in size, and Taya began to see colorfully painted signs in front of some of them, advertising wares and services: Jewelry, Worked Silver and Copper, Wheelwright and Wagons, Fine Cotton Cloth & Indigos.

Rasik led them to the one that said Fine Cotton Cloth & Indigos. They’d arrived at Bodhan isu Kasirum’s house.

Mandir had been right when he’d guessed this man had money. Bodhan’s house, despite being in the artisan district, was larger than most ruling district homes. Two stories high and easily three times the length of her guesthouse, it was practically a palace. A doorman waited on the steps. He looked them over, took their names, and bade them wait while he spoke to someone inside. After a few minutes, he returned. Taya and Mandir dismissed the grumbling Rasik, who was complaining about the many tasks he had to finish before the storm, and followed the doorman into the house.

Bodhan’s home was painted on the inside, each room a different color. Taya was accustomed to plain living and could hardly fail to notice how extensively he’d decorated the place. A bronze hooded cobra reared up at them from a shelf in the entryway, its glittering jewel eyes realistic enough to send a shiver down Taya’s spine. On another shelf cavorted a herd of ceramic gazelles, each in a different pose: one grazing, one looking about, one stotting through a patch of grass. In a quiet alcove sat an elegant vase as high as Taya’s hip, painted in bright colors.

The doorman led them to the back of the house and into some sort of study where two men stood in conversation. One appeared to be a clerk or other high-ranking servant. The other spoke with an air of command, and was clearly the man of the house. Bodhan wore a simple indigo tunic, perfectly cut and tailored but not extravagant, and no jewelry at all. He was neither large nor small but ordinary looking, neat and trim, with graying hair and quick, intelligent eyes.

As Bodhan caught sight of Taya and Mandir, he dismissed the other man and turned to greet them. “Coalition,” he said. “The famous green and silver. I’m honored.”

“The honor is ours,” said Mandir.

Bodhan approached and touched fingers first with Mandir, then with Taya. He studied them eagerly—too eagerly—and Taya began to feel uneasy.

“May I look at your robe?” Bodhan asked Taya. “The sleeve, if you don’t mind.”

Taya glanced at Mandir, perplexed. He shrugged. “All right,” she said.

Bodhan took Taya’s sleeve and rubbed it between his fingers, then checked for residue. “Do you find the color rubs off? Say, when it gets wet?”

“No,” said Taya.

“May I?” said Bodhan again, and stepped toward her.

Taya backed away, uncertain.

Mandir inserted himself between them. “Have a care. You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Bodhan. “I wish only to smell the cloth and discover what agent was used to set the dye. Some merchants have learned the trick of setting dye such that it doesn’t wash out, and they won’t share the information with the rest of us. They intend to run us out of business. Do you know who makes your robes?”

“No,” said Mandir.

Bodhan frowned. “I’d like to show you something.” He left the room for a moment and returned with a bundle of cloth. Holding the cloth by two corners, he let the rest of it fall to the ground.

Taya gasped. The cloth was not of just one color, but was a lovely swirled pattern of greens, blues, reds, and yellows.

“You see this?” said Bodhan in an accusatory tone.

“It’s beautiful,” said Taya.

Bodhan gave her a sullen look. “It’s going to ruin me. Someone has learned the secret of setting colors in cotton. Not just indigo, but the difficult colors: red, yellow, green. And they can do it in patterns! How can I compete?”

Taya shook her head. She knew nothing about the cloth business.

“We didn’t come here to talk about cloth,” said Mandir. “We’re here to investigate the murder of your daughter.”

“Of course.” Bodhan sighed, and his face settled into a network of fine lines. “But would you put in a word for me with your Coalition? Secrecy among cloth makers isn’t good business. I’m sure you don’t want to pay inflated prices.”

“We’re not involved in that part of the Coalition at all,” said Taya.

“But you have influence,” said Bodhan.

“We’ll take it into consideration,” said Mandir.

“Thank you,” said Bodhan. “Have a seat.”

Taya sat at a table of polished wood, and Mandir took his place beside her. “When was your daughter killed?” asked Taya.

“Some weeks ago, in the season of Lalan,” said Bodhan.

“Before or after Hunabi was killed?”

“After,” said Bodhan.

“And how was she killed?”

Bodhan shook his head. “Narat was...a rebellious girl. She sneaked out of the house, we believe to meet a boy she fancied herself in love with. She was standing on an island in the Lioness, their designated meeting spot, when a sudden flood came up, a wall of water of the sort only a jackal can summon. It swept her away.”

“Did someone see this happen?” asked Taya.

Bodhan nodded. “One of my clerks. I knew her tendencies, and had instructed him to follow her. He saw everything.”

“We’ll need to speak with this clerk,” said Mandir. “What about the boy she was meeting? Was he killed too?”

“The boy never showed up,” said Bodhan.

“What’s his name?” said Mandir. “We’ll need to speak to him.”

“That won’t be possible. He left Hrappa that very day and hasn’t been seen since.”

Taya and Mandir exchanged a look.

“In that case, we definitely need his name,” said Mandir.

“Of course,” said Bodhan. “My clerk will provide that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Taya. “Was Narat contracted for marriage? Or were negotiations underway?”

“No,” said Bodhan. “Narat was my younger daughter. We had been contracting my older daughter in marriage to Kalbi and Hunabi isu Dayyanum.”

“Your older daughter is named Kana, I believe?” said Taya. “I understand the negotiations are presently on hold.”

“While the magistrate’s family is in mourning for Hunabi, yes.”

Mandir broke in. “Are you not in mourning yourselves?”

“Our mourning period is complete,” said Bodhan.

“Do you expect the negotiations to eventually resume?” asked Taya.

“Yes,” said Bodhan.

“How did Kana feel about the marriage?”

Bodhan looked perplexed. “It was, and still is, a wonderful opportunity for her. She will be marrying into the ruling caste.”

“How does she feel about having two husbands?” said Taya. “It’s not her way. She was raised in the artisan caste.”

“The more fathers, the stronger the heirs,” said Bodhan. “Kana knows this and grieves for the loss of one of the fathers.”

Taya frowned. She wasn’t getting anywhere with this line of questioning, and she didn’t get the impression Bodhan cared much about either of his daughters. “What were the brothers like? I’ve met Kalbi, but I never had the opportunity to know Hunabi.”

“Quality men, both of them, but then, they are ruling caste. Kalbi, the elder, is responsible and serious. Hunabi was brave and daring.”

“Sir, we would like to test your daughter Kana for magical ability,” said Mandir.

“You cannot possibly think my daughter is your jackal!” said Bodhan.

Taya blinked, trying not to let her bewilderment show. What was Mandir talking about? There was no test for magical ability. The only way the Coalition could identify new initiates was to watch them perform magic, and if initiates chose not to perform, the magic could not be compelled from them.

“It’s just a formality,” said Mandir. “Because your daughter has a connection to two of the murder victims, she is naturally a suspect. We need only test her, and once we are assured she has no magic, she won’t be a suspect any longer.”

“Well,” said Bodhan, looking nervous, “I suppose that makes sense. When do you propose to test her?”

“Right now,” said Mandir.

“Very well.” Bodhan rose from the table and led them down a hallway to another room where a young woman sat at a worktable littered with jars and tools and scraps of clay. She was using a small pointed tool to etch designs onto a sculpted figurine. The girl had talent, Taya thought. Perhaps she had made the gazelles in the entryway. Her sculpture, though incomplete, was easy to identify. It was a river dolphin with sleek lines and a frightening array of teeth.

The girl was neither the jackal nor the witness she’d seen in her vision.

Mandir picked up Taya’s hand, which startled her until she realized he simply desired her signal. She made a double slash mark on his palm, and he released her.

“That’s a lovely sculpture,” said Taya. “Your name is Kana?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Kana’s voice was soft. She seemed a shy, unassuming girl.

“We’ve come to test you for magical ability,” said Mandir. “Hold out your hand.”

Kana looked frightened. “I don’t have the Gift.”

“It’s all right,” said Bodhan. “They just want to eliminate you as a suspect.”

“Your hand, please,” said Mandir.

Kana set down the clay-etching tool and held out her hand.

Mandir took it and positioned it palm down. “Some droplets of water are going to fall on your knuckles. If they fall toward your little finger, then you have nothing to worry about; you’re nonmagical. If they fall toward your thumb, then you have the Gift.”

Kana nodded, shifting nervously in her seat.

“Don’t move,” scolded Mandir. “If you move your hand, I shall know you are trying to cheat. But don’t worry. If you’re not the jackal, you have nothing to fear.”

Again Kana nodded.

Three water drops materialized from the air and dropped onto Kana’s hand. Taya could see from the angle Mandir was holding Kana’s hand that the drops ought to fall toward her thumb. Kana was trembling; no doubt she could see that too. Yet the drops, defying nature, sat where they were. After several long seconds, the droplets slid down Kana’s hand toward her little finger. Kana sighed in relief.

Mandir had moved those droplets with magic. Taya was certain of it.

“Well, we know you’re not the culprit,” said Mandir. “Perhaps you could answer some questions for us?”

Later, in the privacy of her guesthouse, Taya was finally able to ask Mandir what he was up to. “Why did you make up that business about the magic test?”

He shrugged. “It was just an idea I had.”

“You moved the droplets yourself.”

“Of course,” said Mandir. “We don’t want everyone in Hrappa to know you can identify the jackal on sight. So I thought we might like to have a ruse that allows us to look at people without their realizing that looking is all we’re after. If word gets around as to how the test is administered, the jackal might not be frightened of being tested. She knows that by using magic, she can manipulate the drops into falling on the correct side.”

Taya took a seat at the table. “All right. I’ll grant that’s not a bad idea.”

The visit to Bodhan’s had been only modestly illuminating. Kana was innocent, and questioning her hadn’t yielded any information beyond what Bodhan had already told them. Kana seemed a submissive, obedient girl who parroted whatever her father told her. She and Mandir had questioned the clerk as well, who had corroborated Bodhan’s tale about the magical flood. To learn more, Taya would have to go to the actual murder site, scry, and hope for a vision from Isatis. She also needed to visit the family of the boy who hadn’t shown up that day. They’d learned his name was Kamber, and he was the son of a baker woman.

Might it be more productive simply to go door-to-door in Hrappa, looking for the jackal under the pretense of using Mandir’s test for magical ability? She already knew what the jackal looked like. There didn’t seem to be much more Isatis could tell her, although she wouldn’t mind getting a closer look in a second vision.

Raindrops pattered on the rooftop.

“There’s our storm,” said Mandir.

Chapter X

Hrappa

BY SUNSET, THE RAIN HAD become a downpour. Mandir sat alone on the bed in his guesthouse, bored, disinterested in either food or sleep. It was too bad Taya resented his presence, or he’d spend the evening with her. He wasn’t accustomed to being alone. At the Temple, he’d always had friends around.

In the distance, a single blast of the horn sounded, which meant the gates were closing in case the river overflowed its banks. All the townsfolk should be inside by now anyway. No Hrappan citizen would be foolish enough to venture outside the walls after dark with a storm rolling in.

Thunder grumbled in the distance. Mandir moved to the window to see if he might catch a glimpse of the next lightning strike. This storm was more than just Agu’s fury. Isatis was on the rampage as well.

He should check on Taya, just in case. Not that the storm presented any immediate danger. But he was her quradum, and her safety was his responsibility.

Opening the courtyard door, he looked outside. The rain fell in diagonal sheets, galloping across the courtyard. At least the distance he had to cover was short. He charged across the courtyard, knocked quickly at Taya’s door, and let himself in, hoping she wasn’t naked inside. All right, he wouldn’t mind if she was naked, but she would mind if he saw her in such a state. He turned around and faced the doorway, just in case.

“Taya,” he called.

No answer.

He turned back around. Taya’s dinner, partially eaten, sat on her table, but the woman herself was nowhere to be seen. Her bed was made, not as neatly as he had made his own, but clearly it had lain untouched since morning.

“Taya,” he called, louder this time. Perhaps the washroom? He walked around the corner to check, but she was not there either. The house was tiny, and he’d searched the entire place.

Why would she leave the guesthouse in the middle of a storm? The gates were closing, and she would not work on the case without him—she ought not to, anyway. She hadn’t expressed a need to buy anything. Her food was provided for her, and all the shops in the artisan district would be closed.

Did she have a secret lover in Hrappa?

No. That was ludicrous. She’d only arrived yesterday, and he’d been with her almost the entire time.

Could someone have kidnapped her? Lured her away?

The front door was unbarred. Mandir burst through it.

Rain pelted his head and shoulders and pooled around his feet. The streets were dark. He summoned globes of fire at intervals for visibility, but they revealed only emptiness and rain.

He splashed to the Hall of Judgment. There, under the covered stairway, he shook the water from his hair like a dog and pounded on the door.

A guard with a mace at his belt answered it.

“I need Rasik,” said Mandir. “My partner’s missing.”

The guard looked him over. “Rasik’s off duty.”

“Get him back on duty. I need to talk to him.”

The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’d be my head if I tried to drag him out now. If you want to talk to him, he lives over there.” He pointed at a house down the street.

Mandir headed out into the rain again. Rasik’s house looked, from the outside, a lot like his own guesthouse, except a little larger. He banged on the door.

Rasik answered it with an expectant air but frowned when he saw Mandir. “I’m off duty. Talk to me in the morning.” He started to shut the door.

Mandir caught the door and forced it back open. “My partner’s missing. Help me find her.”

A baby wailed somewhere inside the house, and a woman’s voice spoke. Mandir couldn’t make out the words. Rasik turned in the direction of the voice and called, “No, dinner’s not here yet. It’s something else.” Then to Mandir, “I’m not your partner’s keeper. You lost her, you find her.”

“She left the guesthouse through the front door,” said Mandir. “You’ve been out and about preparing for the storm—if not you, then the servants under your command. Somebody must have seen her leave.”

He heard splashing behind him in the street. Mandir turned, hoping it might be Taya, but it was only a servant boy delivering a leather pouch. Rasik accepted it wordlessly and said to Mandir, “You want me to question all the magistrate’s servants because you don’t know where your partner is? Do it yourself.”

“If she comes to harm, things will go badly for you,” said Mandir. “The Coalition will send another team out here—”

“Who’s to say she’s come to harm?” said Rasik. “Maybe she just went for a walk.”

“In this?” Mandir gestured at the pouring rain.

“Excuse me,” said the servant boy. “Do you mean the Coalition lady?”

Mandir turned eagerly. “Have you seen her?”

“She’s in the stable,” said the boy.

“The stable?”

The boy nodded.

“Where is the stable?”

“Show him,” Rasik said to the boy.

Mandir followed the boy through the muddy streets to the stable. The huge doors, large enough to admit a horse or even a wagon, were ajar, and he found himself able to slip inside without opening them farther.

The barn was warm and dry. It smelled wholesome, of hay and straw and well-groomed horses, with just a hint of manure. The animals were restless. Some stamped their feet or circled in their stalls, distressed by the storm. But the servant boy was right. Taya was here. Mandir couldn’t see her, but he could hear her voice. She was crooning to some creature in one of the far stalls.

Mandir brushed the rivulets off his rain-spattered clothes—flood and fire, he hated looking disheveled—and finger-combed his hair. He stalked down the aisle, relieved at having found her but furious that she’d made him worry and run around like a fool in the rain.

He rounded the stable aisle and spotted her. “What in the Mothers’ names are you doing here? I looked all over for you!”

Taya jumped at his sudden words. She was standing in one of the animals’ stalls. The black horse in the adjoining stall, startled, flung up its head and reared, and then capered about the stall, kicking at the walls.

“Look what you’ve done,” snapped Taya. “I only just got her calmed down.”

Mandir looked again at the black horse. “Is that Pepper?” He felt sheepish. Even he ought to know better than to make sudden movements in a stable. If Taya had been in the stall with Pepper, she might have been hurt.

“She gets crazy during storms.” One of Pepper’s hooves connected with the stall door. Taya winced.

“Well, you shouldn’t have run off without telling me.”

“I didn’t go running off. I went to the stable, which was practically next door.”

Mandir opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it. He was making a mess of things. However justified his anger might be, he was going to have to rein it in, or he’d lose Taya again like he had at Mohenjo. Taya was too sensitive and too stubborn to be won with harsh treatment. He would win her with gentleness or not at all.

He unclenched his fists and tried to breathe normally. The stall Taya stood in held, to his surprise, a dwarf elephant, which Taya was scratching behind the ears as she eyed her fractious mare. “Who’s the elephant?” he asked. “Is he yours?”

“His name is Piru,” she said. “A placid creature, thank the Mothers. He’s not mine; he belongs to the Coalition. He’s to carry back Hrappa’s tax payment.”

“He traveled here with you?” Mandir tentatively stroked the elephant’s trunk, and it came questing up toward his face. Alarmed, he stepped away. “What does he want?”

Taya laughed. “Food—he thinks you might have a treat. Yes, he traveled here with me, and he’ll travel back as well.”

“I’m sorry I spooked your horse,” said Mandir. “I was worried when I couldn’t find you. I thought something might have happened to you.”

Taya smiled wryly. “You needn’t worry about me so much. I know what the jackal looks like, and she’s just an untrained girl. She doesn’t frighten me.”

“Worrying about you is my job,” said Mandir. “And the jackal is not the only danger in Hrappa.”

“My magic is strong. The Coalition wouldn’t have given me this if it wasn’t.” She touched the fire agate on her belt.

“And they wouldn’t have assigned you a quradum if they didn’t think you needed protection,” said Mandir. “Help me do my job by letting me know when you’re going to leave the guesthouse. Please?”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Taya frowned at him. “But you have to promise not to yell at me.”

“Deal,” said Mandir. “Touch fingers?”

Taya hesitantly extended her hand, and they touched fingers.

“There’s something else,” said Mandir. “I want to apologize.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “For what?”

“For the way I treated you at Mohenjo Temple,” said Mandir.

Taya turned away with a bitter laugh.

Anger simmered in Mandir’s chest. “You think that’s funny?”

“You think you can make up for four years of torment with an apology?”

She had a point. Mandir felt the inadequacy of his words. “It was wrong of me. All of it, especially the fire maze. I look back on those days with regret.”

Taya shrugged. “Thanks, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Did you think it would make those four years go away?”

Mandir left the stall door and paced down the aisle. He hadn’t expected this to go well, but still, he’d hoped. “What do you want from me, Taya? You want me to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness?”

“No.” She made a face. “That would be embarrassing for both of us.”

Mandir stared at her. He’d thought for certain she would go for the begging-on-his-knees option, not that he planned to seriously do it.

“Maybe you underestimate how much harm you did at Mohenjo. I was a farmer, the only person of that caste in the entire class. You were not only ruling caste, you were royal—”

“A royal bastard,” said Mandir. “With no title, no inheritance, and no acknowledgement from the royal family, except from my father, who’s the family embarrassment.”

“Important details you kept secret for almost a year,” said Taya. “Everyone looked up to you. The way you treated me set an example. Had you been kind and accepting, they would have been kind and accepting, too. Instead you mocked and harassed me. And they joined in.”

Mandir grimaced. That was true. He’d been the de facto leader of that initiate class, thanks to his name and tattoo, and he’d set the tone. He couldn’t even claim it had been accidental. He’d singled her out on purpose.

“All those years at the Temple, I had no friends my own age. You made certain that I was alone. And I stayed alone after you left.”

“That I don’t believe,” said Mandir. “Several of the boys in our class secretly liked you. They wouldn’t have approached you while I was there, but after I left, I’m sure a few of them came sniffing around.”

“They did,” said Taya. “I sent them away.”

Mandir spread his arms. “How is that my fault?”

“Would you want to be friends with someone who used to torment you? I don’t even understand why you did it. How did it profit you to harass me? You were respected and admired without even trying.”

“I did it because I was in love with you,” said Mandir.

Taya rolled her eyes. “Ridiculous. Give me a real reason.”

“That is the real reason,” said Mandir. “Do you remember the day we met, when I showed you how to eat lirry fruit?”

“I remember.” Her eyes went distant, and she looked sad.

“I fell in love with you the instant I laid eyes on you,” said Mandir. “But I was horrified by that. You were a farmer! I was a bastard, and I didn’t want that discovered. To throw off suspicion, I associated exclusively with the ruling caste. I pushed you away, publicly and emphatically, determined I should fall out of love with you.”

“Mandir, you can’t treat someone like that and call it love.”

“It was...a twisted love. The only excuse I can claim is that I was fifteen years old and stupid, and I grew up in a household that taught me nothing but cruelty.”

She shook her head. “You made your own choices.”

“Did you ever like me?” asked Mandir.

“Never.”

“Liar,” said Mandir. “The day you met me. You liked me then.”

Taya sniffed. “All right. I liked you for one day, before I learned what sort of boy you were.”

“I’m not that boy now. I’ve left that boy behind.”

Pepper shoved her head over the partition, bumping Taya’s shoulder with her nose and whinnying for attention.

“Look who’s back,” crooned Taya, stroking the mare’s face. She turned to Mandir. “The onager appears to change its color, but it’s an illusion, nothing more. When it trots back out into the sun, its color changes back.”

“I am no color-changing onager,” said Mandir. “Tell me how I can prove myself to you.”

“I don’t think you can,” said Taya.

“There’s got to be a way.”

Taya shook her head. “I can’t trust you. If you say something nice, it’s because you’re going to twist it around later. There’s no such thing as sincerity with you. There’s only what you want and what you have to say in order to get it.”

Mandir smiled sadly.

“Even you don’t deny it.”

“I do deny it. But you give me no means of showing you the truth.” Mandir had spent four years teaching this woman he couldn’t be trusted, and unfortunately for him she’d learned the lesson too well.

Chapter XI

Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago

TAYA STARED AT THE WRITING on the clay tablet, willing the beautifully scripted words to make sense. They remained inscrutable. But at least they were inscrutable to all the other students of her class. This tablet, like all the others in this wing of the Mohenjo library, was written in the mother tongue. Some of the tablets were so old they dated from the days before the Atrocity, when the Mothers walked the river valley in human form. This might be one of those tablets.

With a sigh of longing, Taya ran a hand over the ancient script. She picked up the tablet, replaced it on the shelf, and took down a new one, equally unintelligible.

Here in Mohenjo Temple lay the history of her people. Not the stories she’d been told over the years, the lies and distortions. The real history, the words her ancestors had written down in their true language. It astonished her that these writings had been preserved. Until she’d come here, she’d had no idea they even existed. If she worked hard, if she was patient, she would one day be able to read the words of the men and women who had walked in the presence of the Mothers.

One season into her training, life wasn’t as miserable as before. After speaking to the instructor after class, she’d been placed in an additional, special class for initiates who needed to learn to read and write. It was a lot of extra work, but she didn’t mind. All the other students in the special class were farmer caste, like her, and while none of them were her age—the nearest was a boy two years older—she now sat with them at meal times, and didn’t feel quite so lonely. It encouraged her to see the other farmers’ progress at reading and writing. Others had trod this path before her and been successful; that gave her hope.

The door to the library swung open.

Taya froze. She couldn’t see the door from where she was sitting, but she was fairly certain Mandir isu Sarrum had seen her come in. For someone who acted as if he had no interest in her, Mandir watched her awfully closely.

She heard the footsteps of several people entering the library.

“What’s that smell?” came Mandir’s voice.

“Musty old clay?” said another boy.

“It smells like zebu shit,” said Mandir.

The boys rounded the corner and came upon Taya with her tablet.

“Oh, it’s the farmer girl! No wonder,” said Mandir. The other boys laughed.

Taya, not the least bit fooled by this farce, stood and gathered her things. She would flee to her room, the one place Mandir could not follow.

“What’s this?” said Mandir, grabbing the tablet.

“It’s not mine,” said Taya quickly, terrified he would damage it. “It’s the library’s.”

“What are you doing with it? You can’t read that.”

“Neither can you,” snapped Taya.

Mandir raised his eyebrows, held up the tablet and intoned, “Ipulma mummu apsu immallik, sukkallum la magiru—”

“You’re just saying the words,” said Taya. “You don’t know what they mean.”

“Sure I do,” said Mandir. “It says, ‘Once there was a farmer woman who grew banana trees. She was contracted in marriage to a farmer man, but when she came to the marriage bed and removed her veil, he said, “Bantu kasu annasi, woman! How can I sleep with you, when your face is like a wrinkled monkey’s ass, and you smell like zebu shit?” I shall have to—’ Wait a minute, I’m not finished.”

Taya, flushing with anger and humiliation, tried to hurry around the boys, toward the library door, but Mandir moved to block her path, and the other boys, snickering, surrounded her.

“Did I say you could leave?” said Mandir. “I’m still reading. ‘I shall have to hold my nose, turn you over, and fuck you from behind so I don’t have to—’”

“Shut up!” cried Taya, trembling with rage, and fear, too, because they had her trapped, and no one else was around. “That’s not what it says.”

“How do you know?” said Mandir.

“Get out of my way,” said Taya.

Mandir folded his arms. “You’ll go when I say you can.”

Hating herself for giving in, but knowing that Mandir responded to only one thing, total capitulation, she said, “Please. I need to study.”

Mandir looked thoughtful, as if considering this request. He turned to one of the other boys. “Sukal, what’s the banana girl studying?”

Sukal snatched a tablet out of her satchel. It was the one on which she practiced her letters, scrawling them in her large, clumsy script. Sukal laughed and handed it to Mandir.

“Flood and fire!” Mandir guffawed, showing it around. “When did you guys do these, when you were seven years old?” He shoved the tablet back in Taya’s satchel and, finally, stepped aside to give her an escape route.

As Taya ran for the door, one of the boys grabbed her bottom in passing.

“Banta kasu annasi, Sukal,” said Mandir. “You must be pretty desperate if you want that ass.”

Chapter XII

Hrappa

TAYA WAS AWAKENED IN THE wee hours by the horn sounding its two long calls, which meant the Lioness had overflowed its banks. She lay awake for a while, listening to the rain as it pattered on the rooftop. It was slackening, and she knew that the third call, the one signaling a breach of the city walls, would not come. She drifted back to sleep and woke again at dawn—once a farmer, always a farmer. She lounged in bed, knowing the town would be in no hurry to rise. Some of the fields would be underwater, and no work could be done until they drained. Mandir, furthermore, was a late riser.

She was at her breakfast a couple of hours later when Mandir let himself in through the courtyard door, perfectly groomed. “What are we doing today? More scrying?” He stopped short and stared at her.

“What?” said Taya, irritated.

“You’re not planning to go out like that, are you?”

“Like what?”

“Your headdress. It’s a mess.”

Taya shook her head, wondering which of the Mothers she had offended to be cursed with this man as a partner. “No one has these impossible standards of perfection but you. It’s fine.”

“Have you looked in a mirror?”

“I’m not going to let you fix it for me.” She didn’t have the knack for headdresses, but honestly, nobody else ever cared. And judging by Mandir’s clothes and hair, he had some kind of neatness obsession. She got up from the table, pushing her breakfast dishes away.

“You’re representing the Coalition. You need to look the part.”

“I do look the part,” said Taya, heading for the door. “Green and silver. And it doesn’t matter. We’re Coalition. They hate us no matter what.”

“You want to look like an ignorant farmer?”

Taya halted midstride. Mandir knew how to hit her where it hurt. “I suppose just this once you can fix it for me. But if you try anything—”

“What would I try?” said Mandir. “I just want to fix your headdress.”

Taya eyed him suspiciously. “What do I do?”

He indicated a chair. “Sit down.”

Taya sat, and Mandir took up a position behind her chair. She braced herself, remembering that first day of Coalition classes when he’d ripped the headdress out of her hair. But that was a long time ago. This time, his hands carefully freed her hair from the loops, and it fell to its full length, brushing her back. She waited patiently for Mandir to gather it back up again, but instead he fiddled with something behind her. “Well?” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Just a minute,” said Mandir. “I’m figuring out how the headdress works.”

Taya turned in her chair. “You’ve never done this before? And you think you can do it better than me?”

“Taya,” said Mandir, “anyone could do this better than you.”

Taya faced forward with a sigh. Somehow Mandir’s pestering her about wanting to fix her headdress had given her the idea he’d done this for other women—a series of past lovers at Rakigari, perhaps, or one favored lover he’d been with a long time. She wasn’t sure which thought bothered her more. It was something of a relief to learn he did not know headdresses, although she did not doubt he had known women.

Finally he reached for her and began to gather up her hair. Taya swallowed. She had always thought Mandir a rough, crude sort of man and expected his touch to be similarly harsh and unpleasant. But he handled her as gently as imported silk. His fingers brushed her neck as he swept up her hair, divided it, and worked out a tangle. His light touch was so pleasant that she had to restrain herself from leaning into his hands.

“You’ve got it backward,” she said. “The hair goes in the other way.”

“Oh. So it does.” He withdrew her hair from the loops, let it go, and started over, unhurried and unflustered.

Somehow, after all these years of knowing Mandir, she’d failed to understand certain things about him. She’d noticed his clothes and hair were always perfect, but she’d attributed it to vanity, not to his being a careful, patient man who paid close attention to details. When he finally had the headdress in place, she could tell he’d done a good job because it was comfortable and perfectly centered, not pulling to one side or the other, yet he seemed dissatisfied. He made some adjustments, viewed it from several angles, and adjusted it again.

She didn’t mind that he was taking a while. Every time his hand brushed her skin, he set it afire, stirring a desire in her that had long lain dormant. She hadn’t realized how much she hungered for the touch of another human being. Not Mandir’s, necessarily. As a young girl, she and her sisters had cuddled up in one bed at night like a heap of kittens. She missed that. And she was too old for it now.

Perhaps she should seek a lover in Hrappa. The thought seemed ludicrous—everyone hated her here—but one never knew; she might find someone she liked, someone who could see beyond the green and silver to the person underneath. It was past time she found a lover. Flood and fire, she was twenty-three years old! Coalition women enjoyed an unusual amount of sexual freedom. Her magic allowed her to postpone pregnancy until she chose to bear children, and her family could not compel her to marry. Her body was hers to do with as she pleased. She’d turned away the men at Mohenjo, for obvious reasons, and of course Mandir was out of the question, but there might be some man in town with whom she might satisfy some mutual desires, at least on a temporary basis until she could find somebody suitable for the long term.

“There,” said Mandir. “What do you think?”

Taya rose from the chair, fetched her sheet of polished copper, and looked. She was astonished. She’d never seen a headdress look so perfect. Of course, she had to allow, it was easier putting a headdress on someone else than putting it on one’s own head. “It looks nice.”

“Nice,” mocked Mandir. “Admit it. That’s the best your headdress has ever looked.”

It was, but Taya wasn’t going to admit it.

“You can’t go there,” said Rasik. “The water’s running too high.”

“The sun’s up and the water level’s falling,” Taya argued, as the black mare danced anxiously beneath her. “I’m not concerned about more flooding—”

“The place where Narat died is completely underwater,” said Rasik.

Taya exchanged a look with Mandir. “I can’t scry a site when it’s underwater. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“The third victim,” suggested Mandir.

“Yes,” said Taya, turning to Rasik. “Take us to the family of the third murder victim. What was the father’s name?”

“The brother. Zashkalim isu Ikkarum. He had custody of his sister,” said Rasik.

“He’s a farmer,” said Taya, pleased. Finally she would be in her own element. She looked at the sun, which was high in the sky. “Will he be available to see us?” During the growing season, most farmers spent the day outside the city walls, working in the fields, and would not receive visitors until sundown.

“This one might be,” said Rasik. “He’s rich, has people working for him. Lives outside Hrappa.”

Taya’s curiosity was piqued. She was aware there were some farmers who’d overcome the limitations of their caste to become wealthy, although she’d never known any personally. The caste system didn’t consign farmers to be poor so much as it limited what they could do with their lives. Only those in the ruling caste could hold positions of governance, only those in the artisan caste were eligible to learn trades, and only those in the farmer caste could lay claim to lands outside the city walls and work them. Some farmers didn’t actually grow food, but mined the land for ore or harvested trees for timber. She was curious how this Zashkalim isu Ikkarum had managed to enrich himself off the land. It wasn’t commonly done.

They cantered their horses through the floodplains, splashing through the standing water the rain and river had left behind. Few farmers were out—little work could be done in these conditions—and they were nearly alone in a great expanse of mud and flooded farmland. Except for the city of Hrappa itself, and the river, if you were on high enough ground to see it, there were no landmarks. Taya was aware of how easy it would be to get lost out here, especially if one lost sight of the city. It amazed her that Rasik seemed to unerringly find his way.

Rasik was leading them to higher ground. Zashkalim’s lands were not in the floodplains, as it turned out, but on high ground away from the river. The first sign they’d left the area of the inundation was the appearance of a muddy road. It became a trail, marked by a stone cairn, that wound through brush and stubby trees up a gently sloping hill.

The hill began to level off. Taya’s black mare leapt up an outcropping of rock, and before them, in a great clearing, sprawled a house. Unlike the flat rectangles of well-planned Hrappa, it appeared to have grown organically over generations, some parts old and some parts new, rather like a wasp’s nest. Several enormous date palms stood sentry about the edges of the house, their feathery fronds casting the place in shade. Though it was a finer house than Taya had grown up in, the date palms and the house’s makeshift appearance reminded her of home, and something twisted inside her at the memories.

“That house looks like...” Mandir fished for words. “Like something exploded.”

“I love it,” Taya gushed.

Mandir looked at her askance.

Someone in peasant clothes trotted up to them from the back of the house. Taya wondered if this might be Zashkalim, but Rasik called to him, “Fetch your master,” and the man trotted away.

They waited a long time. Wilting in the midmorning heat and the humidity from last night’s rain, they dismounted from their horses and led the animals into the shade of one of the date palms. After a while, a man came walking up a path from behind the house, his strides long and easy. He gave them a friendly wave as he drew near.

“That’s him,” Rasik informed them in a low voice.

“Coalition?” called the farmer as he entered the shade of the date palm. “I heard you were in town.”

“Zashkalim isu Ikkarum?” said Taya.

“Call me Zash,” he said. They made introductions, and he touched fingers with Mandir and Rasik. He came to Taya last, and his eyes lingered on her as he completed the gesture. “Nice headdress.”

“Thank you,” said Taya, glancing at Mandir as if to share the compliment with him. He didn’t look pleased. This farmer appeared to be within a year or two of her own age, and Taya felt an instant sense of kinship with him. Before her Gift had developed, she and the other village girls had gossiped endlessly about the local men, making lists of which ones they most hoped to marry, although they knew full well that some of them would be contracted not to bright-eyed young men but to crusty old widowers. Still, they’d hoped and dreamed, and Taya could see, looking at Zash, that this man would be at the top of any list.

He wasn’t as tall as Mandir or as heavily built, but he was strong in a wiry sort of way, and he moved with the ease one would expect of someone who was physical on a daily basis and felt comfortable in his own skin. His eyes were dark and perceptive, his smile easy and confident, and he had the sort of ageless face that would stay handsome for decades.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Taya, wondering if he was married yet. “But I’m afraid we’re here on unhappy business. We’ve come to investigate the murder of your sister.”

“Of course,” Zash said soberly. “Before we begin, may I inquire as to yourselves? Are you hungry, thirsty, in need of anything?”

“We’re fine,” grunted Mandir.

“But it’s kind of you to ask,” said Taya.

Zash smiled. “Anything for a lady. You seem young for Coalition work. Have you been qualified long?”

“Actually, this is—”

“Long enough,” interrupted Mandir, folding his arms.

“I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” said Zash. “I’m not familiar with how Coalition teams work. Are the two of you husband and wife?”

“Oh, no,” said Taya with a laugh. “We’re just work partners. I’m a fire seer, and he’s a quradum—part of the Coalition’s enforcement arm.”

“I’m the one who burns people to death if they cause trouble,” said Mandir.

Taya frowned at him.

“Right,” said Zash, eyeing him warily. “Do you want to see the crime scene first?”

“Please,” said Taya.

“We’ve a walk ahead of us, then. I can’t allow the horses in my banana fields; their hooves compact the soil. I’ll tell you about Amalia—that’s my sister—along the way.”

They tied the horses to a post in the shade, leaving Rasik to tend them, and followed Zash down a trail behind the house.

“It’s not far,” said Zash, urging them along with a tireless stride. “Amalia was my younger sister. Five years ago—you may have heard this in Hrappa—the white fever swept through this area. It devastated my household. We were all afflicted, and we all survived, but only I came out of it unscathed. My parents were so severely weakened that they lived less than a year past their recovery, and Amalia...well, the fever left her touched in the head.”

“Touched in the head? What do you mean?” asked Taya.

“She went mad,” said Zash. “She became a danger to herself and to others. I had to lock her up.”

“You locked up your sister?” said Mandir.

“I had no choice, sir.”

“Tell me about the rest of your family,” said Taya. “Are you married? Do you have any children, any other siblings?”

“None,” said Zash. “I’m sorry to say I am all that remains of my family.”

The path made a slight turn and angled downward, and they entered a valley full of banana plants. Taya walked ahead, breathing in the sweet fragrance. Though Mandir was wrong and she did not hail, in fact, from a family of banana farmers, she was familiar with banana cultivation, as were nearly all peasant farmers from her village. Nearly every family kept one or two banana plants to supplement their diet, just as nearly every family kept a pig. She’d always loved the plants. They looked like trees, but were not trees. They were enormous plants with leaves broad enough to be used as umbrellas. A field of banana plants was a cool, tropical-scented jungle.

“I imagine this is like home for Taya,” said Mandir from behind her. “Her parents were banana farmers.”

“Were they really?” said Zash.

“No,” said Taya. “My partner is mistaken about me, as usual.”

“What are you talking about?” said Mandir.

“My parents were date farmers,” said Taya. “I do love a banana plantation, though.” However, something felt off about this banana field. She didn’t see many banana bunches on the trees, and the leaves were limp and ragged. “Have you had blight?”

“You’ve a good eye,” said Zash. “The entire plantation is blighted.”

Taya moved to the nearest tree for a look. Yes, there was no doubt about it. There were the telltale brown spots on the undersides of the leaves. Blighted plants would produce little if anything in the way of fruit. It was a devastating disease because even if one cut down and burned the affected plants right away, the blight tended to spread rapidly.

“Have you had the Coalition up here?”

“Once,” said Zash. “They cured my plants, but unfortunately the bananas in the city of Hrappa are blighted too. Those plants were not cured, and my own plants blighted again within the year. The first treatment was expensive, and I could not afford a second.”

Taya hadn’t seen any banana plants in Hrappa, but then she hadn’t been looking for them. “It’s a long way between here and there. Pretty far for blight to spread.”

“Nevertheless, it did,” said Zash.

Taya frowned. It seemed unfair that the Coalition had charged Zash a lot of money for a treatment that hadn’t lasted long enough to be worth the price. But that was the way it worked. Afflictions like blight often recurred. “How long have your plants been blighted?”

“Years,” said Zash. “We eke out a harvest, but I’m losing money.”

As they followed the trail through the field, Taya saw that this was, indeed, a working banana plantation—a well-managed one, if one could ignore the blight. The plants were at various stages of growth, the mature ones higher than her head, with great, waxy canopies. Now and again she spotted a worker through the trees, pruning dead leaves, placing protective netting around immature banana bunches, and chopping suckers off the mother plants. The ground beneath them was littered with dead banana leaves, but she couldn’t find a weed anywhere.

She found herself liking Zash. She knew well the sufferings of farmers whose fortunes depended on a host of factors over which they had no control. Zash understood banana farming, and he was doing everything right. This affliction was not his fault.

“How is it you are able to raise bananas here at all?” said Taya. “You’ve no access to the river for irrigation. Isn’t the weather too dry during the seasons of Lalan and Isatis?”

Zash smiled. “You may have noticed, we do irrigate.” He pointed at a dry canal that ran down one of the alleyways of plants.

“So you do.” Taya’s brow furrowed. “But whence comes the water?”

“There lies a story,” said Zash. “I’ll show you.”

“Perhaps we should get on with our business,” said Mandir.

“No, I want to see this,” said Taya. Bananas couldn’t be grown in waterlogged soils, yet they needed regular watering. Hrappa’s floodplains and seasonal monsoons were unsuitable for banana farming, yet here were the plants.

Zash changed direction, leading them down a new alleyway. “You’ll notice this valley has unique geography. That hill over there, and that one, shelter us from the prevailing winds during the monsoons, very important since banana plants are delicate. A strong wind will knock them over. A lesser wind may shred their leaves.”

“Yes, but the water?”

“You’ll see in a moment. We’re following the canal.”

Taya saw that they were, indeed, following the irrigation canal and heading uphill to what must be its source.

“My ancestors,” said Zash, “were of independent minds. While all the other farmers in Hrappa staked out territory in the floodplains and grew grain, my ancestors found this valley and put it to a different use. When all your neighbors are planting wheat and barley, wheat and barley have little value. And when you’re the only person growing bananas, bananas are worth a great deal, do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Taya.

“Here we are,” said Zash.

Ahead of them was a stone wall, not much higher than Taya’s knee. It enclosed a great pool of water, dug deep into the ground.

“You have stored water?” said Taya.

“It’s a reservoir,” said Zash. “This is one of three. They’re flush right now, so soon after the monsoons and last night’s storm, but they’ll run low during the season of Isatis. I use them sparingly, so I cannot demonstrate their use for you, but if I pull this lever...see here.” He ran his hand along to a lever almost as long as Taya was tall. “It opens a gap and water flows into the channel and through the irrigation system.”

“How in the name of the Mothers did you build such a thing?” demanded Mandir, stepping closer to Zash and directly into Taya’s field of vision.

“I didn’t build it,” said Zash. “My parents’ parents’ parents did, and each generation after has expanded on it and improved it. I’ve had to make repairs and shore up places that have weakened. But it’s worth the trouble. Or it would be, if the trees weren’t blighted.”

“I think it’s tremendously clever,” said Taya.

“Aren’t we here to scry a crime scene?” said Mandir.

“Of course,” said Zash. “I’ll take you there now.”

Chapter XIII

Hrappa

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE banana field sat a stone hut, thoroughly burned out, its roof missing and its walls scored black from char.

“This is where Amalia died,” said Zash.

“What is this building?” asked Taya. “What was she doing here?”

“She lived here.”

“She lived here? Not in the main house?” Taya glanced at Mandir, wondering what he thought of this. He was silent, his face unreadable.

“We built this place for her, away from the household, away from the servants, and kept her under guard where she could do no one harm,” said Zash.

Taya shifted on her feet. “That seems...an odd thing to do.”

“I realize it must seem odd to you, who never knew her,” said Zash. “But most of the servants and farm workers live in the main house, and they were frightened of her. She was loud and violent. Some of the servants threatened to leave. In the end, I had no choice but to isolate her.”

“I’d like to look around the ruin,” said Taya. When Zash moved to follow her, she said, “Stay where you are, please.” Mandir accompanied her, and as soon as they were out of earshot of Zash, she told him, “I can’t scry here.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. There are too many trees nearby. I can’t risk burning his plantation.”

Mandir kicked over a charred rock with his foot. “There’s been fire here already.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I can expose him to the risk again. Scry-fires are enormous.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mandir, glancing back at Zash.

“Neither do I,” said Taya.

Mandir, looking disgusted, wandered about the burned house to search for clues. Taya did the same, although she doubted she’d find anything of interest. It did appear to be a magical fire, in that she could see no remnants of any kind of fuel, and the fire had been strong. The remains of a bed, at one end of the house, were barely identifiable. The brick roof had collapsed, strewing the ruins with rubble and making it difficult to navigate or even see much of the ruin.

“Taya,” called Mandir.

She picked her way through the site. Mandir had been lifting bricks off the remains of the bed and stacking them in a haphazard pile. With his foot, he indicated a bit of blackened metal on the floor.

Taya leaned down to peer at the item and realized, with a wrench in her gut, that it was a pair of manacles. She spoke in a low voice. “He chained his sister to the bed?”

“Looks that way,” said Mandir.

“Maybe he had to,” she said. “If Amalia was violent.” But she felt unsettled.

A thorough search of the ruins was not worth their time. It would take days to remove all the bricks, and they had better leads. She would have to get the answers she needed by questioning Zash or possibly his employees. She and Mandir headed back to where Zash awaited them.

“How and when did the fire happen?” asked Taya.

“But a few weeks ago,” said Zash. “Amalia’s night guard ran to the main house and awakened us. Apparently the place had gone up all at once. We came directly, but there was nothing we could do. Flames were pouring out the windows. We threw water on the surrounding trees, to keep the fire from spreading, but we could not extinguish the fire within.”

“What was sustaining the fire?” said Taya. “It couldn’t have had much fuel.”

“I assume the jackal sustained it magically,” said Zash. “But though we searched the surrounding area, we never saw him.”

“How long did it burn?” said Taya.

“Until dawn, when the roof collapsed.”

“Did you recover Amalia’s body?” asked Mandir.

“There wasn’t much left,” said Zash, shifting on his feet. “But we recovered what we could.”

“Why do you suppose Amalia didn’t flee the house when it caught fire?” asked Mandir.

“It went up so quickly, I’m not sure that would have been possible.” Zash lowered his head. “And besides, we kept her restrained.”

“Did Amalia ever have visitors? Did she have any friends? Perhaps a lover?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Zash. “Her condition did not make such relationships likely.”

“Did she know either of the other victims?” said Mandir. “The magistrate’s son Hunabi, or Bodhan’s daughter Narat?”

“No, I don’t believe she did.”

“But somebody killed her,” said Taya. “And they had to have a reason for doing it. Can you think of anyone who might have borne a grudge against her, or had any reason to want her dead?”

“I honestly can’t think of anyone,” said Zash.

“Could someone have killed her because they had a grudge against you?” said Mandir.

“That is...more plausible,” said Zash. “I employ fourteen people, and the possibility always exists for a grudge against one’s employer. But I am not aware of anyone who would be that angry at me.”

“Have you had to dismiss anyone because of your blighted trees?” asked Mandir.

“Eventually I will have to,” said Zash. “But I haven’t done it yet.”

“Do they know that?” asked Mandir.

“They’re aware,” said Zash.

Silence descended, and Taya could think of nothing more to ask. “I think we’ve seen enough for now.”

As they made their way through the banana fields back to the house, Mandir took up his customary position in the rear, keeping a protective eye on Taya and a suspicious one on Zash. There was something about the man that rubbed him wrong. He’d half hoped Zash would try to hide the fact that he’d kept his sister in chains. Then he would have caught the man in a lie, or at least an omission of the truth. But Zash had admitted it outright, leaving Mandir with no certainty, only a sense of vague unease.

He could see no plausible motive for this crime. Why would the jackal murder a madwoman who spent her days chained up in a prison in the middle of a banana field? It didn’t make sense. Either there was more to the story—could Amalia have had a lover, possibly someone Zash hadn’t known about?—or else the only person he knew of with a motive to kill Amalia was Zash himself. Amalia was a burden to Zash, even a danger, so he’d claimed. He would have heard about the crimes of the jackal in Hrappa. Could he have seen an opportunity and killed his own sister, and then blamed it on this nameless jackal?

Perhaps he was being too suspicious. It was possible he was letting his personal dislike for Zash color the facts of the case. But the facts were thin, begging to be embellished, and he didn’t have much more than his gut sense to rely upon.

Ahead of him, Taya and Zash were exchanging their life stories. Taya had regaled him about her education at the temple and how she’d become a fire seer. Then Zash told her his family history. Apparently his was no ordinary farming family. Zash was literate, and his mother and paternal grandmother had been artisan caste. His family’s wealth had allowed the men to marry up-caste and bring additional skills and knowledge into the fold. Taya asked Zash about his own marriage plans, but Zash was coy on the subject. Mandir had a feeling Taya’s question was not a casual one.

He’d seen the way Taya looked at Zash. It was a look she’d once aimed at him, for a single day at Mohenjo Temple, before he’d fouled everything up. For days, in Hrappa, he’d been trying to get her to look at him that way again and failing. Now Zash was getting the look, and he hadn’t put any effort into it at all. All he’d done was walk up and introduce himself.

At least Mandir had one point working in his favor: Taya wasn’t the sort of woman to fling herself at a man. Some women’s passions flared like the flames of Isatis. Their love was volatile and capricious, roaring to full strength in an instant, and disappearing just as quickly, never to be awakened again. But other women loved like Lalan, the life-goddess, their passion awakening a little at a time, like a seed laying down roots for weeks before emerging in shyness to peek at the sun. Such love took longer to become established, but it was worth nurturing because it could thrive indefinitely, each year increasing in strength and complexity and beauty. Taya might be a disciple of Isatis, but she loved like Lalan. She would not rush into a man’s arms. Not his, and not Zash’s either.

As they reached the end of the trail and left the banana field, Zash turned. “You must be thirsty after that walk in the midday heat. May I offer you something to drink before you go?”

Mandir said nothing. Whatever game was afoot, he wanted to see it played out.

Taya said, “That would be quite welcome.”

Zash led them into the house and seated them at a worn wooden table. “Do you like banana beer?”

“I love it,” said Taya. “Haven’t had it in years.”

“Never tried it,” said Mandir.

“It’s an acquired taste,” warned Taya.

Mandir shrugged. As Zash headed out of the room, he rose to follow.

“Sit,” commanded Zash. “You’re my guest. I’ll bring everything.”

“No, I insist on helping,” said Mandir, knowing he sounded sarcastic and not really caring.

Zash sent him an unfriendly look and headed down a stairway into a rough-hewn cellar. He opened a chest and pulled out three ceramic mugs, which he set on a dusty bench.

“Let me have a look at those,” said Mandir.

“Go ahead,” said Zash.

Mandir examined the mugs, making sure nothing lurked in the bottoms. They were clean.

Zash filled the mugs from a wooden cask.

Mandir pointed at one of the mugs. “Before we go upstairs, I want you to drink from that cup.”

“Why?” said Zash. “You think I want to poison you?”

“Humor me,” said Mandir.

With a snort of exasperation, Zash raised the foaming mug to his lips. When the cup was half drained, he set it down forcefully, splashing a little liquid on the bench. “Satisfied?”

“Why aren’t you married?” asked Mandir.

Zash blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Mandir. “You answer them.”

“Is this an interrogation?” Zash shook his head. “If you must know, I’m not married because my financial situation is uncertain. I may lose all this—” He waved an arm to indicate the cellar and, presumably, the surrounding house and lands. “—within the year. It’s not a good time to start a family.”

“The lady’s not for you,” said Mandir.

“What?”

“Taya,” said Mandir. “She’s not for you.”

“You might as well be speaking the mountain tongue, because I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” said Zash.

“Don’t play dumb. I see the way you look at her.”

Zash snorted and topped off his mug from the cask. “Do you interrogate every young man you run into in this way?”

“No,” said Mandir. “Only the ones who chain up their mad sisters.”

Zash set down the cask. His dark eyes smoldered. “You’ve never dealt with madness. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Stay away from my partner.”

“She’s a grown woman. She’s capable of choosing her own friends. And her lovers.”

“If you try anything with her, you’ll see what I’m capable of.”

“I’m sure she didn’t ask you to come down here and threaten me,” said Zash. “If this is how you behave, I can see why she hasn’t chosen you.” He picked up a second mug and headed up the cellar stairs.

Mandir picked up the third mug and followed, smarting from Zash’s words, which were uncomfortably close to the truth.

Back at the table, Zash handed Taya one of the mugs and sat down. Mandir sat down with his own. Taya sipped tentatively from her banana beer at first, and then drank deeply. “Zash, you’re a master. This takes me right back to my childhood. What do you leaven with, finger millet?”

“Pearl,” said Zash.

“Well, that explains it,” said Taya. “It’s a tiny bit different from what I remember.”

Mandir took a swig and immediately wished he hadn’t. The brew was sour and foul-tasting, not to mention strongly alcoholic. He badly wished he could spit it out. Instead, he gritted his teeth and swallowed.

Taya laughed. “Mandir, you should see the look on your face. I told you it was an acquired taste.”

“It’s never been popular among the higher castes,” admitted Zash.

“You drank this as a child?” Mandir sputtered, setting down the mug.

“I did,” she said gaily.

“You know there are drinks that actually taste good.”

“This does taste good. Zash, do you make wine too?”

“I do,” he said, and they launched into a spirited discussion of ripening and fermenting methods, the best varieties of bananas to use, and other things that Mandir couldn’t possibly comment intelligently on. Instead he sat and listened, leaving his banana beer untouched, reflecting on the painful fact that for all the years he’d known Taya, he had never once had a conversation with her that was as lively and as full of smiles and laughter as the one she was having with Zash right now.

Every so often, Zash glanced over at him, looking smug, and Mandir knew exactly what that bit of eye contact meant. Look how much better she responds to me than to you. He was beginning to regret his bit of bluster down in the wine cellar. He ought not to have premonished himself so obviously, and maybe Zash had a point. Taya did have the right to choose her lovers—she’d exercised it already by refusing him at Mohenjo—and perhaps his jealousy was part of what was driving her away from him. He thought he’d tamed his darker urges at Rakigari. Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d thought he was acting appropriately as Taya’s quradum by protecting her from a man he deemed suspicious. Or was he just isolating her and chasing away rivals like he’d done at Mohenjo?

Gloomily, he fixed his gaze on Taya. She was pretty when she smiled. If only he could elicit more smiles from her himself. And the headdress—he’d done a nice job on it, but for some reason he didn’t like it as much as he’d thought he would. It was too perfect. Taya didn’t look like herself.

“Speaking of bananas and farming,” said Zash, “I have a request.”

“What’s that?” said Taya.

“I told you I paid the Coalition to heal my trees. And they did the job, but the trees sickened again,” said Zash.

“I know. I’m terribly sorry,” said Taya.

Mandir smiled inwardly. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, and he couldn’t believe his luck. Zash, who’d been doing so well, was about to be caught outside the city walls with the Lioness breaching her banks.

“I cannot afford to pay them again,” said Zash. “In fact, I couldn’t afford it the first time—I had to borrow money. Normally I avoid debt, but in this case, my reasoning was that once my trees were healthy, my earnings from the harvest would be enough to cover repayment. However, when the trees sickened again so soon, I was not able to pay it off, and sadly it remains unpaid.”

Mandir broke in. “Whom did you borrow the money from?”

“Bodhan isu Kasirum. A cloth merchant in Hrappa.”

He glanced at Taya, who met his eyes with raised brows.

“The debt is several years old now. I managed to put Bodhan off by paying him interest, but this year he insists on full payment. My only chance of coming up with the money is to have a good harvest this year, and that means healthy trees. You are Coalition members. I’m sure you are capable—”

“We cannot do it,” said Taya. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“My understanding is that while there are Coalition members who specialize in plant healing, any ilittum is capable of the task, and given that I’ve already paid for this service once—”

“It’s not that we’re not capable,” said Taya. “And I certainly sympathize with your situation. If it were strictly my decision, I would do it. A blighted tree is an offense against nature, and if I could, I would heal every one I saw.”

Zash spread his hands. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“The law,” said Taya. “Coalition services must be paid for. Our organization is impartial. It is casteless and apolitical. If we charge some people for our services, and offer others our services for free, we would be engaging in favoritism and, ultimately, corruption. Our laws in this area are extremely strict, and there are no exceptions.”

“Well, that’s rather harsh,” Zash muttered.

“I can see why you would perceive it that way,” said Taya. “I truly am sorry.”

Mandir watched the two of them with great interest. If Zash dropped the subject here, he still had a chance with Taya. It was not unreasonable for him to ask for the favor, if he genuinely didn’t understand Coalition law. But Mandir had a feeling Zash wasn’t going to stop here. He’d thought Zash had been turning on the charm because he wanted to get Taya in bed. But it was clear now that what he really wanted was for her to save his farm.

Zash leaned forward and lowered his voice. “No one needs to know. You could just come here in the dead of night and heal the trees, and who’s to say it was you who did it?”

Taya shook her head.

Zash’s face darkened. “If it’s payment you want—I can’t afford much, but I can give you a little. For yourselves, you understand, not your organization. And more later, when I have it.”

Taya stiffened in affront. “I don’t want your money.”

“You insult her,” said Mandir, privately enjoying the spectacle, but also watching Zash closely. The man was becoming angry, and for some men anger could turn to violence. “Taya will never take a bribe.”

“What do you want?” cried Zash.

“Nothing,” said Taya.

Zash slammed his hand on the table. “There’s got to be something!”

“The Coalition will burn her alive,” snarled Mandir, placing a protective arm in front of Taya. “Is that payment enough for you—her death?”

“They won’t burn her, because nobody will tell them,” said Zash.

“I cannot do it,” said Taya miserably.

“We’re finished here,” said Mandir. “Come on, Taya.” He took her hand and pulled her away from the table.

“How you can live with yourselves is beyond me,” cried Zash from behind them. “You and your impartial organization that bankrupts honest farmers. I paid you a fortune already, and for what? My family worked this land for generations!”

Mandir felt Taya’s hand go rigid within his. “Ignore him,” he whispered as he led her out the door. They made their way to the horses, which Rasik had unsaddled for the hours they’d been in the banana fields. Mandir saddled his blood bay. Taya’s fingers shook, and she struggled to tack her mare. “I’ll get it.” He tightened Pepper’s girth strap. “Look,” he said. “The Coalition didn’t bankrupt Zash. The blight did. And we didn’t cause the blight.”

“But we can cure the blight. And he paid once already.”

He slipped the reins over Pepper’s head and handed them to Taya. “We don’t make the rules.”

She leapt up on the mare, and he mounted his blood bay. Rasik rode up to join them.

“I feel we’ve done him a terrible injustice,” said Taya.

“Stop thinking that right now,” said Mandir. “He asked you to break a law that could result in your execution. And you’re the one who did wrong?”

Taya bit her lip.

“Come on,” he barked, sending the blood bay into a trot. He glanced back and saw that Taya’s and Rasik’s horses were following.

As they neared the trailhead that led away from the house, Zash burst out the front door and ran toward them. “Wait! Wait!”

The blood bay threw up his head at this surprise appearance, and Pepper half reared.

“Leave him,” said Mandir. “Let’s go.”

“No,” said Taya, wheeling her mare. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t say it with a knife,” Mandir said through gritted teeth as he kneed the blood bay toward Zash. The farmer didn’t appear to be armed, but he was carrying two long-necked amphoras.

Zash approached Taya and bowed his head. “Forgive me,” he panted. “It was wrong of me to ask such a thing. You are a woman of integrity. I know you cannot change the laws of your organization. Please accept this gift as recompense, and know that I would never have lost my temper if not for the desperation of my circumstances.” He handed her one of the amphoras and gave the other to Mandir. “It’s banana wine.”

“Thank you,” said Taya. “I’m truly sorry.”

Minutes later, they were trotting down the trail, on their way back to Hrappa. Taya lifted the top of her amphora and sniffed. She closed her eyes. “I feel terrible for him. None of what happened was his fault.”

“Well,” grunted Mandir, “remember that this is a man who used to chain up his sister.”

“His mad sister.” Taya sighed. “I’m not sure what to think about that.”

Mandir wasn’t sure what to think about it either, but it was suspicious enough that as her quradum, he wasn’t going to let Taya drink the banana wine. There was too big a risk it had been tampered with. And he wasn’t looking forward to disappointing her with that news.

“He’s the first person I’ve met out here who’s actually been nice to me,” added Taya.

Mandir glanced at her, stung. The first person who’d been nice? Did he not count?

Chapter XIV

Hrappa

THEY ARRIVED BACK AT THE guesthouses to find an early dinner waiting for them: sesame bread dipped in oil and a dish of barley, peas, and onions. Even though Taya knew the onions would be old and soft, and the peas rehydrated, her stomach rumbled—their long trip out to Zash’s estate had caused her to miss lunch. Food was poor in quality this early in the season of Lalan. The new plants were too young to produce, so everyone was eating last year’s grain and stored vegetables. Taya would kill for a plate of fresh greens right now.

Spying the food on her table, Mandir disappeared through the courtyard door and soon reappeared, carrying identical dishes from his own guesthouse. He set them down opposite hers.

Taya touched a finger to the clay teapot that had been left with her meal. Finding it cool, she reached for the banana wine.

“Sorry,” said Mandir. “I can’t let you drink that.”

She blinked at him. “Why not?”

“It might be poisoned.”

“That’s ridiculous. The beer wasn’t poisoned.”

“I made sure of that,” said Mandir. “That’s why I went down to the cellar with Zash.”

“Really? You thought he might poison us in his own household?” Taya shook her head. “You can’t run around thinking anything and everything might be poisoned. What about this food? By your logic, it could be poisoned too.” She indicated the barley and peas.

“The magistrate is the one who summoned us to Hrappa. He has no reason to want us dead.”

“Zash doesn’t, either.”

“Do you remember how he acted when you wouldn’t cure his trees? He yelled at you and insulted you. He might have struck you if I hadn’t been there.”

“That was after we drank the beer, not before, so your reasoning doesn’t follow. Yelling at me and insulting me are things you’ve done, and I’ve never believed you would poison me. Zash didn’t strike me. He apologized for losing his temper, and it was a better apology than the one you gave me in the stable.”

Mandir glowered at her. “It sounded better because he wasn’t sincere. It’s harder to apologize when you actually mean it.”

Taya shook her head. “He was sincere. You weren’t.”

“You’re a poor judge of apologies. Who’s to say he wasn’t trying to trick you into drinking poisoned wine?”

“Crimes committed in anger are violent and impulsive. Poisoning is cold and premeditated. Anyway, I don’t think he had time to put poison into anything. I’m drinking it.” She removed the amphora’s top.

“No.” Mandir straightened. “As your quradum, I forbid it.”

Snorting in indignation, Taya picked up the amphora and tipped it to pour.

Mandir leapt up and yanked the amphora out of her hands. Wine splashed onto the floor.

“Give that back!” Taya cried, jumping to her feet.

Mandir bounded across the room, stuck the vessel out the window, and up-ended it. The wine poured out into the garden in a stream of dark amber.

“Mandir!” Taya shrieked. She ran to the window, shoved her way past Mandir’s bulk, and grabbed the amphora, trying to force it upright before the last of the wine spilled onto the ground. But Mandir’s bicep was thicker than her two arms put together, and she couldn’t budge either him or the vessel.

The final drops splashed into the dirt below the window. Taya watched them soak into the mud.

Mandir righted the amphora and handed it to her.

She clutched it to her chest. “That wine was a gift.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I already poured out my own.”

“You don’t even like banana wine!” Taya headed back to the table, her eyes smarting with unshed tears. It seemed silly to cry over a bit of lost banana wine, but she hadn’t drunk any since she was a child, and Zash was the first person she’d enjoyed talking to in a long time, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given her something. Maybe Mandir received gifts on a regular basis, and it was no big deal for him to casually throw one away, but for her the gift had meant a lot. She set the empty vessel on the table and slumped into her chair.

Mandir looked at her and shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I’m sorry. But as your quradum, it’s my job—”

“It wasn’t your job to pour out my wine,” said Taya. “You did it because you were jealous of Zash. You didn’t like that I enjoyed talking to him and being around him, so you destroyed his gift.”

Mandir swallowed. “Taya—that wasn’t the reason.”

“Yes, it was.”

Mandir folded his arms. “Well, let me tell you a few things about Zash. First, he’s the most disturbing person we’ve met in Hrappa. This is a man who used to imprison and chain up his mad sister, and who may have burned her to death—”

“That’s ridiculous. Zash did not kill his own sister.”

“He might have,” said Mandir. “Second, he doesn’t like you.”

Taya stiffened. “Now you’re being a zebu’s ass. He does like me. He’s much nicer to me than you are.”

“Fine, I’m a zebu’s ass,” said Mandir. “But you need to hear this. He’s not nice because he likes you. He’s nice because he wants something from you.”

Taya rolled her eyes. “What, to get me in bed?”

“No,” said Mandir. “He wants you to heal his trees.”

Taya waved her hand. “I know that already. And he knows it’s out of the question. He gave me the wine after that had been settled. Besides, I think it’s refreshing that someone is interested in my magic rather than seeing me as a sexual conquest. And that’s more than I can say about you.”

“I don’t see you as a sexual conquest.”

“Flood and fire. Yes, you do.”

“I told you last night how I felt,” he said.

She waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not in love with me; we both know it. What you’re really after is what you didn’t get at Mohenjo. You’re after unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business, yes. But not what you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t give in to you at Mohenjo, and I won’t give in to you now,” said Taya. “That was my one victory over you in all those four years, and it’s a pathetic one, but I’m keeping it.”

“Taya, sex is not a competition.”

“For you it is,” she said.

“Look, what I proposed in your room at Mohenjo was wrong, and you have every right to be angry about it. Back then I was trying to take advantage of you,” said Mandir. “I admit it. But that’s not what I’m doing now. If I’m lying, may the Fire Mother burn me alive where I stand.”

“Get out.” Taya picked up his dinner dishes from the table. “You think you can fool me after the things you’ve done? Go back to your own guesthouse, or your barley and peas are going where my banana wine went.”

“Taya, at the very least, we need to discuss the case—”

She reared back with the dinner plate, preparing to hurl it out the window.

“All right!” He ran to her and took the dish from her hands. “I’m going.”

Chapter XV

Mohenjo Temple, Eight Years Ago

WHEN SECOND YEAR BEGAN, THEY lost one initiate, permanently. Taya had been certain she would be the one to be dropped, but it was a ruling-caste girl who had missed a lot of classes and done poorly on the first-year examinations. Initiates who were not to be offered further schooling, and who could never achieve the rank of ilittum, had two choices. They could take the rank of kinatum and work for the Coalition in a service capacity, still enjoying some of the Coalition’s privileges, or they could drink kimat and return to their former lives outside the temple.

Taya was not surprised when the ruling-caste girl drank kimat. Presumably she had a family and a life outside the Coalition worth returning to.

Taya had a family but no interest in returning and being married off to some village bumpkin who knew nothing of magic or history or the wonders of the Mohenjo Temple library. She would never drink kimat. If she failed, she would take the rank of kinatum, but what a letdown it would be to spend one’s life wrapping bandages or mucking out the Coalition’s stable. She would work twice as hard as anyone else to make sure she made the cut each year and became an ilittum. Three or four times as hard, if that was what it took.

Second year brought some improvements over the first. Two new farmer-caste initiates entered Mohenjo Temple, a boy and a girl. They were first-year students and would not be in Taya’s classes, but she expected they would show up soon in her reading and writing tutoring sessions. She looked forward to no longer being the youngest and most ignorant student in the group.

Mandir’s harassment of her slackened due to his being embroiled in a scandal of his own. It had come out that he wasn’t in the line of royal succession at all; he was merely a bastard of Prince Tufan isu Sarrum, who apparently kept a whole house full of bastard children, for what purpose nobody knew. Mandir would answer no questions on the matter, and when an artisan-caste boy named Darhunur made a joking reference to Prince Tufan’s brothel, he came to class the next day with a wrenched shoulder and a black eye. From then on Taya’s classmates kept their speculations quiet. At least the focus was no longer on Taya for a change.

Best of all, she was now qualified to begin classes in practical magic. On the first day of second year, she entered the classroom of Yuval, the practical magic instructor, and waited eagerly for her lessons to begin.

“In ages past,” said Yuval, “three goddesses walked the land in their true forms as beautiful women. Their names were Agu, Lalan, and Isatis. They grew lonely by themselves, so they created men and women and made them their disciples, and everyone lived together in the city of Zhaerath. In those days, there existed no rivers, no plants, and no animals. Men and women had no need for sustenance; the mere presence of the Mothers nourished their bodies and souls. Zhaerath was a city of unsurpassable beauty, built of marble and precious metals and jewels, for the Mothers could call these things into existence at will. The people wore robes of spun gold. They had no need to work, and they spent their days painting and weaving and sculpting, creating works of art so exquisite that if you and I were to look upon them, we would fall on our knees and weep.

“However,” he continued, “the men of Zhaerath, though they had their own women, grew jealous of the Mothers. They lusted after them and wanted them for their own. One night, conspiring together, they kidnapped the Mothers and defiled them. We call this crime the Great Atrocity.

“The Mothers were angry,” said Yuval. “And in their fury, they transformed themselves. Isatis became fire. She swept through Zhaerath, burning the tapestries and paintings, killing with reckless abandon. Agu became water. She rose in a great flood and tore down the walls of Zhaerath, drowning her children and dashing them against the broken stones. Lalan, gentlest of the goddesses, melted into the ground in shame. Where she had been, plants grew, and animals sprang up.

“Zhaerath was destroyed. The jewels and precious metals that once formed it were so thoroughly scattered that they can only be found in small fragments hidden deep underground, locked in stone. The people who had survived the devastation gathered along the banks of a newly formed river. They felt an ache in their bellies they had never felt before. They were hungry. Without the Mothers’ presence to sustain them, they grew weak and ill. To survive, they drank the water of Agu and ate the plants and animals that had sprung up from Lalan—but here they discovered Lalan was not all gentleness. Some plants could be eaten, while others poisoned and killed them. Some animals could be hunted and eaten, while other animals stalked them and tore them to pieces.

“Survival was hard. Water had to be hauled in buckets from the river. Grains had to be sowed, irrigated, harvested, cooked, and stored. The fire of Isatis could be used to cook or provide warmth, but it could rage out of control. And Agu’s rivers could flood, killing people and drowning their crops. Many of those who had survived the destruction of Zhaerath did not see the end of that first year.

“Two seasons later, three children appeared, left in baskets in the center of the village. All of them were blessed with the Gift. Nobody knows where these children came from, but it is believed they were the results of the defilement of Agu, Lalan, and Isatis. You, my students, are their descendants and heirs. The word ilittu, in the mother tongue, means children. You are the children of water, fire, and life itself, but you were also born of wickedness. The Mothers love you and hate you. Remember that,” said Yuval. “You were forced upon them. They resent you, and you should never trust them fully. But they are your great-great-grandmothers a hundred times over, and if you call upon them with respect and confidence, they will answer you. So my story ends.”

An artisan-caste boy raised his hand.

“Your name, boy, and do you have a question?” asked Yuval.

“Sippar,” said the boy. “If having the Gift makes me a direct descendant of the Mothers, why do neither of my parents have the Gift? Shouldn’t at least one of them be a descendant as well?”

“I have no answer for you, Sippar,” said Yuval. “The Gift commonly skips generations. We do not know why. Any more questions?”

No other hands went up. Taya was eager to start learning magic, and she supposed her classmates felt the same way.

“I have a question for you, my students,” said Yuval. “Why do we, in the Coalition, refuse to wear gold upon our bodies?”

Taya raised her hand. This one she knew.

Yuval pointed at her. “Your name?”

“Taya. It’s because the people of Zhaerath wore gold. We demonstrate to the Mothers that we have learned from our ancestors’ mistakes, and that we are not like them.”

“Exactly,” said Yuval. “We are their children, not their defilers. Let’s move on.” He picked up a clay mug from a table. “What do I have in this cup? Any guesses?”

“Water,” called one student.

“Wine.”

“Tea.”

“Melon juice.”

Yuval waited until the guesses died down, and said, “You’re all wrong. A goddess is in this cup.” He poured out the contents, which appeared to be pure water, while quietly muttering under his breath something in the mother tongue. The water gathered into a ball and hovered in midair.

“I said water,” called the first student.

Yuval pointed at the student who’d spoken. “Right and yet also wrong. Perhaps you see water as a thing, an inanimate object. But every bit of water, even the tiniest droplet, is the living incarnation of Mother Agu. Water is alive. She sees you. She hears you. And if you know her language and how to please her, she may consent to answer to you.”

He gathered the water into his cupped hands. “You will discover, in your studies, that Mother Agu is the easiest of the goddesses to command. She is also, in many ways, the least reliable. The Mothers are individuals. They have different personalities, and you must study each of them in depth. In this, your second year, you will learn about Agu. Next year, you will learn the ways of Lalan, and in your fourth year, if you are still among us, I will teach you to communicate with Isatis. Right now your magic is weak because you are children. Just as your bodies have not yet reached their full size and strength, neither have your magical abilities, and that is a good thing because it gives us the opportunity to teach you control before you start summoning floods and infernos like clumsy jackals.”

Yuval poured the water back into the cup. “A word on Isatis. Before the Atrocity, all three Mothers gave sustenance to their children. But afterwards, only Agu and Lalan continued to do so. When you eat and drink, you take Agu and Lalan directly into your body. They keep you alive. But you do not take Isatis into your body. Some of our sages believe this is why we sometimes sicken and die for no apparent reason—the third Mother refuses to nurture us. The touch of Isatis is not life-giving. It is injurious, often fatal. Agu and Lalan have punished their children, but they still nurture them. Isatis does not. Do not call on the Fire Mother until fourth year, when you will do so under supervision. She is not to be trifled with.

“I know you are eager to begin working magic right away, but that will not happen until next season. For now we have a lot of tablet learning ahead of us.”

The class groaned.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Yuval. “Listen closely, because at the beginning of next week I expect a three-tablet essay from each of you entitled, ‘Ways of the Water Mother.’ If we have any illiterates in this class, they may deliver their essays orally. I advise you, in your studies, not to think of Agu as a person, because if you do that, you will fail to understand her. She is an immortal. Think of the things you need to thrive—food, water, sleep, shelter. Mother Agu needs none of these things. Ponder that for a while. I will spend the rest of this week explaining the basics, and you will find many supplementary materials on the subject of Agu in the library.”

The class groaned again, louder this time. But Taya didn’t join in. She was already mentally cataloguing which tablets in the library would be the best ones to look at. She couldn’t read them, but she was certain some of the older students in her tutoring group would help her.

Chapter XVI

Hrappa

TAYA WOKE IN THE GUESTHOUSE the next morning to the realization that she’d been a fool. As upset as she’d been with Mandir, she ought not to have kicked him out. She had a job to do, a jackal to find, and for all Mandir’s faults, he was smart. She ought to have swallowed her feelings and sat down with him to discuss the case. They might have made some progress. Now they would have to waste daylight hours working through the material they ought to have dealt with last night.

When the knock came at the courtyard door, she braced herself before opening it. This was going to be awkward.

Mandir shoved an amphora at her. “Peace?”

Since he’d practically thrust it into her hands, she took the amphora. It was not one of Zash’s. The handles were lower and the neck narrower, and there was an ochre sunburst painted on the front. “Where did you get this?”

“From a trader in the artisan district.” Mandir stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “It wasn’t cheap.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. They probably carted it all the way up from the delta region.” She frowned. “You know it’s not the same thing, right?”

He looked away. “Well, it’s banana wine.”

“I know.” She set the amphora on the table, pleased to have it but still grieving for the other. “Zash made the one he gave me with his own hands. We spoke at length about his winemaking techniques—I would very much have liked to try the end result. He’s certain to ask, next time I see him, what I thought of it. And I don’t know what I’ll say.”

Mandir folded his arms, a gesture that seemed to be his default response to anything that troubled him. But he seemed more disappointed than angry. He’d obviously gone to some effort to get the banana wine. He couldn’t have bought it this early in the morning, so he’d probably run to the artisan district immediately after their argument yesterday evening, before the markets closed. “Well,” he grumbled, “I got you something else, too.” He held out a bit of folded fabric.

Taya took the cloth by its ends, and it rolled down almost to the floor in vivid shades of red, blue, and yellow, much like the multicolored swatch Bodhan had showed them. This, however, wasn’t a shapeless bolt of cloth. It was a pretty little sundress. She gasped.

Mandir brightened. “You like it?”

“It’s lovely.” She held it up to herself to check the fit. Close—she might need a tailor to make a few alterations, but Mandir had chosen well.

As he eyed her, some of the tension eased from his body. “I figure you won’t be wearing the green and silver on every occasion. And I saw that you liked the colored swatch at Bodhan’s.”

“Thank you, that was thoughtful.” Except for her Coalition silk, this was the nicest garment she’d ever owned, plus she’d never seen anything like it before. Delighted, she took a step toward Mandir, meaning to hug him, then remembered all those times he’d cornered her in the hallway, all those times he’d called her stupid and ugly. And later, that time he’d smashed her homework tablets in a fit of temper. She stopped herself midstride. Her eyes were on him, and she saw that her error had not gone unnoticed. He’d seen the hug coming, had unfolded his arms to accept it, and had watched her change her mind. In response, he sent her a tight half-smile.

Gritting her teeth, Taya laid the sundress on her bed and headed for the table. “We should discuss the case.”

Mandir trailed after her. “Am I forgiven?”

“For the banana wine? Mostly.”

“How about for Mohenjo?”

“You almost killed me at Mohenjo.” Taya sat down at the table.

Mandir, still standing, rested his elbows on the back of his chair. “For Mohenjo, how many dresses will it take?”

She glared at him. “Mandir, I’m not for sale.”

“That was a joke.” He pulled his chair out and sat down. “Look, supposedly our jackal’s killed three people, but after yesterday I’m not so sure. The first two crimes have some similarities. In each case, we’ve got a pair of young lovers in which one of the lovers is murdered. In one situation it’s the man, and in the other it’s the woman. But this third case doesn’t fit the pattern. No young lovers.”

“None that we know about,” said Taya. “Who’s to say for sure that Amalia didn’t have a lover?”

“Zash said she didn’t. She was guarded day and night—”

“Maybe it was the guard,” said Taya.

“That’s disgusting,” said Mandir.

“Not necessarily,” said Taya. “Depends on the circumstances.”

“It’s not clear to me yet why the jackal would feel motivated to murder young lovers.”

“That’s not clear to me either,” said Taya. “But you were saying it doesn’t fit the pattern. I’m saying it might.”

“My point is there’s only one person we’ve been introduced to so far who had a motive to kill Amalia, and that’s Zash.”

“He might have had a motive, if you take a cynical view of his relationship with his sister, but he didn’t have the means,” said Taya. “You saw what was left of that hut. What could have fueled such a fire, if not the rage of Isatis? I saw the jackal in my first scry-vision. I know it was a woman. I suppose there could be more than one jackal, but what are the odds?”

Mandir shrugged. “We need to talk to Zash’s servants and field hands.”

“I agree,” said Taya.

“But we can’t tell him in advance,” said Mandir. “We can’t let him hand-pick who we talk to. We need to go out there someday when he’s not expecting us, and—”

A pounding came at the front door.

Knowing it was probably breakfast, Taya rose, and Mandir followed. The servant at the door handed them not only their breakfast dishes but a small clay tablet for each of them.

When the servant had gone, Taya set her dishes on the table and looked at her tablet. The message inscribed on it was an intimidating block of text, so she checked the insignia at the bottom to see who it was from. The magistrate. All right. Swallowing, she began reading silently from the top. To...our...illustrious...

“Hm,” grunted Mandir, looking at his own tablet. “We’ve been invited to a party.”

Taya glared at him. Had he read the entire message in that tiny span of time? “What sort of party?” She scanned the tablet, trying to pick out the important details, but words did not have a habit of jumping out at her.

“It’s three nights from now. Lots of people will be there—ruling caste, wealthy merchants.”

“You think Zash will be there?”

Mandir turned toward her, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you care?”

“Because I like him. Also, I was wondering if wealthy farmers get invited to ruling-caste parties.”

Mandir frowned. “My guess is no.”

“Oh well,” said Taya. “We should go. So many people in one place? I might spot the witness. Or even the jackal, if we’re really lucky.”

“Besides that,” said Mandir, “it might be fun. Especially if Zash isn’t there.”

Taya made a face. “I don’t know about fun. I haven’t the slightest idea how to act around the ruling caste.”

Mandir shrugged. “You’re Coalition, so you’re in a class by yourself. No expectations, right? But watch out for the men, because half of them will be trying to wrangle you into their beds.”

“Really?” Suddenly the evening sounded like it might have potential, with or without Zash.

Mandir glared at her.

Chapter XVII

Hrappa

“HOW IS THE LIONESS?” TAYA asked when Rasik brought their horses around for the day’s investigation.

“Back to normal, more or less,” said Rasik. “You could scry there now.”

As they passed by the farmers’ district on their way to the city gates, Taya signaled Rasik to wait and slowed Pepper to a walk. Zash had mentioned banana plants in Hrappa. She hadn’t seen any, and she intended to find them. They couldn’t be on the floodplain, where they’d be drowned during the inundation, so they had to be here, within the walls. She craned her neck, peering over the flat brick houses. At this time of day, the farmers’ district was nearly deserted except for some grandmas and grandpas, too old for farm work and just loitering about.

“I thought we were headed for the river,” said Mandir. “What are you looking for?”

“Banana plants.”

“Speaking of that,” said Mandir, “why did you tell Zash your parents weren’t banana farmers?”

She gave him a withering look. “Because they’re not.”

“You told me they were, the day I met you.”

Ah, there was one. The waxy green leaves of a banana canopy could just be seen shading a distant courtyard. And there was another, not far away from it. Of course the farmers would keep the trees in the sheltered courtyards, not out in the open where anyone might walk off with the fruit as it ripened. Her curiosity was satisfied, for now.

“I never said that.” Taya turned Pepper, clucking to urge her into a trot. “All I said was that I came from banana country. You weren’t paying attention.”

Mandir’s blood bay cantered a few strides to catch up. “Are you telling me I’ve been wrong about your background for nine years?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” She nodded at Rasik and aimed Pepper toward the city gates.

Conversation became impractical as they neared the roaring river. The Lioness was the lifeblood of the river country, and Taya had never been far from her shores. As an infant, she’d been bathed in the Lioness. As a girl, she’d learned to swim in her shallows. She’d poled rafts across her depths, fished for palla, hauled countless buckets of water from her banks. But the Lioness of the delta region, where she’d grown up, was like a toothless old matriarch compared to the Lioness of Hrappa.

Here the river snaked through the rocky landscape, serene in her deep blue center but frothy and disordered in her shallows, where she twisted about boulders and gathered in dissatisfied eddies. She was a young river, exuberant and wild. Little in the way of greenery dared to grow along her banks. Here and there a particularly hardy tree gripped the stony ground, but mostly the bank was gravel worn smooth by the river’s passing or sheer stone cut away by the flow. The water level of the Lioness varied dramatically, and right now she was about two feet below her banks.

“Just last night, she was over the banks?” asked Taya, slapping at a needlefly. They were always thick near the river.

Rasik nodded. “She goes over them all the time.”

“Look!” hissed Mandir, sounding more excited than alarmed.

Taya and Rasik turned immediately in the direction of his gaze. Downriver, distant but clearly visible, a herd of onagers had waded into the shallows to drink. The jack tossed his head, long ears flopping, as he looked around for predators. Then he shoved his muzzle deep into the water.

“Flood and fire,” Rasik murmured with pleasure. “They’re on our side of the river. What is that: one jack, three jennies?”

“Four jennies. There’s one behind the others,” said Mandir.

“The one with the bent ear looks pregnant,” said Rasik. “She’ll be slow. Soon as we’re done here, I’m getting my bow.”

Mandir grinned. “Wish I had mine. I’d go shooting with you—except I want the jack.”

“Meat is meat,” said Rasik. “I’ll take whatever I can hit.”

Taya rolled her eyes. What was it with men, always wanting to shoot at things?

All at once, in silence since they were so distant, the herd wheeled, leapt back onto the riverbank, and galloped across the dry plain.

“What do you think spooked them?” said Mandir.

Rasik shrugged. “Lion? Steppe dogs? Needleflies?”

“I hope they shift,” said Mandir.

Taya hoped so too; it was a sight worth seeing. She watched, hardly daring to breathe, as the herd galloped directly away from the river in coats of pale brown. Then, as if in response to some unheard signal, they abruptly changed direction and galloped south in coats that had shifted to storm-cloud gray. She smiled. Hunters prized onagers not only for their meat but for their wiliness, and because their synchronized shifts of direction and color caused so many pouncing lions to land on dead air. When in flight, onagers sought open areas and could not be driven into closed canyons. This made them the most challenging of the hoofed animals to hunt, and therefore, according to the nonsensical logic of men, the most sought after.

“I’m getting my bow,” said Rasik.

“The herds don’t get this close to Hrappa very often, do they?” said Mandir.

“No,” said Rasik. “If word gets out, half the city will be hunting them.”

“If we’re done watching the onagers,” said Taya, “I need to scry the crime scene. Where is it?”

“There.” Rasik pointed to a rocky island about ten feet into the river. The water between the shore and the island was shallow, and a large boulder just beyond created an eddy, preventing the water from flowing too fast through the channel. Taya could easily wade across.

“What was Narat doing on that island?” Taya asked.

“Well,” said Rasik, “it’s a common spot for trysts—get behind those rocks and no one can see you. But her lover didn’t show up, so she must have been alone.”

“We’ll never get the horses down there,” said Mandir. “Rasik, you stay here with the horses, and I’ll go out to the island with Taya.”

“No. Mandir, you stay behind, too,” said Taya. “There’s barely enough room on the island for my scry-fire. I don’t want you to get burned.”

He shook his head. “You’re not going out there alone.”

“I mean it,” said Taya. “You can’t come. Scrying takes every bit of my concentration, and if I have to worry about things like keeping my fire away from you, it increases the chance that I could be hurt.”

Mandir acquiesced, grumbling.

Taya dismounted and handed the reins to Rasik. She hopped off the bank into the shallows. The river bottom was part sand and part smooth pebbles. Water swirled around her feet, questing, toying with her. Taya murmured a few respectful words in the mother tongue, assuring Agu that she was one of the ilittu and she meant no harm. It might or might not make a difference with Agu; she was the least predictable of the mothers. Ripples ran across the surface of the water, acknowledging Taya’s presence. Behind her, she heard Rasik’s sharp intake of breath at the water goddess’s response. She smiled to herself and waded to the island.

She made the trip without incident and was relieved when she stepped out onto dry land. Mother Agu’s unpredictability always frightened her a bit.

She called to Isatis, a crueler goddess but more honest and straightforward, and summoned the flames in a great circle around her. Come in power, Mother Isatis, she called in the mother tongue. Come in greatness. The fire roared to life, exultant as it leapt toward the sky.

You are rage incarnate. You are the cleansing fire who sears the wickedness from the world, and the warmth that holds back the cold sting of death. Bless your humble daughter, who loves and fears you, with another vision.

Isatis responded not with a single vision, but with hundreds. Taya reeled in confusion. In the fires, she saw countless images, each depicting the same event: a wall of water rushing down the Lioness’s path and swallowing up whatever stood in its way. But each flood was different. In some images, greenery covered the hillsides, indicating it was the season of Lalan, while in others the lowlands were flooded, which meant it was the season of Agu. In some images, a single man or woman was taken by the flash flood, in others more than one, in still others boats or herds of animals. Taya stared at the images in confusion. She hadn’t yet asked Isatis for a specific vision, and the Fire Mother seemed to have anticipated her. One of these scenes had to be the one showing Narat’s death. But which one?

From the shore, Mandir watched, fascinated and horrified, as the cyclone of flames enveloped Taya. He knew she was well trained in what she did, and she was not in any real danger. Still, it was all he could do not to run to her rescue.

“I’ve seen a lot of Coalition pass through here, but until you two came I’d never seen that done,” said Rasik. “What makes Taya a fire seer? What skill does she have that other people in the Coalition don’t have?”

Mandir glanced at him. “Well, for one, she’s a woman. Isatis has yet to accept a male disciple.”

“Oh.”

“Isatis chooses her disciples,” said Mandir. “There would have been some sort of display when Taya was chosen. I wasn’t there when it happened, but Isatis picks her disciples for their eloquence.”

“Eloquence?”

“Not in the river tongue,” said Mandir. “In the mother tongue. Most of us in the Coalition learn enough to speak it awkwardly, and we have some stock phrases we use when performing magic. But if you read the old documents written by our ancestors, the language is metaphorical and full of flowery, poetic phrases they used when addressing the Mothers. Most of us don’t have the knowledge or the fluency to speak it in that way. But a few do, and Isatis favors them.”

“Hmm,” grunted Rasik.

Taya seemed to be taking longer than before. Mandir hoped that meant she was getting a particularly detailed vision. Noting a faint hum in the air, he cocked his head. He couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. Upriver, perhaps. “Do you hear that noise?”

Rasik was silent for a moment, listening. He turned upriver and stiffened. “Flood and fire. Get her out of there. Get her out!”

Mandir saw it. The wall of water roared down the riverbed, slamming against the banks and sending up enormous geysers. It was headed straight for Taya, who was hidden away in her vortex of flames.

Mandir jumped into the shallows and ran toward the island through knee-high water that dragged at his calves. He had to get to her before the flood did—though what he would do when he got there, he didn’t know. “Taya!”

Rasik called to him from the bank. “Don’t go out there. Stop the flood with your magic!”

Not possible. For a jackal to rouse the wrath of Agu was easy, trivially so, and even the most sophisticated ilittum could not calm her back down. But he couldn’t stand on the shore and watch Taya be dashed to pieces. “Taya! Taya!” he called as he splashed through the water, hoping his voice might penetrate the fire. But when he dashed up onto the island, the flaming vortex was impenetrable in its blistering heat. “Alaku, Isatis, besu!” he shouted, trying to extinguish the fire, but his words had no effect. Taya’s magic was stronger than his.

The wall of water careened toward him, high as a horse’s head and white with froth, so loud in its onrush that it drowned out the roar of the fire. “Nehu Agu!” he cried. “Nasu kilalli nehu!” And the waves swallowed him.

Chapter XVIII

Hrappa

TAYA COULDN’T FIGURE OUT WHERE she was. Something had knocked her over, tumbling her upside down and sideways. She opened her mouth to scream and choked on water. Her eyes stung, and she could see only grainy darkness. She was moving—someone or something was dragging her along.

Was she in the river?

She flailed her arms and legs, seeking purchase against something, anything at all, but she could feel only the vicious tug of the current. Where was the surface? She had to find it, had to breathe. Her eyes were burning, but she wouldn’t close them, not until she oriented herself. As she struggled in the water, she struck something sharp. Pain erupted in a searing line along her hip.

Something brushed her right side, moving with the current. She whipped around. In the murky water she could just make out the sleek body of a passing water creature. Its forked tail appeared, waving gently, and she recognized it. River dolphin. And here she was, bleeding in the water.

But the creature didn’t seem to be interested in attacking her, and dolphins had to break surface to breathe. She didn’t dare grab its tail, lest it whip around and slice her open with its wicked teeth, but she swam after it, clawing desperately at the water. The dolphin was a strong swimmer. It outpaced her and she lost sight of it, but ahead she saw a brighter area of water. The surface! She flailed in its direction. Her arms and legs felt frighteningly weak.

Then something—someone—was in the water next to her, grasping her around the waist and hauling her upward. Mandir, Rasik, some random swimmer—Taya didn’t care who it was. She paddled with her arms, trying to assist as her rescuer dragged her upward with powerful strokes. Taya broke the surface, gasping and coughing. Her lungs burned. A glance showed her it was Mandir who’d fished her from the Lioness’s maw, and she was so grateful that she didn’t care in the least about his hands being all over her.

Whitewater splashed over her face. They weren’t out of danger yet. She and Mandir were in the middle of the Lioness, with the current sweeping them downstream.

Mandir jerked his head to indicate an upcoming sand bar. “Can you swim to that bank?”

Taya was not familiar with this stretch of river. The current must have carried her a long way. She tested her limbs. They were weak, and her left leg painful. She spat out a bit of river water and said, “I’ll try.”

Mandir turned to her with a more concerned look, as if he hadn’t expected that response, and said, “Forget it. I’ll get you there.” He wrapped an arm around her chest and in a slow but robust sidestroke, headed for the sand bar. Taya kicked a little, trying to assist him, but it was clear she was being more of a hindrance than a help, so she gave up and lay still, letting him haul her. For a moment, it looked like the current might drag them past the sand bar, but Mandir swam at an angle, fighting, and the Lioness yielded to his vigor.

As they approached dry land, Mandir’s movements changed. He’d struck bottom. He took a few awkward steps through the water, still pulling her. Then he gathered her into his arms and stood, lifting her out of the water entirely. Water ran off her clothes and hair in rivulets. She struggled a little, embarrassed and wanting to be back on her own feet, but gasped as pain flared in her hip.

“Hold still,” growled Mandir. He carried her out of the shallows, up onto the sand bar, and then onto the bank, where Rasik awaited atop his horse, leading Pepper and the blood bay.

“Are you going after the jackal?” asked Rasik.

“Can’t,” said Mandir. “Taya’s hurt. Jackal’s probably gone by now anyway.”

Taya blinked in confusion. Had Mandir and Rasik seen the jackal? How had they recognized her? She shivered, suddenly cold.

Mandir, still carrying Taya, sat down on a rock. His forehead wrinkled as he peeled the sodden fragments of her Coalition robe away from her left hip. Then his face and hands went still. Worried, Taya twisted in his arms to see what he saw. Yes, she had an ugly gash there. The blood was oozing out and dripping down her leg.

Rasik, dismounting from his horse, came closer.

“What are you looking at?” Mandir snapped at him.

“Her injury, what do you think?” said Rasik.

“She doesn’t need you gawking at her when she’s half naked.” Mandir stood. “I have to get her away from the river. It’s too dangerous here.”

It occurred to Taya that she ought to be recoiling from Mandir’s touch. After all, she hated him. But in truth she took some comfort from it. Mandir had lost his shirt somehow. And despite his faults in character—which were many, she reminded herself, many—Mandir was flawless in body. She felt woozy and weak, even a little shivery after her dunking in the river. Mandir carried her effortlessly, and his skin was warm against hers. His chest and shoulders were hard muscle beneath a layer of soft skin. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Stay awake, Taya.”

There was fear in Mandir’s voice, and she didn’t know why. Surely there was no harm in drifting off for a moment.

“Keep her awake, Rasik. Jab her with your fingers or something. I’d do it, but my hands are full.”

“Are you kidding? You practically lose your mind if I even look in her direction, and now you want me to touch her?”

“Keep her awake! It might be bad if she falls asleep.”

Someone yanked a lock of Taya’s hair, jarring her halfway to alertness. “Hey,” she protested.

“Told you not to sleep,” said Mandir.

Next thing she knew, she was moving suddenly downward. Mandir was seating himself on a rock, still holding her. She blinked and tried to sit up, but the pain flared again, and she stopped short.

“Hold still,” said Mandir. “I have to heal this.” He turned to Rasik. “Go stand watch or something. Give the lady some privacy.”

With a scowl of affront, Rasik turned and walked off, leading the horses with him.

“The jackal’s a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old,” Mandir called after him. “If you see anyone like that, let us know.”

Taya flinched as Mandir peeled back her torn robe again and prodded her wound.

“Sorry, just getting a sense of how deep it goes,” said Mandir. “It won’t hurt much longer.” He rested his fingers on her left thigh, where the bottom edge of the gash began, and in soft tones, called upon the Life Mother. “Balatu bantu, riabu sulmu ak samamu awiltu.” His words were gentle, since Lalan would respond to nothing else, and Taya felt the Life Mother’s magic stirring. At first her leg hurt worse, as if by awakening the injury Mandir had disturbed a hornet’s nest beneath her skin. She winced and tried to sit up.

Mandir could not respond audibly; he needed his voice to sustain the magic. But he laid his free hand on her arm to restrain her. The pain subsided quickly, and Taya knew, without looking, that the gash was knitting itself together from bottom to top. Mandir used no thread, only the magic of Lalan.

The fog of confusion and weariness that had settled into Taya’s mind began to lift, and while she waited for the magic to do its work, she pieced together what must have happened. She’d been scrying on the island and had been struck by something and knocked into the river. Mandir and Rasik had mentioned the jackal. What could have slammed into her like that? She’d been in the middle of a cyclone of fire.

It could only have been water. It must have extinguished the fire, otherwise she’d have been burned. Had she been struck by a jackal-summoned flood? That seemed the only possible answer. Mandir had seen it happen, jumped into the river after her, and fished her out. Perhaps she really did need a quradum.

“Did you see the jackal?” she asked, twisting a little in Mandir’s arms. “Or are you just assuming she was there?”

Mandir ignored her; he was still chanting his magic. But he was almost done. She felt much better. When he completed the task, he spoke. “How does your leg feel?”

The pain was gone; all she felt now was a slight tingle. “Perfect, I think. Did you do a healing rotation at Rakigari?”

“It’s part of the standard training for a quradum.”

“Thank you for pulling me out of the river.”

“You’re welcome. I tried to get you out before the flood hit you, but I couldn’t dismiss your fire, and you didn’t hear me calling your name. How am I supposed to protect you if I can’t even get to you?”

“You did protect me,” said Taya.

“You almost died in there. If I hadn’t spotted you when I did...” Mandir growled in frustration. “And no, we didn’t see the jackal. There was no time to look. But she’s going to pay for this.”

“You shouldn’t have told Rasik so much about her. Just the fact that she’s a woman is more than he should know. Information from scry-visions is for Coalition ears only.”

Mandir lowered his voice. “Coalition rules are designed to protect the organization, not individuals like you and me, and we’d be fools to follow them blindly. Rasik is our constant companion, and if the jackal is trying to kill us, I want a third pair of eyes looking for her.”

“Rasik doesn’t like us,” said Taya.

“He can go home and burn our effigies for all I care, as long as he remains loyal. And I believe he will.” Mandir shooed a needlefly away from her arm. “His anger is honest, and I’d rather deal with honest anger than with someone who smiles at me with thin lips and later sticks a knife in my back.”

“He has no reason to be angry with us. Those two girls who were raped? We had nothing to do with that.”

“That’s not why he’s angry,” said Mandir.

“Why, then?”

Mandir lowered his voice still further. “It has nothing to do with us. It’s because of his personal circumstances.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. It’s a ruling-caste thing. If you want, I’ll tell you about it later. Do you have other injuries I should take care of?”

Suddenly embarrassed of her torn robe and lying in Mandir’s arms with his hands all over her—flood and fire, what was she doing?—Taya extricated herself and stood up. The blood rushed to her head, and she staggered. Mandir, rising behind her, steadied her shoulders, but she recovered quickly and moved away from him. “I’m fine. If I have any other injuries, I’ll heal them myself.”

He watched her critically. “I’ll bet you’ve got some cuts and bruises. Healing is better done by someone who isn’t distracted by pain. And who took a rotation at Rakigari.”

“No cuts and bruises.” Actually, she had a number of sore spots beneath her robe, but she’d been through enough humiliation for one day. She wasn’t going to undress in front of Mandir so he could heal bruises.

It was hard enough just being in his presence and looking at him. Now that she wasn’t in his arms anymore, she had the disadvantage of actually getting an eyeful of the man, shirtless and sun-bronzed and smiling at her with his hair dripping wet from the river. Flood and fire, couldn’t he find a shirt to put on? Every time he moved, she could see the play of muscles across his arms and chest. It was all she could do not to stare.

And, as usual, she was a total wreck herself, this time a little more so than usual. She gathered up some of the stray fabric of her cotton robe to wring the river water out of it. Torn and soaking wet, the robe was all but ruined. She touched the top of her head. Her headdress was gone, and her hair was down, plastered around her shoulders. She turned to Mandir and challenged him with her eyes. “How does my hair look now?”

He grinned. “Like a rat’s nest, only less tidy. Let’s get you back to Hrappa.”

Chapter XIX

Mohenjo Temple, Seven Years Ago

TAYA STOLE DOWN THE TEMPLE hallway, checking each side passageway to make sure Mandir and his friends weren’t there. They had a habit of ambushing her, and Mandir seemed to know her third-year schedule down to the minute. He often planted himself and his cronies in the only path between the library and her room at exactly the time her special class dismissed, so he could follow her back to her room, making insulting comments all the way, or pin her in a corner somewhere and insist on examining her work. He never actually touched her, but sometimes his friends did, and his chasing her around and trapping her was frightening enough. She feared the situation would escalate someday. He was building up to something. She wasn’t sure what.

Today, happily, Mandir was nowhere in evidence. Taya broke into a jog as she approached her tiny student room. Shutting the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief. Here she was safe. Mandir had free rein of the temple halls, but he was not permitted to follow her into her room. She turned, preparing to put down her armload of homework tablets.

Mandir was sitting on her bed.

Taya jumped, suppressing a scream, and the tablets scattered over the table.

Mandir grinned. “Did I scare you?”

“Get out,” she hissed. “You’re not allowed in here.”

“Naughty girl,” said Mandir. “You’ve got a boy in your room. And you closed the door.”

“I didn’t invite you in, and I don’t want you here,” said Taya. “Get out. Now.” She reached for the door, but was afraid to open it. Would she be in trouble if someone saw her?

“I’d like to make you an offer,” said Mandir.

“What?” Taya’s mind raced. Should she run out of the room, maybe find an illitum? If she did, Mandir might be gone before she got back, and she might be punished. He might tell someone she’d had a boy in her room. Where were Mandir’s friends?

“I don’t think you like it when my friends and I give you a hard time in the halls,” said Mandir.

Taya gave a distracted nod. The boys might be lying in wait. If she left the room, they might jump her or something. For what purpose, she did not know—but Mandir’s intentions were never good.

“Am I right?” said Mandir. “You don’t like that?”

Taya blinked. She’d taken that for a statement; not a question. “Of course I don’t like it.”

“I could make it stop,” said Mandir.

“All right,” said Taya, knowing there had to be a catch. “Make it stop.”

“I will. And from now on,” said Mandir, “I’m going to be your secret companion.”

The hair rose on the back of Taya’s neck. She didn’t like that idea at all. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mandir licked his lips. “It means we won’t tell anybody, but I’ll come to your room sometimes.”

“And do what in my room?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

Gooseflesh rose on Taya’s arms. She might be an illiterate farmer girl from a village in banana country, but she had not been born yesterday. She lunged for the door, leapt from the room, and ran as if all the floodwaters of Zhaerath were behind her.

Hours later, when she finally dared return, Mandir was gone. But on the floor, her homework tablets were smashed to pieces.

Chapter XX

Hrappa

AFTER YET ANOTHER VISIT TO the public baths, a trip back to the guesthouse, and a change of clothes, Taya felt much better, though still a little weak and shaky. Mandir joined her for lunch.

“I have to ask,” he said, between bites of freshly baked flatbread. “Were you granted a vision from Isatis before the flood hit you?”

Taya puzzled over what she’d seen in the fire. “I saw multiple visions, but I couldn’t make sense of them. They all showed the same...oh.”

“What?” said Mandir.

Taya shook her head ruefully. “I think I understand. Isatis was trying to warn me. She was showing me images of the river flooding, hundreds of them at once. I didn’t comprehend her message.” She blew out a breath in frustration. “I have to go back and scry again.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Mandir.

“I have to. I didn’t get the vision.”

“And give the jackal another chance to kill you? She’s obviously watching our movements. She can’t attack us with fire because her magic is no match for yours. But the moment you go out to that island, you make yourself vulnerable to an attack by flood. I can’t be out there with you when you’re scrying, and flooding the Lioness is the easiest thing in the world, even for a jackal.”

“She can’t follow us around all the time,” said Taya.

“Maybe she can,” said Mandir. “Maybe she does. Look, you’ve already seen the jackal in one scry-vision. We have plenty of leads to follow up on here in Hrappa and at Zash’s plantation. Why don’t we investigate those for a while and see where it gets us? If we run out of leads, we’ll reconsider scrying the island.”

“What if the jackal attacked me on that island because she really, really didn’t want me to see the vision of that murder?” said Taya.

“What if she attacked you on that island because it’s the only place you’re vulnerable to her magic?” countered Mandir.

Taya sighed. “Fine, we’ll try the other leads first. Who should we visit this afternoon?”

Mandir eyed her. “You’re looking a little worse for wear. Let’s stay close to home and start with Hunabi’s brother, Kalbi. He’s right across the street. We can give Rasik the afternoon off and let him hunt onagers. A bit of kindness might go a long way with that one.”

Taya nodded. “Kalbi, then.”

“I was wondering when you were going to talk to me,” said Kalbi, ushering them into his office in the Hall of Judgment. He was a slim, straight-backed boy with a reserved manner and an arrogant arch to his eyebrows.

“We’d like to test you for magical ability,” said Mandir.

Kalbi’s brows rose, but he submitted to Mandir’s fake magical ability test and passed it. When it was over, he smiled cynically. “Of course I’m not magical. If I were, I’d be wearing the green and silver like you.”

“We had to be sure,” said Mandir.

“So.” Kalbi leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Have you made any progress? Figured out yet who killed my brother?”

“We can’t comment on that,” said Taya. “But we suspect your brother was involved with a woman.”

Kalbi snorted. “Which one?”

“Not the one the two of you were contracted to marry, but another woman. And this woman, though she was not herself the murderer, may have been involved somehow in the crime.”

“Hunabi was involved with lots of women,” said Kalbi.

“You’re saying he was popular with the ladies?” asked Mandir.

“Popular—that’s one way of putting it.” Kalbi rolled his eyes. “Do you know what my brother used to do?”

“What?” said Mandir.

“My father is the magistrate of Hrappa,” said Kalbi. “That means that whenever there’s a dispute between two people in this city, he hears the case and makes a decision. It is the role I will one day have, when my father passes away. Hunabi would have shared it with me if he hadn’t been killed.”

“Yes,” said Mandir. “Go on.”

“I’ve been preparing for the role all my life,” said Kalbi, indicating the shelves cluttered with tablets. “But Hunabi’s interests had lain elsewhere. Whenever an important case was being heard, Hunabi would find out which way my father leaned. He would go to the family of the winning side—they wouldn’t know they were winning, of course—pick a girl in the family he liked, and tell the head of household he would make sure the magistrate ruled in their favor if they allowed him to sleep with the girl. Usually the family went along with it.”

“Bantu kasu annasi,” growled Mandir. “Did you never tell your father?”

Kalbi grimaced. “He didn’t believe me.”

“You said Hunabi guessed at who would win based on which way your father was leaning,” said Taya. “Did he ever guess wrong?”

“It’s possible,” said Kalbi. “I wouldn’t know.”

Taya recalled the angry woman in her scry-vision who had confronted Hunabi in the empty field. Could she be someone he’d slept with as part of a bargain, and then she felt he’d reneged on that bargain? How did the jackal fit into all this? Could she, too, be one of those exploited women? “Do you keep records of the magistrate’s court cases?”

“Of course,” said Kalbi. “They’re filed in the archive. Rasik can show you.”

“Thank you.” Taya rose to leave.

“I’ll tell you something else,” said Kalbi. “There’s only one person in Hrappa who truly mourned Hunabi’s death, and that was my father. The rest of us were relieved.”

Chapter XXI

Hrappa

IN THE ARCHIVE, TAYA FOUND that the cases were filed neatly but dated only by season and year. Hunabi had died early in the season of Lalan, which meant they had to consider all cases from that season as well as those from the season of Agu which had preceded it. That turned out to be twenty-six cases. Taya’s hope that there would be only four or five evaporated in the mountain of tablets sitting before her. Resigned to the task, she divided them between her and Mandir, settled onto floor across from him, and began, slowly and haltingly, to read.

The first case was a dispute over a loan. A peasant farmer had borrowed money from Bodhan isu Kasirum—which was interesting; Zash had borrowed money from Bodhan as well—and failed to repay it. The terms of the loan were confusing, but apparently they specified that if the loan was not repaid, the farmer was required to compensate Bodhan by growing cotton on his land instead of whatever else he normally grew, and selling it to Bodhan at a below-market price. In his suit, the farmer claimed this arrangement was unfair.

“It’s amazing how many of these cases are about bad loans,” said Mandir, thumbing through his stack. “Five of the first seven I’ve looked at.”

Taya stared at him. “You’ve read seven cases already?”

“Skimmed them,” said Mandir. “It seems our Bodhan isu Kasirum isn’t just a cloth merchant. He’s a moneylender.”

“Was he the lender in all five of your cases?”

“Yes,” said Mandir.

“I’ve got a case like that too,” said Taya.

“Just one?”

“So far,” she said defensively.

“This Bodhan fellow is looking suspicious,” said Mandir. “He may be connected to every single murder. He could be connected to Hunabi’s, if Kalbi is right and Hunabi was murdered over some court case in which Bodhan played a role as moneylender. Not to mention the pending marriage between his daughter and Hunabi and Kalbi. He’s connected to Narat’s murder, because Narat is his daughter. And he’s connected to Amalia’s murder, because Zash was indebted to Bodhan as well.”

“If he’s the town moneylender, he may simply be connected to a lot of prominent families because of that role,” said Taya. “It may have nothing to do with the murders.”

“Still,” said Mandir, “we need to talk to him again. Or talk to some people about him.”

Taya nodded. “I have to wonder how Bodhan felt about having someone like Hunabi as a future son-in-law. Hunabi and Kalbi were a matched pair, right? But if Kalbi was a decent sort and Hunabi was an exploitative womanizer, I can see how Bodhan might have a motive for wanting Hunabi dead.” She put down the first tablet and picked up the second. This case was more straightforward. Someone’s pig had gotten into a neighbor’s garden and eaten up his plants. The neighbor had then killed the pig and claimed the meat for his own. The pig’s owner had sued for compensation. She smiled and settled in to read the details—this was a dispute much like the ones she’d seen back home.

“Tell me something,” said Mandir.

Taya looked up from her tablet.

“Your parents weren’t banana farmers. What were they? You told Zash—date farmers, was it?”

She nodded. “They have date palms.”

“Hmm.” He sounded disgruntled.

Taya’s eyes went skyward. “You have a problem with date farmers?”

“No, it’s just that date girl doesn’t have the proper ring to it.”

Taya threw her tablet at him.

Mandir flung his hand up to catch it, laughing. “Watch it! These are the archives.”

“You could just call me Taya, like normal people do.”

Smiling, he folded his arms. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll hate you less.”

“You drive a horrible bargain, date girl. You want me to stop calling you nicknames, I’ll do it—for the right price.”

“What price?” Taya practically spat the words.

A shadow passed over Mandir’s eyes. “Never mind. Date girl sounds stupid anyway.” He picked up another tablet and began to read.

“What price?” Taya asked again. “Do I have to let you into my room? Do I have to be your secret companion?”

Mandir lowered the tablet, all humor gone from his face. “You could have just said no. You didn’t have to run off like I was the most disgusting thing you’d ever laid eyes on.”

“I ran because I was scared,” said Taya. “You’d gone into my room, where you weren’t allowed, and made some oblique threats about getting me in trouble. You wanted to do something with me—and believe me, I knew exactly what you wanted—but you’d been calling me ugly and stupid for years, so I knew it wasn’t because you liked me. I didn’t know where those other three boys were. I figured they might be lying in wait. If I said no, I thought you might rape me—maybe all four of you would—so I ran.”

“I was horrible,” said Mandir. “I know it. But I would not have raped you. I’ve never forced a woman, and I never will.”

“Your friends put their hands on me all the time, and you never stopped them.”

“I made sure they didn’t take it too far—”

“It was already too far, those boys touching me when I didn’t want them to.”

Mandir swallowed. “I mean I wouldn’t have let them do more than that—”

“I didn’t want them touching me at all,” insisted Taya.

“All right, I was a zebu’s ass back then. I know it,” said Mandir. “But the others had nothing to do with that ‘secret companion’ business.”

“No, that was all you,” said Taya. “And it was disgusting. You gave me a choice between sleeping with you or being harassed by you and your friends. You say you’ve never forced a woman, but you have. At least you tried.”

“I gave you a choice. I never forced you into anything. Obviously—because we never slept together.”

“Because I chose the harassment instead. You think that’s not forcing a woman, giving her a choice between one type of abuse and another type?”

“Sleeping with me would have been abuse?”

“If I didn’t want it, yes.”

He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “I guess I never thought about it that way. At the time, I thought you secretly wanted me.”

Taya arched an eyebrow.

Mandir rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I was just that arrogant. Look, I’m sorry. I get it now: no bargains. Your affection’s not for sale or for trade, and, honestly, I was just joking with the date girl business.” He picked up his tablet and resumed reading.

Taya rubbed at a needlefly bite on her leg and read her third case, another one involving Bodhan as moneylender. She was just finishing the concluding words when Mandir set down his tablet, stretched, and sat back against the wall. “I take it you’re finished?” she asked.

“Yes. You want me to help you with yours?”

She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice how far behind she was, but she supposed there was no hiding it. He’d read thirteen cases, and she’d read three. “Help me how?”

“I could read them to you.”

Taya snorted. “I don’t need to be read to like a child.”

“Or I could take half the ones you have left and read them myself,” Mandir suggested.

That wasn’t unreasonable, but Taya didn’t like it. If she let Mandir do that, he would end up reading eighteen cases to her eight and would be more knowledgeable than she. How was she to be an equal partner on this case, let alone in charge of it, if Mandir had all the information? She bit her lip.

“I think I know why you have trouble reading,” said Mandir softly.

“Why, because I’m stupid?” Taya snapped.

“No. Because you got a late start.”

“You certainly called me stupid often enough,” said Taya.

“I said it to upset you,” said Mandir. “Not because I believed it. No one who spends any time around you could believe you’re stupid.”

“I made up for my late start,” Taya said angrily. “All those hours you spent hanging around with your nasty friends—I spent them practicing my letters.”

“I know you did,” said Mandir.

“I don’t care how young you were when your awful father taught you how to read, I’ve still practiced more than you have.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Mandir.

“So I’m stupid.”

“You know better than that.” Mandir leaned back against the wall, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Have you heard of the Vaksha family? Artisan musicians?”

Taya shook her head.

“I think they reside only in Tivette, the royal city. They start their children on their musical instruments very young, at the age of three, I believe. They do not believe in waiting to see which instrument each child might show a talent for. If they wait, they say, it is too late—the child must begin instruction at the earliest possible age in order to reach the fullness of his ability.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me.”

“On the contrary, it’s the foundation of our caste system,” said Mandir. “When children are born into their assigned roles, they have their entire childhood during which they can learn to perform those roles with a high degree of excellence. It’s only when someone is first trained for one role, and then switched unexpectedly to another that there are problems.”

“You mean someone like me,” said Taya. “A farmer who becomes a fire seer is a problem.”

“Not just you, all of us,” said Mandir. “All of us discover our Gift in adolescence. You were trained through childhood to be a farmer. And then you discovered you would be something else, and you had to learn to read and write. But you learned it too late for it to come easily for you.”

“If the goddesses meant for us to learn our roles in early childhood,” said Taya, “they would not have made our Gifts manifest so late.”

“The goddesses never meant for the Gift to exist at all.”

Taya pursed her lips. He had a point. And maybe he was right about the reading and writing. If someone had taught her to read and write at an early age, would her eyes fly across the tablet the way Mandir’s did? Her heart twisted with envy. It wasn’t fair. He’d learned all sorts of useful skills as a child, like literacy, while she’d learned worthless ones, like how to pull weeds and feed the pig. “Well, come over here,” she grumbled, “and read these tablets to me. Otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

“As you wish,” said Mandir, and he settled beside her.

Chapter XXII

Hrappa

MANDIR WOKE FEELING UNUSUALLY REFRESHED. He glanced out his window and groaned. Full sun outside. Flood and fire, why had he slept in? Every day since Taya had arrived, she’d dragged him out of bed at the crack of dawn, a bit of torture he’d begun to accept as part of his penance for the torment he’d inflicted on her at Mohenjo. For some reason she’d spared him this morning. Why?

He rose, made the bed, and began to dress. Maybe Taya was exhausted after her ordeal in the river. Anyone would want to sleep late after that. It would do her good, a little time off for rest and recuperation. He stepped up to the polished copper mirror, dabbed water on his face, and, picking up his straight razor, began to shave.

All right, Taya might be exhausted, but knowing her, she wouldn’t sleep in unless she was half dead. Maybe she was angry with him, or at least angrier than usual. The conversation they’d had yesterday had spun through his head most of the night, awakening long-dormant thoughts and feelings, shaking dust from corners of his mind that had lain undisturbed for years.

Had he forced himself on her at Mohenjo? No, it wasn’t possible. He didn’t sleep with her. If he hadn’t slept with her, he couldn’t have forced her. That was simple logic.

But maybe it wasn’t so simple. He’d reacted badly when she’d rejected him. He’d smashed her homework tablets and stepped up his harassment, making his threats more explicit and more frightening. He’d punished her for not sleeping with him. He might not have literally forced her into his bed, but it could be argued that he’d tried to get her there using threats and manipulation.

At the time, he’d believed his behavior justified. He was righteously inflicting pain on a woman who’d inflicted pain on him. He was standing up for himself, showing her she couldn’t treat him like zebu shit and get away with it.

Now he looked back with wiser eyes and asked himself what exactly she’d done to deserve his retaliation. She hadn’t treated him like zebu shit. She’d simply refused to sleep with him. He had felt pain when she rejected him and blamed her for it. But now he understood that his pain was his own responsibility. He’d loved a girl, and she hadn’t loved him back. It was that simple, and it wasn’t a crime.

Besides, considering the way he’d treated her at Mohenjo, could he really be surprised that his feelings were not returned?

Maybe he had tried to force himself on her. The thought made him shudder. He’d believed at the time that the Atrocity could be committed only by physically overpowering a woman and forcing a joining. He had never done that, would never do that; it was the ultimate offense against the Mothers. But he’d tried to accomplish a similar end using threats and manipulation.

Taya’s distant laugh carried across the courtyard. Frowning, he set down his razor. What was she laughing at? Surely she would not laugh alone—someone must be with her. And she was without the protection of her quradum.

Forgetting the remainder of his grooming, he ran out the door and across the courtyard. At Taya’s door, he stopped and listened as voices drifted through the open window.

“Your partner’s obviously opposed,” drawled a man’s voice. “But I thought you and I, together, might work something out.”

Zash the banana farmer. Rage bloomed in Mandir’s chest, and he felt hot all over. That zebu’s ass had come to visit his partner in secret.

He flung the door open so hard that it struck the wall and rebounded with a shudder. Taya and Zash, who’d been sitting at her little table with wine goblets in hand, leapt to their feet. A few droplets of Taya’s wine spilled on the floor.

Mandir took in the scene, noting the amphora in the middle of the table and the rosy flush in Taya’s cheeks. “No one told me about a party this morning.”

“For the Mothers’ sake, control your temper,” snapped Taya. “You’ve spilled my wine and nearly broken my door.”

Zash forced a smile. “Mandir isu Sarrum, good greeting to you. I heard about the attempt on Taya’s life yesterday, and I came to call upon her and see for myself that she was all right.”

“No,” said Mandir. “You came here with your serpent’s tongue to talk her into healing your banana plants.”

Zash’s smile became strained. “On the contrary, the matter of the banana plants was settled days ago. I brought a gift for the two of you.” He lifted the amphora from the table. “Banana wine. Will you join me?”

“I don’t drink that piss.” He could see that Taya, on the other hand, had imbibed some already. If it was poisoned, and Taya came to harm, Zash would not see another sunrise—Mandir would make sure of it. “Don’t bring any more gifts. Neither of us wants them.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Taya. “I haven’t had banana wine since I was a child.” She raised her goblet appreciatively. “Thank you, Zash. This brought back memories.”

Zash inclined his head.

“Get out,” barked Mandir.

Zash raised a brow at Taya. Clearly he’d figured out whom to appeal to when he didn’t like Mandir’s orders.

“You’d better go,” she told him apologetically.

Mandir watched Zash as the man collected his things, touched fingers with Taya, and left through the front door. That’s right, banana farmer. I’ve got my eye on you.

The door shut behind him.

“Don’t say anything,” said Taya.

Mandir sauntered to the table and picked up the amphora to see how much wine was left. “I have a great deal to say. And you’re going to hear it.”

Taya rolled her eyes and sat at the table, swirling the little bit of wine that remained in her goblet. “I suppose you think this is charming, bursting in to protect me from myself.”

“I’ll tell you what’s not charming.” He stabbed a finger at the door, where Zash had been. “That bollhead of a banana farmer showing up again to try to get you to break Coalition law. With your quradum absent.”

Taya shrugged. “I’m not going to heal his banana plants.”

“But you’ll drink his wine?” He shook the half-empty amphora. “We have a day of investigation ahead of us, and you’re drunk.”

Taya folded her arms. “I’m not drunk. Banana wine isn’t strong like...whatever you ruling-caste people drink. And you know as well as I do that if I’d waited for you, you’d have poured out the wine and I wouldn’t have tasted a drop.”

“You’d better hope it wasn’t poisoned.”

“I just staked my life on it, didn’t I?” said Taya. “Put the amphora down. If it was poisoned, I’m slated for death already.”

Mandir set the amphora back on the table. “It won’t be poisoned this time, since Zash was drinking from it himself. But if that banana farmer shows up again, I want you to fetch me immediately.”

“Why, so you can run him off again?”

“So I can protect you,” said Mandir. “What do you see in that zebu’s ass?”

“He’s kind,” said Taya. “And he’s handsome—”

“No, he isn’t,” said Mandir. “He’s scrawny and ugly.”

“You’re not one to judge.”

Was she serious about Zash being handsome? Surely she could not be attracted to the banana farmer. The thought offended Mandir down to the marrow of his bones. To think that this idiot might have the woman he’d been pursuing for years...flood and fire, he should slap himself in the balls right now. “Zash doesn’t love you. He wants you to heal his plants, and apparently he doesn’t care if you get caught and the Coalition burns you to death. Is that the kind of lover you want?”

“He’s desperately afraid of losing his farm,” said Taya. “I understand that. I’ve told him repeatedly that I’m not going to heal his plants. If that’s all he’s after, he’ll give up soon enough and stop coming around. And he’s not my lover.”

“You called him handsome.” Mandir doubted Zash would give up on coming around to see Taya. He’d stake a silver stick on the likelihood of that slippery man’s return.

“He also makes pleasant conversation,” said Taya. “And he’s never been cruel to me.”

That was a dig at him if he’d ever heard one. “What about the way he treated his mad sister?”

“I know little about the situation with his sister. I realize he has an ulterior motive in coming here. But you’re my partner in investigation, Mandir, not my lover, and it’s not your business to tell me who I can and can’t spend time with—”

“It is my business, if I feel your life is in danger.”

“You don’t truly believe Zash is dangerous. You’re just jealous of him. Back at Mohenjo, you isolated me and deprived me of friends so you could have me all to yourself to mistreat. But you’re not going to do that here.”

Her words stung. Each barb was a needlefly digging into his skin. Yes, he was jealous of Zash. But jealousy was not the only reason for his unease. “Let’s be clear on something. You’re a fire seer, which makes you a rare and valuable asset to the Coalition. They sent me here to protect you, and I take that job seriously, as you learned when I fished you out of the river yesterday. Someone in Hrappa is trying to kill you. Why spend time alone with a strange man, one who is in fact on the list of suspects, without your quradum present?”

“Zash isn’t the jackal. He’s the wrong sex. Besides, I like him.”

“He’s a suspect,” insisted Mandir. “Regardless of what you saw in your vision. And consider this. The wine might not have been poisoned with something that could kill you, but what if Zash had laced it with kimat? It wouldn’t affect him, but it would certainly affect you. Once he’d disabled your magic, he could have killed you.”

Taya opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it. The chagrin in her eyes told him that he’d scored a point—she hadn’t considered the possibility of kimat. She whispered a word and made a subtle gesture with her hand. A tiny fireball appeared in her palm, cradled by her fingers. “My magic’s fine.”

“You were lucky,” said Mandir. “You let him in, gave him access to your person, and drank his wine.”

Taya dismissed the fireball and closed her hand into a loose fist. “Maybe I was a touch careless, but there was no kimat in the wine. He obviously didn’t mean any harm.”

“Not this time,” said Mandir. “Maybe the time wasn’t right for the kill. Maybe he wanted to find out first if you’d heal his plants.”

“You’re too suspicious. You think everyone is an enemy.”

“You’re not suspicious enough,” he retorted. “And there is an enemy, someone who tried only yesterday to kill you. It could be anyone. I need to be present whenever someone has access to you. So I’m afraid it may be rather difficult for you to have affairs with scrawny banana farmers bearing gifts of wine. And it’s not just because I’m a zebu’s ass. Are we clear on that?”

“We’re clear,” she said. “But you are a zebu’s ass.”

He couldn’t disagree.

Chapter XXIII

Hrappa

AS SHE READIED HERSELF TO leave the guesthouse, Taya was quietly pleased that despite the tongue-lashing she’d had to endure, she had finally managed to taste Zash’s banana wine. Mandir needed to learn that there were some things that his customary techniques of bullheadedness and force couldn’t accomplish. She wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t going to let him push her around, no matter how much he claimed it was “for her protection.”

She’d grant that as annoying as Mandir was, he was a decent quradum. It seemed he’d found his niche in this new role of threatening people and being paranoid all the time. But like needleflies at a picnic, he took the fun out of life. He was so concerned with neatness and order; nothing could induce him to take a chance in the interest of adventure or pleasure. Who knew that the bully who’d tormented her at Mohenjo would grow into someone so straight-laced? Someone needed to teach that man how to relax.

She was pleasantly tipsy as she mounted Pepper and rode with Mandir to the farmer district of Hrappa. There they hoped to speak with some of the peasant families from the court cases they’d read about, but at the first house they visited, only the elders were at home. That was no good; Taya needed to visit with the whole family. The second and third houses they visited were no different: the young and able-bodied were out working in the fields.

Mandir suggested that while they waited for the farmers to return, they could speak to the tax collector. He was the man in town most proficient with numbers. As such, he might be able to explain the terms of Bodhan’s loans in language they could understand.

They found him in the ruling district, in a modest brick house that served as both home and office. He greeted them with neither warmth nor rancor and invited them into his home.

The tax collector’s name was Wasan isu Damodar, and he was a big man, taller even than Mandir, and several inches wider. “I fear I can offer little to your investigation,” he said, taking a seat at a table so covered with tablets that one couldn’t see the wood underneath. He gestured at the pile. “Just move them out of the way.” When Taya hesitated to touch the tax collector’s tablets, he grabbed some of them himself and dumped them into a precarious-looking pile, freeing a token amount of space on the table.

“We seek your expertise with numbers. Here are some loan documents from the magistrate’s archive.” She placed her tablets in the space he’d cleared. “They’re from recent court cases. Neither Mandir nor I have had much schooling in mathematics. Can you explain the terms of these loans to us?”

Wasan took the documents and studied them. His forehead wrinkled. “Do these have something to do with the jackal you seek?”

“We’re not sure yet,” said Mandir.

“Well, I’ve seen these before,” said Wasan.

“These documents?” asked Taya.

“These loan terms,” said Wasan. “Bodhan offers them to anyone who comes to him looking for money, but if they understood what they were signing...”

Taya sat up straighter in her chair. “What are they signing?”

“Well, first of all, they’re agreeing to pay a fifth in interest.”

“A fifth?” Taya asked awkwardly. She turned to Mandir, who shrugged his shoulders.

Wasan frowned. “It means that if you borrowed five silver sticks, at the end of the year you have to pay back those five plus one more. Six in total.”

“Oh,” said Taya. That made sense. Except... “No farmer would borrow five silver sticks. Would they?”

Wasan shook his head. “That was just an example. It’s proportional, see? The actual amounts borrowed are lower. But here’s the real problem. If they fail to pay back the original amount, plus interest, by the agreed-upon date, they are charged a fine. And the amount of the fine is the entire amount of the loan. So if your peasant borrowed five silver sticks—bear with my example, however unlikely—and then failed to pay it back by the end of the year, he would then owe ten silver sticks plus one more, so eleven total. And another fifth will be charged on that, so it gets even worse.”

“Wait a minute,” said Taya. “If a peasant can’t pay back six silver sticks after a year, how could he possibly pay back eleven sticks the second year?”

“You’ve got the idea,” said Wasan. “If he fails to pay back his loan the first year, he’ll never pay it back. This document also states that if Bodhan has not been paid back the full amount of the loan within five years, the borrower must cede him all of his land holdings.”

Taya blinked. “But that’s not legal. Bodhan can’t own farmland; he’s artisan caste.”

“Correct,” said Wasan. “He’s not claiming ownership of the land, just control over it.”

“What does that mean?” said Mandir. “He controls the farmer’s land but doesn’t own it. So what does he do with it?”

“It says in the contract he’s permitted to specify what is grown on the land.”

“That’s all?” Mandir frowned. “Is he owed a share of what the farmer produces off that land? A fifth, maybe?”

“No, that would be illegal for his caste,” said the tax collector.

“I don’t understand,” said Mandir. “Why would he care what’s grown on the land if he has no ownership either of the land or what it produces?”

“He wants cotton for his business,” said Taya.

“Where to?” asked Mandir, after they’d left the tax collector. From the ground, he gathered up the reins of his blood bay. He grabbed a hank of mane and vaulted onto the creature’s back. “The farmers won’t be home yet.”

“While we’re waiting, we can go back to the river. I need to scry again.”

“Back to the river? Are you crazy?” Fool woman, throwing herself as bait to the jackal again. He was not going to allow it.

She didn’t answer and instead attempted to vault up onto her black mare. Somehow she didn’t get her right leg high enough. She slid back off, and the sensitive mare, distressed by this turn of events, danced away to the end of the reins.

He frowned. It was odd for her to have difficulty getting on her horse. She didn’t seem drunk from the banana wine; it looked more like she was exhausted or in pain. “You need a boost?”

“Flood and fire, no.” She coaxed the mare back to her and made a second attempt at mounting. It was clumsy but successful. She scrambled messily onto the mare’s back. “Let’s go.”

“Not to the river.”

“We have to. I never got my vision—”

“You didn’t get your vision because someone tried to kill you. I’m not letting the jackal have a second go at you.” He studied her and noted the sag in her shoulders. Her rosy cheeks had faded, leaving her looking pale and strained.

“It’s my job,” she said. “I’m not scared of the jackal.”

“You should be.” Gods, if any woman needed a full-time quradum, it was Taya. She was brave and determined to succeed, but not always sensible. She had no business going near that river until the jackal was found, especially in the condition she was in. She hadn’t recovered yet from yesterday’s attack.

“I’m going,” she said, sending Pepper into a canter.

He touched heels to the blood bay. His bigger horse leapt into a gallop and easily caught the black mare. He seized the mare’s reins, pulled her to a stop, and turned her around. “You’re going home. You’re going to have lunch and rest through the heat of the day.”

“Mandir, you’ve no right—”

“As your quradum, I have the final word on matters of safety.”

She yielded then, perhaps a testament to how exhausted she really was. She gave the mare a pat of apology and turned her in a gentle trot toward home.

Mandir rode behind her, admiring the fineness of her form and the quality of her riding. The black mare Pepper was a sensitive animal of the type that so many riders ruined. Taya guided the mare with a light hand, never punishing her for over-exuberance or yanking around that delicate mouth. She’d had the horse for only a short time, he knew—it was customary for initiates to receive their first mount when they became fully qualified—yet an affectionate bond had already formed between them.

It shamed him to see a relationship in which everything had been done right. He, on the other hand, had done nothing right. If at Mohenjo Temple he had treated her with gentleness, the way she did that pretty black mare, she could be his right now.

Instead he’d tried to break her.

His father, Tufan, used to break horses the way he broke people. It amused the old man. First he would try spurs and a whip and a bit so sharp it cut the tongue. If that didn’t subdue the beast, he’d try other methods: isolation, starvation. Most beasts succumbed and became docile, but they also became dull and spiritless.

A few animals did not succumb. They grew wild and turned outlaw. They bit and reared and kicked. If Tufan could not tame them, he would cut their throats.

The man had been equally brutal with his children. Kindness had no place in Tufan’s household. Any show of weakness and Tufan would shame Mandir before his brothers. Then his brothers would steal him away and hold his head in a bucket of horse piss, or tie a feral cat to his head and laugh uproariously as it shat on him and scratched him in its desperation to escape.

His family had schooled him in cruelty, and he’d learned the lesson well. So when Taya isu Ikkarum, frightened and friendless, had looked on him with admiration, he hadn’t seen then what was so obvious to him in hindsight: that he was attracted to her, and she to him. They could have been friends and allies. Later they could have been lovers.

But at the time, he’d seen only weakness to exploit.

Flood and fire, how it stung him now, thinking of the possibilities, the doors once opened to him that were now shut. The adoration in her eyes had turned first to fear, then to revulsion, and finally to hatred. He wanted to change what he saw in those eyes, but for all the gifts his magic gave him, he could not undo the wrongs of the past.

He had but one consolation: he hadn’t broken her. She was like one of those outlaw horses that would not be dominated. She’d emerged from his cruelty intact. At the time, it had driven him wild that he could not break her. He’d escalated his attacks, figuring that eventually he had to win, until that fateful day with the fire maze when he’d nearly killed her and the Coalition authorities had intervened. In hindsight, he was glad they’d done it. Their intervention had saved him from a sad fate. What would he be today had he not departed Mohenjo for his Year of Penance?

It was during his Year of Penance that he’d begun to understand that there was another way to relate to people, one that was more satisfying, and also more difficult, at least for him. The unfortunate truth was that the methods of domination and intimidation he’d used at Mohenjo worked. He had been at the top of the social ladder. And yet for all his success, he had not been happy. His heart had never been quiet, and he’d lived in constant fear of losing his status to a backstabbing rival.

During his Year of Penance, he’d come to learn why he was so unhappy. It was not enough to be feared by those around him. He wanted to connect with someone on a deeper level. He wanted to be loved. And to win love, he had to treat people with kindness and respect. He understood that now.

Still, these were new concepts which lay on him like ill-fitting clothes. His intentions might be good, but he lacked the skills. He was a schoolboy again with Taya, awkward and fumbling. During times of frustration, he lapsed into his old ways, but at least Taya challenged him on those occasions, so that he knew when he was being a zebu’s ass. In that sense, he desperately needed her.

They’d arrived at the guesthouses.

“I’ll take the horses,” said Mandir as Taya slid off her mount. “You go inside and rest.”

She gave him a wary look as if he were setting a trap for her, but he only waited patiently for her to hand him the mare’s reins. Then she slipped inside the guesthouse, and he rode toward the stable to hand the animals off to the grooms. Someday, perhaps, she would realize that he’d changed since Mohenjo.

Chapter XXIV

Hrappa

TAYA WOULD NEVER ADMIT IT, but Mandir had been right to make her rest through the heat of the afternoon. He’d escorted her to her guesthouse and then, instead of harassing her as she’d expected, left her entirely alone. She ate lunch and slept for three full hours, an appalling amount when they had so much work to do, and yet she felt much better when she awoke. Maybe that harrowing trip through the river had taken more out of her than she’d realized.

In the evening, Mandir came by with the horses, and they rode out to the farmers’ district a second time. This time the farmers were home. Mandir hung back and allowed her to do the talking, since she knew farmers and he didn’t. She cast her eye at him a number of times during these meetings, curious what he was thinking. From some of the comments he’d made at Mohenjo, she knew he thought of peasant farmers as nasty, unwashed creatures who wallowed in dirt. But the reality was that most farmers’ homes, though small, were clean and sweet-smelling, and the farmers themselves always visited the baths after coming in from the fields. Peasant farmers might not be wealthy, but they were as civilized as anyone else in the valley.

The first two families dodged their questions about Bodhan. Though Mandir’s eyes darkened at their evasions, Taya was inclined to leave them be rather than threaten them or otherwise try to force the information out of them. Eventually, she hoped, she would find someone willing to talk.

Now, in the third house on their list, she spoke to the matriarch, who sullenly presented her four children to Taya and Mandir. None were over the age of ten. “Is this your entire family?” asked Taya.

“And Daradi,” she said. “He’s at the market.”

“Daradi is your husband?”

The woman nodded.

The jackal wasn’t here, then, and neither was the witness. Not that Taya expected to simply stumble upon either of them, but she’d hoped. “I understand you lost control of your land in a court case to Bodhan isu Kasirum. Is that correct?”

“What business is it of yours?”

Taya swallowed. She hadn’t expected resistance to her questions. “We think the facts of those cases might be related to the recent murders.”

“We have nothing to do with any jackal,” said the farmer woman. “Go back to your temple, Coalition dog.”

Mandir leapt forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. “Apologize,” he demanded.

“Mandir—” began Taya.

He raised a hand to silence her and spoke again to the farmer woman. “Apologize to my partner.”

“I am sorry,” choked out the frightened woman.

Mandir released her. “Tell us about Bodhan and the loans.”

“It was a bad year, when the Lioness did not flood. We had no crop. We had to borrow money.”

“Did you not have food in storage?” asked Taya.

“Not enough,” said the farmer woman. “And our bananas no longer produce well.”

Probably because they were blighted. She’d look at them later. “So you borrowed money from Bodhan.”

The farmer woman aimed a frightened glance at Mandir and nodded. “We tried to pay him back but we couldn’t manage it. Now he controls our land and makes us grow cotton every year.”

It was as she’d guessed—Bodhan wanted farmers to grow the raw materials for his cloth business. “Do you get a good price for it?”

The farmer woman snorted.

Taya took that to mean no. “May I see your banana plants?”

She led them out back to the garden, a small square patch sporting a few melon vines, a date tree, and two banana plants. The banana plants were indeed blighted. Taya didn’t have to look closely; even from a distance she could see the black spots under the leaves and the plants’ thin, undernourished appearance. No fruit grew on either of them. “How long have they been blighted?”

“Five years,” said the farmer woman. “We would have replaced them, but all our neighbors’ trees are blighted too. Only Zashkalim isu Ikkarum has healthy trees left, and he has so few he cannot spare them. When someone does replace a tree, it blights within the year. You could fix it with your magic. But you won’t.” She spat on the ground.

In the pregnant pause that followed, Taya waited anxiously for Mandir’s aggressive response. But it did not come. Instead, he said, “She would heal them if she could. But she must obey the law, as must we all.”

“Yes, we know well this law,” said the farmer woman. “It is the law that says the Coalition gets rich while farmers starve.” She eyed their green and silver clothes. “You help the rich merchants like Bodhan take food from the mouths of the hungry. And when the knives sprout from your backs, nobody will weep for you.”

“We’re not helping Bodhan,” began Taya angrily.

“Wait,” said Mandir. “What do you mean? How are we helping him?”

“You know what you were hired to do,” said the farmer woman.

As they rode away from the farmers’ district back toward the guesthouses, Taya said, “You shouldn’t have frightened her. We won’t make friends that way.”

Mandir shrugged. “She wouldn’t have been a friend to us no matter what I did. But there’s something going on here and it has to do with Bodhan. Those farmers looked thin. Too thin.”

“I noticed,” said Taya.

“The Valley of the Lioness produces more than enough food for everyone,” he said. “The Mothers never intended that their children should go hungry in a land of plenty.”

“It’s because of those nasty loans. Farmers don’t like growing cotton.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t eat it.”

Mandir rolled his eyes. “But you can sell it. Farmers aren’t stupid. They understand the concept of trade.”

“Of course,” said Taya. “But food prices oscillate wildly depending on the river’s antics. Many of these families have a tradition of self-sufficiency going back generations, and they’re loath to give it up. I suspect that Bodhan is the only cotton buyer in town. By forcing so many farmers to grow cotton, he’s flooding the market and acquiring his raw materials at an artificially low price while simultaneously making food scarce. So of course the farmers are going hungry.”

Mandir frowned. “What did she mean when she said we were helping Bodhan to starve them?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Taya. “She hates the Coalition, so I guess she thinks we’re conspiring against her.”

“Did you see the jackal anywhere? Or the witness?”

“No. We’ll have to try again tomorrow evening. We can visit some more families.” She wasn’t wild about the idea, given the hostility she’d already seen toward the Coalition, but she would do it.

“Not tomorrow,” said Mandir. “We have the party at the magistrate’s.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that party. As a girl in her farm village, she’d loved parties. Food and wine flowed copiously, people told jokes and stories, and there was often a bonfire. But this was a ruling-class party. She didn’t know the customs. Mandir might feel at home, but she was likely to flounder.

“We have to attend, you know,” said Mandir.

“Yes.”

“It would look bad if we weren’t there,” said Mandir. “And there will be many potential suspects together in one room.”

Taya sighed. “Maybe if we’re lucky, the jackal will show up.”

Chapter XXV

Hrappa

THE MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND bright, promising a hot afternoon. Three days and one night after a storm severe enough to flood the Lioness, Taya could see no sign that the dry, dusty streets of Hrappa had ever been graced by rain. Tonight was the party at the magistrate’s house, but they still had the morning available to them. Since Mandir wouldn’t let her go back to the river to scry, she’d decided to investigate Narat’s death another way: by visiting the family of the lover who was supposedly going to meet her at the river the day she died, but who had never showed up.

The flat brick building in the artisan district looked much like its fellows, but a heady aroma set it apart. The delectable scent of baking bread poured out of its windows. Taya, ravenous despite a substantial breakfast, was drawn to it like a honeybee to a flower.

They knocked on the wooden door, and a woman in a full-bodied white cotton apron appeared. Her welcoming smile faded as her eyes took in the Coalition green and silver. “Have you come to buy bread?”

“Yes,” said Taya. “We also need to ask you some questions.”

The woman looked unhappy but invited them inside. While the house was superficially similar to the others on the street, its construction was different in the rear, where it opened out onto the courtyard. Two large ovens, both actively fired, sat at the back of the house, ventilated by enormous windows. Flatbread loaves lay cooling on racks, some plain, others sprinkled with sesame seeds, and still others filled with raisins, nuts, and chopped dates. A smattering of flour covered a kneading table made of well-seasoned wood.

Taya’s mouth watered at the sight of the cooling loaves.

“Which kind would you like?” asked the baker.

Taya bought one of the nut- and date-filled ones, and Mandir asked for the same. She broke her loaf in half immediately, and delicious smells wafted out. She closed her eyes and inhaled. “What’s your name?”

“Vella,” said the baker.

“Do you live here alone?”

Vella hesitated before replying. “For the time being.”

“Did your son Kamber used to live with you?”

She nodded.

“And where is he now?” asked Taya.

Something flashed in Vella’s eyes—a look of pain, or perhaps anger. “Kamber was rebellious. I do not know where he has gone.”

“He disappeared the same day that Bodhan’s daughter Narat was killed,” said Taya.

Vella gave a tight, unwilling nod.

Taya watched her closely, looking for signs that she might be lying or evading the truth. “He was supposed to meet her at the river. But he never showed up.”

“I told him not to go,” said Vella. “That girl was above his station. He had no hope of marrying her, but he refused to listen.”

Mandir broke in. “How was she above his station? They’re both artisan caste.”

“The family is wealthy,” said Vella. “Bodhan hopes to marry his children into the ruling caste.”

“Do you think Kamber could have been at the river along with Narat and been killed by the jackal’s flood?” asked Taya.

Vella looked away. “It is possible, but I think unlikely. No body was found.”

“Or maybe there was no flood,” said Taya. “Maybe he killed her and then fled Hrappa.”

“He certainly did not,” said Vella, her brow wrinkling in offense.

Mandir said, “You must have some idea of where he is. You are his mother, after all. What if he gets into trouble? What if he needs you?”

Vella shook her head. “What is the use of disobedient children? I may be his mother, but Kamber and I were not in harmony.”

“What was the reason for your disharmony?” asked Taya.

“His desire to wed Narat.” Vella waved a hand toward the kneading table. “And he was clumsy with the bread.”

“You do a fine job with it,” Mandir said, gesturing with the heel of his loaf.

“Thank you,” said Vella. “But I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“Why?” asked Mandir casually. “Has someone forbidden you to help?”

Vella shook her head, her eyes widening just enough to betray a hint of fear. But her voice was calm and controlled when she answered. “I do not know anything.”

Taya didn’t believe it. There was no way this baker woman did not know the whereabouts of her son. And Taya had a feeling that this woman was far from the only person in Hrappa keeping secrets from the Coalition.

At Mandir’s insistence, Taya rested again through the heat of the afternoon. When evening arrived, she tried on the stunning multicolored sundress he’d given her. The fit wasn’t perfect—she’d have to take it to a tailor later and have some alternations made—but she loved it so much she wore it anyway.

Mandir knocked on her door, and she went out to meet him.

“You look stunning,” he said.

She cast a skeptical eye at him. Did he really mean that, or was he being sarcastic? Those critical eyes of his noticed every fault. Her headdress was a bit of a mess, probably, but she decided she didn’t care.

Mandir was in his green silk. She was glad she wasn’t wearing the same, since that would have made them look like a matched pair. If the men at the party thought she and Mandir were together, she might have a hard time finding a Hrappan lover.

“Goals tonight?” asked Mandir softly.

“Meet people. Look for the witness and the jackal.” Also, find a Hrappan lover, but that was none of Mandir’s business.

They set off through the dusty streets. The sun sat big and red on the horizon, shedding a rosy half-light. They were not alone in making the walk to the magistrate’s personal residence. Several well-dressed couples and family groups were moving in the same direction.

Mandir reached out and took her arm. Her skin shuddered at his unexpected touch, the way Pepper’s did when a fly landed on her shoulder. But the moment of alarm passed, and her thoughts drifted toward more pleasant memories, like Mandir carrying her out of the water, Mandir holding her while he healed her wounds. On the riverbank, he’d been strong and gentle. She’d wanted to nuzzle that muscled chest of his. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She’d been having the strangest thoughts lately.

The magistrate’s house was similar to the other houses in Hrappa: rectangular in frame and built of mud brick with a flat, tiled roof. But it was far larger, and its front door was wider. Two terracotta bears, each almost the size of a man, flanked the doorway. Taya and Mandir joined the throng passing between the bears and into the house and were ushered straight through it into the courtyard. Like her own courtyard at home, it was bounded by four walls, but in this case they were not the walls of separate homes. They were all parts of the magistrate’s home.

She paused inside the courtyard and looked around. What did people do at ruling-caste parties? Some people sat at tables while others stood beneath trees or perched on benches. A little evening sunlight set the garden aglow, but the light wouldn’t last long. Flaming torches had been mounted on poles around the courtyard. When night fell, she imagined the partygoers would crowd around those torches—unless they wanted a little privacy, in which case they might find some dark corner where others’ eyes wouldn’t find them.

The partygoers were finely dressed. One young woman, surrounded by half a dozen admiring men, wore a dress laced with gold thread. She shimmered in the evening sun like a living jewel.

You can do this, she told herself. Who cares if they’re ruling caste? They’re people like any others, just with fancier clothes. She had been taught a little caste etiquette at Mohenjo Temple. All she had to do was circulate and be polite and not make a fool out of herself.

Servants moved about the courtyard, carrying plates of food. One whisked past Taya, bearing a plate of candied dates in one hand and a plate of spiced onager in the other. A second servant walked by carrying a jug of wine. Taya looked around and found ceramic wine goblets lined up in neat rows on a table by the door. She plucked one of them and motioned to the wine bearer. He came over and tipped his jug to fill her goblet.

“Where to?” asked Mandir in a low voice.

She considered his question and its implications. Did she want to be tied to Mandir all evening? There would be advantages to having his company. He knew the customs of the ruling caste, and she could follow his example and avoid making a fool of herself. On the other hand, she’d probably be viewed as his adjunct instead of as a separate Coalition representative. And there was no chance at all of her meeting a potential lover if Mandir hovered possessively at her side. “I think we should split up.”

For a moment he looked hurt. Then his brow furrowed, and he stepped closer. “What if you spot the jackal?”

“I’ll come and find you. We worked out the hand signals before.”

“Taya—” he protested, but before he could say anything further, she extracted her arm from his and moved away into the crowd.

She spotted Wasan the tax collector. Not exactly a friend, but at least he was someone she knew. He stood by one of the torches, in a group with another man and two women. Taya waved to Wasan, and he smiled at her. She joined them.

“Coalition,” murmured one of the women.

Apparently Taya was recognized even without her green and silver. The smiles that greeted her were thin, but she ignored that. “My name is Taya, Coalition fire seer. You are...?”

She exchanged small talk with the group for a while, and moved on to another, and then another. When the sunlight faded and the moon rose, the conversations became easier. Ruling-caste people weren’t as intimidating as she had thought. Mostly they were just stuffy. Many of the men were scribes and bureaucrats with jobs that were about inspecting things and keeping records. They sounded boring. As she moved from group to group, she searched surreptitiously for the witness or the jackal, but saw neither.

She was aware of Mandir circulating on the other side of the courtyard. In his green silk, he was impossible not to notice. He stayed apart from her, conversing mostly with the men. Every now and then, she felt his eyes on her back and knew he was taking his job as her protector seriously. He’d been nursing the same wine goblet all evening. Either he didn’t like the wine or he was keeping his wits about him.

She left one group of people and was seeking another—that couple sitting under the tree looked like they didn’t want company—when someone tapped on her shoulder. She turned and saw the magistrate’s son Kalbi.

“My father requests your presence at the high table,” he said. “Will you come?”

She glanced in the direction he was indicating. “Certainly.”

He led her to a round table in the very center of the courtyard, surrounded by four flaming torches. There the magistrate sat, looking as peaked and ill as the day she’d met him.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she took a seat. Kalbi sat beside her.

“As well as can be expected,” said the magistrate, raising his rheumy eyes to hers. “How proceeds your investigation?”

Taya glanced around the table at the many strangers seated with them. “Extremely well,” she said, deciding it wouldn’t be a good idea to provide details.

“Excellent,” said the magistrate. “Will you drink with us?”

She raised her goblet to indicate that she was already drinking.

“Oh, not that.” The magistrate hid a smile.

Mandir slipped into the seat across from her. “He means gold dust.”

“What’s gold dust?” she asked, wondering why Mandir had suddenly shown up. Had he been invited to the high table as she had been, or was he here because he thought she was in danger? Maybe he was just here because he hated it when other people paid attention to her.

The magistrate laughed. “What is gold dust? Not to be too obvious about it, but it is dust made from gold.” His laugh turned into a strangled cough, and everyone waited politely for him to regain his composure.

Taya kept her expression carefully neutral. It was uncomfortable being around this very sick man, who she feared wouldn’t see the end of the season. And she didn’t like being laughed at. Dust made from gold. Why would anyone drink that? There was a pitcher in the middle of the table, so bright and polished it might have been made of gold itself, and several cups. “What does it taste like?” She peered into the nearest cup. The liquid inside did appear gold, although it was hard to tell.

“Not like much of anything,” said the magistrate. “But it’s a potent aphrodisiac, and for a sick old man like me, this is a good thing.” He tried to laugh, but only coughed again.

She raised her eyes to Mandir. “It’s an aphrodisiac?”

Mandir’s face was tight. “Some people believe that. I do not.”

“Give her some, Kalbi,” said the magistrate. “And some for the Coalition gentleman as well. Or are you not allowed to drink gold?”

“Coalition members may not wear gold,” said Mandir, “but we may handle it and otherwise interact with it.”

Kalbi took the empty cups and filled both of them. He pushed one across the table to Mandir and handed the other to Taya.

She stared suspiciously into the cup. Was this for real, or were these ruling-caste scions mocking her somehow? The liquid glittered. It really appeared to be gold dust, steeped in some kind of liquid. She’d never heard of anyone drinking such a thing. What a waste of good money, when there were farmers starving in Hrappa. And it didn’t look wholesome. If the magistrate drank this on a regular basis, could it be the reason for his illness? “You drink this yourself?” she asked Kalbi.

Kalbi lifted his cup. “From time to time.”

That was reassuring. Unlike the magistrate, Kalbi appeared healthy. Still, she hesitated.

“I’ll show you,” said Kalbi. He poured some liquid from the pitcher into his cup and tipped it back, drinking the cup’s entire contents. He turned it upside down to demonstrate that it was empty and smiled.

“I’m not sure I want to drink an aphrodisiac,” she said.

“It’s not an aphrodisiac,” said Mandir. “People just say that. But you needn’t drink it if you’d rather not.” He lifted his cup and drained its contents.

“You’ve had it before?” she asked him.

Mandir nodded.

If Mandir wasn’t afraid of it, and neither was Kalbi, she saw no reason to refuse. They’d probably think her a hopeless provincial if she did. She swirled the liquid in her cup and sipped it. For some reason, she’d expected the gold dust to be steeped in water, when in fact most of what was in her cup was hard liquor. She blinked, but managed to suppress the cough reflex as it went down. Subsequent swallows were easier since she knew what to expect. The gold seemed to have no taste at all, or was overpowered by the liquor.

“Thank you,” she said to the magistrate, although she wasn’t sure she should be grateful. She believed Mandir that it wasn’t really an aphrodisiac, and she was glad to have had the experience of what appeared to be a ruling-caste custom, but what a foolish custom it was, drinking gold.

Chapter XXVI

Hrappa

MANDIR FOLLOWED TAYA WHEN SHE left the high table. She seemed not to notice he was behind her. She’d been ignoring him almost since the moment they arrived, and he was getting tired of it. He took her arm to stop her.

She spun around, startled. Then her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Have you seen anyone yet?” he asked in a low voice.

“It’s a party. I’ve seen lots of people.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I haven’t seen either one of them. But I haven’t covered this side of the courtyard yet.” She indicated the direction she’d been walking.

He stepped alongside her. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” she snapped. Then more gently, “I’m less intimidating alone. I don’t come across as part of a team of meddling Coalition, but as a woman looking for a pleasant time.”

He frowned. What sort of a pleasant time was she talking about? Just drinking and talking to people, or something else?

Taya spoke again. “What’s with the gold dust, really? The magistrate said it was an aphrodisiac. You say it’s not.”

He shrugged. “Drinking gold dust is what rich people do to show off how rich they are. As for its being an aphrodisiac, that’s something old, frustrated men like to tell themselves, but I’ve never known it to be true.”

“I see.” She looked relieved. “Well, I’ll go talk to these people I haven’t seen yet.”

He released her, and she disappeared into the crowd. He folded his arms, feeling testy. He’d managed to conceal his feelings at the high table, but he despised gold dust. His father, Tufan, had drunk it every night. On those occasions when he’d abducted a farmer-caste woman to ravish, he took a double dose. Tufan was impotent. Mandir had known, from the angry shouts and the accompanying screams of the woman, as Tufan’s frustrated sexual urges turned to violence, that gold dust didn’t do what so many men wished it did.

He didn’t feel like mingling anymore. He grabbed a wine goblet from a tray, and a plate of smoked palla with mustard seeds. The sun was down, and a full moon sat bright and yellow on the horizon. He found an unoccupied bench far from the torches, shaded and dark, and sat down to eat in privacy. He glanced around the room in search of that multicolored sundress and located Taya. She was speaking animatedly in a group surrounding one of the torches. He recognized one of the men in the group—Bodhan the cloth merchant—and his muscles tensed. Bodhan was very much a suspect; Mandir ought to be there to watch over her. But she’d made a reasonable point about her being less intimidating on her own than with him, and it was unlikely anyone would attempt to harm her in such a public place. He’d just keep an eye on her.

“Hello,” purred a silken voice beside him.

He turned, and a woman slid next to him on the bench.

“I hope you don’t mind my sitting here,” she said. “There are so few available seats.”

That was a lie, but Mandir didn’t mind. “Sit where you like.”

“May I see your tattoo?” she asked.

He turned to her and let her scrutinize his face in the moonlight.

She pouted. “I do not recognize it. Clearly you were ruling caste before you joined the Coalition, but your mark is not that of an arbiter, or a tax collector, or anything else we have in Hrappa. What were you raised to be, before you became an initiate?”

“Professional zebu’s ass,” said Mandir.

The woman laughed. “Do you think I could find such work? It would suit me.”

Mandir shrugged. “It’s not as enjoyable as it sounds.”

She cocked her head. “And why is that?”

He held up his goblet. “You end up drinking alone at parties.”

“Pardon me if I mistake the situation,” said the woman. “But you’re not alone now.”

“True.” He touched his wine goblet to hers.

As far as Taya could tell, the gold dust she’d drunk hadn’t done anything at all, but the liquor, on top of the goblet of wine, had made her tipsy. Perhaps that was the secret to the silly custom. Everyone pretended the gold dust was something special, when really all they felt were the usual effects of inebriation. Throwing a little gold dust into the mix allowed them to feel like what they were doing was somehow superior and different from what those provincial, unsophisticated farmers did with their banana beer.

Having spoken with Bodhan and his associates, she wandered about the courtyard, picking up snacks from the trays and searching for a glimpse of the witness or the jackal. So far she’d seen neither. Mandir had ceased to work the room and was now sitting on a bench. It was irritating how often she found herself looking for Mandir. There was something about him that drew her eye.

She moved on, passing by a group of boorish young men who were discussing, loudly, some female conquest. She wished she could put her hands over her ears. Their words were ugly, and she was beginning to be irritated by the constant, ever-present noise of the party. She’d grown up on a farm in quiet and solitude. She could handle noise in small doses, but by now she’d been putting up with it all evening. The men’s words reverberated in her head, like a ball bouncing off the inside of her skull.

She looked around the room, spotted an empty chair in a shady corner, and headed toward it, hoping that a few moments of rest would energize her for more mingling. Two women stepped aside to let her pass, and she came face to face with Zash the banana farmer.

At first she just stared at him, surprised. She hadn’t expected to meet a farmer at this gathering. But Bodhan the cloth merchant was here, and he was artisan caste. So perhaps it wasn’t so much a ruling-caste party as it was a party for the wealthy and influential people of Hrappa.

Zash’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Taya.”

Taya, Taya, Taya, the words echoed irritatingly in her head. “Zash,” she replied. Despite her less than ideal state of mind, she was happy to see him. Here was someone she could relate to, someone who probably found this party as strange and foreign as she did. She wondered if Zash had ever drunk gold dust. “What brings you to such a gathering?”

He shrugged. “If my creditor invites me somewhere, I go. The food and wine are good.”

“Not as good as your banana wine,” said Taya.

“Thank you for saying so.”

Her eyes drifted toward Mandir again, and she saw that he had company—a woman she didn’t recognize. Looking at the pair, she felt discombobulated, like she’d put her clothes on backward. She did not like the look of those two together.

“Taya?” Zash cleared his throat.

She turned back to him. “Did you say something?”

“I was asking if you’d found the jackal yet.”

“No, not yet.” And she had no intention of discussing the case with him. “Are there other farmers here? Or are you the only one?”

“I think I’m the only one. These parties are mostly about the marriage market—merchants and bureaucrats showing off their daughters so they can get good marriage contracts. I usually get an invitation because of my banana farm, but speaking practically, I can’t marry until I settle my debt.”

Debt, debt, debt. Was it an effect of the wine that caused this reverberation? She rubbed her forehead and glanced back at Mandir. He was still sitting with the strange woman. “Have you tried the gold dust?”

“No, that’s only at the high table.” Zash’s eyebrows rose. “Did you try it?”

You, you, you. “Never mind.” She took Zash by the arm and led him toward an unoccupied bench. “Let’s sit down and talk banana beer. Leave these others to their marriage contracts and business dealings.”

In truth, she rather needed to sit down, for the strangest feeling was coming over her. She felt almost numb, as if her body wasn’t her own anymore and she was commanding it from the outside. Words and noises kept bouncing around in her head. And Zash, in addition to being the friendliest face in the room, was looking very kissable just now. He wasn’t Mandir, but he’d do.

Something was wrong with her. In some distant corner of her mind, she knew that. But the rest of her didn’t care.

In a way, Mandir desperately craved what this spoiled ruling-caste woman had to offer. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman physically, and his body was letting him know about the oversight. Furthermore, Taya’s hostility toward him and her complete romantic disinterest had been a slap in the balls. For this pretty young woman to seek him out was balm for his wounded pride. As she escalated the encounter, scooting closer and brushing his hand, he felt himself warming to her.

But no. He was courting Taya, however ineptly, and sleeping with another woman was not going to help matters. For the most part, he’d given up on affairs; he could never seem to find harmony with a woman. While he knew better than to mention Taya or say anything about his unrequited love from the past, somehow the women he slept with sensed that they were not foremost in his life. They knew he dreamed of another.

His attention began to wander, and the woman didn’t back off. Her questions became more insistent. Flood and fire, he didn’t even know her name.

“You’re from Rakigari Temple, is that right?” she was asking. “Is that upriver or downriver?”

“Upriver, on a tributary.” He didn’t feel well; perhaps he’d drunk too much. The woman’s words echoed strangely in his ears, and his hands and feet felt prickly and numb. Meanwhile, his state of sexual arousal had become almost painful. He needed to get away from this woman before he was tempted and did something he’d later regret.

“What is temple life like?” she asked, laying a hand on his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing up. A strange feeling washed over him, as if some pent-up poison in his bloodstream had been freed by the sudden movement. He blinked in confusion. “I need to find my partner.”

“Of course,” she said, looking disappointed.

He glanced over at Bodhan, who was still holding court with a circle of associates, but Taya was not among them. Weaving a little on his feet, he scanned the room. Through the haze of guttering torches, he searched not for her face but for her distinctive sundress. The room’s conversation was bothersome, an echo chamber of irritating noisy reverberations.

Ah! There she was. Sitting with someone. He squinted to see who it was.

Zash the banana farmer. And she was kissing him.

He was dimly aware of the tinkle of shattered ceramics as his wine goblet hit the floor.

Taya wasn’t certain why she’d started kissing Zash. Or had he kissed her first? She wasn’t sure. Her mind had gone so fuzzy and her body so oddly numb that she barely had any idea what was going on. Zash was near, and his body was warm and accommodating. Some faint part of her mind was shouting an alarm, but that dim voice was easy to ignore in the cacophony of echoes and reverberations that enveloped her.

Then the warm body that held her was ripped from her grasp.

She looked up through blurred eyes to see Mandir holding Zash up in the air by his shirt.

She started to protest, but a deep longing overwhelmed her. Heat throbbed, deep in her core.

Mandir tossed Zash aside as if he were a sack of meal.

“Hey!” cried Zash, who stood up, poised to fight. Eyes turned to them from all over the courtyard. Mandir stood his ground, staring down the farmer, who twitched once as if wanting to throw a punch, but he seemed to think better of it. Finally Zash scrambled away.

Mandir sat beside Taya, and she snuggled up to him, laying her head on his massive shoulder. He stroked her hair. She tilted her head back and opened her lips to him. Obligingly, he covered them.

When the kiss was over, he said haltingly, “Something’s not right.”

“I know,” she said, and kissed him again.

“I feel strange. Do you feel strange?”

“Yes.”

“We should leave this place,” he said. “I think. What do you think?”

Taya didn’t care where she was or where she went, as long as it was with him.

Taya’s eyes blinked open to morning sunshine. She felt wretched and sick. Her bladder was full to the point of bursting, and at the same time she was desperately, achingly thirsty. Her mouth was swollen and dry as cotton. She tried to burrow deeper into the bedsheets, but that didn’t help. She would have to get up and relieve herself. Then maybe she could drink some water and go back to bed.

She shifted to untangle herself from the bedsheets, and her leg banged into something solid and warm. She froze. Where was she? Not in her bed, apparently.

Or if she was in her bed, something—or someone—was in it with her.

A wave of paralyzing dread swept over her as she tried to recall something, anything, about the night before. She remembered a party. She remembered drinking gold dust and talking to Mandir. After that, her mind was a blank.

She looked around. This wasn’t her room. It was Mandir’s.

She was in Mandir’s bed. And tangled up in the sheets was the man himself.

Aghast, she flung off the cotton blanket and leapt to her feet—a mistake, she realized, for her sudden movement set her head to throbbing and also woke Mandir. She looked down and saw that she was still in the sundress from last night, which was now badly wrinkled.

Mandir’s sleep-dulled eyes shuttered, and then snapped open as they landed on her. “What are you doing here?”

That was a good question. She wished she knew the answer.

After a few moments in which they contemplated each other in silence, Mandir rose from the bed. He was fully clothed as well, but she could hardly imagine why she’d woken in his bed.

He blinked at her. “Did you—were we—” He stopped and swallowed, then indicated the pitcher on the table with a trembling hand. “Would you like some water?”

Taya fled out the door.

Chapter XXVII

Hrappa

MANDIR’S MOUTH FELT STRANGE, AS if someone had packed it with cotton. Every bit of him felt strange. He had a touch of a headache, perhaps a light hangover, but that didn’t explain the other sensations. And why would he have a hangover when he’d drunk so sparingly? He poured himself a goblet of water and struggled to get it down.

Why in the goddess’s name had Taya been standing in the middle of his guesthouse wearing last night’s half-wrinkled sundress? It appeared she’d been in his bed, but he had no memory of her coming to his room or of anything happening between the two of them. Yet it was clear she’d been there. And in that awkward moment, all he could think to do was ask if she wanted water. What a bollhead he was.

He rubbed the ache from the back of his skull. Thinking was painful. He should clean up, get dressed, maybe eat breakfast if his stomach could handle it. When he was in a more settled frame of mind, he could figure out the situation with Taya.

Stripping off his dirty clothes, he went to his shelves to select clean ones.

He remembered going to the party, and he remembered drinking gold dust at the high table. There’d been some talk about gold dust being an aphrodisiac. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. After putting in his time at the high table, he’d left and sat by himself on a quiet bench. Some woman had come and talked with him. He could remember nothing after that.

But that was the trouble. He had not been thoroughly plowed with drink; he ought to remember. Something was wrong if he didn’t. He was beginning to suspect there had been something mixed in with that gold dust. Something more powerful than alcohol.

He ran a comb through his hair.

She’d been in his bed. Why? What had they done? He could easily imagine himself sleeping with Taya if she had been willing. But she hated him. Even if she had for some reason come to his bed, it seemed unlikely that they’d have taken their clothes off, coupled, and then put their clothes back on before falling asleep. Something had probably happened in his bed. Kissing, perhaps? Touching? But Taya had never wanted to kiss or touch him before. If the gold dust had caused them to lose their heads last night and do something they otherwise wouldn’t have, Taya was likely to be furious.

He picked up his straight razor, but his hands shook too much for shaving. He set it back down. Perhaps he should talk to Taya now rather than later; then he could stop his mind from running around in circles. He wasn’t groomed, but at least he was dressed.

He left the guesthouse through the courtyard door and crossed over to Taya’s house. He knocked gently on the door. “Taya.”

There was no answer.

He knocked a little louder. “Taya. We need to talk.”

“Go back to Rakigari,” she called through the door.

Mandir frowned. This was a bad beginning. Ignoring her command, he opened the door. As he began to push it open, he felt resistance—she’d anticipated him and was trying to force the door closed. But in a contest of raw strength, Taya had no chance. He overpowered her and shoved it open.

Taya backed away. “If you come one step closer to me, I’ll burn you to death. I swear on Isatis’s name!”

Mandir stood still just inside the door. Taya looked a mess. She hadn’t changed clothes, and her hair had lost its headdress. He found himself less affected by her anger than by the sight of her unhappiness. “I want to talk. I don’t know what happened.”

“What happened? You drugged me, that’s what happened!”

Mandir blinked. Had he? No, surely not—drugging a woman required premeditation. He had not planned any such thing, and certainly he had not done it. But someone else might have. “Taya, I did nothing of the sort.”

“Gold dust is not an aphrodisiac—so you told me.” She spat the words at him. “Why did I trust you?”

He swallowed. “Let me get you something. Water? Clean clothes?”

“Go back to Rakigari,” said Taya. “You got what you wanted. Now leave.”

“I’m your quradum. I can’t leave.” His heart thudded a rapid, uneven rhythm against his chest. What did she mean by, you got what you wanted? He didn’t remember anything about last night. Maybe she did.

“I’m ordering you to leave,” said Taya. “I don’t need your protection. The only person in Hrappa I need protection from is you.”

“If I hurt you somehow, I want to know what I did.”

“You planned it, Mandir.”

Mandir found a chair and sat, figuring he would appear less threatening if he didn’t tower over her. No matter how plowed he had been last night, no matter how drugged, if that was what had happened, he couldn’t have forced himself on her. It wasn’t possible. Her command of fire was stronger than his; she would have burned him to a cinder. If he wanted to rape her, he’d have to dose her with kimat first. Kimat lasted from sunup to sunup, or sundown to sundown. If she’d been dosed with it last night, it should still be in effect right now.

“Does your magic work this morning?” he asked.

She eyed him warily. Then she flipped her hand palm up and called a tiny fireball above it.

Mandir sagged with relief. He could not have forced her physically, and given that they’d awakened with their clothes still on, he doubted much of anything had happened. “You think you were drugged last night? I think I was too.”

Taya gave him a contemptuous stare. “I cannot believe your shamelessness.”

“Even if I wanted to force myself on you, I couldn’t,” said Mandir. “Your magic is stronger than mine.”

“Which is why you drugged me.”

“I swear on the Mothers’ names, I did not. Help me reconstruct the evening, because there’s something wrong with my memory of last night. I remember almost nothing after leaving the high table.”

Hatred shone in her eyes. “That’s awfully convenient.”

“It’s not at all convenient,” he snapped, “when I’m trying to defend myself.”

“You encouraged me to drink that gold dust, and you knew what it did,” said Taya. “Then you took advantage.”

“No.” Mandir shook his head emphatically. “Gold dust doesn’t do those things. It’s not an aphrodisiac, and it doesn’t cause...mind blanking.”

Two lines appeared in the middle of her forehead, and he knew he’d managed to plant some doubt. If they’d both been drugged, and he suspected they had, she would have suffered the same memory loss that he had. That meant she didn’t remember much of last night either.

“I don’t think we slept together,” he said, “We never took our clothes off.”

“How do you know what did or didn’t happen?”

“I don’t!” he said. “Do you remember?”

“Get out,” she snapped. “You’ve had your fun at my expense. Now leave.”

“None of this has been fun—”

“Get out!”

Mandir turned and left the guesthouse.

Chapter XXVIII

Hrappa

TAYA GAVE A SHAKY SIGH. He was gone—finally. She had no memory of what had happened last night, beyond drinking gold dust and then meeting someone. But it was clear that she’d ended up in Mandir’s bed somehow. Had they slept together? She assumed they had. That was what usually happened when people shared a bed. But it was true that they’d awakened with their clothes on.

Her only point of pride about her history with Mandir at Mohenjo Temple was that she’d never slept with him. She’d always stood her ground and refused. Had he won at last, by drugging her and sleeping with her when she was senseless? Maybe he’d put her clothes back on afterward, and his own, to conceal his crime. But that didn’t make a lot of sense. If he’d gone so far as to put her dress back on, wouldn’t he have also returned her to her own bed and eliminated suspicion entirely?

Now she was just confused.

Earlier, she’d pored over her body and smallclothes, checking for blood. Shouldn’t there be blood? She had no experience with sex. Shouldn’t she also be sore this morning, if they’d coupled last night? She wasn’t. The only part of her that was sore was her head.

She poured herself another goblet of water. Her tongue was swollen, and her mouth felt like cotton. Was that a side effect of gold dust? She wished there was someone she could ask. Someone she trusted.

There was not a single person in Hrappa she trusted.

“Taya.”

She jumped at the sudden voice and turned to see Mandir framed in her courtyard window. Anger boiled up through her pores. “I told you to leave.”

“Please,” he said. “I think this is important. Last night, do you remember any strange feelings?”

“I remember almost nothing, thanks to the gold dust you encouraged me to drink.”

“I didn’t encourage you,” he said. “You don’t remember, perhaps, sounds echoing in your head?”

She had opened her mouth to order him away again, but now she closed it. In fact, she did remember something like that. Of course, if Mandir knew about it, that was simply more evidence that he knew the true effects of gold dust.

His eyes lit with interest. “You do remember, don’t you?”

“There was an echoing effect.”

“I experienced it too.”

“Of course you did. You drank the gold dust as well.” She had to wonder, though, why so many people at the party had willingly drunk gold dust, knowing it would produce that echoing effect and cause them to lose all memory of the rest of the evening. She couldn’t imagine doing that voluntarily. But then, these were ruling-caste people. Maybe they liked it.

“It wasn’t gold dust we were drugged with,” said Mandir, “but Echo.”

“Echo?” She’d heard of Echo, a distillation of leaves that some people in the cities liked to drink. It was said to be unhealthy, and it wasn’t used in the rural village where she’d grown up. “How do you know?”

“The symptoms match,” he said. “Loss of self-control, echoing of sounds in the head, memory loss. Someone drugged you with Echo, and that person drugged me too.”

He could be making this up, for all she knew, but Echo seemed a more plausible explanation than gold dust. Still, how did she know Mandir hadn’t been the one to slip her the drug? It made no sense that a third party would have done it. Why would a third party want her to go to bed with her partner? Mandir’s theory was ridiculous. “It may have been Echo. But you were the one who dosed me with it.”

Mandir shook his head. “For most of the evening, I wasn’t even near you. I realize I can’t prove it to you, but I swear I didn’t do it. And that means somebody else did. The obvious suspect is the jackal or someone working with her.”

“The jackal has nothing to gain from drugging me.”

“We don’t know that. Help me, Taya. Reconstruct the evening with me—maybe we can figure something out. Do you remember leaving the high table?”

Taya hesitated. She didn’t like cooperating with him, but there was just enough about the incident that didn’t make sense to make her curious. “Yes.”

“And did you still feel normal then?”

“More or less. I was tipsy.”

“Did you eat or drink anything after leaving the high table?”

Taya shrugged. “A little more wine. Food from the trays.”

“Did anyone give you anything to eat or drink?”

“No,” said Taya.

“I’ll tell you what little I know,” said Mandir. “After I left the high table, I went and sat by myself. I drank some wine and ate some food, and a woman came and sat beside me.”

“What woman?” asked Taya.

“I don’t know her name,” said Mandir. “We talked for a while. She flirted, but I wasn’t interested, and it didn’t go anywhere. Then...”

“Then what?”

Mandir shook his head. “I don’t remember. You?”

“I left the high table,” said Taya. “I wandered through the crowd, searching for the witness or the jackal. I started to feel...”

Mandir looked up. “Feel what?”

Taya’s brow furrowed. “The noise from the party irritated me. Words were echoing in my head. Then I ran into someone I knew—someone unexpected. I was happy to see him. Needleflies, I can’t remember who it was.”

“Zash.”

“Yes! That’s who it was. I sat with him and...talked or something.”

“You kissed him,” said Mandir.

“I did?”

“I think I yanked him off you. I remember that now.” He swallowed. “I think we might have kissed at the party—I’m not sure. And you must have come home with me. But given that we kept our clothes on, I don’t think anything else happened. The Echo probably just put us to sleep.”

Taya felt moderately certain now, based on the clothes and her lack of soreness, that they hadn’t coupled. But they’d certainly slept in the same bed, and if they’d kissed...well, that wasn’t as bad, but it still bothered her. She might have been willing at the time, owing to a certain amount of animal attraction, but only because of the drug she’d been given, which had robbed her of the ability to think clearly. Her body, foolish as it was, had always responded to Mandir. It was her mind that overrode those desires, when it was working properly.

Mandir was the only person in Hrappa with a reason to drug her. “It was you,” she said coldly. “You drugged me with Echo. And I’ll see you burn for it.”

“I’m sorry that it happened,” said Mandir. “But I was drugged too. And I wasn’t the one who gave you the drug.”

“Get out of my window. You’re spoiling the view.”

“I’ll go,” he said. “But think on what I’ve said.”

Taya would rather go for another swim with vicious river dolphins than think any longer about Mandir. To her relief, he disappeared from her window.

Now what should she do? What was done was done; she couldn’t undo it. And she had a jackal to find. The party had yielded nothing, so what should she do next? Speak with more of the farmer families involved in the court cases, perhaps. But those families wouldn’t be available until evening. In the meantime, she could visit the public baths. That thought appealed. She could wash away the smells of the party and of Mandir. As for breakfast, she’d skip it. After last night and this disastrous morning, her stomach was a rumbling, churning disaster.

She went to the shelves to fetch clean clothes from the saddlebag. But as she reached for the bag, her hand paused in the air. Her saddlebags weren’t sitting exactly where they had been before. Had someone gone through her things? Mandir, perhaps?

She pulled the first saddlebag nearer and rifled through it. Right away, she saw what was missing: her mission tablets. All of them. There was not a single clay tablet left in the bags. Who could have taken them? Mandir had no reason to do that.

Maybe she’d taken the tablets out herself and left them somewhere. Mothers knew she was not always organized. She made a frantic tour of her guesthouse, searching the likely places, including the table where she normally did her work, and then the unlikely places. No tablets.

Had Mandir moved them to his own guesthouse for safekeeping? That was possible, but it didn’t seem likely.

She tore open the nearest saddlebag again. Nothing else seemed to be missing. Her clothes were there, her powders, her medicines. She had not been indiscriminately robbed. But that in itself was frightening. Whoever had taken her tablets had come for them specifically.

She opened the second saddlebag. Nothing obvious missing—everything seemed to be in order. She unbuttoned the center-left pocket, where she kept her ceramic bottle of kimat. That pocket was empty.

“Mandir!” she cried. She’d chased him away, but he would not have gone far. Surely he was just at his own guesthouse. She ran for the door, only to jump back as the door slammed open.

Mandir rushed wild-eyed into the room.

“Someone stole my kimat and all the mission tablets.”

Mandir’s jaw tightened. “Show me.”

Taya led him to the shelves with the saddlebags, and demonstrated the telltale evidence.

“Were the tablets and kimat here last night?”

“How would I know?”

“Before we left for the party,” he amended.

“The tablets were here yesterday afternoon,” said Taya. “I don’t know about the kimat. I haven’t checked on it in a while.”

“Let’s see if I still have mine,” said Mandir.

She trailed after him across the courtyard and stepped into his guesthouse. She could not help but glance at the bed where she’d spent the night. Her stomach lurched. But he didn’t pause there; he went directly to his shelves and opened up a saddlebag much like hers, except black in color. He unlaced a pocket and drew out a ceramic bottle.

“Here,” he said, showing it to her.

“So.” Taya blew out her breath in a sigh. “My place was robbed, but not yours.”

“Because mine was occupied and yours wasn’t. Do you believe me now that we were both drugged?”

“I’m not sure what to believe,” said Taya. But the loss of the tablets badly jeopardized their murder investigation, and surely Mandir cared as much about the success of his first-ever Coalition mission as she did. She could hardly believe he’d sabotage his own prospects just to torment her. Mandir never did anything that didn’t in some way serve his personal interest.

“Look, I didn’t drug you last night,” said Mandir. “But I realize I played a part in what happened. I must have taken you back to my room, and for that I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Taya considered. If they had both been drugged, he wasn’t culpable. If that was the situation, then they had both lost their heads under the influence of the drug. The fault lay with whoever had drugged them. She nodded. “For this incident, I forgive you. But don’t ever touch me again.”

When Taya expressed a desire to visit the public baths, Mandir agreed to accompany her. He couldn’t argue with the need for a visit, since the party smells lingered on both of them—incense, wine, smoke from the torches. But he had a feeling that wasn’t why she was going. She wanted to wash away the smell of him.

He was certain nothing of consequence had happened between them last night, aside from a little foreplay that seemed to have gone nowhere. But it was hard to watch her virulent reaction to even the thought of kissing him, when he had dreamed about kissing her—and sleeping with her—for years. In his fantasies, he’d imagined her wildly enthusiastic as he brought her to the heights of pleasure again and again. She would fall asleep in his arms, sated and content. He knew they were only fantasies, and that the reality of sex could be more pedestrian. But it was not part of his fantasy that she should be horrified at having touched him.

Rasik brought their horses around to the front of the guesthouse and gave them a smirk. “Surprised you two are up already, after last night.”

Mandir gave Rasik a hard, humorless stare, and the man left without another word.

Mandir swung up onto his blood bay, and Taya vaulted onto Pepper. He pulled his horse in behind her, letting her lead the way to the baths.

He was familiar with Echo because during the first season of his Year of Penance, he’d cared for several Echo addicts. They were withered and emaciated, like walking skeletons. His mentor explained that they looked that way because Echo made them feel as if they were never hungry. They were starving to death, and they didn’t know it. “You are like them,” his mentor had said. “You believe yourself to be satisfied with your position, your wealth, and your reputation. But in truth you are starving.”

“I am not starving,” Mandir had replied. After all, his body was healthy and well-fed. It had taken him over a season to understand that the man was not talking about food.

Mandir kicked his blood bay into a jog and pulled up even with Taya. “Someone’s got our kimat, and we have to assume their intent is sinister.”

“You needn’t take me for a fool,” she said. “Of course their intention is sinister. Kimat is used to disable the magical. It has no other purpose.”

“From now on, we’ll have to be careful what we eat or drink. You’re aware that it’s tasteless?”

Taya nodded. “Unlike you, I’ve been drugged with it before.”

Mandir frowned. She’d had kimat before because he’d drugged her with it at Mohenjo before putting her in the fire maze. “I’ve had it too, actually. I was forced to drink it every day during my Year of Penance.”

She turned. “Really?”

“That’s part of how the penance is enforced. A small amount every day, to make sure I didn’t use magic.”

“I had no idea.”

“I don’t think we should eat any more of the food the magistrate sends,” said Mandir. “As far as I’m concerned, he and his son are suspects.”

Taya nodded. “We can summon our own water from the air. But what will we eat?”

“We haven’t the means to produce our own food, so we must buy or accept it from someone in Hrappa.”

“Is there anyone we can trust?” asked Taya.

They rode in silence for a while, brows furrowed.

“I’m taking that as a no,” she said. “Perhaps the best we can do is to be unpredictable. Accept food from no one, unless we choose it ourselves. Buy food from farmers and shops in the market, but from someone different each time. And only buy food that’s displayed openly, not something that must be fetched from a back room.”

“Agreed,” said Mandir. He was already working on a new list of suspects, the people who could have drugged them and stolen their kimat. It might have been the jackal, but there was no certainty of that. Other possibilities were someone in the magistrate’s family, or Bodhan, or Zash. They’d all been at the party. Later, he and Taya needed to sit down and make a list of everyone they’d seen there, if they could recall their names. Possibly the magistrate, since he was the host, could help them assemble a list of guests, but given that the magistrate and his son were suspects, Mandir would rather not involve him.

As they passed beneath the twin archways that led to the public baths, a horse galloped up behind them. Mandir spun the blood bay and positioned himself to meet the threat.

But it was only Rasik, panting from the exertion.

“Catch your breath, man,” said Mandir. “Has something happened?”

Rasik said, “There’s been another murder.”

Chapter XXIX

Hrappa

TAYA’S BREATH CAUGHT IN HER throat. “It’s her. The witness.”

The woman lay on the ground in the middle of a cotton field, partially covered by the growing plants. Her limbs protruded at odd angles, as if she’d died instantly and fallen just as she was. Her name was Jaina, according to her brother, who’d been the one to discover her body. She looked no more human, now, than a child’s tattered doll.

On one side of Taya stood Mandir, and on the other stood the victim’s brother. A ring of peasant farmers, some of them family and some just onlookers, crowded close, looking soberly on the scene. A short distance away, the victim’s mother was doubled over and wailing. Two other women were with her, holding her hands.

“What do you mean?” asked the brother. “Witness to what?”

Taya supposed the information could hurt no one now. “This woman witnessed the murder of the magistrate’s son. I saw her in a vision from Isatis.”

A few of the farmers exchanged glances.

“May I examine the body?” Mandir asked the farmers.

Someone slipped out of the group to speak to the mother. Her wailing intensified, but the man returned with a nod.

Mandir pushed the cotton plants aside and gently turned the body over. He lifted her clothes just enough to search for wounds. “Not a mark on her.” He opened her mouth and checked the color of her tongue. Then he lifted her hands and examined them. “No signs of struggle and no obvious cause of death. Are you going to scry?”

“Yes.” Scrying could tell her how this woman had died, and possibly who had killed her. Taya was already putting the pieces together as far as motive was concerned. Whoever had drugged her and Mandir last night had stolen her mission tablets. That person must have read the tablets and discovered Taya’s references to the witness. Then he or she had disposed of the witness. It was logical to guess that this person was the jackal, but Taya wasn’t sure they could make that assumption, especially since the method of attack had changed. Flood and fire had killed the first three victims. It was not apparent what had killed this one. “If I’m going to scry, I need this space cleared.”

Mandir reached for the body, but thought better of it and drew away.

“I’ll get her,” said the brother. He carefully lifted the dead woman out of the tangle of plants and moved away. With a little encouragement from Mandir, the other farmers followed him. They walked back about thirty yards and turned, forming a rough semicircle to watch the scrying.

Taya swept her arms through the air, calling fire in a great swath around her. Mother, you are death and you are rebirth, she spoke in the mother tongue. You are the warmth which sustains us and the punisher who scours sinners’ bones. You are the torch and the candle flame; you are the grass fire that licks across the prairie. I am your humble daughter, who loves and fears you.

The flames around her pulsed yellow, a sign of approval.

One of your daughters perished here. Great Mother, help me learn how it happened.

Images appeared in the fire. Taya saw young Jaina crouched in the fields, plucking weeds from between the cotton plants. No one was in her immediate vicinity, though in the distance other farmers weeded their crops. Jaina raised her head to mop her face, and Taya noticed she didn’t look healthy. She had the stiff, glassy-eyed look of someone in pain. For a while, she continued to work. Then, blinking, she staggered to her feet. Her body cramped. Her muscles bulged, and her limbs bent at strange angles. She fell to the ground, jerking and seizing. After a short while, her body stopped moving. The images disappeared.

Taya extinguished the fire. Thank you, Mother.

Across the field, Mandir and the farmers stared.

Flushed and faint from the proximity of the fire, she headed toward them. It wasn’t Coalition policy to share the content of fire visions with people outside the organization, but in this case she and Mandir needed help interpreting the vision. It had not shown the murderer. “She died of convulsions. Either she was afflicted with a fast-acting illness, or she was poisoned.” She turned to the stricken brother, who held the body. “Help me reconstruct her day. Where had she been before she began her work in this field?”

“At home,” said the brother.

A distant jingling signaled the approach of a zebu-drawn cart, sent by the priests and bureaucrats to collect the body. The farmers fell silent.

“Did she go to the fields alone, or in company?” asked Taya.

“Alone.”

Taya nodded. That left any number of possibilities as to where she could have been poisoned. She could have met the murderer along the way and drank or eaten something he’d given her. Or she might have been poisoned at her own home. “Where did she eat breakfast this morning?”

“She did not eat breakfast,” said the brother.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “We had nothing.”

The cart pulled up, and Taya moved away so that the appropriate rituals could be performed. A priest sprinkled the body with flower petals and then with purified water for the closing of the eyes. She waited as the chants were intoned and the body ritually offered to the Mothers. Jaina’s body was frighteningly thin, which suggested that either she was chronically ill or food was scarce in her family. She’d been farming cotton at the time she died, so her family was probably one of those which had taken out a loan and fallen prey to Bodhan’s greed.

When the body had been loaded onto the cart, Taya pulled the brother aside again. “Had she been ill before now?”

“Not at all,” said the brother.

“Will you show me your house?” she asked.

The brother nodded.

They made a solemn procession back to Hrappa, the zebu cart carrying Jaina’s body and the peasant farmers walking alongside with lowered heads. Taya and Mandir rode horseback, holding their mounts to a mincing walk.

At the gates of Hrappa, the zebu cart departed for the artisans’ district, where the body would be washed and prepared for its funeral pyre, and Jaina’s brother led Taya and Mandir into the farmers’ district. He brought them to a home of mud brick, much like the others except that its thatching had been punched through on one side by the storm and hadn’t yet been repaired. Here Jaina had lived along with her parents, her grandmother, and her siblings. The grandmother and two young children were the only ones at home. Everyone else had gone out to the fields when they’d heard the news, or had already been there working at the time it had happened.

As the still-wailing mother was led across the room to a seat, where her family members surrounded her with hugs and a fresh flow of tears, Taya retreated a step and almost backed into Mandir. He laid a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and almost immediately removed it. She felt the warmth of his body behind her. At first she found it comforting, but then the memories flooded back, her waking unexpectedly in his bed this morning, the argument that had followed. She grimaced.

A young woman, perhaps Jaina’s sister, approached Taya, brushing tears from her eyes. “We greatly appreciate your help. May I get you anything?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Tea? Beer?”

Taya stared at the woman. Her family was obviously poor. They hadn’t had enough to eat breakfast this morning, and for a farmer heading out to work in the fields, that was the day’s most important meal. Why would she offer anything to well-fed Coalition members such as Mandir and herself?

“No, thank you,” rumbled Mandir.

“But we appreciate your kindness,” added Taya. “I’m sorry for your loss. Mandir and I will do everything we can to find and punish the person who murdered Jaina.”

Perhaps that was why this family was so welcoming, as compared to the families they’d visited previously. These people wanted justice. That was something the Coalition could deliver, and without charging a fortune for it. The woman drifted away, returning to her family.

Jaina’s brother stood apart from the rest. Though his face was etched with misery, he seemed the calmest and most resigned of the group. Taya beckoned to him, and he joined her and Mandir.

“What’s your name?” Taya asked.

“Navati,” said the brother.

“Mandir and I need to ask you some difficult questions.”

“I will answer what I can,” said Navati.

“Has your family had a court case up for judgment by the magistrate within the last few years?”

“Yes.”

“What was the court case about?”

“Some years ago we borrowed money from Bodhan isu Kasirum,” said Navati. “But we could not pay it back. Now we farm cotton for Bodhan, and he does not pay us a fair price.”

“So you took your case to the magistrate. Has he ruled on it yet?”

“He ruled against us.”

“Now we come to the part you may not wish to talk about, but it’s important,” said Taya. “Did your family make any sort of private arrangement, concerning the case, with any member of the magistrate’s family? Specifically, with the magistrate’s son who was murdered?”

Navati’s face hardened. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Think carefully. I swear on the Fire Mother’s name that I mean no harm to your family. I intend only to capture and punish the person who killed Jaina. Was there an arrangement that involved Jaina?”

“There was no such arrangement.”

“There are penalties,” Mandir drawled from behind her, “for lying to the Coalition.”

Navati darted a fearful glance up at Mandir. “There was no arrangement. Also, this jackal you are looking for—that is not the person who killed Jaina.”

Taya frowned. How could he possibly know it was not the jackal, unless he had information he wasn’t sharing? “Why do you say that?”

“The jackal kills with fire. This other kills with poison.”

That was true—she’d had the same thought herself—but she couldn’t help feeling that he knew something more, something he wasn’t telling her. “It is not uncommon for a murderer to kill using more than one method.”

His eyes slid away from hers. “The jackal did not kill Jaina. I am certain of this. You must find the person who did.”

“We need to inspect your house,” said Mandir. “Jaina may have been poisoned within these walls.”

Navati nodded and gestured for them to proceed.

Taya went first to the cellar, a cramped, below-ground space crowded with clay jars. She lifted the lid off one jar after another. They were empty. A stray grain or two lurked at the bottoms of some, telling her what they had held in better times: wheat, peas, barley. A wooden cask held a few inches of beer. Mandir smelled it and tasted a drop. He shook his head.

They climbed out of the cellar and searched the house itself. There were only two rooms, the common room where the family slept, and a washroom. In the washroom, they found a ewer of water. Again, Mandir smelled and tasted it. “Not poisoned, at least not that I can taste.”

Finally they went out into the courtyard. Like most Hrappan courtyards, it was fully enclosed by other houses and shared with three other families. In the center was a cook pit filled with ashes. Each family had its own personal garden, encircled by a low rock wall.

A spectacular banana plant grew in the garden belonging to Jaina’s family.

“Look,” said Taya, redirecting Mandir’s attention from the cookpit, where he was inspecting the ashes. “It’s not blighted.”

He nodded.

She walked up to the banana plant to examine it more closely. Its stem was thick and straight, its sail-like leaves wide and unblemished. Coolness drifted down from the plant’s canopy, a blessed relief from the hot sun. The plant carried no fruit at all, but when it was ready to produce, she had no doubt it would do so in spectacular fashion.

Across the courtyard, she spotted a second banana plant, also healthy. “That one’s not blighted, either.”

Mandir nodded. “You’re right. Well, I see no evidence of poison here, or anything else.”

“Yes, but the banana plants...” She couldn’t help but feel that this was important. The family they’d visited two days ago had said that all the farmers’ trees were blighted, except for a few on Zash’s plantation. But here were two flawless, healthy plants. How could the blight not have spread to them? They were close in proximity to the blighted ones she’d seen before, and blight was notoriously contagious.

“Their plants haven’t caught the blight yet,” said Mandir.

Taya frowned. Her farmer instincts told her that was unlikely. “I want to take another look at that plant we saw night before last.”

Mandir grunted. “We’ve got more important things to do.”

“It won’t take long. We needn’t even speak to the family; I can look at the plant from outside their courtyard.”

Taya expected Jaina’s family to be relieved when they said they were leaving, but instead she found herself surrounded by adults and children thanking her and touching fingers. Mandir was similarly mobbed. He was gracious, but she could see that the attention of these strangers made him ill at ease. Just inside the door, the mother ran up to them, carrying a necklace of glass beads. “I am sorry we have nothing more to offer,” she said, pressing the necklace into Taya’s hands. “We are grateful for your help.”

The family left them alone once they were outdoors. Puzzled, Taya examined the necklace. It seemed perfectly ordinary and safe. She collected Pepper from where she was ground tied, and mounted. This family was so friendly and the others so resentful. Why the difference? Was it because their daughter had been killed and they hoped Taya and Mandir would bring her justice? Or was there some other reason?

“Let’s go back to the house and talk this over,” said Mandir.

Taya nodded; maybe Mandir had noticed something she hadn’t. “On the way back, I want to look at that other tree.”

“You’ve seen it before,” said Mandir.

Taya ignored him and neck-reined her mare down to the street where the other family lived, the one which had been so rude to her and Mandir when they’d visited. From her vantage point on Pepper’s back, she could just see over the courtyard wall. She fixed her eyes on the banana plant, whose canopy reached well above the wall. The plant was lush and healthy.

She twisted around, excited. “It’s not blighted anymore.”

Mandir squinted at the tree. “It must be, if it was before. Blight doesn’t heal on its own, does it? Maybe you can’t tell from this distance.”

“No, I know a blighted tree when I see one. That plant is no longer blighted, and that means somebody has healed it.” A terrible thought occurred to her. Her heart pounded. “What if it was the jackal who healed it?”

He kicked his horse over to her side, leaned over, and spoke softly in her ear. “Let’s not speak of Coalition business here. People are about, and they are listening.”

“But this changes everything! Do you see?”

“We’ll discuss it at the guesthouse.”

She nodded, but she could hardly contain her excitement, let alone her fear, at this new discovery. The jackal had healed the plants, and that couldn’t be done without a thorough understanding of the mother tongue. She and Mandir were not dealing with an untrained magic user at all. They were dealing with someone far more dangerous, a mage who’d had Coalition training.

“Come on,” she said to Mandir, and clucked to her horse.

Chapter XXX

Hrappa

TO TAYA’S ANNOYANCE, MANDIR WOULD not go straight home but insisted upon their stopping at the baths first. In the excitement of the morning’s happenings, she had forgotten about bathing. Though she still smelled of smoke and incense from the party, it didn’t bother her as much as it had earlier this morning. This new development in the case, however unfortunate for the young woman and her family, had provided Taya with a distraction from the awkwardness of last night. But now was the best time to bathe, while the pools were fresh and available. When the farmers came in from the fields, there would be hardly room in the baths to move.

When they returned to the guesthouse, clean and sweet-smelling, Taya invited Mandir inside.

“Those banana trees,” she began, just as the door closed. “They were healed by someone with Coalition training.”

“You’re assuming they were,” said Mandir. “But maybe they were never blighted in the first place.”

“No, I didn’t make a mistake. Someone healed the blight, and that’s not something a jackal can do. It requires knowledge of the mother tongue. Our jackal is far more powerful than we thought.”

Mandir said nothing.

“Do you not see? The jackal must have had Coalition training. Either that or knowledge of the mother tongue has leaked out of the Coalition. One way or another, this is a serious problem. We have to notify the elders. Let’s send them a message. I’ll dictate if you’ll write.” She headed for her shelves, where she kept her tablets and stylus—and then remembered that the tablets had been stolen.

“Taya.” Mandir seized her arm. “You don’t want to notify the Coalition elders.”

“We have to tell them.”

“We haven’t found the jackal yet. All the Coalition will know is that someone healed some blighted trees without authorization or payment—and whom do you suppose suspicion will fall upon?”

She blinked. “The jackal.”

“No,” he said. “You and me.”

“They won’t think that.”

“Won’t they?” said Mandir. “Who’s to say the Coalition won’t believe that one or both of us did it? They might go easy on you, but they’ll never go easy on me. I’ve had a Year of Penance already.”

“If we notify them right away, suspicion will be less likely to fall on us.”

Mandir raised an eyebrow. “How naive you are to think that.”

Her cheeks flushed. She hated when he called her naive; it reminded her of all the times she’d been ashamed of her farming family and her lack of education before Mohenjo Temple. She yanked her arm out of his grip. “No matter what, we have to write up that vision Isatis gave me. We can do that now and discuss the other thing later. And I’ll need to borrow one of your tablets.”

Mandir left through the courtyard door and returned with several tablets and a stylus. “You dictate, and I’ll write.”

Taya took a seat at the table. She’d deal with the problem of the mysteriously healed banana plants later, perhaps when Mandir had thought about it a little more and realized how important it was. She hadn’t expected him to be so skittish about the Coalition authorities. “What are we going to do about the missing mission tablets?”

Mandir’s brow wrinkled as he sat across from her. “I don’t know. Maybe rewrite everything.”

Taya made a face.

“You have a better idea?”

“Let’s not rewrite it all just yet,” she said. “I’m not sure that I remember all the details. Let’s just hope that when we find the jackal, we’ll find the missing tablets along with her.”

Mandir smoothed some water over the clay to moisten it, etched the introductory words at the top of the tablet and looked at Taya expectantly. “All right, your vision. Begin.”

She recounted the vision to him in as much detail as she could remember. This one was less involved than the first, and thus easier. She finished her dictation in twenty minutes, and Mandir needed only one tablet to write it down.

As he etched the final words into the clay and picked up the tablet to scan for errors, someone knocked at the door.

It was Rasik, carrying two trays of food. He shoved one of them at Taya. “Lunch.”

Taya did not take the tray. Instead, she glanced back guiltily at the breakfast tray a servant had delivered earlier, which she had moved to a shelf and ignored. She inhaled the rich scents of peas and onions and roasted lamb from lunch, and her stomach rumbled.

Mandir rose from the table. “Sorry,” he told Rasik. “We don’t want you to bring food anymore.”

Rasik’s mouth opened. “But it’s already prepared.”

“We meant to say something earlier,” said Mandir. “Please give it to someone else. And don’t send us any more.”

Rasik bristled. “Is something wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all,” said Mandir.

Rasik paused, as if waiting for Mandir to say something more. When he didn’t, Rasik sniffed in exasperation, turned, and left. Mandir closed the door behind him. He picked up the tablet and waved it in the air to help dry the clay. “Where should I put this?”

Taya took the tablet and went to her saddlebags to pack it away, not that placing it in the saddlebags was any guarantee it wouldn’t be stolen the way the rest of the tablets had been. Inwardly, she lamented the loss of a tasty-looking lunch. “You said you would tell me sometime why Rasik was angry all the time.”

“Oh. Are you aware he’s the magistrate’s son?” Mandir sauntered to her water pitcher and reached to pour himself a glass. Then he caught himself and put the pitcher down. He seized an empty cup, examined it inside and out, and began to swirl it as he called water from the air.

“His son? Surely not.” Thirsty now herself, she picked up a cup of her own and began calling water too.

“Ah, so you didn’t know.”

She blinked. “Rasik is a brother to Kalbi and Hunabi?” That didn’t seem possible.

“Half-brother,” said Mandir. “He’s a bastard, like me.”

“How do you know this?”

Mandir shrugged. “It’s a ruling-caste thing. Have you wondered yet what caste Rasik is? He’s a servant, and yet he’s educated.”

Now that she thought about it, she had no idea. If forced to guess, she would opt for artisan caste. But he wasn’t obsequious around his ruling-caste betters. “All right, what is he?”

“He has no caste—or, rather, he has a half-caste, which amounts to little. Ruling-caste bastards are raised as high-class family servants. That’s what Rasik is. And that’s what I was meant to be, a servant in the royal palace.”

Mandir as a servant—that was an image she couldn’t visualize. “Meant to be. So what happened?”

“Tufan happened,” said Mandir. “He rebelled against the family and set up a separate household, which he peopled with his bastards. I wouldn’t say he regarded us as servants, exactly. We were more like...entertainment.”

Taya wrinkled her brow. “Why the ruling-caste tattoo, if you’re only half-caste?”

“Tufan again. Bastards aren’t supposed to have it, but Tufan gave it to us to spite his brothers.”

“He sounds like a zebu’s ass.”

Mandir snorted. “He is a herd of zebu’s asses crammed into one man.”

“You’re an improvement on him,” said Taya, realizing as she said it that she was admitting out loud that Mandir had some good qualities. Well, he did have good qualities; her hatred had subsided enough for her to acknowledge that. Unfortunately he had a lot of bad ones to go along with them.

“I should hope I am,” said Mandir. “But to improve on Tufan is to hop over a pebble. One needn’t exert oneself much.”

Taya looked into her cup and frowned. She’d managed to call only an inch of water so far.

Mandir smiled and poured the small amount of water he had summoned into her cup.

She felt a little guilty at this gesture, since he had to be thirsty too, but it was poor manners to decline a gift. She lifted the cup and drank. “So Rasik is angry...why, exactly?”

“He resents the whole situation,” said Mandir, swirling his cup again. “He’s the magistrate’s son, just like Kalbi and Hunabi, but instead of receiving respect and an inheritance, he has to fetch and carry and obey their orders. Shall we go to the market? I’m hungry.”

“Wait,” said Taya. “If Rasik is so angry, could he be a murder suspect?”

“As far as I’m concerned, everyone in this town is a murder suspect.”

“No, listen to this. If Kalbi and Hunabi both die, what happens to Rasik? Does he then become his father’s heir?”

“Possibly,” said Mandir. “If the magistrate designates him so.”

“The magistrate is ill,” said Taya. “He’ll be dead inside of the season. So if Rasik wants to supplant his brothers, he has to act quickly. Could he have killed one and be plotting to kill the other?”

“Maybe.”

She cocked her head. “You don’t think it likely?”

Mandir shrugged. “I don’t think Rasik is a murderer. His anger is on the surface and honest. If he were plotting something, I think he’d be more circumspect.”

“Maybe he’s not very smart.”

“That’s not the impression I get,” said Mandir. “Shall we go to the artisan district and buy something to eat?”

Taya nodded. “After that, we need to sit down and go over the case again. A lot has changed since last night.”

“Agreed,” said Mandir.

Chapter XXXI

Hrappa

BACK AT THE GUESTHOUSE, WELL fed after a late lunch in the artisan district, Taya slid into her chair.

Mandir took up a stylus and a fresh tablet and sat across from her. “Let’s figure this out,” he said. “What do we have so far?”

Taya leaned forward and propped her chin in her hands. She hoped this exercise of Mandir’s turned up something, because if it didn’t, she had no idea how to proceed from here. “Four murders, one drugging, one theft, and too many suspects. Also not enough suspects. None of them look like the woman I saw in my vision.”

“Since the fourth murder and the drugging didn’t involve the use of illegal magic, let’s assume we’re dealing with two separate people,” said Mandir. “We’ll call them the jackal and the poisoner.” He wrote JACKAL and POISONER at the top of the tablet and drew lines in the clay to create a column for each.

Taya eyed the perfectly straight lines of his columns. The man was meticulous to a fault. “You think the poisoner was the one who killed Jaina?”

“For now I’m making that assumption,” said Mandir, “because it happened after the poisoner stole our mission tablets. But I could be wrong. What do we know about the jackal so far?”

“She’s a young woman,” said Taya. “And judging by her clothes, probably farmer caste. I think the other farmers, at least some of them, know who she is but aren’t telling us.”

“You know farmers are the least likely to be blessed with the Gift. Speaking from a numbers perspective, our jackal is more likely to be artisan or ruling caste.”

“Still, it happens,” said Taya. “Farmers can be born with the Gift. I’m proof of that.”

Under the JACKAL column, Mandir wrote YOUNG WOMAN, then beneath that, FARMER CASTE (?). “All right, the poisoner. What do we know about him? Or her.”

“The poisoner was at the magistrate’s party, so he’s probably artisan or ruling caste. He must have money since he possessed Echo.”

“You’re assuming it’s a man, but I’ve heard poison is a woman’s weapon.”

Taya sat back in her chair and rubbed her temples. “It could be either. Whoever it is, he doesn’t want us to find the jackal. He will kill to stop that from happening. And he took our kimat, which means he intends to harm us. Or possibly he means to harm the jackal.”

Under the POISONER column, Mandir wrote WEALTHY and then AT MAGISTRATE’S PARTY. “Anything else?”

Taya looked with displeasure at the paltry list. After seven days of investigation, this was all they had? “I can’t think of anything. And this isn’t much to go on.”

“We’ve got a lot of information; we just haven’t put it together yet.” Mandir frowned at the tablet. “I’m not seeing anything useful here. Let’s try another approach.” He took a fresh tablet and wrote, at the top, PERSONS OF INTEREST. Beneath that, he drew four columns and labeled them KALBI, BODHAN, ZASH, and RASIK. “All right, Kalbi. Could he be either the jackal or the poisoner?”

“Not the jackal,” said Taya. “Because he’s neither a woman nor a farmer. He could be the poisoner.”

“He had opportunity to poison us at the party,” said Mandir. “But did he have motive?”

“Flood and fire, I don’t know. His motive could be related to the court cases somehow. He did have a motive to kill his brother Hunabi. But that was the jackal’s crime, not the poisoner’s. Unless we’ve got it all wrong.” The words on the tablet blurred before her eyes. Maybe none of their assumptions were right. Maybe they had nothing at all.

Mandir picked up his stylus and flicked a stray bit of clay off the table. “How about Bodhan?”

“He can’t be the jackal either. None of the people you’ve listed on that tablet can be the jackal. They’re all men.”

“Could Bodhan be the poisoner?”

“I suppose. He’s wealthy and he was at the party. But we have the same problem with him as we did Kalbi. No clear motive.”

“I can think of a motive,” said Mandir. “Bodhan’s been cheating farmers by loaning them money at exorbitant rates and then forcing them to produce cotton for him at below-market prices. Two of the victims appear to be associated with this practice in some way: Hunabi, who apparently took sexual advantage of the people involved, and Narat, who is Bodhan’s own daughter. Could the jackal be enacting some sort of vigilante justice against Bodhan?”

Taya considered. That made some sense, but already she could see problems. “If the jackal’s motive is to punish Bodhan, or stop him from exploiting these families, why kill his daughter? It would be more effective, even more just, to kill Bodhan himself. Plus there’s the third victim, Zash’s sister, Amalia, who doesn’t fit the pattern at all.”

A line appeared in the middle of Mandir’s forehead. “She’s marginally related. Zash owes Bodhan money as well.”

“Let’s assume for the sake of argument that you’re right about the jackal in that she’s trying to stop Bodhan or at least carry out some sort of vengeance upon him. If that’s the case, why would Bodhan want to interfere with our investigation by stealing our tablets and killing the witness? He should want us to find the jackal.”

“Unless our finding the jackal will lead us to information he doesn’t want discovered.”

“We already know what he’s doing to the farmers,” said Taya. “And while it’s unethical, I don’t think it’s illegal.”

“Maybe he’s doing more that we don’t know about.”

Taya shrugged. She didn’t have a strong feeling about Bodhan being the poisoner, but Mandir’s logic made a modicum of sense. “All right. He’s our best suspect for the poisoner so far. Let’s move on to the others. What about Zash?”

Mandir sniffed. “There are a lot of things that bother me about Zash, beginning with the fact that he apparently chained his sister to the bed in that weird house in the middle of the banana plantation.”

“His mad sister,” she amended.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Mandir. “It also bothers me that Amalia’s murder doesn’t fit the pattern of the other two murders.”

“So what do you think happened? Zash murdered his mad sister because she was inconvenient? And covered up his crime by making the scene look like the jackal did it?”

“Exactly that,” said Mandir.

“Even if he did kill his sister, it doesn’t make him either the jackal or the poisoner.”

“The jackal, no. But the poisoner...well, consider this. If Zash killed his sister, he has a very good reason for wanting us not to find the jackal. Because if we find the jackal and question her, we may learn that she didn’t commit that third murder.”

Taya gritted her teeth. That was the most sensible bit of reasoning she’d heard all afternoon, and she didn’t want to believe it, because she liked Zash. Yet she couldn’t ignore the possibility that Mandir could be right. “He fits the profile. He’s wealthy, and he was at the party last night.”

“And he kissed you after you’d been drugged.”

Which she didn’t remember, at least not in detail, but apparently Mandir did. There was something very wrong about all that. Why would Zash kiss her? Had she led him on at the party? She had no memory of doing so, although who knew, given the Echo amnesia. She did find him attractive.

What if the poisoner had never intended for her to sleep with Mandir that night? What if he’d intended something else entirely? Her stomach knotted. Raising her eyes to Mandir’s, she said, “Here’s a possibility. Maybe Zash drugged both of us, but his intention wasn’t for us to sleep with each other. It was for me to sleep with him.”

Mandir’s body became very tense. The stylus dropped onto the table with a thud. “Flood and fire. He wanted you to take him back to your guesthouse. Then when you were asleep and under the influence of the Echo amnesia, he would steal your tablets and your kimat and leave.”

“But if he intended that, if that was his plan—and I’m not saying it was—why would he drug you as well?” asked Taya.

“To stop me from interfering,” said Mandir. “And from remembering anything I’d seen that might incriminate him. You know, there was a woman at the party that night who tried to seduce me. She could have been working with Zash to distract me. Or not. I’m just not sure.” He rose from his chair and began to pace.

“I hate to say it,” said Taya. “But I think Zash is our top suspect, given the information we have.”

“Shall we go on to Rasik?” asked Mandir.

Taya glanced at the window. They were running out of daylight. “We’ve got no case against Rasik whatsoever. Our only evidence against him is that he’s angry at the world, and if that’s a crime, half the population of Hrappa would be guilty. I think we need to pay another visit to Zash, and the sooner the better.” Before the poisoner found an occasion to use the stolen kimat. “But if Zash is the poisoner, how does the jackal fit into all this?”

“I don’t know,” said Mandir. “Perhaps we’ll find out.”

Chapter XXXII

Hrappa

MANDIR SQUINTED AT THE SUN as they cantered across the plains. It glowed sullen and hazy above the horizon, staining the flooded fields red. The farmers were still at work, but soon they’d be heading back to town. He and Taya would have to move quickly if they wanted to get back into Hrappa before the gates closed for the night.

Taya pulled up Pepper to let the mare catch her breath. As Mandir came alongside, he slowed his own horse to a walk. No sense exhausting the horses when the creatures had a return trip ahead of them.

“Tell me about your Year of Penance,” said Taya.

He hesitated. “Why do you want to know about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

All kinds of reasons. Until now, she’d shown no interest at all in him as a person; she seemed determined to demonize him. But then he couldn’t blame her. During those years at Mohenjo, he had been a demon. “What would you like to know?”

She shrugged. “You said it changed you.”

“It did.”

“How so? And why?” asked Taya.

It was hard to put into words exactly what about that Year had changed him. Yet it had, and thoroughly. He’d never spoken to anyone about this before; it was intensely personal, and it embarrassed him a little. “I can’t say exactly why it had the effect it did.”

“What were you made to do? Manual labor?”

“No. Well...yes, some of it was manual labor. Not like what you’re thinking,” said Mandir. “I cleaned clothes and dishes and rooms. I prepared food for sick people. My assignment was to help a doctor in the city outside Rakigari.”

She looked at him sidelong. “You said you took kimat every day. You wouldn’t have had magic for healing.”

“This doctor wasn’t Coalition. He healed without magic, and so did I.”

“Healing without magic doesn’t work.”

“For the ailments this doctor dealt with, it did,” said Mandir. “Many of his patients weren’t so much sick in their bodies as they were sick in their hearts.”

She turned to him, looking perplexed.

“Some of them were Echo addicts.”

Her eyes brightened with understanding. “That’s why you know about Echo.”

Mandir nodded. “Yes. Do you know what Echo does? I mean, obviously you know what it does in the short term because you ended up taking it, as did I. But we had only a single dose. When you take Echo repeatedly, like those people did in Rakigari, your body begins to waste away. Echo addicts don’t eat. Eventually they starve.”

Her brows rose. “Why would someone drink something that makes them starve?”

Mandir smiled. She was made of strong stuff if the notion of self-injury was foreign to her. He’d certainly made her miserable enough at Mohenjo to tempt her down that dark path. But farmers were tough. He, on the other hand, had been tempted by Echo many times. “Some people are so unhappy, so sick in their hearts, that they don’t want to live anymore, at least not in a way that’s fully conscious. They prefer the living death of Echo.”

“I never considered Echo,” she said. “But I did sometimes feel that way at Mohenjo. Sick at heart.”

He felt a stab of guilt. His fault, that she’d been unhappy. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her, if she would let him. “I’m sorry.”

Taya was silent, riding beside him.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he added, “I wasn’t happy at Mohenjo either.”

“Flood and fire.” She rolled her eyes. “You had no cause to be anything but overjoyed at Mohenjo. You had friends, and everyone respected you.”

He stared at the blood bay’s neck in front of him, unable to meet her eyes. “It’s true that I had friends and respect, of a sort.” If one could call those friends; they’d been more like uneasy allies. As for the others respecting him, he would say more accurately that they feared him. It wasn’t the same. “Yet I wasn’t happy.”

“If I’d had the advantages you had, I’d have been deliriously happy,” said Taya. “If you were miserable, it was your own fault.”

“It was my fault,” he admitted, staring at the blood bay’s mane. The lower half of the mane draped to the left side of the neck and the upper half to right. He reached forward and fixed it, placing all the mane on the left. “The doctor I worked with during my Year of Penance told me I was starving like those Echo addicts I helped care for. I laughed at him. Obviously I wasn’t starving. I was well fed and healthy. He later explained that I wasn’t starving for food, but for the Mothers’ embrace.”

Taya looked perplexed. “What did he mean by that?”

“Since the Great Atrocity, we have been abandoned—all of us—by the Mothers. And we need them. We crave them. There’s a hole inside each of us that will never be filled.”

“Of course. We pay the price for our ancestors’ crime all of our days, but what can anyone do about it but keep on as best we can?”

“Neshi taught me—that’s the doctor’s name—that you fill that hole by loving and caring for others.” He turned away. “I know you think it’s silly. But as I cared for those sick, unhappy people, I began to feel more content with myself. And I came to understand that I had done everything wrong at Mohenjo, absolutely everything. I was cruel to people. I damaged them—you most of all—and every bit of damage I inflicted was reflected back in wounds upon myself. Upon my soul, if you will. I made that hole wider and deeper. The more I longed to fill it, the nastier I became. You know how it ended.”

She gave a brusque nod.

“During my Year of Penance, I learned how to fill that hole by helping people. By being kind instead of cruel.”

Taya looked him askance. “Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical. You, Mandir, are the last person in the valley I would ever expect to come to such a conclusion.”

Mandir shrugged. “In Tufan’s household, I learned how to dominate, how to manipulate, how to control. In a limited sense, those skills served me well: they brought me status and success. But they also brought me misery, and I have to tell you that Tufan himself has never been a happy man. From Neshi I learned a new way to exist. I’m not good at it yet. I have decades of unlearning to do. I’m stumbling around blind, and I must ask forgiveness for my missteps. But I feel that at long last I’ve found the right path. It’s a hard path, a confusing one, but already it pleases me better than the other.”

He glanced at Taya. Her brows were raised. She looked half doubting and half intrigued. Finally she said, “If you’re telling the truth, there’s more to you than I thought there was.”

As they left the floodplains and began the rocky ascent to the high ground where Zash’s plantation lay, Taya thought about the man riding silently at her flank. Mandir was full of surprises today. She had never considered that he might have taken his punishment, the Year of Penance, at all seriously. She’d always supposed he would just shoulder his way thoughtlessly through it, doing what he had to do, rolling his eyes all the while at the injustice of a royal’s son having to atone for his misbehavior.

Yet the work he’d done during his Year of Penance seemed to have moved him. He was charmingly shy in speaking about it, unable to articulate exactly what he had come to understand about himself. Still, it was clear that the experience had changed him. She’d been seeing signs of it almost since the day she came to Hrappa, but she had not believed it; she’d thought for sure he was employing a ruse to gain her trust so that he could torment her some more. She had not thought a man so prone to cruelty and intimidation could ever learn to find harmony with others.

The slope that led up to Zash’s plantation grew steeper. Pepper, never a horse to shirk her duty, leaned into the work, picking her way up the hill at a trot. Taya placed herself forward over the mare’s neck to aid her in the climb.

“Let me go ahead of you,” said Mandir, surging forward on his blood bay. “I’m not sure we’re entirely safe on Zash’s land.”

She let her quradum pass, admiring him as he went. Mandir had never lacked for physical appeal; she’d admired him since the day she met him at Mohenjo Temple. It had never been his form that disgusted her; only his cruelty.

The blood bay disappeared over a final outcropping of rock. Then Pepper gathered herself and made the leap.

On level ground, Taya pulled up the mare. Ahead of her stood Zash’s sprawling wasp’s nest of a house. An evening breeze feathered the fronds of the date palms that flanked the entryway, and she shivered despite the heat. She saw neither Zash nor any of his workers near the house, and it worried her that she didn’t know where the man was. If he had their kimat, he could be dangerous.

“How are we going to do this?” asked Taya in a low voice. “Do we accuse him directly?”

“Not yet, I think,” said Mandir. “I want to search his house before we make any assumptions. We don’t know for sure that he was involved.”

Palm fronds rustled. Normally a homey sound, this evening it felt menacing, like the rattling of dry bones.

“I doubt he’s at home,” she said. “Not with the sun still up.”

Mandir hopped off his horse. “Stay where you are for the moment. I’ll go and see.” He pulled the reins over the blood bay’s head and gave them a gentle tug to ground tie the animal. He approached the front door and knocked.

Taya waited in silence, but nobody answered. Perhaps they should look for Zash in the banana fields. She slid off Pepper, who whickered and nudged her arm.

Mandir knocked again. “Nobody home.”

“We can check the fields,” said Taya.

Pepper started at something and leapt sideways. Taya, who had the reins wrapped loosely around her hand, was taken by surprise and dragged a few steps along with the mare.

“Easy,” she said as the mare flung her head into the air. The whites of her eyes showed.

The blood bay, a more placid horse, merely lifted his head in concern.

“You all right?” asked Mandir. He started to walk in Taya’s direction, then turned suddenly and slapped at his rear end as if stung by a needlefly. Normally they were river creatures, not found at this elevation, but perhaps they liked the water in Zash’s irrigation system.

“Something get you?” she asked.

Then pain erupted in Taya’s hip. She swatted at what she thought was another needlefly, and her hand touched something small and hard. A tiny dart, harsh and alien, protruded from her flesh.

“Mandir,” she started to say, and fell to the ground.

Chapter XXXIII

Mohenjo Temple, Six Years Ago

TAYA WOKE WITH FIRE ROARING all around her and scrambled, panicked, to her feet. Where was she? Last she remembered, she had been in bed. But now she stood on black dirt, surrounded by flames. They traveled along straight lines, forming corners with perfect right angles. This was no wildfire; it was someone’s creation. There was an opening at one end, like a hallway she was meant to enter. Or was she?

She shook sweat from her dampened hair. The heat was a living thing, palpable. As panic bubbled up within her, she forced it back down. She had the Gift—she could invoke the mother tongue and control fire, even a fire as large and powerful as this one. There was no reason to be frightened. Could this be some kind of Coalition trial she hadn’t been told about? Her instructors had said she was unusually gifted at handling fire; perhaps this had something to do with that.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she turned in a circle to see if there was more than one opening in the room of fire. No, there was only the one, a flaming hallway that beckoned. Perhaps it was a trick, and she was not to enter it.

How had she come to be here? She remembered eating dinner with the other initiates. Then she’d gone up to her room for the nightly ritual of practicing her letters. She’d become sleepy and gone to bed early, still in her clothes. She was wearing those clothes now.

If this was a trial, perhaps she was supposed to use her magic to turn back the fire. She spoke a few sharp words of the mother tongue, commanding the flames around her to extinguish themselves. But her mouth felt dull and dry, and though the words came, Isatis did not answer them.

Taya’s heart beat rapidly. Don’t panic, she told herself. You can figure this out. What had happened to her magic? Was this a test of control, to determine if she could use her magic effectively in a frightening situation? She tried to call a bit of flame onto the palm of her hand, a trivial bit of magic that required only a twist of her mind and no mother tongue at all.

Nothing happened. Her magic was dead.

The hallway of flame seemed to be the only answer. Trembling, she moved into it. The fiery walls formed a sort of corridor which bent to the right and then opened into two possible pathways. She was in a maze. Why would her instructors place her here with no warning and no explanation? She was going to have to mark her path if she didn’t want to get lost. She used her toe to draw a number one in the dirt and an arrow pointing toward the right-hand path.

She entered it.

A terrible roaring noise leapt up behind her. She turned, barely suppressing a shriek of terror. A fire wall now stood between her and the place she’d been.

What was happening? If this was a maze, some sort of Coalition trial, it seemed to follow no reasonable set of rules. How was she to navigate a maze when she couldn’t backtrack? Her heart hammered against her chest. This didn’t seem like anything her instructors would create. This was starting to look more like someone’s elaborate attempt to torment her, maybe even kill her. And if her guess was right, she knew exactly who was behind it. But surely Mandir would not go so far as to burn her to death. There had to be a way out.

Having no other choice, she followed the path before her. It forked again, into three possible directions. She marked the ground, this time with a “two,” and drew an arrow toward the center path. She entered that, and again a fire wall rose up behind her, preventing her from returning whence she came.

The maze didn’t look as well-formed now as it had before. The flaming walls had risen so high they’d joined at the top, and they were no longer confined to their straight lines. A smattering of flame had escaped from the right-hand wall and licked its way across the path in front of her. She could no longer see the night sky above her, and the air was getting smoky.

She had to get out, or she would suffocate.

Leaping over the flames on the ground, she ran ahead to the next intersection, hoping desperately to find an exit. Instead, she found two ill-defined pathways, one filled with choking smoke and the other a mess, with flames on the ground. Neither path could be navigated. Frantic, she spoke in the mother tongue, desperate to extinguish the fire, but still Isatis did not answer her.

Coughing, she ran back the way she’d come, but the conditions had deteriorated even more. The fire wall still blocked her way, and the smoke was so thick she could barely see. Every breath she took wracked her with a fit of coughing. Gasping, she fell to her knees.

All around her, the flames crept closer.

Chapter XXXIV

Hrappa

AS TAYA CLAWED HER WAY to consciousness, the flames surrounding her drizzled away. She lay quietly for a moment, panting against the hard, gritty surface beneath her cheek. It had been years since the fire maze nightmares had haunted her. She’d thought herself rid of them, but perhaps seeing Mandir had brought them back. As her breathing returned to normal, gooseflesh rose on her arms. Her skin was clammy with sweat, and she shivered. Why was she cold?

She opened her eyes to darkness. She was lying on a dirt floor. That ruled out the Hrappan guesthouse. The ache of her muscles told her that wherever she was, she’d been here for a while. She tried to move and felt something heavy on her wrists. Also on her ankles. Was she chained? She felt her wrists and found the cold bronze shackles. Flood and fire. She followed the links to where they originated, a stone wall. A tug on the chains told her they were solidly mounted, not something she could tug free.

Where was she? She had little sense of how large the space was around her. It could be small or it could be enormous. “Mandir?” she called tentatively.

Chains clanked nearby. “Taya?” He sounded weak. For some reason, that frightened her even more.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Can you see?”

“No, it’s black as a thundercloud in here. Where are you?”

She stretched toward his voice, fumbling in the dark to the end of her chains. His searching hand found hers and clamped onto it. At his touch, she almost wept with relief. He scooted closer. She clutched his arm so hard she heard him wince. But he did not pull away. Instead, he drew her into a makeshift embrace, the best they could manage on a dirt floor while shackled, her back against his chest.

For a moment, she just lay there, taking comfort in his big body around her and trying to slow her panicked breathing. He was cold, too, but as they lay together she felt herself beginning to thaw.

“Is this all right?” asked Mandir. “My touching you.”

She had not always welcomed his touch, but right now she did. The thought of his releasing her and disappearing into the blackness terrified her.

She swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

“I think I’ve been drugged again,” said Mandir. “My mind’s fuzzy. Yours?”

Taya felt a little nauseous, and her breathing was too fast, but her head seemed to be more or less in order. If she’d been drugged with Echo again, its effects seemed to have worn off. What did she remember? Riding Pepper up the hill and arriving at Zash’s homestead.

The dart in her hip.

“I don’t feel the effects of any drug, but perhaps it’s worn off. I think Zash took us prisoner.” She rubbed her hip and found a little knot there, inflamed and sore.

“Right,” said Mandir. “I’m starting to remember now. Zash. That zebu’s ass.”

“Where do you suppose we could be?” She tried to summon fire, just enough to illuminate their surroundings, but Isatis did not answer her call. Sweat broke out on her palms. No wonder she’d dreamed of the fire maze. Once again, she was trapped, with no ability to influence her surroundings. “Mandir, my magic’s gone. Is yours?”

He lifted his hand off her body, and she felt him moving as he tested his magic. She hoped beyond all sense of reason that somehow Zash had made a mistake, that he’d drugged only her with the kimat and not both of them. “Yes. It’s gone.”

Her heart sank.

“Kimat, I assume,” said Mandir. “Let’s hope the dose wasn’t too high. I don’t know where we are, except that it must be underground. Why would a banana farmer even have a place like this?”

“To lock up his mad sister?”

“I thought that was the burned-out house.”

“Flood and fire, who knows.” She wasn’t sure what to think. This could be Zash’s wine cellar, perhaps. Or did he have a clandestine prison hidden on his property, somewhere away from the house? The theory she’d reluctantly come up with, that Zash had meant to drug her and sleep with her and steal her kimat, appeared to be right in its essentials. Now she and Mandir were wholly within the man’s power. Her breathing accelerated. “What do you think he wants from us?”

Mandir hugged her closer. “Stay calm. I don’t know what he intends, but he can’t mean to kill us because he’d have done that already.”

“What use can he have for us alive?”

“Many possibilities,” said Mandir. “We’re Coalition mages. But stop worrying and try to rest. It may be a long time before he comes for us.”

Taya laid her head in the crook of his shoulder, trying to calm herself, but she couldn’t do it. She was breathing like a bird, her breath darting in and out of her throat. She was going to die down here. It was her first Coalition mission, the beginning of her new, independent life after all the hard work of Coalition training. She was going to die in a hole with Mandir, and no one would ever find their bodies.

“Banana girl,” came Mandir’s soft voice in the dark. “I told you about my Year of Penance. It’s your turn to tell me something.”

She swallowed again, dry-mouthed. It was clear what Mandir was trying to do. He meant to distract her and take her mind off her fear. It wasn’t going to work, not with her trapped in the dark without her magic. This was the fire maze all over again, just without the fire. “What can I tell you? I’m a farm girl.”

“When did you discover your Gift, and how did your family react?” He rested his cheek against hers. It was rough with stubble, an indication that a fair bit of time had passed since they’d left the guesthouse. That scared her all over again.

Surrounded by Mandir’s heat and strength, she managed to quiet her breathing. What did she remember of her childhood? Those memories were so distant, and they hardly seemed relevant. “I’m not sure when my Gift showed up because I’d always been good with fires. I was the fire-minder of the family, and I can’t remember a time when my parents didn’t say, Fire’s out—get Taya. I would stare into the flames for hours.”

“Did Isatis send you fire visions?”

“Not at all, I just liked to watch the flames leap and cavort. They seemed such happy, carefree things. I had developed a talent for keeping a fire going with a minimum of fuel, and banking it just right in the evening, rousing it well in the morning. At some point I stopped using flint and tinder—it just didn’t seem necessary. I learned that I could call the fire, and it would answer. I had no idea I was performing magic.”

“Come, now,” said Mandir. “How could you not know?”

“Magic wasn’t something I thought about. Nobody from my village had ever developed the Gift, not in living memory, so why should I even consider the possibility? The day finally came when my mother caught me calling fire without flint and tinder. I thought calling fire was normal, something anyone could do with enough practice, but my mother knew better. She screamed and ran for my father. They had a loud argument, and when I tried to follow them and hear what they were saying, they closed the door and spoke in low voices. Two weeks later, a pair of Coalition ilittu arrived at our village and asked to see me summon fire. They tested me on some other things too, such as manipulation of water—”

“I went through those same tests,” said Mandir.

“They decided I was, indeed, blessed with the Gift, and took me from my family.”

“Do you miss them?” asked Mandir. “Your family.”

“Of course,” said Taya. “My parents were strict, hard-working people—I was the fifth of six children—but they loved me. In the good years, when the Mothers blessed our orchard, we were happy. In the bad years, we struggled, same as any farming family. I loved the feasts and festivals at harvest time—”

“And the banana beer, apparently,” put in Mandir, drawing his arm a little tighter around her.

Taya nodded. “And the banana beer. When life is hard, you take what pleasures you can.”

“Were you angry when the Coalition took you away?”

“Not at all. They saved me from a fate I dreaded. I’d had my first moon blood, and my father was negotiating my marriage contract. It’s all luck, you know, whether you end up with a man who will cherish you or one who will beat you. Even if I’d been one of the lucky ones, my life, once I was married, would have been ceaseless labor and little freedom. I’d have toiled through the day in my husband’s fields and cooked and cleaned for him in the evenings. At night, I’d have lain in his bed, taken his seed, and borne his children. By the age of thirty, my body would have been that of an old woman.”

“Sacrilege, to ruin such a body as yours,” said Mandir.

She shrugged. “It is the way of things now that we’ve fallen from the Mothers’ embrace. But I’ll always be grateful to the Coalition for offering me an alternative. I struggled and suffered at Mohenjo Temple, in part because of you—”

“Sorry,” put in Mandir.

“But it was worth it. The Coalition gave me my education and my independence. They gave me fine clothes and money. They gave me Pepper.” She bit her lip, thinking suddenly of the mare. What had happened to her and to the blood bay when Zash had taken them captive? “Perhaps it does not mean so much to you. As Tufan’s son, you would have already had all those things.”

“Joining the Coalition was life-changing for me as well,” said Mandir. “But not for the same reasons. May I tell you something I’ve never told anyone? You have to promise not to laugh.”

She nodded. His tactic of getting her to calm down by talking was working. Her breathing had slowed to its normal rate, and she was resting quite comfortably in his arms, with just a buzz of apprehension reminding her that they were still in danger. After learning about his Year of Penance and the way it had changed him, she found that she wanted to know more about him.

“Were you aware of my father’s reputation?” asked Mandir.

She shivered. “Without doubt. Everyone knew that Tufan raided farming villages, often picking out a young woman and taking her back with him. Those women were never seen again.”

“I know what happened to them,” said Mandir. “But let’s not talk about that. Tufan was a truly evil man, and he had the raising of me for nine years. The man looked on us not as his children but as his playthings. It amused him to set my half-brothers and me against one another and see who would emerge victorious. In his household, it was fatal to show weakness. He beat two of my half-brothers to death for cowardice.”

For the first time in her life, Taya did not roll her eyes at Mandir’s tale of woe. She was beginning to feel some genuine sympathy for the confused, unhappy child he had once been. “I had no idea it was that bad.”

“I’m not saying this to make excuses for myself,” said Mandir. “After that first year in the Coalition, I ought to have figured out that Tufan’s household wasn’t normal and what I’d learned there shouldn’t be perpetuated. I carried my cruelty with me into the Coalition. But you already know that story, all too well I’m sure. I want to tell you about my mother.”

Taya blinked. Now that she thought about it, she’d heard plenty about Mandir’s father, Tufan, but she’d never once heard him mention his mother. Whoever she was, she couldn’t have been Tufan’s wife. Mandir was a bastard. “Who was she?”

“I’m sorry to say she was one of those young women Tufan picked out at a farm village,” said Mandir. “Back then he didn’t take the women back to his mansion. He lay with my mother in her farmhouse, against her will I’m sure, and the result was me. I lived with her for six years before Tufan learned of my existence.”

She turned her head, wanting to look into his eyes, but in the blackness she could not see him. “Your mother was a farmer?”

“Yes.”

Were it not for their situation, trapped underground and perhaps soon to die—not to mention she had made a promise—Taya might have laughed. But not because it was funny. Only because it was unexpected. “All this time, you were a farmer’s child like me? What a charlatan you were! You despised me for being farmer caste.”

“Perhaps you have some insight now as to why my hatred was so vehement. It was personal.”

“Did you hate your mother?”

“Not at all,” said Mandir. “But I’m ashamed to say I was embarrassed of her. Tufan had impressed upon me that he was strong and farmers were weak. And to all appearances, that seemed true. He kidnapped and violated them regularly, without consequences. I didn’t want to be a victim like my mother. I didn’t want to be weak, so I pretended that my farmer half didn’t exist. Of course, that left only Tufan as my ancestor, and I didn’t particularly want to be him either.”

“You cannot deny all sides of yourself,” said Taya.

“Back then, I gave it a good try,” said Mandir. “When I came to understand that I was infatuated with you, it horrified me. I thought that was my farmer roots showing, my lack of quality. Don’t take offense—I thought that way then, but I don’t now. One of my fears was that my ruling-caste friends would find out who I really was. Another was that my lust for farmer women came somehow from Tufan. I had his blood, after all, and if I didn’t fight the urge, someday I’d be the one out in the villages raping farmer women.”

“I had no idea you were so troubled,” said Taya. “You seemed so confident, so self-assured, at Mohenjo.”

“Appearances deceive.” He took a deep breath. She felt his chest rise and fall. “Look, I abused you a lot back at Mohenjo, and—”

“You tried to kill me,” said Taya.

“Not on purpose,” said Mandir. “There’s more to the fire maze story, but now’s not the time to get into that. What I want you to know is that the entire time I knew you at Mohenjo, I acted hateful and contemptuous toward you. But it was an act. In secret, I respected you deeply.”

Taya blinked. “How can you say that, when you laughed at me and smashed my homework tablets?”

“In private, I marveled. How could you be so strong? You had no advantages, no education, and no friends. Tufan had taught me that farmers were weak. I thought you wouldn’t last a season at the Temple, but not only did you survive, you began to excel. I found that reality deeply confusing and threatening. Farmers were supposed to be weak, but you obviously were not. You forced me to rethink the things I’d learned at Tufan’s knee. He was wrong, and you were the proof of it.”

Her mind felt upended. Light was dark, and up was down. Every assumption she’d ever made about Mandir seemed to have been wrong. He’d hated farmers, but was half farmer caste himself. He’d tormented her while secretly admiring her.

“It takes a weight off my mind that you know that now,” said Mandir.

Taya stiffened in his embrace. “Why? Do you think we’re going to die?”

“I think we should make some plans,” said Mandir. “I believe Zash left us both alive because he intends to use one of us as leverage against the other.”

“As leverage how?”

“Say he wants you to use your magic to heal his trees. For that to be possible, he must allow your kimat to wear off. But when the kimat is worn off, you can easily burn him to death instead of helping him. He knows this. He needs leverage, a way to control you. One way is to keep me prisoner and threaten to kill me if you don’t do as he says.”

“I’ll kill him and then go rescue you.”

“I’m going to assume he’s clever enough to have thought of a way to prevent you from doing that,” said Mandir. “When he comes back, I want us to make sure he uses me as the leverage—as the prisoner—and lets you go. Then, no matter what his instructions to you may be, you are to get on a horse and ride to the Coalition for help.”

“Won’t he kill you when he realizes I’m not going to do his bidding?”

Mandir half-shrugged. “Why would he? It does him no good once his bird has flown.”

“He might do it out of pique.”

“Let’s assume he’s rational,” said Mandir. “Killing me only gets him into deeper trouble, and he loses his leverage over you as well. On the other hand, if you follow his instructions, he’s not going to set either of us free. Why should he? Once he has what he wants, his best move is to kill us both and leave no witnesses.”

“If he kills us, the Coalition will come. They’ll investigate.”

“And by the time they figure out we’re missing and come looking for us, he’ll have had lots of time to hide the evidence. You must ride for the Coalition at your first opportunity.”

“It seems to me this plan gives me a much better chance of surviving than it does you.”

“I am your quradum,” said Mandir. “And you are a fire seer. It’s my duty to see that you get out of this alive.”

Taya could think of nothing to say. Over the past decade, she’d wished Mandir dead many a time. Now that his death was becoming a real possibility, she found it wasn’t what she wanted at all.

“Besides,” added Mandir, “after Mohenjo Temple, I owe you.”

“Not your life.”

“If you follow my instructions and run for the Coalition as I’ve instructed, you improve my odds of surviving.”

She wasn’t so sure. All she knew for certain was that she didn’t want him to die. Mandir was not quite the person she’d thought he was all those years. He’d made mistakes, serious ones, but he deserved a second chance.

Something he’d said before tugged at her consciousness. “What did you mean when you said there was more to the story about the fire maze?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, then tell me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I cannot.”

“Of course you can.”

“I am forbidden by the Coalition elders.”

How odd. Why would the Coalition entrust Mandir with a secret and keep it from her? “Tell me.”

A creak, as of a trapdoor opening, made them both jump. Light glimmered from above.

Chapter XXXV

Hrappa

THE TORCHLIGHT ALMOST BLINDED TAYA as it came into view. She flung her hands over her face. She’d wanted light, but this was too much, all stabbing into her eyes at once.

“Isn’t that sweet?” came a mocking voice. “Not just partners, but lovers.”

Taya felt Mandir’s arm snake more tightly around her. “Zashkalim,” said Mandir, “if you harm either one of us, the Coalition will burn you alive.”

Zash dragged something out of the dirt—a chair or stool, Taya thought. Blinded by the torchlight, she could see little except silhouettes. He sat on whatever it was. “I am a desperate man, else I should not have resorted to such a dangerous game.”

“You needn’t be desperate,” said Mandir. “Give us back our tablets and our kimat. Let us go, and we will forget this ever happened.”

Zash laughed. “You, too, are a desperate man. I know better than to trust someone in your circumstances. But you will get out of this alive, provided you give me what I want.”

Taya’s eyes were beginning to adjust. She lowered her hands from her face and looked at Zash. In his left hand, he held the torch. In his right, he held something small. She squinted, trying to make out what it was.

“What do you want?” asked Mandir.

“Two things,” said Zash. “Both of which should have been rightfully mine anyway. First, I want my banana plants healed. The Coalition healed them once, and the blight came back. It’s only fair, after all, that you should heal them again.”

“Coalition law does not permit it,” said Mandir.

“You have never been in harmony with that law,” said Zash. “You healed banana plants for the farmers in town, so why not mine?”

“We didn’t heal those plants,” said Taya. “It was someone else.”

Zash snorted. “There is no one else. I want every one of my trees returned to healthy perfection.”

Before Taya could protest again, Mandir growled, “What else?”

“I want Bodhan to forgive the debt I owe him.”

“That’s not something we can do,” said Taya. “You’ll have to speak to Bodhan.”

“No, you’ll speak to Bodhan,” said Zash. “You’ll walk into his house and threaten to burn him to a cinder if he doesn’t sign off on the debt. And you’re not to tell him I sent you.”

“It will be obvious,” said Taya.

“Not if you’re clever about it. Make him forgive all the debts, or a batch of them. Not just mine. Convince him however you like; just make sure he won’t come after me later.”

“If you want us to do these things, you cannot drug us with kimat,” said Mandir.

“I’m not a fool,” said Zash. “I only need one of you for this. Mandir, you will perform the tasks while Taya remains here as my hostage. I will free her when the tasks are completed to my satisfaction.”

“That won’t work,” said Mandir. “I have not the skill to heal trees.”

Taya tensed. Mandir was lying. He wanted her to be the one set free, so she could run to the Coalition for help.

“I’ve heard any Coalition member can do it,” said Zash.

“You heard wrong,” said Mandir. “It’s a specialized ability.”

“It requires a farming background,” added Taya. “Which I have, and he doesn’t.”

Zash frowned. “Very well. Taya goes, and Mandir stays.” He turned to Taya and raised his right arm. The small object he’d been concealing was a dart. “You’ll receive further instructions later.”

She covered Mandir’s body with her own, horrified at the thought that he should be drugged again.

Zash threw the dart, and it impaled itself not in Mandir’s flesh but in her own. She scrabbled for it, hoping to pull it out before the poison could seep into her veins. But the dart’s effects were immediate. Her arms moved slowly, as if she were dragging them through wet sand. Mandir was yelling and moving beneath her. She couldn’t make out the words. She lost consciousness.

Taya woke to a rustling noise and a warm breeze on her face. At first, she didn’t open her eyes. She was leaning against a tree trunk, and the air smelled of bananas. The sensations took her back to her childhood, those days when she was too young to work in the fields and she could take a nap in the shade of the banana plant whenever she wished.

Those days were long past. Where was she, and what had brought her here?

She searched her memory, and roused instantly. She and Mandir had been kidnapped by Zash. The last thing she remembered was being in that dark, underground prison of his—and being hit by another poisoned dart.

She opened her eyes and found that she was indeed leaning against a banana plant. She appeared to be in the middle of Zash’s plantation. The sun was up and high in the sky. Since it had been evening when she and Mandir had ridden here, at least one day had passed, maybe two or three. There were no workers in the field, which was odd. She would have expected at least a few to be pruning suckers, pulling weeds, and netting bananas. But perhaps that work was futile with blighted plants.

What was she supposed to do? Heal his plants and something else. But Mandir had wanted her to do something different: to run for the Coalition and seek help. She rose on shaky legs and staggered against the pseudostem of the banana plant. Whatever she’d been poisoned with had made her weak. Something heavy weighed on her chest, and she looked down to see a clay tablet resting on her shirt. She picked it up and read.

“I trust that, since you are reading this, you have awakened. By now, your kimat should have worn off and you will have your magic back. As we agreed earlier, your first task is to heal my plants of blight and any other diseases they may be suffering. For your convenience, I have deposited you in my banana field alone, so you may perform the job without witnesses. I expect you to do this immediately.

When the blight is gone, you may proceed to the other task we discussed.

I have Mandir in my custody, well hidden and drugged with kimat. Should you fail in your assigned tasks, or speak to anyone of our arrangement, or leave town to seek your Coalition friends, or betray me in any other way, he will die.

I am aware that you may be tempted to seek me out and threaten me directly. For this reason, I have hidden myself and will not reappear until your tasks are complete.

I have taken an additional precaution and dosed you with a slow-acting poison. For obvious reasons, I cannot tell you which one it is. Suffice to say that there is an antidote, and I have it in my possession. Without it, you will be dead inside of three days. Finish these tasks before the three days are over, or I am afraid they must of necessity fall to your partner.”

Taya swallowed. Three days? That was all she had left to live?

Mandir had not anticipated the slow-acting poison.

How long ago had she been poisoned? Did she have three days starting now, or three days from when she first fell unconscious, which could be as much as a day earlier? Or more than a day earlier, as far as she knew.

Surely Zash would not want her dying before she had a chance to accomplish what he’d asked of her. She probably had at least two full days left. Maybe a third, but she wouldn’t count on it.

Mandir had said to run for the Coalition, and she’d reluctantly agreed to do so. But she couldn’t possibly do that now. Even on a good horse—and she had no idea where Pepper was—it was at least five days’ ride to Rakigari Temple. She would not make it.

Zash’s slow poison gave her no choice but to comply with his demands, at least for the time being. Maybe she could think of a way to foil him, but no plan sprang to mind, and the sun was moving inexorably through the sky.

She peered up at the plant she had been propped against. Its leaves were spotted with blight, and there were hundreds of other plants just like it.

She laid her hands on the plant’s pseudostem and closed her eyes. She spoke in the mother tongue, her voice low, not because her magic required it, but because the Coalition had taught them to speak their magic in a near whisper to prevent outsiders from learning the mother tongue. She called to the mother goddess Lalan, who lay dormant in all living things. With a judicious bit of flattery, Taya cajoled sleeping Lalan into wakefulness. The tree shimmered and pulsed, suddenly vibrant, its browns more brown, its greens more green.

Lalan was the gentlest of the mother goddesses, but also the most remote. The hardest part of working with Lalan was to awaken her. But now that she was aroused in this plant, she began setting things to right. The black spots visibly shrank and then disappeared. Holes in the leaves closed up, and parasites rained out of the tree: little black beetles, green worms, white larvae. Taya’s throat tightened with revulsion as she picked a worm out of her hair.

She looked up. It was done. The banana plant towered over her, lush and full and ready to produce a crop. She’d healed one plant. Only several hundred more to go.

As she moved through the plantation, awakening Lalan in each plant, her mind worked on the problem of Zash and the slow poison. Zash was hiding Mandir somewhere, and that somewhere was probably right here on his estate. It could be beneath his residence, or beneath the burned-out house where he’d kept his sister. Or it could be in a cave or cellar just about anywhere.

With sufficient time, she felt almost certain she could find Mandir. But time was something she didn’t have a whole lot of. Even if she found him, what could she do about the poison? She couldn’t kill Zash, and he knew it. If she did kill him, she would never learn the name of the poison or where to find the antidote. She might succeed in saving Mandir, but she would not save herself.

What if she simply followed Zash’s instructions? That could not end well either. Once she’d completed his tasks, what motivation did he have to free Mandir or give her the antidote? None whatever. He would want to eliminate them as witnesses.

She couldn’t complete the tasks—not both of them. Not unless she could find a way to hold some leverage over Zash to save herself and Mandir.

Nor could she run to the Coalition; there was no time.

Nor could she search for Mandir and confront Zash directly. Of the three options, it was the most desirable since it gave her the opportunity of killing Zash. But that one bit of satisfaction would come at the cost of her own life, and maybe Mandir’s as well.

There had to be another way, had to be. For now she would buy time while her mind worked on the problem. She could finish healing the banana plants by dusk, giving her just enough time to make it back to the city before the gates closed. If she could find Pepper. Surely Zash would make the mare available so she could accomplish the second task.

Once she was back in Hrappa, she would have all night to come up with a better plan.

Chapter XXXVI

Hrappa

TAYA’S STOMACH CRAMPED WHEN SHE was about halfway through healing the banana plants. Since there was no one around to help her, she soldiered on, hoping the problem would go away on its own. Instead, the pain worsened. By the time she finished the plants, she could barely walk. Could this be an effect of Zash’s slow poison?

She made her way painfully to Zash’s homestead, where she found Pepper bridled and pawing the ground with irritation. Mandir’s blood bay was not with her.

She was too ill to vault up on the mare, so she led the animal to a nearby boulder, climbed atop it, and mounted from there. Once she was astride, Pepper gave a little kick, just to let her mistress know she wasn’t happy about having to stand in her bridle all afternoon. But as Taya directed her onto the path that led from the high ground to the floodplains, the mare relaxed, champed her bit, and settled to her work.

Halfway back to Hrappa, Taya’s pain became so bad that she couldn’t ride anymore. She dropped off Pepper, wincing at the impact as her feet hit the dirt. She ground-tied the mare and left her for a moment while she was sick in the fields. That relieved the pain somewhat, but now she couldn’t get back on Pepper. She couldn’t vault, and there was nothing in that flat expanse of flooded farmland to stand on for a mounting block. Grimacing, she took the reins and walked the mare back to Hrappa.

Back at the guesthouse, she handed Pepper off to a servant boy. It was fortunate she had no appetite, since she hadn’t the strength to head into the artisan district for food. She went into the guesthouse, drank a single sip of water, and collapsed on her bed. There she shivered despite the heat.

Miserable as she was, she was still better off than poor Mandir, chained up in that hole in the ground. How was he faring? She would never have guessed that someday she would miss the man she had once hated above all others. The more sick and lonely she felt, the more she craved his presence. She longed to feel his strong arms around her. At some point, maybe only in the past twenty-four hours, Mandir had ceased to be an irritating needlefly, and had instead become someone she could rely on. Someone who made her feel safe.

Taya screwed her eyes shut. It was silly to waste her energy thinking about Mandir. In two days’ time, she would probably be dead, and Mandir too.

Taya awoke, heavy and sluggish, to a knock at her door. Too weary to climb out of bed, she opted for the lesser effort of opening her eyes. Her room was bathed in warm, late-morning sunlight. Flood and fire, how long had she slept? She was supposed to spend the night working out a plan to foil Zash. She had so little time left before the poison killed her.

The knock came again, making her jump. Who would be at her door? Obviously not Mandir, and Rasik didn’t come by with breakfast anymore.

She sat up, throwing off a cotton blanket, and saw to her chagrin that she was wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Who’s there?”

“I know about Zash and your partner,” called a woman’s voice.

A shiver ran down Taya’s spine. Who could this be, some ally of Zash’s? Taya did not recognize the voice. Wary now, she rehearsed a few choice phrases of the mother tongue in case she needed to unleash fire in a hurry. She rose from the bed and opened the door. “Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you, but not out here on the doorstep.”

Taya frowned. Her guest was a teenaged girl. She was dressed in farmer’s clothes: homespun cotton and an indigo belt. And all at once, Taya recognized her. Flood and fire! This was the girl she’d been looking for since the day she came to Hrappa. She licked her lips, ready to drop a fire spell off her tongue if needed, and said, “Come in.”

The girl slipped inside, and Taya circled around her, shutting the door. “You’re the jackal.”

The girl’s brows rose. “How did you know?”

Taya did not answer. Why had this child come here voluntarily? She must be aware that the Coalition had handed down a mandatory death sentence for her. Perhaps she was working with Zash and felt confident of her leverage. “You tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry.” The girl looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t understand. I thought you had come to execute me.”

Taya had come to execute her, and still intended to. It was the law. “Why did you change your mind?”

A smile lit the jackal’s face. “Because of what you did to the banana plants.”

“At Zash’s?”

“In town.”

Once again, she was back to the mystery of the healed banana plants in the farmers’ courtyards. The girl apparently believed that she and Mandir had healed those plants. But they had not. Taya, meanwhile, had assumed it to be the work of the jackal. If neither Taya nor Mandir nor the jackal had healed those plants, who could have done it?

She opened her mouth to voice the question—and then closed it. She had the jackal at close range and speaking freely. She would not jeopardize that, at least not yet. “You changed your mind about us because of the banana plants?”

“I knew you couldn’t be all bad if you were willing to break Coalition law for our benefit,” said the jackal. “I’m hoping you’ll at least listen to me.”

How naive she was. Taya directed the naïf to a chair at her little table. “Of course I’ll listen. Sit down. What’s your name?”

“Amalia.” The jackal sat.

“Not the same Amalia who was murdered? Zash’s sister?”

“Yes, that one. Obviously I’m still alive.”

Taya blinked at her, stunned. If Amalia was still alive, sitting right in front of her, the third murder had never taken place. And everything Zash told them had been a lie. “Did Zash send you?”

“Great Mothers, no,” said Amalia. “He hasn’t seen me in weeks.”

If Amalia was telling the truth, she and Zash were not working together. If that was so, how did she know about Mandir being in captivity? Much as Taya wanted to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake out whatever she knew about Mandir and Zash’s underground prison, she was going to have to be patient if she wanted to keep the girl’s trust. Perhaps the story could be coaxed from her in pieces. “Zash said you went mad after the fever.”

“I know he said that, but it’s a lie. The fever never happened, and I’ve never been mad.”

“So what did happen?” Taya smiled encouragingly, trying to look safe and kind and not at all like someone whose job was to burn jackals to death.

“As a young girl, I worked alongside Zash on the plantation. One day I discovered that I could redirect the water in the irrigation canals simply by willing it to move. I knew immediately what that meant: I had the Gift. I demonstrated my talent to my parents so they would send me to the Coalition, but Zash had another idea. He told the family that if I went off to the Coalition, I would benefit personally, but the farm would suffer, and shouldn’t we all benefit from my Gift? If I stayed at home and used my magic on the farm, we would all become wealthy.”

“That’s illegal,” said Taya.

“I know,” said Amalia, “and I refused. But he was determined that I should not leave and deprive the family of my talent. He locked me up and told everyone I’d gone mad. Later, when I tried to escape, he chained me.”

Taya recalled the charred shackles she and Mandir had found in the burned-out house. “His plan would never have worked. You need Coalition training to work complex magics.”

Amalia nodded. “It was all for nothing—we know that now. I had raw power in abundance and could call fire and water, but my manipulations were crude. I thought I would get better over time, but for all I practiced, my skills did not advance. Zash wanted me to cure our banana plants of blight, but I couldn’t do it. He thought I was being stubborn, so he threatened me, and he punished me with poisons and beatings. But it didn’t work, and one day I managed to break free of my chains. I’ve been hiding from him ever since.”

“Amalia.” Taya’s voice grew gentle. “You killed two people.”

She shook her head. “One.”

“Hunabi and Narat,” said Taya.

Amalia shook her head again. “Just Hunabi, and...look, you have to understand why I did it.” She grabbed Taya’s hand and clutched it in her own. “There’s a textile merchant in town named Bodhan isu Kasirum—”

“I know.”

“He loaned money to a number of farming families when the floods didn’t come. But the contracts he made them sign—”

“I know all this too,” said Taya. “The contracts trapped the farmers into producing cotton for him essentially forever, at below-market prices.”

“Yes,” said Amalia. “And now they’re starving. A number of these families went to the magistrate for help, since obviously the contracts were unfair and they’d repaid their debt many times over in cheap cotton. But the magistrate and Bodhan are allies—they have a marriage contract in negotiations.”

Taya frowned. Neither she nor Mandir had put that part of the equation together yet. Of course the magistrate had a vested interest in Bodhan’s business success, if he planned for his sons to marry Bodhan’s daughter.

“The magistrate had two sons,” continued Amalia. “Kalbi, the elder, is a decent boy, but Hunabi was a wastrel and a womanizer. He learned which of the affected farming families had a young, virginal daughter among their children. He went to each of those families and told them that if they let him sleep with the daughter, he would make sure that the case was decided in their favor. Some of the families agreed to this. Hunabi slept with the girls, but the magistrate ruled against the farmers anyway.

“So yes, I killed him.” Amalia’s head bobbed self-consciously. “The magistrate wasn’t going to punish his own son for what he did to those girls, and he wasn’t going to rule against Bodhan, either. The farmers needed help, so I helped them. I sent a tablet to the magistrate saying I had killed Hunabi and I would kill Kalbi as well if he did not reverse the decision on all the farmers’ court cases.”

“Really?” Taya blinked in astonishment. “Does he still have that tablet?” It was important evidence. Why had the magistrate withheld it from her, when it clearly identified who the jackal was, as well as her motive for killing Hunabi, and information about her next intended victim? Clearly he did not want her or Mandir to know about his involvement in the dirty contracts.

“I have no idea if he still has it,” said Amalia.

“Did he reply?”

“In a way. He summoned you and your partner.”

Now Taya understood. The farmers had accused her of doing the magistrate’s dirty work, and at the time she had been indignant. She was not here to do anyone’s dirty work except the Coalition’s. But the farmers had been right. The magistrate was trying to use the Coalition to rid Hrappa of the one person who stood in the way of his alliance with Bodhan.

The villains here, as far as she could see, were the magistrate and Bodhan, not to mention Zash. But this did not alter the fact that Amalia had committed two crimes, the first in using magic illegally, and the second in killing Hunabi. “What of Bodhan’s daughter Narat? If you didn’t kill her, what happened?”

“Are you sure she’s even dead?”

Taya blinked. “Isn’t she?”

Amalia shrugged. “Bodhan says she died in a flood. I didn’t summon a flood.”

“Could a flood have risen naturally?” Or perhaps there was a second jackal in Hrappa. It didn’t seem likely, since jackals were rare, but somebody had healed those banana plants in town. Maybe it was the same person who had raised the flood.

“Not at that time of year,” said Amalia. “I think Narat just ran away. It was well known that she was not in harmony with her father.”

“Why were they not in harmony?”

“Because she was in love with the baker’s son,” said Amalia. “Bodhan didn’t approve of the match. The baker’s son disappeared the same day Narat did, but nobody’s saying he died in a flood. Nobody says anything about him. It’s like he never existed.”

She remembered the baker woman’s evasions when she’d asked about that boy’s whereabouts. No wonder she and Mandir had gotten nowhere on this case. They’d been lied to by everybody in Hrappa, from farmers and bakers to textile merchants and magistrates. “But you did summon the flood that nearly drowned me.”

Amalia lowered her head. “I’m sorry for that. It was a mistake.”

“Why did you come to my guesthouse? What do you expect me to do about all this?” Clearly the girl hoped for mercy or understanding. The understanding Taya could provide, but there was no such thing as mercy from the Coalition.

“I know where your partner is,” said Amalia. “I’ll help you get him out—if you promise to help me in return.”

“Help you in what way?”

“Force Bodhan to forgive the farmers’ debts,” said Amalia. “And grant me absolution for my crimes. I want what my brother denied me years ago. I want to join the Coalition.”

Taya swallowed. What an ambitious list of demands that was. The first part, forcing Bodhan to forgive the farmers’ debts, was something Zash had demanded as well, but she had no idea how to accomplish it. Yes, she could walk into his house and threaten to kill him if he didn’t forgive the debts, but that was against Coalition law. As for granting Amalia absolution, it was impossible. The Coalition would never forgive her crimes, and they certainly wouldn’t let her join the organization.

She could not do what Amalia asked. Perhaps she could negotiate a more reasonable set of demands. Or would it be better just to play along and cooperate with the girl long enough to rescue Mandir? Getting her partner out of Zash’s clutches was her first priority. If she could convince Amalia to help her with that, she’d deal with the other problems later. “Where is Zash hiding Mandir?”

Amalia set her jaw. “I’ll tell you, but only after you fulfill your part of the bargain.”

Taya blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m not sure how much of that bargain I have the ability to fulfill.”

“If you don’t help me, your partner will die,” said Amalia. “Zash will never let him live. He’ll kill anyone who stands in his way. He killed our parents.”

“Your parents? Why?”

“They wanted to send me to the Coalition, and he wanted to keep me at home. He poisoned them and told everyone they died of fever.”

Taya sighed. She felt sorry for this girl, but she simply didn’t have the power to right all these wrongs. “What you ask is impossible. I cannot negotiate with the Coalition on your behalf because the nearest temple is five days’ ride from here, and I’ll be dead before then. Your only hope is to get Mandir out. Perhaps he can help you, if Zash doesn’t kill him first.”

Amalia’s brow wrinkled. “Why will you be dead before then?”

She fetched the tablet that Zash had given her yesterday in the banana fields, and handed it to Amalia. “Read this.”

Amalia’s lips moved as she read. When she reached the bottom of the tablet, she began to laugh.

Taya snatched the tablet out of her hand. “There’s nothing funny in there.”

“But it’s a lie,” said Amalia. “There’s no such thing as a three-day poison.”

“I was very sick last night,” said Taya.

“And how do you feel this morning?”

“Better,” Taya admitted. “I think it comes and goes.”

“You were sick last night because he drugged you with shydra. That’s his favorite drug; it’s fast-acting and it makes people unconscious. After it wears off, you throw up for a while. He used it on me many times before I escaped him.”

Taya hardly dared hope this could be true. “You don’t know for certain there’s no three-day poison.”

“Yes, I do,” said Amalia. “Zash made it up to scare you. He does that.”

Taya wanted very much to believe her, and she had to admit the idea of a poison that took three days to work seemed implausible. But what did she know? She’d spent her entire life on a farm and in a Coalition temple. “There’s another problem. I can’t walk into Bodhan’s house and demand he forgive the debts.”

“You’re Coalition,” said Amalia. “Of course you can.”

“I can’t,” said Taya. “My authority as a Coalition representative is limited to a few very specific areas. Remember the Accords of Let? Your ruling caste has dominion over the cities and their people, while the Coalition holds a monopoly on magic and all laws relating to magic. We have no authority whatsoever over nonmagical crimes.”

“All you have to do is walk in there and threaten to burn him.”

Taya shook her head. “I’d be breaking the law myself.”

“You’ve broken it before.”

She hadn’t, but she couldn’t tell Amalia that. “No one can prove that my partner and I healed any banana plants, but if I march into Bodhan’s house and threaten him with magic, the Coalition will hear about it. They’ll punish me, and once I’m gone, Bodhan and the magistrate will just reinstate the loans.”

Amalia winced. “There must be a way.”

“I’ll do what I can for you,” said Taya. “But first you’ve got to help me get my partner out.”

A muscle bulged along Amalia’s jawline. “Not until you do as I asked.”

“Look, I just explained—”

“So don’t do it the way I suggested,” said Amalia. “Find another way.”

Taya clenched her fists in her lap. What other way? She could not use force, and she could not apply legal pressure on Bodhan, because that was the magistrate’s bailiwick. As a Coalition representative, she could only enforce crimes related to magic.

Had Bodhan committed any sort of crime related to magic? He didn’t possess any magic, so that seemed unlikely.

Did it count that he had blamed his daughter’s disappearance on an illegally summoned flood? Taya considered. That was a possibility. “Who reported to the authorities that Narat was killed by a magically-raised flood? Was it Bodhan?”

“I think so,” said Amalia.

“He must have just made that story up. If his daughter was still alive and had simply run away, surely he knew about that. So why did he lie? What did it gain him to blame her disappearance on a jackal?”

“Well, he and the magistrate were allies,” said Amalia. “The magistrate needed the Coalition to come out here and find me. Two deaths by a jackal would be more likely to bring a team of investigators than just one.”

“That could be it,” said Taya. “He made a false accusation in order to draw out the Coalition. By Coalition law, that is a crime.” Not as serious as the ones Amalia had committed, but perhaps enough that she could frighten the man. “We need evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” asked Amalia.

“That his daughter lives and he lied about her death. I think I know where to get it.” She would have to hurry. She and Mandir were running out of time. “After I get the evidence and confront Bodhan, will you help me rescue Mandir?”

“Yes,” said Amalia.

Taya reached forward, and they touched fingers to consummate the deal.

Chapter XXXVII

Mohenjo Temple, Six Years Ago

MANDIR LEANED ON THE RAIL of the Cage to take some weight off his aching legs. The accused were not allowed to sit, and he’d been shifting his weight from one leg to the other for hours now as witness after witness had been called onto the platform to deliver testimony. Despite its name, the Cage was not a prison, but a square enclosed by four railings. Here the accused stood while the Coalition elders heard their case and decided their fates.

Testimony had concluded some time ago. The elders had left the room to confer among themselves and make a decision that would determine the direction of the rest of Mandir’s life. For now, the platform was empty, and Mandir could do nothing but wait.

Three other boys kept him company in the Cage, all of them his co-conspirators, but Mandir stood apart from them. Once, they had been friends, but since the fire maze, they’d had a falling-out. He was on his own now, and so were they.

Somewhere behind him, in the audience, sat Taya, the girl he’d tormented and nearly killed in the fire maze. Throughout the hearing, he’d been conscious of her gaze burning into his back. He knew she hoped for a death sentence.

Footsteps jostled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the elders filing back onto the platform. This was it; he was about to learn his fate. He dragged his sweating palms from the railing and stood tall, swallowing his nerves.

The elders, barefoot and clad in the robes of illitu, moved silently to their places. Each man stood before a pillar representing one of the Mothers. The pillar on the left, representing Agu, held a clay goblet filled with the purest water. The pillar on the right held a flowering jasmine, the symbol of Lalan. And the middle pillar held a flaming torch.

How calm the elders looked as they took up their positions. Mandir tried to still his trembling.

“We have reached our decision,” said the elder who stood before the torch of Isatis.

Mandir shut his eyes. Not death or exile, he prayed.

“Initiates Cole, Mandir, Talin, and Lilit,” spoke the elder, “you are accused of drugging a fellow initiate with kimat and shydra and placing her in a construction of your devising—a ‘fire maze’ in which you intended to torment and frighten her. We find this act to be vicious and contemptible. Because of your ineptitude with magic and your recklessness, this fire maze malfunctioned, and the initiate suffered from burns and smoke inhalation. Initiates: do you acknowledge that you have committed an atrocity against the Mothers and their children?”

“Yes, elder,” said Mandir immediately. The other boys chorused agreement.

“It is the decision of this Council,” said the elder, “that Cole, Talin, and Lilit shall drink sufficient kimat to annihilate their magic and be permanently dismissed from the Coalition.”

One of the boys beside Mandir collapsed onto the floor and began to weep. So it was exile, after all. But Mandir’s name had not yet been mentioned. He waited.

“Mandir isu Sarrum,” said the elder.

Mandir raised his eyes.

“Because of extenuating circumstances, you will not be banished from the Coalition. Instead, you will serve a Year of Penance as punishment for your part in this atrocity.”

Someone in the back of the room gasped.

Mandir closed his eyes in relief. His knees trembled. He stood silently, knowing that the audience would not be aware of the extenuating circumstances. He had been sworn to secrecy on that subject. They probably believed he’d been granted this mercy because of the influence of his royal father.

“That is all,” said the elder. He and his fellows filed out of the room.

Someone punched Mandir in the arm. He looked to see who it was.

“Mother-violator,” hissed Cole.

Mandir turned away.

As the people in the audience left their seats, he twisted his neck for one last look at Taya. After today, he would never see her again. He would serve his penance and then request a transfer to another temple. He could not control himself around her. The only solution he could think of was to stay away from her.

She had risen from her chair and was staring at him, shaking with rage. For him to receive only a Year of Penance had to infuriate her. He met her eyes, trying without words to tell her, I’m sorry. I went too far. It won’t happen again.

But he knew she would never forgive him.

Chapter XXXVIII

Hrappa

MANDIR, CURLED UP FOR WARMTH and dozing fitfully against the wall, snapped instantly awake. His half-dream, half-memory of his sentencing at Mohenjo Temple feathered away into the darkness. He heard footsteps, and whoever approached him was trying to be stealthy.

Mandir had come to understand that Zash, despite his brazen crimes, was a coward. Even with Mandir in chains, Zash would not come near his prisoner to refresh his dose of kimat. Instead he threw darts from a distance.

Mandir lay still, letting the banana farmer enjoy the illusion that his prisoner was asleep and harmless. He’d been in this hole much longer than Zash had, and his eyes were better adjusted to the darkness. Come closer, he urged silently. Let me wring your scrawny neck.

Zash stopped advancing about six feet outside of Mandir’s reach and, with a quick motion of his arm, threw the dart.

Mandir flung up his arm and knocked the dart away. It pinged off the stone wall into the dirt, and he dived for it. His fingers closed around the dart, and he snatched it up. “Missed,” he taunted, brandishing the weapon.

Zash had come without a torch this time, perhaps hoping to sneak up on Mandir in the dark. There was just a sliver of light from a distant entrance to the tunnel, enough that Mandir could see Zash’s silhouette and sense his baleful stare.

“Perhaps I should throw it back at you,” said Mandir. “What do you want to bet my aim’s better than yours?”

No response.

“Are you out of darts?” said Mandir. “How unfortunate. I’ll bet that last kimat dose you gave me wears off pretty soon.”

He heard movement in the darkness and saw a spark. Zash was crouched in the dirt, trying to light a torch. A second spark appeared, and a third.

“I could light that for you,” said Mandir. “Soon as the kimat wears off.”

Light pierced the darkness, impossibly bright. Mandir half-shuttered his eyes so the torch wouldn’t blind him. Zash was still on the ground, working on something with his back to Mandir. Poisoning another dart, perhaps.

With a quick motion, Zash turned and flung a new dart.

Again Mandir knocked the missile out of the air. It landed in the dirt between the two of them. After a moment’s hesitation, both he and Zash launched themselves at it.

Zash pounced on it first, and Mandir pounced on Zash. He slammed into the man’s arm so hard he heard something give way, and Zash howled in pain. The manacles bit into Mandir’s wrists as he reached the full length of his chains, but he didn’t care. This was worth it.

Zash went limp beneath him.

“Not very smart, are you?” whispered Mandir into his ear.

“I don’t have the keys to your chains,” gasped Zash. “They’re at the house. If you want to get free, you’ll have to let me go—”

Mandir grabbed Zash by the hair and slammed his head into the ground. “You think that’s why I grabbed you, zebu-brain? To get some keys? I grabbed you because I want your last hours to be as painful as I can possibly make them.” He slammed Zash’s head into the ground again.

Chapter XXXIX

Hrappa

TAYA CONSIDERED ASKING RASIK IF she could borrow a second horse, but decided against it. Amalia was lightweight, and in a pinch Pepper could carry two riders.

“She’s beautiful,” gushed Amalia, when Rasik delivered the black mare to the front of the guesthouse. “May I pet her?”

“If you like,” said Taya.

The mare, always a glutton for attention, pressed her nose into the girl’s hands. Amalia hopped back with a startled, “Oh.” Recovering, she moved forward and touched the mare’s muzzle. Then she ran a hand down the sleek black neck. “If I join the Coalition, will I get a horse like this?”

Taya’s heart sank. Amalia was never going to be part of the Coalition. “Well—she was given to me when I became an ilittum.”

“Initiates don’t get horses?”

“They’ve no need for them,” said Taya. “Initiates stay at the Temple.”

“So I would get a horse after ten years of training, then?”

“We’d better get going,” said Taya, vaulting lightly onto the mare’s back and offering Amalia an arm up.

Amalia took her arm and raised her leg as if to mount, but then appeared stymied. She had no idea how to mount a horse.

Taya suppressed a sigh; she didn’t have time to teach this girl basic horsemanship. She steered the mare to a stone wall and directed Amalia to climb up from there. As Amalia wriggled her way onto Pepper’s back, she accidentally kicked the mare in the ribs. Pepper hunched her back in offense, and Taya hissed a warning at the mare, taking up the reins to keep her from jumping out from under the two of them.

Once Amalia was settled, Taya nudged the mare into a slow trot. Amalia gave a cry of surprise and started slipping off. Taya began to regret that she’d fetched the horse at all, and slowed Pepper to a walk.

“Sorry,” said Amalia, straightening herself. “I’ll get the hang of it.”

They headed into the artisan district, where Taya had no trouble finding Vella’s house. She could have closed her eyes and followed the aroma of baking bread.

“Flood and fire, that smells good,” said Amalia as they approached.

Taya slid off the mare and reached up to help Amalia down. The girl was underfed and weighed practically nothing. Taya had to keep reminding herself that Amalia was a jackal. She didn’t seem like a criminal at all; rather, she struck Taya as a vibrant but somewhat ignorant girl who’d had few opportunities and who longed, as so many girls did, for a better life. Ten years ago, Taya had been much like Amalia, giddy with the discovery of her Gift and the doors it would open for her. Could Taya have ended up in as much trouble as this girl was in now, if instead of her cooperative family she’d had Zash for a brother?

Taya dreaded what lay ahead, when she would have to hold Amalia accountable for her crimes. But she couldn’t afford to tell her the truth just yet; she’d frighten the girl away. She pulled the reins over Pepper’s head and tugged gently downward to ground tie her. Then she headed toward the bakery door.

Amalia hovered beside Pepper. “You’re just going to leave the horse here?”

“She won’t go anywhere,” said Taya. “She’s ground tied.”

“Oh,” said Amalia, sounding doubtful.

“She’s trained to stand still,” explained Taya. “Have you ever known a dog trained to stay put when you tell it to? It’s like that.”

Amalia’s eyes lingered on the mare. “Couldn’t she be stolen?”

“No one steals from the Coalition,” said Taya. Well, except for Zash, but he seemed to be an exception in many respects.

Vella, the baker woman, answered the door. She smiled at Amalia, whom she clearly recognized and liked, but her smile faded when she saw Taya in her Coalition green and silver. “Have you come to buy bread?” she asked nervously.

“Yes,” said Taya. “And to ask you some more questions.”

Vella’s face tightened, but she ushered them inside. Taya looked over the loaves drying on the shelf and bought two of the nut- and date-filled ones. She handed one of them to Amalia, who took a huge bite at once.

“I know about your son,” said Taya.

Vella’s eyes did not meet hers. “What do you know?”

“He ran away with Bodhan’s daughter Narat.”

Vella went to a lump of dough which sat on a floured board. She dipped her hands in the flour, brushed off the excess, and began to knead. “Narat is dead.”

“She’s not, and I think you’ve known that for a while,” said Taya. “Bodhan falsely reported that she had died in a jackal-induced flood.”

Vella’s eyes were on the dough. “If he did this thing, you should ask him about it, not me.”

Amalia choked on a piece of flatbread and pounded her chest. She took a moment to recover, then swallowed and spoke. “Vella, this Coalition woman is trying to help. I’m sure Bodhan said he’d destroy your business if you spoke a word about what happened, but if he lied about a magical crime, he broke Coalition law.”

Vella eyed Amalia. “The Coalition comes and goes, but Bodhan will always be here in Hrappa.”

“He’s harmed so many people,” said Amalia.

Vella said nothing, kneading the dough with unnecessary vigor.

“Perhaps I can offer you something for your assistance,” said Taya.

“I don’t know what you offer or what assistance you believe I can give you,” said Vella.

“If I can come up with evidence that Bodhan broke Coalition law, I can use that to bargain with him. I can forgive his Coalition crime in exchange for his forgiving all debts owed to him by the townsfolk of Hrappa.”

“You see?” put in Amalia. “She can help.”

“I am not one of those who owes Bodhan money,” said Vella. But her kneading of the bread slowed, and she looked thoughtful.

“Your son and Bodhan’s daughter—did they marry?” asked Taya.

Vella shrugged.

“It seems to me that if they did, Bodhan should properly acknowledge and dower his daughter. Don’t you think?”

“Bodhan will never do that,” said Vella.

“You’d be surprised what people will do to avoid trouble with the Coalition.”

Vella dropped the lump of dough. “If Bodhan has broken Coalition law, then carry out your Coalition justice. It is no business of mine.”

“I can’t do a thing without evidence,” said Taya.

Vella frowned, looking torn. It was clear to Taya that she wanted to help but was afraid of retribution. Finally she said, “What evidence do you need?”

“Some sort of proof that Bodhan knew his daughter was alive and had not died in a flood. Proof that he knowingly lied to the Coalition.”

“Wait here.” Vella left for a back room. When she returned, she was carrying a small, dusty tablet. She handed it to Taya. “There is your evidence.”

One word at a time, Taya labored her way through the writing on the tablet. It was a letter to Vella from her son, who had emigrated to the neighboring town of Mosand and begun a fledgling bakery of his own. She glanced up at Vella. “So you did know his whereabouts.”

Vella folded her arms.

Taya read on, conscious of Vella’s and Amalia’s impatience. In the second paragraph, the son referred to his wife, Narat, who was helping him with the bakery, and who he suspected might be pregnant.

This letter was perfect. It was exactly what she needed to bargain with Bodhan. “They did run away together.”

“I have said nothing,” said Vella.

“Of course. You have told me nothing at all.” Taya slipped the tablet into her pocket.

Taya pulled up Pepper in front of the now-familiar sign, Fine Cotton Cloth & Indigos. After dismounting, she took a deep breath and stood straight and tall, remembering that she was no longer a simple farmer girl; she was a Coalition representative. She wore the green and silver, and this lent her an air of authority that she would never have possessed on her own.

As she walked up the steps to Bodhan’s palace of a home, the doorman held out a hand to stop her. “Bodhan is meeting with a buyer. I could get you on his schedule for tomorrow—”

Taya did not slow her stride. “This is urgent business. The buyer can wait.”

“Lady—ilittum—” the doorman stammered as she walked around him. “You cannot go in.”

She glanced at the doorman’s belt to see if he carried a weapon, and was almost disappointed when she saw there was no dagger hilt she’d have to call fire into to protect herself. She opened the door.

The doorman leapt forward, wedging his body into the opening. “Lady—”

“Move,” said Taya, summoning a thin sheet of fire between the two of them.

He jumped back, his face ashen.

Taya beckoned to Amalia and headed inside.

She found Bodhan in the drawing room, seated at a table and talking with two other men. She aimed an unfriendly glance at each of Bodhan’s companions. “Leave. I have urgent business with this man.”

Bodhan stood. “Taya, what an unexpected pleasure—”

“Leave,” she repeated.

The men glanced at her green and silver. One of them stuffed some tablets into a satchel, and they departed.

Bodhan glared, all pretense of courtesy gone. “If you had any respect for my business, you would not...” He trailed off as he spotted Amalia.

“I have wonderful news for you,” said Taya. “I’ve found your daughter.”

Bodhan’s eyes were on Amalia. “You are mistaken. This is not my daughter.”

“That’s not what I meant. I know where your daughter is.”

“Kana is not missing.”

“I mean Narat. She’s alive and well, married and living in the city of Mosand.” Taya held out the tablet, close enough that he could peer at it but not so close that he could snatch it out of her hands.

Bodhan leaned in to read. After a moment, he remembered to act surprised. “Flood and fire! My daughter has been alive all this time?”

Taya put the tablet back in her pocket. “You’ve known where she was from the beginning. You falsely reported her drowned because you were angry at her defiance and shamed by her low marriage.”

Bodhan jabbed a finger at Taya. “Do you have any idea the trials I’ve endured, with these new dyes and the falling price of indigo?” He rose and began to pace. “My daughter sneaked out of the house to meet her lover on an island in the middle of the Lioness, and if I feared her drowned by a jackal known to be operating in the area, it was only because, as a concerned parent, I could do nothing less.”

“You don’t care about Narat,” said Taya. “You care about your personal fortune and nothing else. You dragged me and my partner out here when you had no evidence on which to base your accusations. That, sir, is a crime.”

“Of course I had evidence,” said Bodhan. “Narat was last seen near the river. A jackal had already killed the magistrate’s son, so it stood to reason—”

“It did not stand to reason,” said Taya. “That was wild conjecture. Your accusation was false, and as a representative of the Coalition, I have the right to take action.”

Bodhan sobered and took a seat. “What sort of action?”

“I am assessing you a fine of fifty gold sticks.”

Bodhan’s mouth fell open. “Fifty gold sticks! Are you mad?”

“Payable immediately,” Taya added.

Bodhan leapt to his feet. “Heartless thug! Did I not explain to you how my competitors have hoarded the secrets of dyeing cloth? My business is in tatters! I cannot pay this exorbitant fine.”

“I’m willing to consider an alternative to payment,” said Taya.

His eyes narrowed.

“A personal favor,” continued Taya, “for which my partner and I might be willing to forgive your crime against the Coalition.”

“What is this personal favor?”

“You have made a number of loans to landowners in Hrappa. These loans were attached to contracts that required the borrowers to farm cotton for you and sell it to you at below-market prices, making it impossible for them ever to pay the loans back.”

“How am I to compete against the other cloth merchants if I have to pay excessive rates for my base materials?” sputtered Bodhan. “You will ruin me!”

Taya hesitated. Would she really ruin him if she took those contracts away? Then she thought of the starving farmers and decided it didn’t matter. “If you want your crime and thus the fine forgiven, you will forgive these loans, every single one of them.”

Bodhan waved a hand. “I forgive them.”

“In writing,” she said. “And you will also acknowledge and dower your runaway daughter.”

Bodhan’s eyes looked like they would pop from their sockets. “You will destroy me!”

Taya shrugged. “Or you could pay the fifty gold sticks.”

Bodhan glared at her. He lowered his voice. “You know how to create trouble. But you’re not the only one. I can create trouble, too, if I choose. Every banana plant in Hrappa was afflicted with blight, and now they’re all healed. How do you suppose that came about? Healing plants or animals without the proper tithe is a Coalition crime too.”

Taya shrugged off the threat. “I hear there’s a jackal in town.”

Bodhan’s eyes were full of hate. “Get me a tablet.”

Chapter XL

Hrappa

“OUCH, EASE UP,” SAID TAYA as Amalia’s fingers dug into her flesh. They were cantering across the floodplains toward Zash’s estate. Poor Amalia, terrified by the motion of the horse, was clinging desperately to her back.

“Sorry.” Amalia relaxed her hold.

Pepper’s ears were flat against her mane in disapproval. She didn’t generally mind carrying extra weight, but a stiff rider who didn’t follow her motion was something else entirely. Taya gave the mare a sharp kick, driving her on. There was no time to teach Amalia how to ride, nor could they take this journey at a walk. They had to reach Mandir before Zash did him any more harm. “Is there an approach to his estate other than the main road?”

“No,” said Amalia. “But when Zash lies in wait for someone, he does so from his window. We can avoid being surprised by not going near the house.”

They reached the base of the path that led up to the estate. “Can we avoid being seen?”

“If he’s watching the road, no.”

Taya slowed Pepper to a trot for the ascent. Pepper, still annoyed by her second rider but generally a willing animal, threw herself into the work, huffing as she hauled them up the rocky path. As they reached the peak, Taya slowed the mare to a walk.

Zash’s house appeared before them, looking deceptively peaceful with its palm fronds dipping and bowing in the wind. Taya’s stomach fluttered as she glanced at the window nearest the door, presumably where he had lain in wait for her and Mandir the last time they’d been here. He was not there, or at least not visible. “Which way toward Mandir?”

Amalia pointed toward the banana fields.

As Taya turned Pepper into the banana fields, one part of the mystery still nagged at her. Amalia had explained almost everything, but there was one piece missing. Who had healed the banana plants in town? Both Bodhan and Amalia had assumed she had done it. But she hadn’t, not unless she’d been drugged somehow and didn’t know she was doing it. That didn’t seem likely. It had to have been someone with Coalition training. So who could it have been?

Pepper stepped lightly through the banana plants, picking up her feet to avoid stray leaves and suckers. The plants were in beautiful condition, as lovely as yesterday when Taya had healed them, but the workers were still missing. Perhaps Zash had sent them home while he took care of his dirty business. Or could he have murdered them all, and disposed of the bodies? Taya shook her head. She couldn’t believe she’d actually liked that man. In only a week’s time in Hrappa, she’d made an almost complete about-face. She’d gone from liking Zash and hating Mandir to the opposite, hating Zash and liking Mandir. Maybe more than liking Mandir.

Taya blinked. She knew who had healed the banana plants.

I learned how to fill that hole by helping people, Mandir had said.

Now she understood why he’d discouraged her from looking at the banana plants and had talked her out of reporting the incident to the Coalition elders. He didn’t want the Coalition to know, because it was his crime.

At once, her mind rebelled. The thought was ludicrous. Mandir, her onetime Mohenjo bully, had risked his life to help some farmers he barely knew? And yet it could be nobody else.

Why had he not just told her? She would not have reported him. They had both been poor farmers as children. It was hard to watch other farming families go hungry when they could, at so little cost to themselves, make a difference in those families’ lives. Now that she thought about it, it shamed her that she had not healed the plants herself. What a thought! In this situation, Mandir had been kinder and braver than herself.

“Stop here,” said Amalia.

Taya halted the mare.

“See ahead?”

Taya peered through the plants. In front of them was the clearing with the burned-out house. “Zash showed me this before.”

“But you didn’t find what I’m about to show you.” Amalia slid off Pepper with a grunt—a virgin rider, she was going to be sore tomorrow—and approached the building.

Taya bit her lip at the sight of the girl out in the open where anyone could see her. What if Zash was hiding in the wreckage? She dismounted, ground tied Pepper, and circled around to approach the building from the opposite direction. She and Amalia had a numbers advantage, at least, and they both had magic. And by approaching from opposite sides, they could not easily be surprised.

Across the burned-out husk of a building, Amalia stiffened.

Taya froze and glanced around for danger. She saw nothing. “What’s wrong?”

“The trapdoor’s open,” called Amalia.

“What trapdoor?”

Amalia pointed at the ground.

Taya picked her way through the maze of fallen rocks and charred fragments to where Amalia stood. There was indeed a trapdoor in the middle of the floor. Its wooden covering had been removed and set aside, and a crude stone staircase led down into darkness.

“If it’s open, Zash must be down there right now,” Amalia whispered.

Taya stared at the opening. “We haven’t been exactly quiet. He’ll know we’re here.” She shivered, thinking about Zash waiting for them in that blackness below, with eyes better adjusted to the dark than theirs.

Amalia drew in a nervous breath. “You’re right.”

Taya felt that nothing could induce her to go down that dark hole, knowing the danger, but what else could she do? Wait outside until he came out? Not when Mandir was down there with him. “I’m going in.”

She considered whether to light her way with a ball of fire or just descend into the darkness and hope Zash couldn’t find her any better than she could find him. She decided on the latter. A ball of fire would half blind her in that darkness, whereas Zash might use it to orient on her. She took a deep breath and moved toward the stairway.

Amalia placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go first,” she whispered. “If Zash is waiting with a dart, it’s better if he hits me with it rather than you. Your magic is stronger.”

Thinking of Mandir and knowing that Amalia was doomed by Coalition law anyway, Taya let the girl step in front. Sunlight dimmed and cool air pricked her skin as they descended into the underground cellar. The stone steps were rough and unpolished under the soles of her feet, and they curved unexpectedly, rounding a corner. This diminished the light further, and soon she could see nothing at all. She laid a hand on Amalia’s shoulder so she could keep track of her in the darkness. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Amalia how far down the staircase went, but making noise would be foolish. Instead she focused on making her footfalls as quiet as possible.

Her hand on Amalia’s shoulder unexpectedly rose, and her foot landed hard on even ground where she’d expected another step downward. The impact jarred her teeth, but at least they’d found the end of the stairway. Amalia hesitated, as if uncertain which way to go. She moved to the right, hugging a stone wall. Taya followed.

Suddenly Amalia was yanked forward, away from her. The girl gave a shriek and then was quiet.

Taya spoke sharp words in the mother language, calling fire for illumination. The light appeared just in time to reveal someone diving toward her, someone huge. Not Zash, she realized. Bigger.

Taya spoke again, calling a wall of fire between her and the attacker. He tried to stop, but his momentum was too great. His arm went straight into the fire, and he screamed. Then he shouted words in the mother tongue of his own, and she dismissed her fire completely. “Mandir?” she called into the darkness.

“It’s me,” he gasped.

She called fire again, a little globe that hung in midair, just so she could see who was where and how badly she’d injured her partner. Mandir was crouched on the dirt floor, clutching his arm. Amalia had risen to her feet and was standing silently with her back pressed against the wall. She looked all right. A fourth figure lay on the floor not far from Mandir, and that person didn’t look so good; he was quite still. Ignoring the fourth person for now, Taya went to Mandir’s side and tried to pull his arm away from where he cradled it against his chest. “Are you hurt? I’m so sorry.”

“My fault,” he grunted. “I shouldn’t have rushed without looking. Didn’t think it was going to be you.”

“Who were you expecting?”

Mandir shrugged. Then he turned and looked at Amalia.

“That’s Amalia, the jackal,” said Taya. “She helped me find you. Is that Zash on the floor?” She realized that Mandir was partially free. He’d managed to break both of the chains that held his arms, and one of the chains holding his ankles. That explained why he’d had so much freedom of movement in attacking her and Amalia.

“That’s him, all right,” said Mandir, jerking his head toward the inert form.

“Is he dead?”

“No, he’s just got a few broken bones. Don’t worry, he’s not capable of doing any harm now. That woman is our jackal?”

“I’ll explain later,” said Taya, who felt Mandir had some explaining to do as well. “Let me see your arm.”

He released it from his body just a little, holding it protectively. He was definitely burned, but in the poor light she couldn’t tell the extent of the injury, and she didn’t want to summon more fire when he was already shrinking from the heat of her first.

“Sit down,” said Taya.

Mandir folded his legs and sat on the stone floor.

Taya sat beside him, pressing her body against his. “Give me your arm.”

He unfolded his arm and let her take it.

She cradled it and spoke gentle words in the mother tongue, the words that called forth shy Lalan. Mandir’s arm began to glow faintly as if touched by moonlight, and Taya felt the peaceful, unworldly presence of the goddess.

Mandir sighed, an indication that his pain was easing. Taya did not dare touch the wounded part of his arm, but in the dim light she could see that the discoloration of his skin was fading. The hair on that part of his forearm had burned away.

The glow faded as Lalan departed.

“What are you doing here?” said Mandir. “You weren’t supposed to come back; you were supposed to ride for the Coalition. I can take care of myself. See?” He showed her his wrists, still shackled but with only a couple of links of the chain still attached. The final broken link of each chain was twisted and malformed.

“Did you melt them?”

Mandir nodded. “Took me a while, and I had to wait for the kimat to wear off before I could start. I was working on that last one when you showed up.”

“I couldn’t ride for the Coalition,” said Taya. “Zash told me he’d poisoned me with something that would kill me in three days if he didn’t give me the antidote.”

Mandir stiffened. “What?”

Amalia, still standing awkwardly against the wall, cleared her throat. “I’m pretty sure he was lying about that.”

“Let’s get this chain off, and then I’ll have a chat with Zash about that poison.” He moved his left leg, and the chain rattled. “I’ve created a weak spot in the link here, but I’d only just started working on it.”

Taya picked up the chain. It was still warm to the touch. She could see the weak spot where Mandir had called fire into it previously. Melting metal was harder than summoning fire. Calling fire to a torch or anything else flammable required only a brief call to Isatis. But metal would not burn on its own. A mage had to keep pouring her magic into it, and the temperatures required were much hotter than those needed to burn wood. “I’ll do it,” she said. Since she was a fire seer, Isatis responded better to her than to most Coalition ilittu; what might take Mandir hours, she could do in a few minutes.

“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

Poor Mandir; he looked exhausted. How long had he been trapped here? He could have summoned water from the air once his magic had returned, but he probably hadn’t eaten in a while, especially if Zash had been out of commission and unable to feed him. Melting those chains would have taken a lot out of him.

She pulled the chain taut. Fixing her attention on the weak spot, she called fire into the bronze link. The metal grew hot and turned red.

It wasn’t enough; the metal was not yielding. She called more fire into the link.

“Shall I help?” asked Mandir.

“No. Lie there and rest.” The link went from red to orange, orange to yellow. Now she was getting somewhere. The link distorted, bulging at one end and growing narrow at the other. A drop of liquid metal fell to the ground and sizzled in the dirt, as if the chain wept teardrops of bronze.

“Flood and fire,” whispered Amalia.

Another drop fell, and another. Taya pulled harder on both ends of the chain. The superheated metal began to stretch.

“Never seen someone do it that fast,” said Mandir. “You’ve almost got it.”

The metal elongated ludicrously, like bread dough. Then, suddenly, she felt the chain give, and it parted. “Done,” said Taya, dropping the piece that attached to the wall. She kept hold of the other end, since it was still superheated and attached to Mandir. She watched the yellow fade to orange and then back to red. “Don’t move yet. I don’t want that hot end burning you. How did you capture Zash?”

Mandir shrugged. “Nothing to it. He was a fool.”

The chain returned to its customary dark gold color. She released it.

Mandir got to his feet with a grunt of pain and moved toward the still figure on the ground. “Zash. What’s this about a three-day poison?”

The inert body did not respond.

Mandir kicked Zash savagely in the leg.

Zash, suddenly awake, screamed and curled into a fetal position.

Mandir roared, “What’s this about a three-day poison?”

Clutching his leg, Zash spoke between sobbing breaths. “I poisoned...both of you...with it. If you want...antidote...must...heal me.”

“He’s lying,” said Amalia. “There’s no three-day poison.”

Mandir met Taya’s eyes with raised brows.

“Amalia and I made a deal,” said Taya. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Poisoned both of you,” gasped Zash. “Both going to die. If you want antidote...heal me...then let me go. I’ll send word with the location of the antidote.”

“As if we’d believe that.” Mandir kicked him in the leg again. Zash screamed.

“There’s no poison and no antidote,” said Amalia. “He’s making it up to save himself.”

“I’ve never heard of a poison that takes three days to work,” said Mandir. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“We certainly can’t let him go,” said Taya.

“Agreed,” said Mandir. “I’m not inclined to heal him either.”

“Only one day left before the poison takes effect,” croaked Zash.

Mandir kicked him again. “No more words from you, zebu’s ass.”

Chapter XLI

Hrappa

TAYA DRAPED ZASH OVER PEPPER’S saddle for the journey back to the residence. The man had a broken leg, a broken arm, and likely a few other broken bones as well. He couldn’t walk, and while Mandir might have had the strength to carry him, he clearly didn’t have the desire. Taya stood at the mare’s head and held her pace to a measured walk. Pepper arched her neck and stiffened her body; she got claustrophobic and anxious when she couldn’t stretch her limbs. But for all that Taya tried not to knock Zash about, every stride elicited a groan of pain.

When they reached Zash’s house, Mandir dragged Zash off the horse and laid him on the floor. Then the three of them took the house apart, looking under beds and tables, dumping out jugs, and emptying shelves. When Amalia, with a cry of delight, found the key to Mandir’s manacles, they paused in their work to unshackle his wrists and ankles.

Taya found her mission tablets and her missing vial of kimat beneath a blanket draped over a chair. The kimat was half gone—used up on her and Mandir, in those darts—but at least she knew definitively that Zash had been the one to steal it. Mandir discovered a jar of thin, clear liquid which he sniffed and identified as Echo. But even after searching the wine cellar and a cluttered storage room, they found nothing they could identify as a three-day poison or its antidote.

“Because it doesn’t exist,” Amalia insisted.

Taya hoped she was right, since it was her own life at stake. But short of searching the house over and over again, she could think of nothing more they could do about it.

The trip back to Hrappa was slow, since they were still burdened with Zash. They reached the city gates half an hour before closing and proceeded into the city. At the Hall of Judgment, they spoke to the guards, and Kalbi came out to meet them.

“Is the magistrate available?” asked Taya, uncertain whether she felt comfortable dealing with his son. She did not know Kalbi well, and was not certain whether she could trust him. But then, the magistrate himself was not trustworthy either.

“The magistrate is very ill,” said Kalbi. “We think he may not last the night.”

“I’m sorry,” said Taya.

Kalbi’s gaze fell on Zash’s half-broken body draped over the horse. “What happened to him?”

“Coalition justice,” said Mandir.

“We need custody for Zashkalim until morning,” said Taya. “Do you have a strongroom for holding prisoners?”

“Two of them.” Kalbi nodded toward the guards, who came forward and dragged Zash off the horse.

“We need custody for this one, too,” said Mandir, taking Amalia by the arm.

“What?” squeaked Amalia.

Taya turned and shook her head. She didn’t want Amalia taken into custody; the girl had kept her end of the bargain and helped her find Mandir.

Mandir pushed Amalia forward.

“It’s not fair, I didn’t do anything,” cried Amalia. “I helped you!”

“Mandir—” began Taya.

He silenced her with a look of warning.

“Is one of these people the jackal who killed my brother?” asked Kalbi.

“We’ll make our findings known in the morning,” said Mandir.

Kalbi nodded to another guard, who seized Amalia by the arm.

“Taya, you promised you would help me!” cried Amalia.

“We’ll work something out in the morning,” said Taya. “I swear it on the Mothers’ names.” But right after saying it, she regretted her oath. Could she really help this girl? Amalia had violated Coalition law, not once but multiple times. Taya bit her lip as the guards hauled her away.

She was still staring at the space Amalia had been when Mandir took her gently by the hand. “Let’s talk.”

She followed him numbly to the guesthouse. When they were inside, he shut the door. “What’s going on with the girl?”

“I can’t kill her,” said Taya. “She came to me willingly. She came here, right to my door, and confessed everything. She didn’t kill all those people the magistrate claimed. She killed only one of them.” She related the story Amalia had told her that morning, and told him about her visits to Vella’s and Bodhan’s.

Mandir listened impassively. When she was finished, he said, “Makes no difference. The girl has to die.”

“I made a deal with her.” Taya gritted her teeth. She’d never expected to honor every provision of the deal—some of the girl’s demands were impossible—but she’d intended to honor as much as she could. Now that she faced the girl’s imprisonment and the death sentence that must follow in the morning, she couldn’t bear it. Amalia might deserve punishment of some sort, but not that.

“You can’t honor an agreement you made with a jackal,” said Mandir. “When the Coalition finds out, they’ll kill her and you. Is that what you want?”

“She killed one man, and it was because he was hurting people and nobody else was stopping him.”

“Murder is murder.”

Taya shook her head. She wasn’t so sure. “Besides, Amalia never meant to be a jackal. She wanted to join the Coalition when she first discovered her Gift, but Zash wouldn’t let her. He killed her parents to stop her from going.”

“I know all this,” said Mandir. “It’s unfortunate, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You don’t understand,” said Taya. “Amalia is not the criminal here. Zash is.”

“I do understand. I’m in perfect agreement with you about that,” said Mandir. “And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Coalition law says this woman has to die, and as a quradum and enforcer of the Coalition’s laws, I am duty-bound to carry out that sentence. I understand if you haven’t the stomach for it, but—”

“It’s not right!” she cried. “Amalia shouldn’t die at all.”

He advanced on her. “Do you have any idea what the Coalition will do to us if we let this woman go? Taya, it’s your life at stake here. Do you understand? That’s the only reason I’m willing to kill this poor girl: to save you. I saw you almost die once before, and I’m not going to let it happen again.”

He stood over her with his fists clenched. If he were any other person—indeed, if he had been the Mandir she had known at Mohenjo Temple—she would have been terrified and calling to Isatis for her fire magic. Yet she was unafraid. Mandir was determined and forceful when it came to getting his way, but he wouldn’t hurt her. The old Mandir might have, but this one wouldn’t.

She swallowed. “You’re hardly one to talk, when you’ve broken Coalition law already.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. “The banana plants. Don’t tell me you didn’t do it. I know you did.”

After what seemed an interminable silence, he said, “It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing, and do you think I don’t care? The Coalition might go easy on me; it’s my first offense, and I’m a fire seer. But you’ve had a Year of Penance already. They’ll burn you to death if they find out what you did.”

“I thought you wanted me dead,” said Mandir.

“Of course I don’t,” Taya snapped. “Maybe I did once, but that was a long time ago.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I would have told you. But I thought you would turn me in.”

“I would never have turned you in,” said Taya. “Not for helping a few farmers. What do you think I am?”

Mandir regarded her with soft eyes. He did not answer.

“According to Zash, I’m going to die tomorrow anyway,” said Taya, pulling out a chair and dropping heavily into it. “I might as well do a bit of good first.”

“By letting this girl go?”

“I can’t kill her, Mandir. I just can’t.”

“Remember the flood?” said Mandir. “She tried to kill you.”

“I forgive her for that.” Taya met his eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve forgiven somebody for something that seemed unforgiveable at the time.”

Mandir’s eyes misted. He went to the table and sat across from her. “Have you really forgiven me?”

She nodded. “I have. And Mandir, I didn’t join the Coalition to become a bully and a thug. I don’t want to burn this girl to death. And if I’m going to die anyway—”

“You’re not,” he said. “Amalia’s right about that. Zash made it up.”

“We don’t know for sure.” She choked as her throat tightened.

In an instant, Mandir was up, dragging her out of the chair, and pulling her into his arms. “It’s all right,” he crooned, stroking her hair. “You’re not going to die, and I’ll figure out something to do about Amalia, I promise. If you’re certain we can’t kill her, then we won’t.”

“But what can we do?” They were trapped. They couldn’t kill the girl, and yet Mandir was right; the Coalition expected them to do it and would punish them if they didn’t.

“Right now I want you to get some sleep,” said Mandir. “You’re exhausted, and we don’t have to think about this until morning.”

Taya nodded but did not move. She was reluctant to leave the warmth of his arms. She looked up at him, drinking in the sight of his warm gaze, observing for the first time the slight imperfections in the red tattoos beneath his eyes. He was not a god, not a prince. He was just a man, and she liked him. Maybe she even loved him. What a thought, her and Mandir.

He bent down and pressed his lips to hers. It startled her at first—kissing was not something she had much experience with—but he was gentle, and she decided she liked it. She parted her lips to show that he was welcome, and after a moment she began to reciprocate.

He released her with a sigh of contentment. “Go to bed and get some rest. No matter what happens tomorrow—I love you, Taya.”

Chapter XLII

Hrappa

IN THE MORNING, MANDIR SENT for Rasik and had him bring breakfast. Now that they had Zash in custody, he and Taya didn’t need to worry anymore about poisoned food. He ate alone, lingering over his flatbread, goat cheese, and bananas, thinking about Taya and the young jackal she couldn’t bear to kill. Perhaps it would be best all around if he went to the Hall of Judgment this morning and carried out the sentence on his own. That would spare Taya any involvement in the gruesome task while making sure she didn’t break the most sacred of Coalition laws.

She’d be furious with him, of course. That part made his stomach turn. He’d worked hard to earn her good opinion—he’d even kissed her last night, and felt her kiss him back!—and he did not want to squander that good opinion now.

Still, better Taya should be angry at him than condemned to death for breaking Coalition law. He was fairly certain the Coalition would look the other way when it came to her healing Zash’s trees. She’d been forced to do so, after all, and the Coalition valued Taya. They desperately needed their handful of fire seers. But they would never tolerate her letting a jackal go free. The Coalition survived by having a monopoly on magic. They were fanatical about stomping out unauthorized magic use. If he and Taya let Amalia go, the Coalition would declare them rogue and have them hunted down and killed as jackals themselves.

He sighed. Why did Taya have to make a friend of the girl?

He’d made up his mind: he would go to the Hall of Judgment and execute Amalia. Taya might never forgive him, but at least she wouldn’t be in trouble with the Coalition, and she’d be spared the agony of having to watch the girl die. Mandir could carry that burden better than she; his soul was stained enough already.

He shaved and dressed, lingering longer than he should out of distaste for the task that lay ahead. Finally he set out from the guesthouse and headed down the dusty road.

At the Hall of Judgment, he sent for and spoke to Rasik. “I need Amalia.”

Rasik nodded and disappeared into the building.

“Wait!” called a voice behind him.

Flood and fire. He turned and saw Taya running up the steps, her clothes flapping about her in her mad rush, her hair sticking out of its headdress. She reached the top of the steps and halted. “You can’t do this without me.”

“Go back to the guesthouse,” he said. “It will be easier on you—”

“Easier? What are you planning to do?”

“What has to be done,” said Mandir.

She shook her head. “We can’t do that.”

“You can’t. But I can.”

“Mandir—” She stopped short as Rasik came out of the front doors, holding Amalia by the arm.

“Thank you,” Mandir said to Rasik. He seized the girl by the wrist and dragged her down the steps.

“What’s going on?” Amalia cried, trying to wrench her arm out of his grip.

Taya hurried to his side. “You said we’d talk about this. You haven’t the authority to act on your own. We’re a team, and besides, I outrank you.”

Amalia tried to peel his fingers off her wrist. “Let go. What’s going on?”

Turning to Taya, Mandir sighed. “All right, we’ll talk about it.”

He went with Taya to her guesthouse, dragging Amalia behind him. The girl had stopped fighting and came willingly enough, though he could feel that she was tense and frightened.

Once they were inside and the door closed, Amalia turned to Taya. “We had a deal.”

Taya grimaced. “The truth is—”

“She can’t keep that deal,” said Mandir, knowing Taya would have trouble breaking the bad news as bluntly as it needed to be broken. “It’s against the law. Coalition policy says you have to die.”

“What?” shrieked Amalia. “But I never wanted to be a jackal. I was forced! I want to join the Coalition!”

“You can’t,” he said shortly.

“Mandir!” protested Taya.

“Why kill me?” cried Amalia. “It was Zash who did everything. Zash forced me to become a jackal. He killed our parents. He killed Jaina. He poisoned you—”

“Zash did not do everything,” said Mandir. “You killed Hunabi. And you tried to kill Taya as well.”

Amalia began to cry.

Taya turned to him. “We haven’t told anyone that she’s the jackal, have we?”

“Not yet.”

“So what if Zash is the jackal?”

Mandir glared at her. “He’s not.”

“No, listen.” Taya spoke rapidly, stepping forward so she could be heard over Amalia’s sobs. “We have to kill Zash anyway. Once he’s dead, no one will know he wasn’t magical.”

“Half the town already knows Amalia was the jackal,” said Mandir. “The peasant farmers sheltered and protected her.”

“If they sheltered her from Zash and Bodhan and the magistrate, they’ll shelter her from the Coalition. Why would they say anything to bring her harm? She’s a hero to them.”

“They might say something—you never know—and Amalia is still magical,” said Mandir. “If we blame Zash for everything and execute him, we’ll still have a jackal at large—” He stopped as he realized what Taya was getting at.

“Kimat,” said Taya.

“Get the bottle from my guesthouse.” The half vial they’d recovered from Zash’s plantation wouldn’t be enough.

Taya ran out the door into the courtyard.

Amalia sniffled and wiped her eyes. “What are you two suggesting?”

“We’ve found a way out,” said Mandir. “You won’t like it. But it’s better than the alternative.”

Taya ran back in, clutching the ceramic vial. She showed it to Amalia. “This is kimat. If you drink the whole vial, it will destroy your magic.”

Amalia recoiled. “Why would I do that?”

“Do you want to live or not?” snapped Mandir.

“Here’s what happened,” said Taya. “Listen carefully, because it’s the story you’ll need to know by heart and tell everyone if you want the Coalition to leave you alone. When Zash developed his magical Gift, he chose not to join the Coalition—”

Amalia broke in. “But Zash has no magical Gift—”

“Listen,” said Taya. “Yes, he did. That’s the story we’re telling. You threatened to report him, so he locked you up and declared you mad. You escaped and went into hiding. Later, Zash used his magic to murder Hunabi. He wrote the threatening letter to the magistrate in an attempt to have his loan from Bodhan forgiven. Then he burned your house, claiming you had been killed by the jackal, so that he could cover up evidence of his mistreatment of you and deflect suspicion. Later, when Mandir and I closed in on him, he became desperate and turned his magic on us.”

Mandir frowned. He didn’t like it, but the story was reasonably sound. “We’ll have to get all the details straight before we write up the rest of our mission report.”

Amalia sagged in his arms. “I don’t want to lose my magic,” she sobbed. “I want to join the Coalition.”

Taya came and took her hand. “That’s not an option. But this option isn’t so terrible. You’re Zash’s heir, are you not? He has no other family, so when he dies, you’ll inherit a healthy banana plantation with no blight and no debt. You’re a good woman, and the farmers in this town regard you highly. When they learn that their loans have been forgiven, they’ll revere you even more. You may not have your magic any longer, but I think you’ll have a nice life nonetheless.”

Amalia sniffled.

“Wouldn’t you prefer that to a death sentence?” Taya added.

Amalia struggled to her feet and fought to regain control of her arms. “Let go of me.”

Mandir glanced at the firmly closed door and ascertained that if she ran, he and Taya could reach her before she got out. He released her.

“Give me that,” said Amalia, reaching for the vial of kimat.

Taya placed it in her hand.

Amalia removed the stopper, and, with trembling hands, raised it to her lips. She drank it down, shaking it to make sure she got the last drops. Finally she handed the vial back to Taya. “It’s done.”

Taya pulled her into a hug and held her as she cried.

Taya stared at the broken man lying in the dirt. The guards had carried Zash out of the Hall of Judgment and laid him in the street. Zash’s chest still rose and fell, but his breaths were shallow. He seemed barely to have survived the night. Taya pitied him, but only insofar as she detested human suffering of any kind. This man had killed his own parents, destroyed his sister’s hopes of joining the Coalition, and murdered an innocent farm woman. He had drugged Taya twice, abducted her, stolen from her, and probably had intended to rape her. This man deserved whatever fate the Coalition chose to deal out.

Back in the strongroom, Mandir had administered the customary dose of kimat given to jackals, pinching Zash’s nose and forcing him to swallow. But it was fakery. Zash did not need kimat, and they didn’t have enough left to dose him with anyway. Instead, Mandir had given him Echo, which would dull his mind and numb his pain.

“Time to get this over with,” said Mandir. He stepped forward.

She followed him. “We’ll do it together.”

He placed a hand on her arm to stay her and shook his head. “I’m the quradum and you’re the investigator. This is my job.”

Taya swallowed. Once, she’d have thought Mandir would enjoy the role of Coalition enforcer, that he would take pleasure in killing the organization’s enemies. Now that she knew him better, she understood that he did not enjoy it at all; rather, he acted as a quradum because he could. He’d been surrounded by darkness all his life. What was a little more? He could wallow in darkness and survive it. Now she wondered what price he paid for it.

A crowd of onlookers formed a ring around them.

In a deep, authoritative voice, Mandir addressed them. “Townsfolk of Hrappa, we are agents of the Coalition, sent to investigate and prosecute magical crimes. Since the Accords of Let, all magic is restricted to approved Coalition use. This man, Zashkalim isu Ikkarum, used unlawful magic outside of the Coalition’s authority, operating as a jackal for selfish ends.”

“No,” croaked Zash from the dirt. “Not me.”

Mandir ignored him and continued. “When Zash’s sister observed his magic and realized he was using it illegally, she protested, and Zash responded by locking her up and telling everyone she’d gone mad. When she escaped, he covered for her loss by setting the house on fire and claiming she’d been murdered.

“When his debts got out of control, Zash murdered the magistrate’s son and threatened to murder the other son if his debt was not forgiven in court. Then Zash compounded his crimes by murdering Jaina, an innocent farm girl who’d witnessed his murder of Hunabi. Later, in desperation, he summoned an illegal flood in an attempt to kill my partner, and he poisoned and kidnapped both of us.”

Mandir stepped away from Zash. “Let this be a lesson to any who would flout Coalition law.” He gestured, and Zash erupted in flames.

Some of the onlookers backed away and screamed, but Zash did not scream at all. He was half dead already, and the Echo had numbed him further. He simply burned, like a lifeless piece of meat.

Great Mother, Taya prayed, I promised you the blood of the unjust. Today I fulfill that promise.

The flames pulsed yellow in acknowledgment. Taya felt sick. She ran her eyes over the crowd. Some watched Mandir while others stared at Zash. Some looked disgusted, others horrified.

Would this be her life as a Coalition investigator, burning people to death and terrifying townspeople?

The flames were dying. Zash no longer resembled a human being, but a blackened shell. Taya swallowed and tasted ashes.

Mandir took her arm. “Let’s go home.”

Taya’s head began to ache less than an hour later, and when the pain continued for the rest of the day she worried secretly that the three-day poison might be taking effect. Which maybe she deserved, after the things she’d done. She and Mandir spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon writing up new mission tablets. She dictated while Mandir did the writing. Rasik brought them lunch, but Taya wasn’t hungry.

When they finished the tablet work, Taya decided she had enough loose ends to take care of that they should wait until morning to leave Hrappa. The Coalition had sent Piru, the pack elephant, to bring back Hrappa’s tax payment, so she made arrangements for that with Kalbi, the acting magistrate, as his father was unconscious and near death. Then she spent time in the stable, rubbing the elephant’s ears and brushing Pepper until her coat shone. It was calming work, a healthy labor that took her mind off the morning’s horrors. She and Mandir had killed a man today, called bloodthirsty Isatis down upon him and watched while the Fire Mother ate him alive. Every time Taya closed her eyes, she saw his body in the dirt.

She didn’t feel much better about destroying Amalia’s magic.

She returned to her guesthouse after dark to find her dinner waiting for her. The smell of it turned her stomach.

She ignored it and went to bed, but sleep eluded her. How could she do this, week after week, year after year? Leaving diseased plants unhealed because the farmers had no gold—and those were only plants. What if next time it was a sick animal or a sick person that she could easily heal but wasn’t allowed to because of the Coalition rules? That would be worse. She didn’t feel too guilty about executing Zash, since he truly was a murderer, but what about the Amalias of the world, which the Coalition demanded she exterminate?

She found herself walking out the door and across the courtyard to Mandir’s house for reasons she did not fully understand and had no intention of analyzing. She hesitated before knocking—it was late enough that he might be asleep—but she decided she was desperate enough to wake him.

“Yes?” came his muffled voice through the door.

“It’s me.”

“Come in.”

She opened the door, but didn’t enter. She hovered in the doorway, uncertain now what she wanted from him or why she’d come. In the darkness, she could just make out his form on the bed.

“What’s the matter?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t sleeping either,” said Mandir.

There was a lump in her throat; she forced her words around it. “Today was a hard day.” Also, she could be dead by morning, if Zash had told the truth about the three-day poison. She found herself strangely resigned to that fate.

“Would it help if you had company?” asked Mandir.

Taya hesitated. It would help, but what exactly was he suggesting? She wanted his presence, but she didn’t want to sleep with him. Not in the sense of having sex.

“Tell me what you want,” said Mandir.

Taya took a couple of steps forward, letting the door close behind her. “Would it be too odd if I wanted...” She took a deep breath. “Could I just lie there in bed with you?”

“Sleep with me?” asked Mandir.

“Yes. Just sleep.”

“You don’t want anything else to happen?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Then it won’t. Stop hovering and get over here.”

She headed toward him. There was a rustle of bedsheets as he scooted over and made room, raising the blanket to invite her in. She slipped under the covers, and his great arms captured her, pulling her close. She turned in his grip, placing her back against his chest and tucking her head under his chin. She sighed with relief, fully cocooned in blankets and Mandir.

“Feel any better?” he murmured.

She choked back a sob. “I don’t know. I don’t know about the Coalition. I thought I would love this job. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Today was a hard day,” said Mandir. “They will not all be hard days.”

“I don’t know if we even did the right thing. Killing Zash, destroying Amalia’s magic. And we’ve broken so many Coalition laws ourselves!”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“It’s more than that.” Taya shivered. “I feel so grateful to the organization for what they’ve given me. But I’m not sure it’s right what they ask of us. What we do for them.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure about that either.” He tightened his grip around her.

Taya closed her eyes. Growing up on a farm in a large family, she’d never slept alone. She’d always piled into a communal bed with her sisters, and when they had guests over, she shared that bed with her brothers too. When frightened, she’d always had someone to nestle with. That had been one of the hardest adjustments for her to make when she’d arrived at Mohenjo, having to sleep alone all the time. Sure, she didn’t have people kicking her in the middle of the night, or snoring, or rolling over and hogging the blanket, but sleeping by oneself was lonely.

“Do you think we did the right things today?” she asked.

“I think we tried as hard as we could, and did the best things possible under the circumstances. That’s all anyone can ask.”

“Do you think I’ll survive until morning?”

He kissed her on the top of her head. “I have never known anyone who was more of a survivor than you.”

Chapter XLIII

Hrappa

WHEN TAYA WOKE AND SAW the daylight filtering in through the windows, her first thought was, I’m alive. She was still wrapped in Mandir’s arms, though they’d thrown off the blanket. She was vaguely aware that he’d been up once during the night—her half-dreaming mind had registered it—though for what reason, she did not know. At any rate, he was back now. She could feel his breathing as his powerful chest rose and fell against her back.

Lying there, she felt exhilarated. She was alive! There was no three-day poison. The horrors of yesterday were fading, and she was beginning to perceive that despite the ugliness of having to execute Zash and destroy Amalia’s magic, she and Mandir had, on the whole, been successful in Hrappa. They’d been sent to solve a trio of murders, and they’d solved them. Their methods had been unconventional—in some cases illegal—but she would not have had it any other way.

She and Mandir had cured Hrappa’s banana blight, freed its farmers from Bodhan’s crushing loans, and rid the community of the murderous Zash.

Infused with a rush of new energy, she twisted in Mandir’s arms to face him. She tilted her head upward and kissed him on the lips. “Wake up, handsome.”

Mandir’s eyes blinked open. “Was that for real? Or am I dreaming?”

“It’s morning, and we’re alive!”

“Of course we’re alive.” Mandir stretched luxuriously, like an enormous bronze panther. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a three-day poison.”

“Be honest,” said Taya, her eyes roaming over the mouth-watering expanse of his body. “You had your doubts.”

“Tiny doubts.” Mandir pressed his thumb and forefinger together.

“Not so tiny.” She pulled his fingers apart.

Mandir placed his other hand over Taya’s to make the space smaller again.

Taya tried to pull his hand away, which turned into a wrestling match as she grabbed for his hand, and he dodged, holding it out of reach. Finally she jumped on him for better access, and they fought that way. She could tell he was only playing, using less than half his strength, until suddenly he turned the tables and flipped them over, pinning her beneath him.

“What were you saying again?” asked Mandir, his breath warm on her face.

“I don’t remember.” She was a little bit frightened, but she wanted him.

Mandir lowered his great body onto hers and kissed her. Something throbbed in Taya’s nether regions—a feeling she rarely experienced except when she pleasured herself. She gasped, which excited Mandir. He nipped her on the lip and kissed her again. “Is this something you want?”

She nodded.

He raised himself enough to take off his nightshirt. “Are you sure?”

She gaped at the sight of his well-muscled chest and abdomen as the shirt peeled away. “Yes. Do you think it will hurt?”

“Why, is it your first time?”

She nodded.

“I don’t think so.” He kissed her forehead lightly. “But if it does, you can stop me.”

Taya nodded, but as he unfastened his pants, she tensed.

He paused to stroke her hair. “I’ll be gentle. If there’s anything you’re not enjoying, tell me, and I’ll stop.” He pulled his pants down, revealing his erection.

Taya couldn’t help but stare. She’d never seen one before.

Mandir didn’t seem to notice or care that she was staring; he was occupied with her nightshirt. He found the ends of it and tugged it upward, encouraging her to raise herself off the bed to release it. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and her breasts fell free. Mandir, sitting atop her, gazed at her reverently. “You are one fine-looking woman, banana girl.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, banana man.”

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose I asked for that.” Lowering himself on her, he kissed her again. One of his hands found her breast, cupped it, and stroked. His thumb circled her nipple, pressing hard. Taya’s nether regions throbbed, and her back arched. She moaned.

When she couldn’t stand it any longer, and her body demanded more, Mandir seemed to sense it. He moved downward and captured her nipple with his tongue. He circled it with firm pressure, nipped lightly, and stroked her breast with his fingertips.

“Great Mothers,” said Taya, arching her back again. She was wet; she could feel it, and Mandir’s erection was hot and hard between them. She wanted him inside her, needed him. “Now, Mandir.” She reached for him, wanting him to pull that wicked tongue off her, and satisfy the beautiful and terrible need within.

“Not yet,” he said, taking her arm and pinning it beneath his body. “I’m going to make you wait.”

“Mandir,” she gasped.

“I waited ten years to have you in my bed,” he said. “Now that I’ve got you here, you can wait for me.”

“Mandir,” she protested. He was ruthless with his tongue, pinning her arms as he pleasured her just enough to drive her into a frenzy, but not enough to satisfy her. She moaned, her body shifting in frustration and pleasure. She gasped as his tongue teased her sensitized nipple. “Mandir.”

“I love it when you say my name.” He reached down and pulled at her smallclothes.

She shimmied her hips to help remove them.

In an instant, Mandir’s cock was pressing into her, slowly. Poised above her, looking into her eyes, Mandir said, “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she gasped. “It doesn’t hurt at all.” And then, for a moment, it did. She felt a twinge, but it came and went, and was quickly forgotten in the deluge of more agreeable sensations.

He pushed in, farther and farther, until Taya felt the moment they were joined, his body warm and solid against hers. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting him closer in every possible way. When he began to move, she moaned and arched her back. This was what she needed. This was what she’d been waiting for.

“Oh, Great Mothers,” said Mandir, moving faster. His eyes glazed.

Every movement of their joined bodies sent a thrill of exquisite pleasure through her body, emanating from her nether regions all the way through the tips of her fingers, and as Mandir accelerated, the waves of pleasure came faster. His mouth found hers, joining them doubly, and when her pleasure spilled over, she bucked in his arms, driving him to a shuddering peak of his own.

He rolled onto his side, taking her with him so they did not have to separate. “That was worth the wait,” he said.

Taya laughed. She was hot and sweaty, pressed into another body that was equally hot and sweaty, and she didn’t care.

“I love you,” said Mandir. “I always have.”

“I’m starting to believe you.”

“From the beginning, from the day we met, you were the one,” said Mandir. “I did everything wrong. More than wrong. I was a fool, but I loved you.”

“I wanted to love you then,” said Taya. “But it didn’t happen until just a few days ago. Which reminds me, when we were down in that hole at Zash’s, you said there was something about the fire maze I didn’t know.”

“Oh.” Mandir pushed a lock of damp hair back from her face. “The Coalition forbade me to speak of it.”

Taya snorted. “As if you follow Coalition rules.”

“I try.”

“Tell me,” said Taya. “I think I have a right to know.”

“I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself.”

She found Mandir’s hand and interlocked their fingers. “I promise.”

“You know the basics of the story. Cole, Talin, Lilit, and I built a fire maze as an elaborate, cruel prank just for you. It took us weeks to design and build. We had to map it out on tablets, clear space for it in the fields, assemble it.”

“I’m not impressed.”

“I know,” said Mandir. “I’m just saying we went to a lot of trouble to be zebu’s asses.”

“It was your idea, wasn’t it? You were the leader.”

“Yes, it was my idea.”

“Then why did Cole, Talin, and Lilit get expelled while you only got a Year of Penance?”

“I’m getting to that,” said Mandir. “We drugged you with kimat and shydra. The shydra made you sleep so deeply we were able to remove you from your bed and carry you to the starting area of our fire maze. You know what happened with the maze. The intent was to torment and scare you. There was no way out. We didn’t let you backtrack, and every turn you took was guaranteed to be wrong. We’d designed the maze such that we could alter it on the fly. We planned to terrify you for a while, then eventually open up a path for you and run off so we wouldn’t get caught.

“But the maze broke down. Our ambition exceeded our ability, and we couldn’t control the fire. Mother Isatis was on the rampage, and we realized you could die in there. Cole, Talin, and Lilit were terrified they’d be caught and executed for causing your death. So they ran away.” Mandir’s hand tightened into a fist around hers.

“And what did you do?” asked Taya.

“I went down there,” said Mandir. “I went into the fire maze and got you out.”

Taya turned in his grip. “You’re the one who got me out of the fire maze?”

“There was no one else to do it.”

“I always thought it was one of the ilittu. That someone had seen the flames and come to help.”

“They came later,” said Mandir. “You were unconscious, and I was badly burned. I tried to control the flames, but Isatis mocked me.”

“You walked into fire to rescue me.”

“I had to,” said Mandir. “I was the one who put you in there.”

“You and three other boys, and the other three ran away. So that’s why you got a Year of Penance and they got expelled,” said Taya. “I always thought it was favoritism because you were Prince Tufan’s son.”

“Everyone assumed that,” said Mandir. “Nobody knew how you’d been rescued except a handful of ilittu and the Elders. They forbade me to speak of it. They thought it would be wrong for me to act like a hero for rescuing you, considering I’d built the trap for you myself.”

“That makes sense,” said Taya. “Still, I wish I’d known the truth. I might not have hated you quite so much.”

Mandir ran a hand down the contour of her waist and hip, exploring her body in a way that was more curious than sexual. “Back then, you were right to hate me. The important thing was that I knew what I’d done. I knew I’d run into the fire to save you. And that was a turning point in my life. I’d say it was the turning point in my life.”

“I thought the turning point was Neshi.”

“I wouldn’t have learned a thing from Neshi if I hadn’t been ready to change. When the other boys ran away and I was left alone on that ledge, I knew that if I ran too, you would die. I realized I would rather die in that fire myself than live in a world that didn’t have you in it.”

“I never imagined that was how you felt back then.”

“After Neshi, I’m better about not being a zebu’s ass all the time,” said Mandir. “It helps that you chasten me when I slip back into my old ways. Do you think we’ll be together again after this mission?”

“I’d like us to be,” said Taya.

Taya squeezed herself into the tiny space on the saddle between the blood bay’s withers and Mandir’s legs. The horse grunted with displeasure at the extra weight. Mandir wrapped his arms around her to take up the reins. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but it had an upside. She’d be snuggled against Mandir’s chest for the entire trip.

Mandir nudged the blood bay into a walk. “I can’t believe you gave Pepper away to that jackal.”

“She’s no jackal, remember? Just a banana farmer.”

“Not a jackal. Right.”

Taya didn’t care if he disapproved. It was a delicious memory, one she would relish all her life. When she’d handed Amalia the black mare’s reins, the girl had fallen on her knees and sobbed, she was so grateful. “I’ll buy another horse when we get back to the temple. I have plenty of money these days.”

“That black mare was special. You had a great bond with her. Didn’t you say she was the finest possession you’d ever owned?”

“She was. But I can afford another Coalition horse, and Amalia can’t, no matter how well those banana plants produce. This was a way of giving back a little of what Zash took from her.”

“I think you’re crazy,” said Mandir with a shrug. “But you’ve got the biggest heart in the river valley. That’s lucky for Amalia—and for me.”

He nudged the blood bay into a jog and they headed through the streets of Hrappa, followed by the dwarf elephant that carried the city’s tax payment. Townsfolk came out of their homes and shops to watch them pass. Some of them smiled and waved. Others frowned. It was impossible to be Coalition and be liked by everybody. But that didn’t mean it was impossible to do the right thing, or at least to try one’s very best. Not everyone would approve of what she and Mandir had done, but she believed they were leaving Hrappa a better place than they’d found it.

Outside the city gates, Mandir slowed the blood bay to a walk, and they rested, basking in the morning sunshine.

Taya nestled her head in the crook of Mandir’s chin. “I think I’ve found a possession I like better than the black mare.”

“I’m a possession now, am I?” He tickled her, causing her to squirm away. He glanced back to make sure the elephant was still following them. “Where are we headed? Mohenjo or Rakigari?”

She hadn’t thought about it. They were going to stay together rather than split up, so it wasn’t clear which temple they should report back to. “How about Rakigari? I’ve never seen it, and I’m not ready to go back to Mohenjo with you right now.”

Mandir nodded grimly. “I don’t blame you. I’ve ghosts there too.”

“Rakigari, then,” said Taya. “And let’s think of happier things. The sun on our faces. The wind at our backs...”

“You in my arms,” said Mandir.

Taya reached up and kissed him. It was going to be a lovely trip home.

The Journey Continues in… Book 2: The Coalition of Mages

Coming Spring 2015

Afterword

AMY IS THE AUTHOR OF the fantasy romance Hearts and Thrones series as well as the fantasy/romance/mystery Coalition of Mages series. She is a 2011 Golden Heart® finalist for Assassin’s Gambit, a 2012 Daphne du Maurier winner for The Fire Seer, and a 2014 PRISM winner for Spy’s Honor.

Want to learn more?

Subscribe to Amy’s new release mailing list if you’d like to be informed when a new book comes out: http://eepurl.com/yJfU5

Website: http://www.amyraby.com

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Twitter: @amyraby

Other Books by Amy Raby

The Coalition of Mages Series:

Book 1: The Fire Seer

Book 2: The Fire Seer & her Quradum (Spring 2015)

The Hearts and Thrones Series:

Book 1: Assassin’s Gambit

Book 2: Spy’s Honor

Book 3: Prince’s Fire

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THE LEGENDS OF DIMMINGWOOD, BOOK #1 - MAGIC OF THIEVES

C. Greenwood

A Beginning

THE BRISK AUTUMN WIND PLAYS through my hair and tugs at my clothes impatiently, as if trying to pull me down the forest trail more quickly. Each new gust sends a storm of red and ocher leaves showering to the earth to crunch beneath my boots as I follow a well-remembered path to a better-remembered destination, one that has been my home almost longer than I can remember. One that will be my home no more after today.

Unwilling to explore the feelings accompanying that realization, I jerk my thoughts quickly in a safer direction. It’s surprisingly easy to feel hopeful right now despite the previous day’s events. The birds are noisy in the trees overhead, and the sun is rising in the sky to warm my back. Or possibly that reassuring warmth is radiating from something less dependable than the sun—the bow slung across my back. The bow often grows warm, glowing with an eerie light for no apparent reason. I’m still not used to that. I’m not used to a great many things, not the least of which is the plan before me and all that led me to it.

As my steps draw me nearer to Red Rock camp, I find my memories drifting to an area less familiar, to a time and place almost forgotten, and to a voice lost to me many years ago…

Chapter I

“HURRY, LITTLE ONE. WE MUST be ready as soon as Da pulls the cart up to the door.” Mama’s voice was tense and her hands were busy as she spoke, shoving food and provisions into a bag.

“I’m trying, Mama,” I whined. “But I cannot find my boots.”

“Never mind. There’s no more time,” she said, snatching a woolen scarf from a peg on the wall and kneeling to wind it around my head and shoulders. I couldn’t understand the reason behind the tight lines around her mouth or the dread filling her eyes.

She said, “You’ll be riding in the cart, so we’ll just wrap your feet up snug in a blanket. Come now, quickly.”

She grabbed my thin shoulders and pushed me toward the door. Her grip dug painfully into my flesh and I gave a little squeal of protest, but she appeared not to hear it.

I was amazed at being permitted to go outdoors with bare feet in the dead of winter, something that had never happened according to my short memory. I still wore my sleeping gown beneath my cloak, and my silver-white hair remained matted and uncombed.

Mama threw open the door, and an icy blast of wind slapped me in the face, cutting through my clothing. I peered out through the torrential sleet and into the dim world ahead. It was not yet light out, but I could just see far enough ahead to make out Da pulling the cart into the yard, our old nag hitched to the front.

Grabbing my wrist, Mama dragged me out the door and down the front step, moving with surprising strength for a woman so small. My naked feet barely touched the frozen ground, but when they did the cold of the sleet-spattered mud made me cringe, so I ran as fast as my short legs could carry me across the yard.

A shrill scream erupted suddenly in the distance. Carried on the wind, it echoed across the valley, rising over the gale of the storm.

Fear shot up my spine as Mama froze for a moment, looking off toward the hills ringing our farm. A little village lay just over the near rise, but it was impossible to see beneath the darkness and the thick veil of the blizzard.

Spurred by the scream and the series of chilling cries that followed, Mama took to her heels again. I stumbled over the frozen earth, and she grabbed me up in her slender arms, carrying me the rest of the way to the cart. I could feel her heart thudding against my ear as she ran, her breath rasping in and out as she stumbled to a halt alongside the wagon.

Then I was passed into Da’s strong arms and lifted upward.

“They’re coming!” Mama had to shout at him to be heard over the wind. “They’re in the village!”

“I heard.” Da sounded unrushed. His eyes met hers over the top of my head and she seemed to grow calmer beneath his steady gaze.

She said, “We’ve no chance of outrunning the soldiers. Not in a cart.”

“Not together,” he agreed. “But with the weight of only two, you might make it.”

“Habon, what are you saying?”

Da didn’t answer immediately, settling me down quickly in the bed of the cart and giving me a reassuring pat on the head.

“I want you to make for Borlan’s farm on the other side of the ridge,” he told Mama. “Borlan’s a magickless, but he’s a good neighbor and I believe he’ll hide you from the Praetor’s Fists. At any rate, he’s your only chance.”

“I won’t go without you,” she insisted.

Da turned his back to her, making a hasty check of the nag’s harness. “You must, Ada. You understand what has to be done for the sake of the child. Quickly now, get into the cart.”

Another unexpected cry rent the air—not the terrified scream of a distant villager this time, but a ferocious howl of bloodlust. The shout was swiftly echoed by a host of others, each sounding closer than the last.

I fixed my eyes on the dark line of the ridge in the distance, knowing at any moment something terrible was going to crest the rise, even if I couldn’t guess what. I heard Mama choke on a sob, was aware of her falling into Da’s arms, but couldn’t tear my gaze from the hill. A handful of shadowy figures on horseback suddenly vaulted over the rise and into view. Then what looked like an entire army was pouring down the hillside like a flood aimed directly at us.

The scene wasn’t lost on Mama and Da.

“You’ve been a good husband to me,” she said quickly. “And a good father to our daughter.”

He nodded wordlessly and bent his head to hers in a swift kiss.

Then, without another word, he was gone, a tall shadow disappearing into the falling sleet.

I had no time to comprehend what was happening. Mama scrambled into the cart ahead of me and took up the reins. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the descending horde of horsemen riding into our farmyard. One instant they filled my vision, a black tide surging toward us. The next, a lone shape stepped into their path. My Da made a strange figure, standing alone before the fierce, inflowing host, a wheat scythe gripped in his hand.

Our cart lurched forward, and I was slung roughly against the back as we bumped along, picking up speed. I glanced behind us in time to see the dark figure that was my Da disappearing beneath the thundering hooves of the first horsemen.

“Da!” I screeched.

I threw myself over the side of the moving cart, hitting the ground with a force that drove the breath from my lungs and sent a jolt of agony through my body. I rolled a short distance in the mud. For a brief eternity, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Cold sleet hailed down on my upturned face. I labored to draw an aching breath and then was sucking in the air in great gulps, choking on the freezing rain that found its way down my nose and into my mouth.

Footsteps pounded toward me. Suddenly Mama was there, kneeling in the mud beside me, lifting me gently off my back and tucking my head under her dry cloak. I clung to her waist, shivering against her warmth, and breathed in the heavy scent of soggy wool. Then I became aware of the rumbling of hooves signaling the approach of many horses. Safety disappeared as the world came rushing in on me again.

Mama quickly pushed me back from her and set me on my feet. I tried to crawl into her lap again, but she held me firmly at arm’s length.

I squinted through the downpour and made out the shapes of the horsemen bearing down on us, their scarlet cloaks flaring out behind them, the beating of their horses’ hooves drowning out the thunder of the skies.

Mama’s face was slick with rain so I couldn’t tell if she was weeping or if I imagined it. Taking my head in her clumsy hands, she put her forehead against mine until I could see nothing but her face. Her eyes were wide, her mouth tight. Strands of wet hair, whiter than pure snow, clung to her face and neck.

She shouted over the roar of the battering wind. “I need you to be brave for me! You must hold tight to what I’m about to give you and never lose it, for if all else fails, it may protect you.”

Fumbling inside her cloak, she withdrew something that she pressed hastily into my hand. It was too dark to make out what it was, but the object was cold and hard like metal with ridged edges that cut into my palm when she closed my fingers tight around it.

“Take this and go to Master Borlan. You must run very fast until you can run no more, and then you must hide. Do you understand?”

Before I could answer, she pushed me roughly away from her and I reeled forward.

“Go now!” she commanded. “Hurry!”

I hesitated, every instinct telling me to disobey the incomprehensible order and cling to my one source of safety.

But she was already turning her back on me to face the approaching horses with arms outspread, as if she could hold back the tide of darkness. Blue sparks of magic appeared, sizzling at her fingertips.

As the nearest horsemen advanced, bright bolts shot from Mama’s hands, striking the ground at their feet. The earth erupted as if hit by lightning, and chunks of mud flew through the air, spraying in every direction. Horses reared and shrieked, flailing their hooves. There were shouts from the men who fought to regain control of their mounts, and several riders were thrown to the ground, but others barreled on.

Terror seized me at the sight of them closing in and, unthinkingly, I turned and fled. When next I looked back, it was to see the lead rider bearing down on Mama’s slight figure. She stood firm, blue lightning crackling in her hands, but this time she didn’t cast her magic swiftly enough. I saw the horseman’s thick arm, holding a length of steel, sweep toward her in a single, smooth motion, and she crumpled to the mud like a broken doll.

I felt nothing. No anguish, no horror. Senses overwhelmed, I ran like a wild creature to outpace my pursuers until I made the shelter of the thick trees at the edge of the farmyard. Plunging into their depths, I was whipped by sharp branches and tripped by saplings and fallen logs looming out of nowhere. The darkness was so complete I couldn’t tell where I was going.

One moment I was stumbling blindly through the undergrowth. The next, my feet tangled in a thick tree root and I fell headlong into an overgrown pile of brush. Thorny leaves pricked my hands and face, immediately setting my skin tingling with the mild toxin they secreted. I struggled to fight my way free of the mass, succeeding only in gathering more injuries and tangling my hair among the branches.

In the distance, I heard a heavy crashing sound as something, or several somethings, entered the stand of trees and attempted to force their way through the brush. At the sounds of jangling harness and stamping horses, I lay motionless, pain and discomfort forgotten. Blood rushed in my ears, and my heart beat an unsteady rhythm. The harshness of my breathing sounded louder than the noise of the approaching horsemen, and I wondered if my enemies could hear it for they moved closer with every second.

Heavy blundering noises and men’s muttered curses told me the darkness and density of the forest impeded their progress.

A voice commanded, “Dismount before the horses stumble. They can’t see where they’re going in this plague-cursed darkness.”

Hearing the sounds of shifting armor and that of many feet thudding to the ground, I trembled and burrowed deeper into my thorny hiding place, ignoring the pain as the needly leaves pierced my skin. My lanced hands and face were growing strangely numb.

The startling crack of a stick underfoot alerted me that at least one of my pursuers stood mere paces from me. I strained to see him but could make out nothing, not so much as a moving shadow in the darkness. I squeezed my fingers tight around the round metal trinket Mama had thrust into my hand and pressed myself flatter to the ground, the movement rustling the leaves around me.

The stranger’s deep voice was terrifyingly near. “Is that you I hear, little witch? Hiding from old Logart, are ye?”

His chuckle was followed by an unfamiliar whisper, like the sound of drawn steel.

As he stamped at the surrounding shrubbery, I wrapped my arms around my head and willed myself to sink into the earth or to turn into a pebble or an insect, anything beneath notice. To my dismay, I remained a solid human being.

The frightening stranger spoke as if to himself, but his voice was loud enough that I knew he meant me to hear. “They say you magickers can summon fire and wind at will,” he said. “And that you can speak to the dead and call wild beasts to defend ye. Well, old Logart doesn’t believe everything he hears. But he’s a loyal Praetor’s man, and if the Praetor wants his lands cleansed of your kind, than cleansed they’ll be.”

His foot sank into the thorny brush beside me, his shiny black boot resting next to my hand. A finger’s breadth farther and he would be crushing my fingers. He had but to look down to see me huddled at his feet.

Terrified, I did something I had never done before, something Mama told me it would be years before I could do. I reached inward, seizing hold of the tiny new flame of magic just beginning to flicker within me, and stoked that fitful fire to a roar. Remembering how Mama had looked crumpling lifeless to the ground, I fed grief and outrage into the potent mixture I was creating.

Even as I concentrated on the magic I was forming, a vague, unsought awareness of my enemy’s cold weariness filtered through my senses. Startled by this unfamiliar consciousness of another being, I almost dropped my hold on the magic. Quickly, I released the weapon I had formed, casting it from me and into the path of my enemy.

My magic slammed into him, and with a muffled shriek, he stumbled backward, dropping his sword. I heard him collapse to the ground, then there was no sound but the rattling, wheezing noises of his struggle for breath as the magic fastened itself to his throat. I lay still and waited until the sounds of his choking ceased.

I could still hear the others out there, crashing through the wet underbrush, but I felt too drained to move. My body was numb, disconnected from my mind, as I lay listening to my heartbeat and feeling drops of sweat form despite the cold and trickle down my ribs.

A distant shout went up. “Captain! We’ve caught up to the cart, sir, but there’s no one else in it. Or if there were others, they’ve jumped out and got a head start on us.”

There followed some noisy conferring about whether to continue pursuing “the child” or to concentrate their search on the other possible escapees. I heard my nonexistent companions declared a higher priority than I, and soon the footsteps of my enemies receded into the distance.

Too exhausted to feel relief or to think of using this opportunity to run, I closed my eyes and groped after that strength-giving fire within, but it had deserted me.

The events that followed were a hazy blur to me. I slept among the thorny leaves for what seemed like days, but might only have been hours, until the neighbor my Da had trusted came to discover what had become of our homestead. Master Borlan found me among the trees and carried me back to his home. I recovered from the effects of the thornbush’s toxin, and Master Borlan’s family kept me hidden in a cellar beneath their farmhouse for weeks, so I survived the cruel times that destroyed most of the magickers in the province.

I learned all this when it was later recounted by Master Borlan, but I couldn’t have been above six years old, and my memory holds little record of that dangerous time. I don’t recall the fear I must have felt cowering in the dark of the cellar or the fading fever and partial paralysis as the toxin worked its way out of my body. I have no memory of the fearful, whispered conversations that must have taken place over my head, nor could I have had any comprehension of the grave risk Da’s friend took upon himself and his family in protecting me from the soldiers determined to wipe out my people.

But of this I must have been aware. My future was uncertain, and I was very much alone.

Chapter II

THE THREADS OF MY MEMORY are taken up again on a damp day in late winter, when I found myself waiting alongside a muddy road cutting past the far side of Master Borlan’s farm. Not too great a time could have passed since the night my parents were murdered because there was still a bone-deep chill in the air and the dreary weather remained.

I wore clean clothing that must have come from one of Master Borlan’s daughters and was shod in a sturdy pair of boots that felt too tight around my toes but were infinitely better than standing on the cold ground. My old cloak had been washed and mended. Only from these details can I surmise what must have been the attitude of Master Borlan’s wife toward me. She had bundled me efficiently against the wet and cold, and I don’t recall that I felt afraid or ill treated, only curious, as I stood at Master Borlan’s side and stared up at the peddler atop the rickety wagon drawing to a halt before us.

“What kept you, man?” Master Borlan demanded. “The arrangements were made for dawn, and we’ve been waiting half the morning. I was near to giving up and going back home.”

The elderly wagon driver showed no remorse. “On a day like this, you can thank the fates I came at all,” he said. “Bad weather for traveling.” He cast an eye toward the cloudy skies and the light drizzle raining steadily down.

The gray mare hitched to the front of the wagon curved her neck around to regard us with a long, lazy stare mirroring that of her master.

“You’ve the money?” the old peddler questioned, extending an upturned palm.

He had a bony hand, which shook slightly, though whether from age or overindulgence in the cheap spirits he reeked of, it was impossible to tell. When Master Borlan dug into his purse and deposited a few shiny coins in the peddler’s hand, the old man snatched the money greedily and pocketed it with haste.

Only then did he show any curiosity toward me. The brim of his hat was bent downward beneath the weight of the rainwater collected atop it, and he had to tilt his head back to view me from beneath.

“This is the child, then?” he asked, his gaze critical. “Looks pale and skinny to me. You’re sure she hasn’t been touched by the plague?”

“The child is healthy enough,” Master Borlan said evenly, “and she had better be still when she arrives in the next province. I’m entrusting her to your safekeeping.”

“Aye, I’ll look after her right enough,” the peddler snapped defensively. “Gave my word, didn’t I? But it’s a powerful risk you’re asking of me. If I’m caught smuggling a young magicker over the border—”

“You’ve been well paid for your risk,” Master Borlan interrupted. “Plenty of children around here have the silver hair and pale skin of Skeltai ancestry, so no one should give this one a second look. Just deposit her in a safe magicker settlement in Cros, and your duty will be discharged.”

The peddler grunted reluctant agreement.

Master Borlan lifted me up, setting me on the slippery wooden seat beside the old man, and tugging the hood of my cloak down to shield my head from the rain. It was too late for that. My hair was already slicked to my skull, and I was shivering like a wet pup.

Master Borlan said to me, “You understand what is happening, child? You’re being taken to a place where you can be with more of your kind, a place where you’ll be safe from the Praetor’s soldiers. All you must do is conceal your magic until you arrive there.”

I nodded but was suddenly afraid at the prospect of leaving this last familiar face behind me.

“Why don’t you take me there?” I asked.

He looked uncomfortable, and it came to me in a flash that this large, strong man was afraid. Afraid the red-cloaked horsemen would come and murder him as they had my family and the other magickers in our village. Even now, none of us were safe.

A shadow seemed to fall over the day, and I shuddered beneath my cloak.

Observing the motion, Master Borlan squeezed my shoulder with a heavy, work-roughened hand. “You’ll be all right, girl,” he said briskly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes as he pressed something cold into my hand. “You were holding this the night…”

I knew he wanted to say the night Mama and Da died.

For the first time, I really looked at the object my mother had given me on that last terrible parting. It was a big, fine-looking brooch of the type a man might use to fasten his clothing and was made of hammered metal, inlaid with copper and amber-colored stones.

Master Borlan said, “You spoke of your mother wanting you to keep it with you, so here it is. Only pin it to the inside of your waistband, where it won’t be lost or seen. I don’t know how your mother came about such a trinket, but there’re desperate folk who’d do you a harm for items of less value than this.”

I noticed he dropped his voice as he said so and cast a wary eye on Wim, but this appeared unnecessary as the peddler paid us no mind at all.

Once I pinned the brooch into my waistband as instructed, I became teary, and Master Borlan tried to sooth me. “Now you mustn’t cry,” he said. “Master Wim doesn’t want a wailing little girl on his hands all the way to Cros. Do you, Wim?”

“There’s plague about. Don’t touch me; don’t breathe on me,” was the peddler’s only response.

“I won’t cry,” I promised Master Borlan and he nodded approvingly in a way that reminded me of Da.

“Can we be off now?” Wim demanded. “I’ve delayed long enough, and the weather’s not gettin’ any better.”

Master Borlan stepped down from the wagon and backed away. “Just you mind your word, Wim Erlin,” he warned. “I’ll hold you responsible if any harm befalls the child.”

“Right, right,” the peddler said impatiently. He snapped the reins and called to his horse. “Whitelegs, let’s be off.”

As the wagon started forward, I clung to the rattling seat. The peddler’s old mare was faster than she looked, and having never ridden in anything higher than our rickety farm cart, I was afraid of being thrown from my seat and run over beneath the tall wheels. By the time I screwed up the courage to lean over and peer around the side of the wagon, Master Borlan, standing beside the road, was already fading into the distance.

The wagon wheels splashed through pools of filthy water as we lurched down the rutted road. The driving rain had ended hours ago but left its evidence in the deep mud and sodden leaves strewn across our path. The wind hadn’t abated, and I flinched each time I heard it stirring through the tree branches overhead, knowing another shower of cold droplets was about to be shaken loose to patter down on us. Occasionally, a ray of golden sunlight would peek from behind a thick layer of clouds and fall across our path, as if to taunt us with its promised warmth, but as suddenly as it appeared, it would be snatched away again, leaving us in this depressing world of gray.

The winding road we followed soon twisted and led us into a forest of firs and elder trees. Here, thick-trunked sentinels loomed over our path, hedging us in like rabbits in a snare, so that I had an uncomfortable desire to turn and head back out into the open. But if the peddler shared my unease, he kept it to himself as our wagon rolled steadily onward until the grassy meadowland behind was lost from view.

The wood was still and heavy with shadows. Only small patches of overcast sky revealed themselves through the green canopy overhead, and nothing stirred the foliage on either side of the road. There was a sameness to the passing scenery, and every towering tree, every splintered trunk or thick stand of ferns, looked like the one before it.

I shivered, scarcely feeling my frozen fingers and toes, and wished Master Wim would stop and build a fire to warm us. But he never gave any indication he noticed the weather, and he appeared perfectly comfortable in his heavy cloak and sturdy boots. Perhaps he didn’t feel the bite of the wind through the strips of wool twined about his hands.

I was surreptitious in studying the peddler because he made it plain early on that he wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn’t to chatter or ask foolish questions such as when we would arrive at our destination or when we could eat. I had been ordered not to shift in my seat or to stand, as it would make the horse nervous.

Seeming all but oblivious to my presence now, the old man kept his gaze fixed on the road. He had one foot propped atop the wooden board at our feet, and I noticed a crooked bend to that knee, which might have caused him to limp awkwardly when on foot. From time to time, he dropped a hand to massage the damaged joint, and when he did, a grimace would spread across his features. They weren’t particularly attractive features even without the scowl. His closely set eyes were a frosty shade of blue-gray, like ice over a winter pond, and his long nose bent sharply downward at the tip. His skin was like a faded map, with wrinkles for pathways and moles and age spots sprinkled around generously, like markers.

I was so intent on examining my companion’s flaws that I noticed immediately when his brow furrowed in concern. Snapping my attention to the road ahead, I was met with an unexpected sight. We had just rounded a bend, and we suddenly found ourselves facing an obstacle. A thick tree lay fallen on its side, covering the full width of our path and blocking any traffic that might have passed. The trunk was so wide a large man couldn’t have reached both arms around its base, let alone have had a hope of shifting it an inch to either side.

But the tree didn’t hold my gaze long for my attention was swiftly drawn to the collection of rough-looking men clustered around it. There were half a dozen of them, dressed mostly in ragged clothing of dappled brown or green. A few were outfitted in mismatching pieces of leather armor or chainmail, and here and there, daggers or short swords were in evidence. The men lacking blades were armed with quarterstaffs or cudgels, and many of them carried bows. They were a lean and ragged-looking lot, and even at a distance, menace was clearly written across their hard faces. Small as I was, I had the sense to be afraid.

Wim cried, “Brigands!”

He slapped the mare with his reins, urging her to speed. The frightened animal charged ahead, and I clung tight to the edge of my seat as we shot forward. The road was rocky and pitted, and the wagon lurched alarmingly from side to side, and as we drew nearer to the obstacle ahead, I didn’t know which danger was greater, that we would plow full-speed into the felled tree or that our wagon might tip before we reached that point and both of us would be crushed beneath it. Cold fear dug its claws into my belly, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Wim must have realized the disaster we drove toward for, at the last possible instant, he hauled back on the reins. Even braced as I was, I was nearly thrown from the wagon as we jolted to a sudden halt. I had been desperately wedging my toes against the footboard while bracing my back against the seat behind me, but neither precaution prevented my being slung sideways. My head smacked loudly against the back of the seat, and I couldn’t help crying out. Beside me, Wim seemed to have been jarred by the stop as well.

“Don’t think about turning that rickety cart around,” an unfamiliar voice warned us. “We chose this spot for the narrowness of the path.”

I gaped at the speaker, an immense mountain of a man with a mane of wild, half-braided red hair that flowed to his waist. He towered at least a foot taller than an ordinary man and, with hands massive enough for uprooting saplings, looked as impassive a barrier as the fallen tree he stood atop. The men flanking him appeared to be awaiting a signal from this giant, but instead of giving one, he leapt down and strode toward us.

Wim glanced back the way we’d come and tightened his grip on the reins, but the big stranger was right. There was no room for turning our wagon around, and the peddler must have been reluctant to leap to the ground and dash for escape. A man of his age had little hope of outrunning anyone, even without his crooked knee.

The giant seemed to follow Wim’s thinking too. “A wise decision, old bones,” he said. “You wouldn’t get far before my friends shot you down. They’re always eager for some live-target practice, although I fear you would make poor sport with that twisted leg.”

Coming to lean easily against the side of the wagon, he tapped Wim’s bad knee for emphasis. His height was even more impressive at this proximity, and I noticed now the series of long, ridged scars slashed at an angle across his face, lending a hard look to features that might otherwise have been cheerful.

Ignoring my perusal, the big man said to Wim, “Now then, old man. Suppose we come to an agreement that will mutually benefit both of us and speed you on your way.”

“You speak of robbery,” Wim snarled.

“Not at all. Think of it instead as a much-needed donation to the favorite cause of our band’s captain.”

“And what noble cause would that be?”

“Why, that of feeding himself and his good followers, of course,” said the giant. “I can see you’re a compassionate man who would never deny a handful of hungry strangers the coin to purchase a decent meal.”

“Would it do any good to refuse what you’ve already decided to take from me?” Wim asked, glaring darkly.

“That’s the spirit, good fellow,” said the giant. “Now empty your pockets into this little bag, and be quick. My companions and I are wet, weary, and not our usual, patient selves today.”

He produced a worn sack, which he extended with a little flourish, but Wim ignored the offering.

“The Praetor has no use for thieves in his province,” he warned the big stranger. “Steal from an honest peddler today if it pleases you. But I warn you, soon enough you’ll all be hunted down and hung.”

“I won’t argue with you, old man. I’ve advised you to pay the toll. If you lack sufficient coin, we won’t mind helping ourselves to the goods in your wagon. No need to make a fuss. No one will be hurt so long as you cooperate, and I feel sure you’ll have the wisdom to do just that.”

But Wim, no longer cowed, said, “You vermin will see no coin from me, and you’ll keep your filthy hands off my wagon. I’ll report you to the Praetor when I reach Selbius and see the lot of you arrested. I see many of you already bear a thief’s brand, so the second offense means death.”

He smiled grimly, as if already witnessing the lot of them swinging from a gallows.

One of the listening outlaws, a wiry man with a cudgel, showed his teeth. “Maybe we’re too desperate to care,” he said. “Maybe we’re hungry enough to eat skinny old peddlers before they go running to the Praetor.”

Wim licked his lips as if realizing he may have spoken too vehemently, and his hand disappeared inside his cloak.

The giant broke in with, “Enough talk. Let’s see some coin.”

“Never,” said Wim.

The big man shrugged and stepped back, saying, “Very well then. I fear we won’t part on kindly terms.” He nodded to his companions. “Fellows, see what you can do to persuade this old fool to change his mind without killing him. Murders only make the way patrol more vigilant.”

He settled himself on a nearby tree stump, as if preparing to watch some form of entertainment, while his companions closed in. In a flash, a burly man with a beard and shaved head seized me roughly by the neck of my cloak and tried to remove me from his way. Instinctively, I sank my teeth into his arm and, as the brigand thrashed, attempting to shake me loose, I was dragged out of the wagon and hit the ground headfirst. The pain stunned me, and a fuzzy blackness ringed the edge of my vision. Dizzily I tried to summon the inner flame of magic I had touched so effortlessly once before, but I couldn’t find it.

When the world stopped turning and the pain and darkness receded, I remembered Wim. One brigand had grabbed the old man and was attempting to drag him down from his perch on the wagon seat. The peddler struggled, and I saw the glint of steel as he retrieved a short knife from inside his cloak. He was about to plunge it into his attacker when the other man stabbed him first. I stared, horrified, as the old man’s lifeless body fell forward, landing heavily near me. A pool of crimson blood quickly pooled around him.

If I was frozen with shock, no one else was. The red-haired giant swooped in and struck the face of the man who had done the killing, shouting at him about disobeying orders, while the other brigands ignored the arguing men and swarmed over the wagon, quickly emptying it of anything of value. Although I was distantly aware of these activities, my mind scarcely took them in. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Wim’s wide eyes, staring unseeing toward the treetops.

Someone came to stand over me. He was speaking, but I didn’t respond, and when he waved a hand before my face, I ignored that as well, keeping my gaze fixed on Wim. Had my Mama’s eyes stared blankly like that when she was dead? Had Da’s?

“What have you there, Brig?” asked the redheaded giant, joining the man beside me.

“I don’t know,” the first one said. “A vicious little cur, I think. Bites like one, at least.” He knelt and with surprisingly gentle hands turned my face away from Wim’s corpse, asking, “Where are you from, child? Do you live nearby?” I recognized him as the man with the shaved head, whom I had bitten.

When I held my tongue, he tried again. “Do you have a name? What’s your father’s name?”

Again I refused to answer, and the bald man frowned, saying to the giant, “I don’t know about this one, Dradac. What are we to do with it?”

The giant shrugged. “I think it is female—a little girl, to be exact. As to what’s to be done with her, I suggest we leave her right here. She’s no concern of ours.”

“But she’s only a wee one, isn’t she? What if she dies or comes to some hurt?”

The giant said, “Don’t care if she does. Children are a cursed plague. But I imagine someone will pass this way and find her in a day or so. If you’re concerned, put her up on the mare and send her back the way she came.”

It’s a long ride to the nearest village,” the bald man pointed out. “Do you think she’s big enough to stay on the horse and keep it to the road?”

“How should I know? I’m not the one with children. Maybe we could tie her onto the horse?” As he spoke, the giant stooped to examine me more closely and winced, evidently unimpressed with what he saw. “Ugly little critter, isn’t she? If we do save her, I don’t think any future sweethearts will be thanking us. What’s she got on her mouth?”

“My blood. She took a chunk out of my hand earlier. Look at it.”

“A revolting sight. Let’s leave the little biter to fend for herself.”

“I don’t feel I can do that.”

“Then she’s your problem,” the giant said. “The rest of us are moving out. But a word of advice. If you’re considering doing anything stupid, like bringing her back to camp, think again. Rideon would have both our hides.”

The bald man was silent a moment before apparently coming to the same conclusion. He rose and turned away, following the other brigands as they tramped off into the underbrush.

After they were gone, I stirred enough to wrap my arms around myself as shivers wracked my body, not all of them from the cold. Even with my head averted, I couldn’t get the memory of Wim’s corpse out of my mind. I had seen many deaths lately.

I became aware of the sound of something large crashing through the underbrush. The noise grew nearer, and then the returning brigand broke out onto the road.

Scooping me up in strong arms, the bald man said, “Come along then, little dog. I’ve been thinking on it, and I cannot abandon you here.”

At last I found my tongue. “I’m not a dog; I’m a girl. Dogs don’t talk.”

“And girls don’t bite.”

He lifted me up onto his broad shoulders, and we moved off after the others, leaving the road, horse and wagon, and dead peddler behind.

Chapter III

I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP while the man carried me, for I remember nothing of the trek to the outlaw camp. Awaking sometime later, I found myself lying amid an itchy pile of leaves heaped over a hard stone floor. The sound of voices had stirred me from my sleep. Looking into the surrounding darkness, I could see no one. I had no idea where I was but felt too weary to be afraid. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, I was warm and, dry and that was enough to content me.

Nearby, I could hear a continuous roaring sound like the rushing of water, but it was impossible to identify what direction it came from. The darkness was deep, and the noise echoed loudly around me, bouncing off the surrounding walls. It was strangely lulling, and I lay still, eyes closed once more, listening to that mighty roar and feeling the fogginess of sleep rising up to claim me again. I no longer remembered what had awakened me.

Then a second noise filtered through my consciousness—a nagging buzz, a faint murmur at the edge of my hearing. Drowsily, I tried to ignore it, but the sound was persistent and grew louder, soon resolving itself into the low cadence of approaching voices. Men’s voices, frightening and unfamiliar. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and burrowed down into the mold-scented leaves as they drew nearer. I began to distinguish snatches of their conversation.

“Your little hound is snug enough in her leafy bed. Wish I could say the same for myself, but I’ll not sleep a wink, wondering what he’ll do when he hears about her. And he will hear. The Hand knows everything that happens in this forest.”

A second, deeper voice answered. “We’ve a reprieve until morning. Surely by then we’ll figure the best way of explaining everything.”

The gaps in the conversation grew fewer the nearer they came, until the voices were hovering directly over me. I kept as still as a mouse beneath the shadow of a hawk. I was very aware of the little bits of dry leaves that had worked their way into my clothing and were itching against my skin now, but I dared not twitch so much as a muscle to relieve my discomfort.

“Easy for you to say, Brig,” the first voice argued. “You’re not the one he’ll blame. I had charge of you all, so it’s me that’ll be taken to account for what went wrong.”

“I’ll take the responsibility on myself,” his companion rumbled. “Bringing the child here was my idea, and I’ll own up to it.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in your place when you do. And don’t forget there’s the dead man to account for as well. The Hand orders us to lie low for a bit, and what do we do? We go and kill an old peddler and steal a child, either of which could call the Praetor’s attention down on us.”

I dared open my eyes into narrow slits just wide enough to peer up at the two shadowy figures standing over me. I recognized the giant named Dradac and the bald, bearded outlaw he called Brig.

Brig said, “I doubt there’ll be much fuss over an old man found dead in a forest lane. The Praetor has bigger things on his mind.”

“I hope you’re right. But I reckon there’ll be time enough to deal with our problems in the morning, after we’ve had a bit of rest,” Dradac said.

His footsteps rang hollowly as he moved away, calling out, “What about you? Aren’t you sleeping tonight? Kinsley says you’ve got the midnight watch.”

“Right. Think I’ll stay here until then and keep an eye on the little one.”

The retreating footsteps hesitated. “Brig, you know the child’s not yours to keep, right? You understand she can’t stay long in Dimmingwood? The Hand would never allow it. Your sons are gone and Netta with them. There’s no bringing your family back or replacing them with this girl.”

“What do you know of my family?” Brig asked sharply. “What have you heard? Do the others joke about my story around the campfire?”

Dradac sounded placating. “Of course not. I don’t think most people even remember what happened. You know there’s no place in the band for any man’s past or future. The here and now keeps us busy enough.”

Satisfied I was in no immediate danger, my eyelids were growing heavy. The men’s voices droned on, but I ceased to listen to the words. Drowsiness stole over me again, and I dismissed the strange men and the itchy leaves against my skin. My bed was warm and soft, and I slipped easily into a deep slumber.

It seemed like only a short time before I was awakened by a rough shaking.

“Wake up, little dog. You want to sleep the morning away?” a voice asked.

Strong hands took me beneath the arms, lifting me to my feet. Bleary eyed and confused, I tried in vain to find something familiar in my surroundings. I stood in a nook at the back of an immense cave, a thick pile of leaves heaped at my feet.

The muscular, bearded man with the shaved head loomed over me again, and I remembered his name. Brig. Rather than feeling frightened, I was strangely comforted by his presence. I was being looked after. There was nothing to fear.

He took my small hand in his large, callused one and wordlessly led me through a maze of dark warrens, a network of tunnels formed in stone. Dimly glowing lanterns hung at irregular intervals along the walls, providing a faint flickering light that illumined our steps. I was glad of the firm hand gripping mine because alone I would have felt lost and frightened in this place. But with the big man beside me, it was an adventure.

One of the areas we passed was filled with crates and wooden barrels. Canvas sacks lined the walls, and out of the open mouths of these peeked potatoes and dried beans. Cooking pots and overturned copper tubs were stored here also, and a stack of split kindling was piled in one corner. From the walls hung an assortment of various tools I didn’t recognize. A polished silver tray-and-bowl set, incongruous in these surroundings, rested atop one barrel. Bundles of colorful silk were leaned carelessly against a wall, and from a wide-mouthed sack shoved forgotten into a corner, a collection of glittering jewelry spilled onto the floor. I had no opportunity to stare for Brig quickly led me past this alcove and into a larger low-ceilinged cavern.

Here I glimpsed tattered blankets and bed stuffs heaped around the floor and a scattering of personal belongings set atop wooden boxes or hung from the walls. Images and symbols had been painstakingly etched into the stone of ceiling and walls. There was a snarling bear’s head, a leaping deer, and various other woodland creatures. In the center of the wall, one particular carving stood out, taking precedence over the others, a large impression of a man’s hand, colored in red. I would have looked at that longer, but Brig never slowed, tugging me along at his side, and we left this area behind us.

The rushing, roaring sound I had been vaguely aware of since waking became louder now. We passed a small opening through which a faint glow of daylight penetrated, and I had a brief glimpse of a foaming waterfall sheeting down over this window to the outside. Brig allowed me no opportunity to gape, and the waterfall slipped out of my sight as quickly as it had appeared, its roar fading as we distanced ourselves from it.

Ahead I caught sight of another small pinpoint of daylight. This grew larger as we approached until it proved to be a man-sized hole through which I could see trees and greenery. Brig pushed me out this exit ahead of him, and I stepped into the soft glow of early morning.

I stood in a large clearing ringed on two sides by pines and giant elder trees and backed by the great formation of red rock behind me. A deep, clear stream ran along one side of the clearing, fed by the waterfall tumbling from the rocks over the cave. A fire pit marked the center of the camp, and a number of men sat around the flames, resting on overturned logs or on bare earth. There were about a dozen outlaws in the camp, some of them eating or busying themselves with chores, others sitting back at their ease. One carried an armload of fresh kindling. A pair of others tended the campfire and the kettle bubbling over it.

The scent emanating from that stewpot made my stomach rumble, but my companion dragged me past it. I was led straight across the clearing and into the shadow of the trees. Here a man wearing nothing but his breeches sat on an overturned keg. His back was toward us, and he leaned forward to study his reflection on the surface of a polished copper plate that had been nailed onto the tree before him. At our approach, he didn’t pause from the task of scraping stubble from his chin with a sharpened blade.

I studied the back of his head with less interest than I would have felt for a taste of whatever had been cooking in that stewpot. His black hair was cropped so close you could see the shape of his skull. His arms and back were well muscled, but I thought if standing he would probably be the shortest man present. I found him less impressive than the red-haired giant, Dradac, or even Brig at my side.

“So. This is the source of all the trouble, is it?” the stranger asked, finally turning to look me over.

I was startled by the intensity of his deeply set jewel-green eyes, which stood out starkly against tanned skin. Such bright eyes were rare in magickless people. His face was long and narrow, his cheekbones prominent above a sharply crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken many times. Several small scars decorated his face, and a number of larger ones were visible across his chest.

Even newly awakened to my magic as I was, I sensed there was something dangerous about this man, that he had the power to make people think and do as he chose. Under his penetrating gaze, I forsook my attempt to stare him down and ducked behind Brig’s leg to hide. It was a reaction so natural in the face of this stranger and his cold eyes that I was scarcely even aware of doing it.

The motion did not escape notice. The jewel-eyed man laughed—a harsh barking sound that held no warmth. “You see that, men?” He raised his voice to the nearest outlaws. “The runt is frightened of me. Am I such a terrible sight, then? Brig, a fine pet you’ve taken in. I’ve seen dead fish with more backbone.” Then, “Look me in the eye, child!” he demanded sternly of me. “Do you know who I am?”

I stared at him, silent.

He seemed not to mind. If anything, I thought he enjoyed my nervousness as he said, “I am the outlaw leader they call Rideon the Red Hand. Or simply the Hand to my more intimate friends and enemies. And how did I come by that name, you must be asking yourself?”

He leaned in close, as if about to impart a secret, and answered his own question. “I’ll tell you how. I earned it by hard deeds and rebellion against the Praetor’s laws. Look here at these hands, child.”

I stared at the hands he extended palms upward and saw nothing remarkable. They were dirty, work-roughened hands with short, uneven nails.

“There’s blood on them!” he barked suddenly so that I flinched.

I didn’t see any blood but thought it might make him angry if I said so. He leaned back and regarded me as if disappointed by my lack of reaction. I had no notion what he expected of me, and we simply stared at one another until he seemed to tire of it, asking abruptly, “What name does your family call you by, girl?”

I was too uneasy to speak, but an observer behind us put in with a laugh, “Brig calls her Little Dog.”

We had become the center of attention in the camp, and the other outlaws stopped their tasks to observe our encounter. The outlaw named Rideon appeared to enjoy having an audience.

“Dog, eh? I think I would call her a little rabbit. She has all the pluck of one.”

A round of amused laughter followed this statement, and when it died, Rideon addressed Brig. “And what exactly do you plan on doing with this child? I’m given to understand it was your notion to bring her here.”

There was no mistaking the displeasure in his voice.

Brig was prepared for the question. “She can’t stay among us; I understand that well enough. I figure I’ll search around for any family to claim her. If I can’t find any living, I’ll leave her in one of the woods villages, where folk will surely see that she’s not allowed to starve.”

Rideon said flatly, “I’ve a more practical solution. Drown her.”

Brig didn’t seem to know what to make of that. “You’re jesting,” he said, but he sounded uncertain.

“Not at all. It’d be simple enough. We’ve a convenient stream on hand. No, wait… We wouldn’t want to foul the drinking water, would we? Better yet, break her neck and bury her someplace away from camp.”

Brig sounded dismayed. “I could never do that. Not to a little one.”

A threatening note crept into Rideon’s voice. “Are you refusing to obey your captain’s orders?”

The surrounding outlaws moved back a little, bloodthirsty anticipation in their eyes.

Brig appeared to choose his words carefully. “No,” he responded at length. “Not refusing, just asking for a reason. Why should she die? What harm is she to anyone?”

At his mild response, the tension in the air subsided and Rideon leaned back to study the bald man thoughtfully. “Very well,” he said. “I’m a reasonable man, and I’ve no objection to answering an honest question. The truth is you’ve only yourself to thank for the girl’s fate. She must die because she’s seen too much—things we can’t afford to have become common knowledge. I shouldn’t have to explain the obvious to you. Just imagine. Wouldn’t the Fists love to know where we’re hiding?”

“But she’s so small,” Brig argued. “She slept in my arms most of the journey and could never find her way here again, let alone lead others. Who would listen to such a child anyway?”

Rideon considered me. There was no dislike in his eyes. To either like or dislike me wasn’t worth his effort, any more than he would have troubled himself to bear ill will toward an ant. “You’re certain she couldn’t return, leading our enemies along behind her?” he asked. “Certain enough to risk all our lives on it?”

“I’m sure of it,” Brig said.

I stood by quietly, listening to this exchange but not feeling terribly afraid for my life. I instinctively trusted Brig to protect me. It hardly occurred to me to wonder if or why he would.

Brig continued. “It’s not a far walk to Coldstream, and if I travel all night after dropping her there, I can be back at camp by morning.”

“And leave others to do your duties and take over your watch for you, I suppose?”

Brig had no answer planned for that, but one of his comrades saved him by speaking up. “I’ll stand in for him,” the outlaw said. “It’s only for a day anyway. We done rescued the runt from starving on the road. It’s only fitting we see her through to safety.”

There arose a noise of general agreement at these words.

Rideon looked around him and must have seen the novelty of a generous deed appealed to his followers. The dangerous spark fled from his eyes, and he appeared reconciled to the idea.

“Of course it is fitting. We will do right by the child,” he said, as though the plan had been his own, and he told Brig to make preparations for our journey straightaway.

Now that my fate was decided, I lost interest in the big peoples’ conversation. The other spectators also appeared to grow bored as they realized there would be no physical confrontation between Brig and their captain, and they drifted away.

My belly loudly proclaimed its emptiness and, propelled by my hunger, I wandered from Brig’s side and over to the campfire. The redheaded giant, Dradac, and some others were seated on stumps before the flames. Dradac was occupied with fletching a stack of shaved wooden shafts at his feet. He whistled a cheerful tune as he worked and, observing my longing looks toward the stewpot, soon took pity on me.

“Hungry, little dog?” he asked.

When I nodded eagerly, he spooned up a portion of warm venison stew into a carved wooden bowl.

“Don’t feed the hound, Dradac. It’ll think it can hang around the table,” another outlaw joked as I fell to.

But the giant only laughed and refilled my bowl each time it came up empty until I could hold no more. I was just setting my bowl aside when Brig appeared out of nowhere to collect me, and we left the camp, setting off on a long trek through the forest.

Here my clearest memories of that time come to an end. I recall nothing of the journey to the woods village of Coldstream, nor of Brig setting me down near its sheltering walls and shooing me in the proper direction. All I know is the tale I grew up hearing from the outlaws of how Brig made the return journey alone that night and of how, within two days time, I showed up at their camp again. Everyone said I must have put my nose to the ground like a true hound and traced Brig’s tracks.

Further attempts were made to pry me from my chosen home. But I clung to the leg of Brig, whom I had claimed as mine, and resisted relocation so loudly and vehemently the brigands were moved by my determination—or perhaps merely exhausted by it. “It’s a ferocious little hound you’ve got there, Brig,” one outlaw remarked admiringly.

Eventually Rideon was called in to make his wishes known. I remember huddling against Brig, shivering and half-frozen after my return trek from the woods village. I stared up at the outlaw leader, and Rideon the Red Hand gazed down on me coldly.

He spared us a long suspense, declaring emotionlessly, “The hound may stay. From this day on, she will live and work among us and be treated as one of ours. And, as she cannot remain a hound forever, today I also give her a name, Ilan, after a faithful tracker I once had. That stenched dog could trail a mole through a snowstorm.”

“What changed your mind about the girl?” Brig asked. “Why is she to stay?”

Rideon glared. “Because if we attempt to remove her, she’ll only continue returning to us, thanks to your refusal to dispose of her. Also because morale is low and the child’s spirit appeals to the men. But most of all, because I order it.”

After this there could be no further discussion of the matter. I stayed. Although the decision came from Rideon, the other outlaws appeared generally in agreement that I was to be Brig’s responsibility. After all, it was to him I’d attached myself, so it was only natural he should have the care of me.

During this space of time, all that had previously occurred in my life swiftly came to seem like a distant memory, and plunging into a new world, I lost sight of anything connected with the old.

Chapter IV

MEMORIES OF MY EARLY DAYS among the band of forest brigands are hazy. Seasons changed, the weather warmed to summer, and then winter stole over the land again. My first winter in Dimmingwood was a hard one. Food was scarce that year, and I was not yet accustomed to living outdoors in such weather. Brig worried aloud over how skinny I grew and seemed to think I would die when I succumbed to my first winter chill. But soon winter’s icy grip was lifted from the province and spring found me alive and thriving.

I set into my new existence with enthusiasm. I loved the woods and the forest creatures, loved the scent of pine and the rustle of the wind in the treetops. This world of leaf and shadow, bramble and stream, quickly became mine. There were no other children here, and only one or two women came and went around the camp, but I never felt lonely.

Brig was my closest companion, and I followed at his heels sunup to sundown, drinking in all I saw. I learned early to tell one tree from another until I knew my way around the wood better than many of the grown men. Soon Brig was training me to track and hunt small game.

My skill in another area was expanding as well. Now that my magical talent had prematurely awakened, it refused to fall dormant again and made itself known in a series of unpleasant ways. My sickness that first winter was more than an ordinary chill. I was alternately hot and cold, shivering and feverish. Too weak to stand, I lay miserably on a deerskin pallet in the shelter of the cave for weeks. Weight dropped off me until I was little more than a wraith, and evil dreams plagued me in the night. Not dreams of home or of my mother, but twisted, confused nightmares I could scarcely recall upon waking. I always awoke trembling, with a premonition of doom hanging over me, as if the dreams foreshadowed terrible events to come. Occasionally I visited a strange place while I slept, a world of paths and mists, but when I woke, I could never remember much of what I saw there.

By the end of the first winter month, I began to improve, to Brig’s obvious relief. But I didn’t emerge from the illness unchanged. I regained my strength and my weight, but a strange new effect came about. One moment I would be stirring a pot of stew at the fire. The next, I would become abruptly aware that Brig was angry and fighting with someone, though it was happening at such a distance I couldn’t possibly see or hear anything of the disagreement. I simply felt his anger. Other times, I might be sleeping and would wake suddenly, startled by the sense of a pair of men approaching camp from the south. It usually proved to be just two of our members returning from a long hunt, but it was disturbing that I should know of their coming before they were near enough for our sentries to spot them.

If my mother or anyone else with the magic had been present, I could have spoken to them of this. But as it was, I was surrounded by magickless and there was no one to guide me. I had come into my magic early, and doubtless my parents had thought they had plenty of time ahead to prepare me for this. There was only one person I could go to now.

When I revealed what I was going through to Brig, he seemed disturbed. Frightened even. He knew no way to help me with this problem—and a problem it obviously was in his mind.

“But I’ll take care of you, Ilan,” he assured me, “and between the two of us we’ll find our way through this.”

He made me swear I would never speak of my magical abilities to anyone else and suggested I cease using them. I told him that was impossible. The magic had come to me, and though I might have given it up to please Brig if it were in my power, something told me it would never give me up.

I didn’t understand Brig’s fear of magic. I had little knowledge of the cleansings happening throughout the province and rarely remembered the strange words of the Fist who had chased me into the woods on the night of my parents’ deaths. For now, I knew only that Brig appeared anxious and disappointed with me.

Over time, I grew accustomed to my new abilities and developed a limited understanding of what I could and couldn’t do with them. My main talent was sensing other presences around me. At odd moments I was also granted flickering glimpses of people’s emotions, which often helped me guess at their plan or intent before it became clear to others.

In those days I spent nearly every waking moment in the company of the bald, bearded outlaw, and he, as if sensing my need for the stability he offered, didn’t begrudge me his time. If for any reason he was unavailable, Dradac would step into his place as my caretaker.

I was growing and quickly learning to care for myself. As the youngest member of the outlaw band, I often fell into the role of camp drudge, but I considered hauling water, scrubbing crockery, and running messages a small price to pay for the excitement and adventure of living among the brigands. I was a pet to a handful of the men like Brig who had once had children or younger siblings. Even the sterner outlaws were won over by my admiration and fascination with everything they did. They regaled me with exaggerated tales, saved choice bits of food for me, and would bring me little trinkets when they returned from their forays.

And so time ran on, the days so full from dawn to dusk that the passing years felt like moments. I could no longer recall vividly the faces of my parents, except in the rare nightmare, and on the occasions when I thought of the little farm where I’d once lived, my memories were hazy, less real than any dream.

I still possessed my mother’s brooch. Brig had found it on me at some time or other and had thoughtfully stored it away until I was old enough to have it. The circumstances surrounding that trinket were still confused in my mind, but I always regarded it with a touch of reverence. It was a treasure from a past I only dimly recalled, to be pulled out occasionally and wondered at, then tucked safely away again. Once I had examined it closely enough to find it had tiny writing engraved across the back. But I could neither write nor read and knew no one who could, so the meaning of the letters on the brooch remained a mystery.

My thirteenth winter saw my body changing. I was taller now, and my tunics grew tight over my breasts, which had begun to swell alarmingly. I knew this was natural at my age but was uncomfortable with the change and longed for everything to go back to the way it had been last year. Occasionally I would steal peeks at myself in the now-battered copper platter Rideon still used as a shaving mirror, but these glimpses always ended in disappointment. I don’t know what I hoped to see, but what I found was a plain, skinny girl, whose legs looked too long for her body. My pale face was narrow, my nose too long and sharp for beauty. My pointed ears stuck out unattractively from my head. But at least no one ever commented on the silvery hair or pale skin I had inherited from my mother’s people. Skeltai ancestry was common this close to the Provincial border and wasn’t necessarily accompanied by the gift of magic. Besides, our band already had a giant in our midst and a man who was rumored to be half goblin, so I fit into the menagerie surprisingly well.

That winter stretched long and bitter, and when it released the land from its icy grip and the warmth of spring stole into the air, our camp reawakened in a fresh bustle of activity. Travelers and merchant caravans were on the move again, and the brigands were eager to plunder the goods and coin they had seen little of during the frozen season.

Our band had swollen in size, and there were now several dozen of us divided over two camps, Red Rock Cave and Molehill. Our numbers shifted constantly as Rideon was forever sending groups on forays to the edges of Dimmingwood. Occasionally they didn’t return, but there were always more to fill their places. The band of Rideon the Red Hand had established a name, and we had a constant flow of thieves eager to join our ranks.

I asked Dradac one day, “Why do people flock to Rideon? He certainly bears no affection for them. He would allow any of us to die without hesitation if it were profitable for him.”

Dradac didn’t look up from the chunk of wood he whittled. “Deep thoughts for such a sunny day, little hound,” he answered. “In my experience, outlaws are less interested in being valued than in being led well. Rideon’s sharp wits are all that stand between us and the hangman’s noose, and the rest of the band know it. Besides, even thieves and killers like a hero, and it takes something powerful to inspire us in these plague-cursed times.”

“Plague’s long over,” I murmured absently.

“Aye, I know that. But its shadow hangs on. You can see it in the eyes of the man who lost all his sons in that single plague year, and it left its mark in the new graves spread across the province. I still smell the fear on the wind, mingled with the smoke from the fires…”

His voice trailed off, but I knew what he was thinking. The occasional accused sorcerer was still found once in awhile and put to the penalty of the law. They burned them these days. No one was going to risk another plague. I didn’t know what Dradac’s views on magic were, and I wasn’t about to ask him, but I was ever mindful of Brig’s advice to keep my ability to myself.

I looked out over the spreading treetops below. Perched high in the thick boughs of a tree a few miles beyond the perimeter of Red Rock, we were on morning watch. Or rather, Dradac was on watch and I sat with him, pretending the task was mine too.

When a shrill birdcall split the air, I was so lost in my thoughts that I started and nearly fell from my precarious perch. The bad imitation of a crested redbird was a familiar signal, one that meant trespassers were approaching the perimeters of the camp.

Dradac winced. “That’s Seirdric. I’d know that strangled warble anywhere. Come on.”

“What do you think it is?” I demanded, scrambling down the tree after him and following as he slipped into the underbrush.

“Probably only innocent travelers blundering through the forest. Looks like you’ll have an opportunity to see a bit of action today.”

I kept my thoughts to myself, reluctant to remind him Brig preferred to keep me far away from “action.” Torn between eagerness and unease at witnessing whatever was to come, my nerves fluttered skittishly. But excitement won out. I had waited a long time to be considered old enough for this sort of thing. I wondered if Dradac would kill anyone. Then I wondered if I might kill anyone. I had a sturdy staff with me just in case.

Following our man’s call, Dradac moved swiftly and silently through the forest so that I had difficulty keeping pace with him. It was easy to locate our quarry as we drew near. They made a great deal of noise, crashing clumsily through the underbrush and conversing in loud, angry tones. We heard them long before we caught sight of them.

“You had better know what you’re about, you impudent scoundrel. I’ve paid dear coin for safe escort to the abbey, and if I find you’ve gone and lost us in this gloomy wood—”

“You’ll stutter, puff up your fat jowls, and do nothing at all. You cannot frighten me, priest, so save your breath and your threats for someone else.”

“Why y…you mother-forsaken blackheart! How d…d…dare you?” In his indignation, the priest was so overcome by his impediment he had difficulty spitting out the words.

His companion ignored his complaint. “I’ve told you before, Honored One, you’ve nothing to fear. I know this wood like the back of my hand. It’s but a shorter path I lead you on.”

“I should have been content to r…remain on the road,” the priest replied sullenly. “But now that it’s too late to turn back, at least lead us on with a little more speed. I’d as soon be out of this forest by nightfall. They say these woods are crawling with murderous brigands.”

He paused to call over his shoulder to a third companion. “You, boy! Have a care with my belongings. That’s not a sack of potatoes you’re carrying.”

Dradac and I crept closer until we had a full view of the trespassers. There were three of them. A large balding fellow led the way, followed by a chubby, elderly man dressed in the traditional gray robes of an Honored One, a priest of the Light. Trailing these two was a slender boy of about my age, also wearing priestly robes and carrying a heavy pack across his shoulders.

The path they followed would soon lead the travelers straight past us. Dradac and I had dropped to our bellies, concealing ourselves in a tall patch of waving toadsbreath. A glance at the trees to our right revealed two of our men, Illsman and Nib, concealed in the branches of a pair of thick elder trees. To our left, the swaying of a low stand of shrubbery gave away Seirdric’s position.

Imitating Dradac, I kept my head low as we crouched in the greenery, and as we waited for the approaching strangers, I used the time to size up the three unlikely traveling companions. The lead man had the appearance of a woodsman by his deer-hide boots, the wolf skin thrown over his tunic, and the long hunting knife at his belt. He was older, balding, and his wide belly was more gut than muscle.

I moved my attention to the elderly priest. Despite his age, the Honored One was neither thin nor frail, but bore a round, fleshy frame. Trotting along in the woodsman’s wake, he puffed continually, his round cheeks pink with the exertion of moving his bulk to keep stride. Occasionally, he turned and snapped an order at the skinny boy trailing him, and the unfortunate boy would labor to pick up his pace.

The youth was of slim build with little muscle, and it was obvious the burden he carried was too great for his size. But his wide jaw was set in an appearance of determination, and despite his obvious weariness there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes, as if he were so eager to reach his destination he didn’t care what conditions he was forced to endure along the way. He chewed his lower lip as he stumbled on, all but tripping over the hem of his ill-fitting robes. His dark hair was worn in a similar fashion to that of the old Honored, cropped so closely his pale scalp showed. His eyes, squinted against the beads of sweat trailing from his forehead, caught my attention. They were widely spaced and an odd, deep-violet hue.

The three strangers were passing just in front of us when Dradac suddenly revealed our presence. Rising from our hiding place, he called, “Hold, friends. We mean you no harm.”

The woodsman in the lead whipped around, startled. His eyes widened at the sight of us, and his hands immediately came up to fumble for something over his shoulder.

Dradac must have noticed the motion, for he called, “You have nothing to fear from us, so long as you draw no—”

He was cut off abruptly, for the woodsman had found what he sought. In a sudden motion, he pulled free the weapon, raising and loosing it before anyone could react. Instinctively, I ducked, but I was not his target. I saw Dradac’s body jerk awkwardly, and then he swayed sharply to one side, a stunned expression on his face. A red stain bloomed across his tunic where a crossbow bolt lodged deeply into his left shoulder. I stared in horror from the giant to the small crossbow the stranger now held leveled at me.

Chapter V

I COULDN’T HAVE MOVED JUST then even had I known what action to take. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. With enraged shouts, the other outlaws leapt from their hiding places and felled the woodsman before he could prepare another bolt. My view was momentarily blocked as they wrestled him to the ground. There followed a short frenzy of motion, a series of strangled screams, and when next I got a look at our enemy, he lay still upon his back. I stared stupidly at the blood-soaked tunic clinging wetly to his chest. Our own men had as much blood spattered on their clothes and hands, but none appeared to be theirs.

“There’s one will never trouble us again,” Illsman said, grimly swiping a speck of blood off his chin.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the lifeless corpse lying in the grass at the outlaw’s feet. The world seemed to be spinning around me. I was vaguely aware of frantic muttering sounds in the background—the terrified priest chanting a desperate prayer. I couldn’t focus on his words but dropped to my knees and doubled over. My stomach heaved, and then I was vomiting my breakfast onto the ground and all over my boots. I wretched until my belly was empty, then as I drew in one deep breath after another, the dizziness subsided and I became aware again of the world around me.

I saw that Dradac had collapsed to his knees, face drained pale and forehead resting against a tree. Nearby, Illsman was stripping the woodsman’s corpse of weapons and anything of value. Meanwhile, Seirdric and Nib were advancing, blades drawn, on the two remaining strangers. The plump priest stood immobile, eyes squinted tightly closed and face turned heavenward, his lips moving in silent prayer. He made no move to flee or to defend himself as the brigands closed in. The same could not be said of his young companion.

“Run, Honored One. I’ll defend you!” the boy cried, leaping boldly forward to shield his master. With determined force, he struck out with the only weapon he had, his traveler’s pack. Nib was caught unprepared as the heavy pack slammed into him and knocked him from his feet. Seirdric was not so easily felled. Before the boy could gather his strength, the outlaw slashed a knife down the lad’s skinny ribs.

Yowling in pain, the boy dropped his pack and collapsed heavily to the ground. There he curled into a tight ball, clutching his wounded side. A steady stream of blood appeared from beneath his hands. Behind him, the priest found the courage to turn and flee toward the near trees. Illsman snatched up the dead woodsman’s crossbow and steadied it against his shoulder, aiming at the priest’s retreating back, but no bolt was ever loosed.

“Stop!” Dradac shouted. “Let him go.”

Illsman hesitated and during that pause missed his opportunity. The priest had put the trees between them and was lost from sight.

“Why did you stop me?” Illsman growled. “I had a clean shot. Now we’ll have to chase him down.”

Dradac clutched his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth. “Forget the old man—it’s unlucky to murder a priest. Besides, he doesn’t know the forest. He’ll stumble around in circles for days before he finds his way free of the trees, and once his safety is secured, I very much doubt he’ll have the courage to return.”

A low moan nearby distracted me from the outlaws’ conversation. I followed the sound to the priest boy, who writhed in pain a few yards from me. I don’t know what instinct or pity made me move toward him, but I did. He lay on his side, hands fumbling uselessly at his injury. To his credit, he wasn’t crying out. Instead, he sucked in his breath in ragged gasps against the pain. His hands were trembling, his knuckles white where he clenched handfuls of his gray robe in his fists, vainly attempting to slow the flow of blood.

His feeble efforts moved me, and unthinkingly I began to assist him. Trying to remember what little I had learned from our camp healer about tending such injuries, I tore the hem of the boy’s robe, ripping free a long strip of coarse cloth. With effort, I lifted him a few inches from the ground and shifted him enough to twine the bandage twice around his waist, pulling it tight over his injured side to stanch the bleeding. He gasped at the movement and the painful pressure against the wound, but I ignored his reaction, feeling a small surge of satisfaction when I saw the blood flowing less freely. The boy’s face was growing pale as milk.

He opened violet eyes to peer into my face, and I was immediately struck by his gaze. It held none of the panicked dread I’d expected. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my magical sense to the turmoil of his emotions, only to discover there was no turmoil. Intrigued, I dug deeper but could find no fear in him, only a silent cry of determination and a strong will to live. Alongside this, hot waves of agony rippled through him, and I instinctively withdrew before the pain could reach through him and touch me.

I became aware once more of my companions. Dradac, his voice taut with pain, was giving orders. “Seirdric, stay behind and dispose of the bodies. I don’t want anybody stumbling over this mess and wondering how it got here. Nib, you’ll help him, and Illsman will accompany me back to camp. I don’t know that I can make it there on my own.”

There were murmurs of agreement as the men leapt to obey his orders. And then they noticed me kneeling over the boy.

“What have you done here, hound?” Seirdric came over to frown down on me. “The boy should’ve bled to death. Now I’ll have to finish him.”

“No, leave him be,” I said, not stopping to consider where I found the courage to speak so firmly. “He’s no older than me. Let’s give him a chance.”

“Sure, a chance to stab us all in the backs,” Seirdric snorted, drawing his knife.

Unthinkingly I moved to shield the boy from his reach, but the big man shoved me aside easily.

Desperate for support, I cried, “Dradac, help me!”

“What is it, Ilan?” the giant asked impatiently. On his feet and leaning weakly on Illsman’s shoulder, his face was sleeked with sweat at the effort it cost him to stand.

I felt genuine concern for him but had to trouble him anyway. “The priest boy still lives,” I said. “Let me try and help him.”

The giant looked beyond me to the boy’s crumpled form. “Wake up, hound,” he said. “That one’s beyond saving even were we of a mind to. Come now and lend me your arm before I collapse.”

But I wouldn’t be swayed. “Just let me try,” I begged. “I know I can save him.” I actually knew nothing of the sort, but I wouldn’t admit to doubts.

To my surprise, Dradac gave in, ordering Nib to carry the boy. He added, “I doubt he’ll last out the day, but if he’s another priest… Well, I won’t have his blood on my hands. We’ll let him die in a more comfortable bed, at least, if the trip doesn’t kill him.”

The rest of the day was difficult. Between the two of us, Illsman and I were able to get Dradac back to camp with Nib trailing behind, carrying the unconscious priest boy. At first, Dradac leaned heavily on Illsman and me for support, but eventually his legs could no longer hold him. He was too heavy for Illsman to carry alone, and so I was sent ahead to fetch what help I could. Eventually, with a strong man at either end of him, we were able to drag the giant in. After that point, I lost track of what befell him for I had to worry about the priest boy.

I chose an out-of-the-way spot at the clearing’s edge near the stream draining from the pool below the fall. I would have liked to put the injured boy under some sort of shelter, but the cave would be too dim and I knew I’d need good lighting. After Nib deposited the lad on the hard ground, I persuaded him to stand by while I cut a pile of pine boughs for him to roll the boy onto. After that, the outlaw disappeared, leaving me alone to care for my charge and to wonder what I had gotten myself into.

I was glad to see the boy’s bleeding had stemmed, but nervousness tinged my relief. I fiercely wanted him to live, even as I wondered at the strength of my determination. Yet now I was left with the question of what to do for him next. I sought out Javen, the camp healer. Healing was perhaps too optimistic a word for what Javen did, but he was a cobbler in his old life and was accustomed to stitching up the outlaws after their brawls or when someone took a blade. If any of us were ill, it was Javen who prepared the bitter draughts that occasionally helped but more often didn’t.

I hadn’t far to look. I found him examining Dradac, who was laid out near the mouth of the cave. But when I explained my need, Javen only responded distractedly with, “We’ve our own to see to just now, hound.” The most I could extract from him was a promise to look in on the boy after he finished removing the bolt from Dradac’s shoulder. I doubted a healer’s presence would be needed by then, for it was unlikely the boy could survive that long.

Frustrated, I returned to my charge. I guessed he must have awakened temporarily during my absence because he had obviously been thrashing around. He was unconscious again now, but his weak efforts had loosened his crude bandage, and fresh blood was visible, soaking through the cloth. I realized with dismay that I could rewrap him, but each time he moved, he would begin bleeding all over again.

As I looked on, he stirred in his sleep, gave a pained whimper, and was still again. Even as he slept, his pale, sweat-streaked face was drawn into a grimace of pain. I felt a wave of pity for him because he looked so young and helpless, and clenching my jaw, I went to work with renewed determination. I wouldn’t think of failure.

The noises I heard in the background told me they were removing the bolt from Dradac’s shoulder now, but concentrating on my own task, I tried not to hear the giant’s cries. I removed the boy’s gray robes and clumsily worked him out of the tunic he wore beneath them. Then I bellowed for Nib, and incredibly, the outlaw answered my summons. With an authority that surprised even me, I ordered him to heat a kettle of water and fetch me anything that might serve as clean bandaging. He moved quickly to obey, and I didn’t stop to wonder why he followed my bidding. My mind was taken up with the task at hand.

I wadded the boy’s dirty robe and applied it with pressure to the gash in his side, attempting to hold back the blood. I longed for Brig to appear just then and take this responsibility off my hands, but he didn’t materialize and I knew he wouldn’t. He was visiting the camp at Molehill, and the vagueness I felt when reaching for him told me what a long distance separated us.

Nib returned with the objects I required and surprised me by crouching nearby to await further commands. I was glad of his company. His presence wouldn’t allow me to display fear or doubt. When I peeled the blood-soaked bandage back from the boy’s wound, a crimson stream trickled out, and I despaired. How could I clean the wound when it wouldn’t stop bleeding? Reapplying the cloth, I rubbed the sweat from my brow with one arm, buying myself a little time.

Nib suggested helpfully, “Don’t know much about these things, but it seems to me you should wait for the blood to clot before you take the bandage away.”

“I know that,” I lied. I looked down on the boy I was struggling to save and asked myself why I was doing this for a complete stranger. I didn’t even know his name.

The minutes ticked by. I expected the boy would slip away at any moment, but his breathing held steady. His bleeding had miraculously ceased by the time Javen appeared—I had little idea how. At the healer’s request, I stayed nearby over the next hour, watching as he bathed and stitched the priest boy’s wound and applied fresh bandaging. Javen warned me it was unlikely my charge would survive the night.

At length, the healer departed, declaring he had done all he could. As soon as he had gone, I began constructing a shelter of sorts around the boy. It hardly felt right to let him lay out in the cold all night. Dusk was falling as I tramped into the forest to collect a heap of pine boughs and elder branches. I propped these limbs against one another and bound them with bits of twine, as Brig had taught me, to form a flimsy shelter over the ground. More than likely it would blow over with the first gust of wind, I thought, standing back to eye the completed work.

About then I became aware of a savory scent wafting on the evening breeze. One of the men had killed a wild boar and was now roasting it over the campfire. The sight and smell of the food set my empty stomach rumbling, and with a backward glance, I left my little shelter and went to the fire where for a short time I forgot my worries over a greasy slab of meat.

After eating, I remembered Dradac. Abandoning my place at the fire, I ducked into the cave but on entering found the giant sleeping deeply, laid out on a thick pallet of animal skins. His face was relaxed, and I was relieved to see he wasn’t in pain at the moment. I decided not to wake him and slipped silently back out into the gathering darkness.

I fetched bread and water for the priest boy but found when I peered into his shelter that he still slept. A mercy, I supposed, as I sank to the earth to eat the dried bread myself. On finishing, I was assailed by a great weariness. The day’s events had been more than I was accustomed to. The camp was silent around me, the other men having departed either to their beds or to their watches. I thought of turning to my own bed, but it seemed wrong to crawl into a warm, safe place while the injured boy slept out here. I moved my sleeping pallet out of the cave and into the shelter, piling my blankets and animal skins over the boy.

Just enough space remained for me to crawl inside and curl up on the hard ground beside him. Rocks jutted into my flesh, and insects crawled over me, but I was accustomed to such discomforts. Harder to ignore was the chill that descended as the ground cooled. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, eventually slipping into a shallow, miserable sleep.

I was awakened sometime during the night by the commotion of the priest boy groaning and tossing around. A thrashing elbow caught me in the face. I shoved aside the last remnants of sleep clouding my brain and reached out for him. Although he stilled at my touch, his rapid panting never slowed.

“Hurts…,” he gritted out weakly.

“I know,” I said. “But you need to relax. Squirming will only make it worse.”

His response was so faint I had to lean closer to hear. “Am I going to die?” he gasped.

Admitting I didn’t know would hardly soothe his fears. He was going to need all the courage he could summon over the next days. “You’re going to be fine,” I assured him. “It’s a minor wound, not as bad as it feels.”

“How bad?” he persisted. “Can I see it?”

“Maybe later. It’s too dark in here now.”

“Where’s here?”

“Dimmingwood,” I said. “You were journeying through the forest with a priest and an escort, remember? You were attacked by brigands, injured, and brought back to the outlaw camp. I’m Ilan, and I’m looking after you.”

He groaned. “I remember now. But where is Thilstain?”

“Would that be the balding woodsman with the belly?” I questioned.

“No, Honored Thilstain is a priest. The other was just a stranger, hired to safeguard us on the way to Whitestone Abbey.”

“I’m afraid your escort is dead,” I told him. “I don’t know what became of the old priest. The last I saw of him was his back as he fled into the trees.”

The boy sighed, sounding relieved. “So he has escaped? Then he may return with aid.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “He doesn’t know where you are or even if you’re alive. Besides, I imagine he’s too giddy with joy just now over his own safety to spare much thought for yours.”

I sensed the boy’s disappointment, but all he said was, “Even if he can’t help me, I suppose the fact that he escaped is cause for thankfulness. I wouldn’t wish him harm, dour man though he was. No, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s wrong to criticize a man of the robe. Please, forget you heard it.”

I grinned into the darkness. “I’m scarcely in a position to think less of you for a stray comment. An outlaw has greater wrongs to her credit.”

He sounded suddenly alert. “You’re one of those murderous thieves, then?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said dryly. “But you’ve no cause to fear me. Even I don’t kill Honored Ones.”

“But you do hold them prisoner,” he pointed out.

“No one’s a prisoner here,” I said. “We brought you to our camp to keep you alive. Think of yourself as a kind of guest. For now, just forget everything else and concentrate on recovering. You’ve had a near brush with death.”

“I feel like it,” he admitted. “You’re sure I’m not dying?”

“Positive,” I said. “Try and think of something besides the pain. Tell me about yourself. You know my name, but I’ve yet to learn yours.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think of it. I’m Terrac of Deep Pool. That’s a settlement near Three Hills in Cros, a long way from here. Honored Thilstain and I were on the road for weeks to get this far.”

His words cut off abruptly as he sucked in a great breath at what I supposed must be a particularly sharp throb of pain. It was a moment before he was able to continue with, “The Honored One goes to Whitestone on pilgrimage, while I journey there to join the priesthood, as was my father’s dying wish. Everyone said if my mother were living, it would have been her wish as well.”

He gasped those last words out in short, panting breaths. As I heard him grinding his teeth against the pain, I hesitated to ask what was on my mind. But I needed to know.

“You’re not already a priest then?” I asked.

“Not yet, but Thilstain was instructing me.”

This isn’t good news, I thought uneasily. “I advise you to keep that fact to yourself,” I told him. “The outlaws spared you for the sake of your priesthood. If they learn you’re not an Honored, they’ll have no compunction at killing you.”

“An upright man doesn’t lie,” he pompously informed me.

“Then that man sets little store by his life,” I answered. But sensing he was going to remain stubborn on the issue, I switched to a more persuasive tone. “Besides, you don’t have to lie exactly. The assumption has already been made. It would be enough simply to hold your peace and let folk believe what they will.”

His tone was hesitant. “But that’s little different from a lie.”

“What does it matter?” I demanded, losing patience. “What’s one small lie to a lot of cutthroats anyway? Give them the truth and they’ll kill you for thanks.”

The boy either lacked the will to argue further or he couldn’t summon the breath to do so.

“You should rest now,” I said. “But think on what I’ve told you. I haven’t gone to all this trouble only to see you kill yourself as soon as you get a chance to open your mouth.”

“I am grateful to you,” he said humbly. “I’ve much to thank you for.”

“Forget it. Do you need anything?”

He asked for a drink of water, so I crept off to the nearby pool, filled a skin with the cool, clear water from the falls, and brought it back to him. After drinking thirstily, he quickly sank into an exhausted slumber.

The next day, noise and activity were kept to a minimum around camp to afford quiet for Dradac. I doubt anyone even remembered Terrac, the boy priest, unless they looked up to see me slithering in and out of the shelter all day, waiting on his needs.

He fared even worse today, waking rarely and only for short lengths of time. He gave no sign he remembered me or last night’s conversation. He moaned and tossed around until he finally tore his stitches open and I had to fetch Javen to repair them. I felt relief each time the injured boy sank down again into a fitful rest.

It was a long day for me because my charge lacked strength to do anything for himself. I fed him, coaxed sips of water down his throat, and changed his bandages. Come nightfall, I was exhausted as I lay down to sleep. As I sprawled on the hard-packed earth beside his sleeping form, a numbing chill stole over the ground. Scooting over to press my back against the still, warm body beside me, I fell asleep wondering what would become of Terrac of Deep Pool and whether or not he would prove worth my efforts.

The following morning, Brig returned, and from the moment he strode into camp, things began to improve. He took over the larger share of the work in nursing Terrac and looked impressed with what I had done for him. He didn’t ask for details on how the priest boy came under my care, and I didn’t offer them, knowing he wouldn’t approve of my having been placed in such a volatile situation, where it might easily had been me injured instead of the others.

Under Brig’s care, Terrac’s health steadily improved. Soon the day came when, with assistance, he could drag himself out of the dark hut and into the sunshine. Brig and I propped his back against the sun-warmed rock at the cave’s entrance, and he would sit there, face tilted toward the sky, for hours at a time. I couldn’t tell if he was engaged in some sort of priestly meditation or just resting.

At first, he seemed uncomfortable when his fellow invalid, Dradac, began joining him. I couldn’t see what he had to be disturbed by. The giant would only sit quietly by his side, making feeble attempts at whittling one-handed while letting his bad shoulder soak up the sun’s rays. Javen assured the giant he would regain the use of his arm, but the healing process was going to be slow.

Over the next few weeks, Terrac came to accept Dradac’s company, and the giant became one of the few exceptions to Terrac’s general rule of contempt for the outlaws. Brig too earned a measure of respect, probably for having cared for him during his convalescence, and even I was tolerated in a condescending-but-not-terribly-hostile way. However, it quickly became apparent no one else would be fortunate enough to penetrate Terrac’s favored circle.

Chapter VI

SPRINGTIME LENGTHENED INTO SUMMER, AND the nights grew warm, the days uncomfortably hot and sticky. As soon as Terrac had recovered enough that I needn’t fear for him any longer, I moved back into the cave. I had my own semiprivate space there, a cozy alcove with the waterfall sheeting down one side to form a thin screen between the outside world and me. I didn’t mind the dim light or the lack of space. At this time of year, the slight dampness on the walls and floor was pleasant, and I could roll over and stretch my hand out to touch the splashing fountain as it cascaded downward. The cool water was refreshing on hot nights.

But Terrac couldn’t be persuaded to move into the cave with the rest of us. Even when the brown needles fell away from his flimsy pine-bough shelter, leaving only a naked frame of bare branches, he remained outdoors. I think it was the company inside he objected to. I was discovering he had a definite sense of superiority over the rest of us, and I teased him this was unbecoming in a boy destined for priestly vows. He only sniffed unapologetically and cajoled me into helping him contrive a sturdier hut beneath the trees.

One morning, only a few days after the building of the new hut, Terrac and I were crouched together along the bank of the stream bordering the camp. He was looking on with squeamish disgust as I gutted a rabbit for our breakfast when Rideon approached.

The brigand captain glared down on Terrac and stated his object without preamble. “It has come to my notice that you are able to move about again, boy.”

Terrac nodded cautiously. I could see he was nervous in the outlaw’s presence but striving to hide it.

Rideon said, “If that’s the case, it appears the time has come for you to make a decision. I’m going to lay two choices before you. There is no third alternative, so don’t ask for one. Give an answer I don’t like, and the question will be taken from your hands altogether. Understand?”

Terrac swallowed. “I suppose so.”

“Good. These are your options. Firstly, you can swear on your honor to forever make your home in Dimmingwood with us. You’ll earn your keep here with menial tasks around the camp, same as Ilan does, and never set foot beyond the borders of the forest again.”

Terrac’s eyes widened in alarm, and I could see him forming a refusal, but Rideon didn’t allow him time to get out the response. “Or,” the outlaw continued, “should that idea not appeal to you, you may choose the second alternative—refusing to take the oath and thus being put to a quick death. Priest boy or not, my generosity extends only so far, and I won’t risk a large-mouthed brat wandering loose to tell my enemies exactly where to hunt down my band.”

I held my breath waiting for Terrac to say something foolish, and he didn’t disappoint me.

“You don’t seem to care that the oath you’re asking of me will change my life’s plans,” he protested.

Rideon shrugged. “I wasn’t aware I was advocating one option over the other. I’m merely here to accept the first choice or to execute the latter, should it be your preference.” He tapped the blade at his side for emphasis. “The ultimate decision is entirely yours.”

Terrac flicked a frightened glance at the black blade, drew a deep breath, and appeared to startle even himself with the words that spilled from him. “I swear on my life and honor that I’ll never leave the boundaries of this wood as long as I breathe. Not without the express permission of the outlaw, Rideon the Red Hand.”

Rideon was the only one of us who appeared unsurprised. “A reasonable decision, priest boy. If ever you should rethink it, my blade and I will be on hand.” He flashed his teeth in a grim smile and left us.

Terrac immediately looked miserable, and I suspected he was thinking of how, with a few short words, he had destroyed his hopes of entering the priesthood. In an attempt to cheer him I said, “It isn’t so bad, you know. Maybe you’ll come to like it here. And at least you’re alive, which is more than anyone would’ve expected on the day you came.”

He didn’t look much comforted.

Later that day, I was kneeling beside Dradac, who was helping me repair an old knife that had lost its handle, when the heavy scuff of approaching boots alerted me to another arrival. Without looking up, I sensed it was Brig.

In a moment, his voice confirmed it.

“Is it true, Dradac?” Brig demanded angrily, ignoring my presence. “I’ve had my suspicions since the spring, but what I’ve heard from Nib today confirms it. Was Ilan with you when you confronted those travelers and nearly had yourself killed?”

My stomach lurched. I’d always known it was only a matter of time before he discovered the extent of my involvement in the episode that brought Terrac to us, and I had an idea there would be trouble when that information surfaced. I just hoped I wouldn’t be present for it. It was good my face was turned away from Brig then because I was sure my guilt was clearly written in my expression.

Dradac affected innocence. “What’s this? Who said she was there?”

“Did you imagine I’d need to be told?” Brig asked. “I run up to Molehill for a few days and return to find an injured boy priest encamped in our midst and Ilan fluttering around his sickbed. Who else would have spared him?”

Dradac said, “What makes you so certain it wasn’t me? Do you think I would murder a helpless boy wearing the robe of an Honored One? Imagine how many years bad luck that’d bring me.”

“Drop the pretense. You’re only making me angrier,” said Brig.

The giant sighed. “All right, I confess. She was with me when we got the signal about the trespassers, so I let her come along to meet them. I wasn’t planning to expose her to any real danger. But they appeared a harmless group, and I thought it would be an exciting experience for her. There. Are you happy now that I’ve admitted to my miscalculation?”

His easy smile faltered under Brig’s silent scowl. “Now don’t start growling at me, old bear. I didn’t let any harm come to her. If it makes you feel better, I promise, when I’m recovered, I’ll seek your approval before taking her out again.”

“I’ve half a mind to see you never recover at all. What right did you think you had dragging a child into a situation where she might have been killed? It could easily have been her shot through with that bolt instead of you. How would you feel then?”

“Probably a good deal better than I do now,” the giant joked. “Anyway, I just thought it was time Ilan had some practice dealing with these little situations. Part of the territory and all that. ”

“From here on out, allow me to decide what lessons will be of use to her and when. Ilan knows she’s supposed to avoid strangers in the wood and keep out of trouble.”

Here I felt his accusing eyes burning into the back of my head, but annoyed at being spoken over as if I had no say in this matter, I bit my tongue and refused to apologize.

“I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my input, friend,” Dradac was saying. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you on the point of what’s best for Ilan. She’s growing up faster than you realize and is learning to fend for herself. You’re doing her a disservice if you won’t allow her a little adventure once in awhile.”

Brig sputtered, but I shot Dradac a grateful look.

In the end, we settled the matter with a compromise. It was determined I was to be given more freedom in the future, but this hinged on the condition that Brig wished me to improve myself in certain areas. He had taken up a strange notion I needed what he called “scholarly learning,” although neither he nor anyone else in our band had ever possessed anything of the sort. I readily agreed to this, confident I was getting the best of the deal.

However, when I discovered a few days later exactly what he had in mind, I was no longer so sure.

I sat beneath a shady tree, a smooth plank of wood across my knees for a table. A yellowed sheet of parchment rested beneath the tip of my hovering quill. Terrac crouched behind me, leaning a little over my shoulder to observe my efforts. The quill’s ink skipped and spattered irregularly as I attempted to copy out the letters Terrac had set down across the upper half of the page. At Terrac’s direction, Brig had fashioned the writing implement from a quail feather, and Brig and Terrac together had made the ink from the juice of wild berries. The parchment was a contribution from one of the outlaws. It had been confiscated from the hands of a reluctant scribe two seasons past, and the thief had no use for it.

I silently cursed that outlaw now and the scribe before him. For an hour of every day I was forced to practice my letters, under Terrac’s guidance. I knew Brig well enough to be sure he would see to it that I always had that hour to spare. He’d been pleased to learn Terrac had been taught to read and write by Honored Thilstain and quickly insisted the boy’s learning be passed on to me.

“No, that’s not it,” Terrac said with a frown, snatching the pen from my fingers. “You’ve still got it wrong. Your lines should curve at the bottom—like this.” He demonstrated the proper technique and returned the implement to me.

As usual, he didn’t complain or scold me for my slow fingers and slower wits, but his patience only served to irritate me further. I didn’t know how Brig had threatened or cajoled him into tutoring me, but I was certain he could be enjoying the experience no more than I. I was well aware I made a sorry pupil. In fact, I wouldn’t have blamed Terrac if he beat his head against a tree in frustration by the end of our hour, but for some reason he never did. The fact that he never laughed at the pitiful results of my effort only served to aggravate me further. I was sure he knew that and derived a twisted satisfaction from it.

After contemplating the untidy marks on the parchment before me, I threw my pen down in disgust. “Can’t we just forget this and tell Brig I did the work?” I asked.

Terrac didn’t blink at my outburst. I decided he was growing used to them.

“Of course not,” he responded absently. “That would be lying. Now look, I think your trouble is how you keep confusing the first and third letters. They look alike but are a little different.”

“Oh, I forgot priests don’t lie,” I mocked, ignoring his direction. “A simple untruth would probably torment your conscience for all time.”

He regarded me with puzzlement, and I realized he had no idea what I was talking about. I sighed and asked myself how I was going to endure another million lessons like this one. My companion was so good and patient he grated unintentionally on my every nerve. Or at least most of the time I believed it was unintentional. I doubted he possessed an ounce of spite in him. His only character flaw was his habit of frowning down his nose at everyone who failed to meet his standards, but even this snobbery seemed unconscious. At times, I asked myself why I had saved him at all. Then I would grudgingly recall those rare occasions when we actually had a good time together, those days when we explored the forest, swam in Dancing Creek, or hunted stink snakes in Heeflin’s Marsh at Dimming’s edge.

But today I was in no mood for such charitable memories. “Why do you even do this?” I demanded impatiently. “I’m hopeless at these letters! You can’t enjoy teaching me. Not unless you derive pleasure from laughing secretly at my mistakes. You shouldn’t allow Brig to force you into it. You always do whatever you’re told, and no one respects you for it. No one but me even likes you.”

“They don’t?” He sounded confused and slightly hurt, but I didn’t care.

“No, they don’t. They laugh at you to your face, and you take it like a dumb animal.”

He looked thoughtful. “Honored Thilstain taught me it was a priestly duty to be humble, to seek peace, and to serve all.”

I snorted. “I can’t even imagine how little pride you must have,” I said.

He looked wounded. I could see his mind working as he struggled to form the right reply, but I gave him no opportunity to voice it. I was in a difficult mood, and I felt it wouldn’t require much provocation for me to take my frustration out on him. He was a slight figure, still frail after his recovery, and I was sure I could knock him into tomorrow without expending much effort. “I’m leaving now,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You can tell Brig whatever you want.”

“But your lesson!” he protested, dismayed. “Brig swore he would beat me senseless—”

“So stand and take it,” I said unsympathetically. “I think you owe it to me. Have you forgotten how I nursed you back from the brink of death? And I pretty nearly saved your life again only the other day when you almost drowned in Dancing Creek. You were thrashing around, crying out for help, and no one else came running. But did I throw you a stone?”

“No, but—”

“No, indeed, I didn’t.” I answered my own question. “I leapt straight in and dragged you from the water at no small risk to my life and limb.”

“Life and limb?” he cried incredulously. “You’re taller than I! The water scarcely reached to your neck!”

I shrugged. “Can’t blame that on me. Maybe you should’ve been the girl.”

His face reddened, and he surprised me by kicking the wooden writing slab off my lap. “You want a fight?” he demanded, voice squeaking in fury. “Is that what you’re looking for?” He doubled his fists and took a fighting stance.

I couldn’t hide my amusement. I’d never seen him in such a temper.

“Think you can fight, do you, boy?”

I looked up, startled, at the voice that belonged to none other than the Red Hand himself. Where had he come from? We were in an out-of-the-way spot, and I hadn’t heard his approach. I stirred uneasily, wondering what he wanted. I could see his presence unnerved Terrac.

“We weren’t fighting,” I assured Rideon. “Just playing around.”

“Ah, I see. Play-fighting.” Rideon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his calculating gaze on Terrac. “Wouldn’t you rather learn to fight for real?” he asked.

Terrac looked uneasy, and I found myself feeling unexpectedly protective of him, so I broke in with, “He’s a priest, Rideon. He cannot do violence.”

The outlaw smirked, looking Terrac up and down. “A flimsy excuse,” he said. “I won’t have such a cowardly pup in my band. If he wants to live among us, let him learn to defend himself.”

Terrac said, “With all due respect, I don’t consider myself a member of your criminal band.” There was a cold light in his eyes that, for a moment, drowned out the fear as he added, “But while I’m forced to live among you, I earn my way. I do my chores around camp, and I work as hard as anyone.”

I was surprised to find myself feeling a little proud of the boy. Grown men didn’t argue with Rideon. Even so, I rushed to put a stop to his foolhardiness before he could talk his way into a thrashing or worse.

“He does work hard,” I said. “But if you’re of a mind to see him fight, Rideon, I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse. There’s never any harm in learning to defend oneself.” I cast a warning glance Terrac’s way, willing him to keep silent. I could feel him burning to martyr himself, so it was a pleasant surprise when he held his peace.

Rideon scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Wise words, hound. Now I’ve a mind to see some sport, so let me see you practice between yourselves a bit. And to add to the challenge, the winner gets to spar with me as his reward. How’s that?”

Terrac and I exchanged uneasy glances, but neither of us dared argue. I was sure Brig wouldn’t approve of this, but he wasn’t here. “It will be just until one of us downs the other,” I reassured Terrac, who looked slightly ill. He appeared stunned by my acceptance.

Rideon put in mockingly, “Come now, priest boy. You’re not afraid to fight a girl, are you?”

That seemed to decide Terrac. “Very well, if I must.” He jutted his chin out defiantly and pushed up his sleeves. “What are the rules of this game?”

“No rules, no game,” Rideon said. “Just pound one another until one of you can no longer stand.”

Terrac’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly, but he offered no argument. “All right then. Let’s get this over with,” he said. Even crouching with fists drawn, he didn’t look very convincing. Every rigid line of his body betrayed his reluctance.

I stepped in and doubled my own fists, feeling as unenthusiastic as he looked. It was hardly an even match. Despite the nearness of our ages, I had a good six inches on Terrac, and I’d had years of outdoor labor to strengthen my muscles. It also wasn’t long ago that he’d been deathly ill. I resolved to go as easy on him as I could, but I wouldn’t let him win. Instinctively I felt this was some sort of test of Rideon’s and that the outcome might make a difference in my future.

I guess I allowed myself to be distracted by my thoughts for I was suddenly brought back to the moment by a hard fist jabbing me in the ribs. From a grown man, such a punch would have been painful. From Terrac it was more like a sharp poke. Still, it allowed me to fight back without feeling guilty. My answering swing fell wide as Terrac dodged with surprising dexterity, throwing me off balance. The next two punches caught me in the face. I bit my tongue, and that hurt more than the actual blows. It also made me realize I needn’t concern myself so much with going easy on my opponent after all.

As I spat blood, I could hear Rideon laughing behind me. Terrac’s eyes were apologetic, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a rush of anger that he was making me appear a fool before my captain. I launched an all-out assault against him, throwing a series of punches he couldn’t move quickly enough to block. I kept up my attack, but the priest boy refused to fall no matter how mercilessly I punished him.

He gave up ground readily enough, until we had backed out of the clearing and found ourselves fighting knee-deep in bramble bushes. I no longer knew who I beat or why, so intent was I on winning. I hardly noticed my weariness or my skinned knuckles. I was close to victory; I could feel it. As Terrac stumbled backward against a log, I seized the opportunity to drive a blow into his belly. He staggered and doubled over. Although I knew it was cheap, I followed the punch with a knee to his face. That knocked the strength from him, and he dropped.

Upon seeing him downed, my anger instantly evaporated, leaving exhaustion and guilt in its wake. I leaned forward to grip my knees and catch my breath. Then I extended a hand to help Terrac to his feet. He accepted it with barely a sign of hesitation. It wasn’t in his character to hold a grudge. Still, I felt a twinge of shame, noting his swollen lip and the bruises already forming over his cheekbones.

He seemed to sense my thoughts. “It’s all right,” he told me quietly. “Perhaps I’ll do as much for you one day.”

I accepted the threat as my due and turned my attention to freeing myself from the clinging bushes as Rideon approached. When my captain stood before me, I believed he had come to see how badly I was hurt. I was relieved of that misapprehension when, without word or warning, he suddenly dealt me a ringing blow to the jaw. Stunned, I reeled backward to the ground. I thought he would wait for me to get back to my feet. He didn’t. Instead he battered me with a series of vicious kicks, the strength of which knocked the breath from me. I sensed the futility of attempting escape and instead curled my body into a ball, wrapping my arms around myself to deflect the worst of the blows.

My pitiful reaction appeared to enrage Rideon, for he launched a particularly rough kick into my face. Sparks exploded before my eyes, and I felt my nose crunch. Face throbbing and nose filling with blood, I sucked in pained gasps of air through my mouth. It suddenly occurred to me the blows might not stop until I was dead, and for the first time, I was afraid. Inwardly, I clawed after my magic, but once I grasped it my mind was too clouded by the pain to think how to use it. The most I could do was simply cling to the inner fire as I tried to fight down the rising darkness.

When the attack ceased as unexpectedly as it had begun, I knew a moment of intense relief. The outlaw must have expended his strength. Slowly, tentatively, I released my grip on the magic and let it slip away. Then I lifted a trembling hand to explore my aching face. My skin was slick to the touch, my nose crooked and swollen. Upper lip and jaw throbbed. Mentally, I categorized each pain: aching limbs, bruised body, and a fiery agony in my ribs. Rideon rolled me roughly onto my back. I tried to pry one bloodied eye open, but the lid remained stubbornly sealed. The other eye managed to open into a narrow slit, affording me a squinted view of my surroundings. The treetops swayed dizzyingly overhead. I was very near to blacking out and didn’t fight it. The rest would’ve been a welcome relief.

“I’d say this has been a profitable exercise,” Rideon announced with deliberate ease. “I’m sure you’ve both learned something.”

I struggled to focus my watering eye on his shadowy figure looming over me, but my vision was oddly clouded. His voice was casual as he continued, “We will never make any great fighter of you, hound. That is sure. Has Brig never taught you, the larger the opponent the greater the courage you will need to defeat him?”

I was too miserable to construct a defense. I understood his implication—I was a disappointment. Feeling wretched and ashamed of my weakness, I watched him stride away. Then I raised a hand to my face, wincing at my careful touch. My nose felt as if it were swelling larger by the second.

Terrac suddenly appeared and helped me right myself. I couldn’t stand yet, so I slouched where I was, panting through my mouth and dabbing at my bloody nose with my sleeve. I felt unreasonably angry with Terrac, crouched patiently at my side, for witnessing my humiliation. I hated his concerned expression as he peered into my battered face.

“I think only your nose is broken,” he assured me now. “The swelling and blood may make it hard to breathe for a while, but eventually it will mend itself.”

“How does it look?” I asked. “Ugly?”

Terrac hesitated. “Not too ugly. I think it will be all right on you. Look at Illsman; a crooked nose just makes him seem tough.”

I winced and tried to convince myself I didn’t mind being compared to the ugly outlaw. No one would have taken a pretty female brigand seriously anyway. But I reached a decision. “I’m not going back to camp like this,” I told Terrac.

He tried to protest. “But those cuts on your face need cleansing.”

“You can do that for me here,” I said firmly. I wouldn’t be seen by Brig like this. Not after the recent argument between him and Dradac. I couldn’t allow him to think he’d been right all along.

Terrac must have sensed my determination. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll run back and fetch a poultice from Javen for those cuts. I’ll bring food also. It will be a few days before you’re moving around much, and we’d go hungry if it were left for me to do the hunting.

“We?” I questioned.

“Yes, we. I’m not about to leave you out here alone after that plague-cursed animal has rendered you too battered to look after yourself.”

“Don’t speak of the Hand like that,” I ordered halfheartedly. “He is Rideon. He can do whatever he pleases.”

“Can isn’t the same as should, but I won’t argue the point. Wait here and I’ll return as quickly as I can.” He clambered to his feet.

“Say nothing to Brig,” I warned as he left. “If he asks, say only that I plan to sleep out tonight. He knows I do that sometimes.”

Terrac nodded briefly, although I could see he didn’t appreciate being drawn into my deception. And that was how we came to make camp alone for three days.

Chapter VII

AS SOON AS I WAS able to move, we shifted to a better location. I tried again to persuade Terrac to leave me, making no secret of the fact I would prefer to be without him. But the priest boy wouldn’t budge. I suspected he secretly enjoyed witnessing my suffering. Over the following days, I treated him as harshly and as ungratefully as I knew how, but never was I able to sway him in his determination to share in my self-imposed exile.

That first night out of Red Rock, I was too sore to plan for anything in the way of shelter, so we slept beneath a row of shrubbery. With Terrac sleeping at my back, I was reminded of the nights we spent in our pine-bough shelter last spring. Only then it had been he who suffered. I didn’t like the sense of our places being changed.

It rained that night.

The following day found the skies clear again. By midafternoon, the sogginess had gone from the ground, but our clothing remained miserably damp throughout the day. We did very little except sitting about, sulking and arguing over whether we should return to Red Rock. In the end, I won out and we stayed. We fared better the next night because the weather was warm and dry. By this time I was in good enough condition the two of us were able to climb a stout tree to sleep in. We braced ourselves in the branches, where I passed a comfortable night, although Terrac still looked weary in the morning. He was unaccustomed to sleeping among the green leaves and said he scarcely closed his eyes all night for fear of falling to the ground in his sleep.

We consumed the last of our food on that second day. Terrac went off in search of more, but I lacked the inclination to join him. My mind was still on Rideon and my disgrace. It was no surprise when Terrac returned with nothing more than a handful of berries, although I had lent him my hunting knife. If I knew Terrac, he had passed up all sorts of fox dens and rabbit holes because he hadn’t the heart to kill anything. I had sunk into such depression I didn’t even bother mocking him.

I hardly cared that I huddled down to sleep on an empty stomach that night, having let Terrac keep his scant meal to himself. They were bitter-berries, a fact I didn’t bother sharing with him. Instead I enjoyed a faint satisfaction each time I heard him wake during the night to vomit up the contents of his stomach. Those frequent interruptions made it difficult for me to find sleep, however. I lay half-reclined among the branches for a long time, staring into the shadows of the leaves overhead. As I listened to the creaks and rustles of the branches below and to the subsequent sounds of the priest boy disgorging his meal, I wondered how much longer I could hold out before giving up my wounded pride and returning to Red Rock. I tried to imagine what Brig and Dradac and the others would be doing back in camp right now. Eventually, I slipped off to sleep.

Gentle hands woke me to the cold gray light of early dawn. It was still more night than day, and I didn’t understand why I was being awakened so early. Mama bent over my pillow, the sweeping ends of her silvery hair brushing my face.

She whispered, “Come, little chickling. Don’t make a sound.” A strange excitement lit her eyes. I asked no questions but slipped out of bed, exclaiming softly as my small feet touched the cold dirt floor. Mama pressed a warning finger to her lips, casting an anxious glance into the shadows across the room where Da slept.

She had already collected my things, and now she moved silently, helping me slip a dress over my head and pull warm stockings up my legs. She was dressed to go out as well, and over her shoulder she carried a canvas sack with a loaf of bread peeking out of its mouth. I was curious where we went in such a hurry it would be necessary to eat along the way, but I kept quiet.

There was urgency in Mama’s eyes and in the quick movements of her hands as she sat me on the floor and tugged on my ragged shoes. I scarcely had time to pull my feet under me again before she took me by the shoulders and guided me quickly through the semidarkness and out the doorway.

The farmyard, illuminated by the faint morning light, stood empty before us. I stole a glance back over my shoulder to where Da lay, snoring loudly in the big bed. Mama and I exchanged conspiratorial smiles as we silently abandoned the little cottage and slipped into the gray world outside. Mama transferred her grip to my hand and led me across the yard, away from the cottage. Stealthily, we veered behind the barn and into the shadow of the plum trees. I felt a surge of excitement because I sensed whatever was happening was forbidden and secret—an adventure.

We crossed the farmyard and topped the ridge, pausing to look down on the sleepy cottage below. Only then did I feel both our moods lighten. On the far side of the ridge lay the neighboring village, but Mama didn’t lead me down that way. I had only a brief glimpse of the low cluster of flat roofs before we moved on. We climbed a steeper hill, then descended its slope into another valley, where a narrow road snaked along its base. Once we were on the road, Mama finally allowed me a slightly slower pace, but I still had difficulty matching her quick strides.

“It is a long way to Journe’s Well,” she told me apologetically. “We need to arrive before the sun is high.” She gave no more explanation than that.

By the time the sky had changed from morning’s gray to a pale blue, I had begun to miss my breakfast. Mama swung the sack around from her shoulder and broke off a chunk of bread for us both. We ate while we walked. Very soon after, my feet began to hurt. Mama lifted me onto her thin shoulders and carried me for a time, but we both soon wearied of that and I walked again.

Mama seemed to grow more agitated the farther we traveled. I sensed whatever mysterious adventure lay ahead frightened as much as it excited her. She began talking after a while, more to herself than to me. I comprehended little of her words. She told me we were making this trek to Journe’s Well to catch a glimpse of the Praetor’s soldiers, camped there on their journey back from the North. They had served the provinces for years, fending giants from our borders, and were at last free to return home. These men, the Iron Fists, were the bravest soldiers of our province and were led by the son of the old Praetor himself, she explained.

I barely listened to her words. I couldn’t see how the Praetor, his son, or their soldiers had anything to do with me. Why should I be interested in people I’d never met? Now if any of the Praetor’s men could ride Carp Wildtooth’s meanest bull, well, that would be a thing worth hearing about.

We reached Journe’s Well late in the morning. Although we didn’t approach very near, I could see even at a distance that the camp bustled with activity. Some men were striking tents and loading supplies onto horses and pack animals. Other soldiers were already mounting their horses. Mama told me they would march to Selbius today, where folk would line up in the streets to watch them pass. In the city, feasts would be thrown for a week to celebrate their return. This sounded very grand to me, and I wished I could see it, but Mama said we could not journey so far today. She looked as if she regretted it as much as I did.

Circling the camp, we kept at a distance. No one saw us or, if they did, they didn’t care that their movements were spied on by a silver-haired peasant woman and a small child. There was an outcropping of rock at the base of a craggy hill overlooking the Well, and it was to this we moved, scaling the pile until we could look down on the evacuating camp without being observed.

Mama leaned forward, scanning the ground below. I wondered what she expected to find amid all the activity of rushing men and stamping horses. Then, “There,” she muttered softly. Turning to me, she asked, “Do you see that man, chickling?” She directed my attention to a darkly handsome young man mounted atop a war steed. He had an aura of power that made him stand out from the other soldiers, and his black armor and horse were finer than any of those around him.

I shivered for the sight of the dark man touched something deep within me, awakening a fear I could find no cause for. At the moment I looked down on him, his head was tilted back as he drank deeply from a waterskin. At his heels a young lad sat a gray gelding and held aloft a pennant depicting a rearing black bear against a field of scarlet. I watched the soldier finish his drink and toss the skin to the boy. Then, as if suddenly sensing my eyes on him, the dark man looked up. I ducked out of sight, seized for a moment by the foolish fear he had read my thoughts, felt the curious connection between us that I did. But no, when I peered down on him again, he had already looked away.

“Did you see his face, little one?” Mama asked me.

I said I did, remembering that harsh profile with the tight mouth and long hawkish nose.

“That man will be very great one day. I brought you here to look at him because he is going to be important in the future. Do you understand?”

I said I did because it was what she appeared to want. I wondered if she too felt the power I sensed emanating from the dark soldier. It was one of what she called her ‘talents’—her magical abilities. She saw people’s inner qualities—their hidden virtues and vices.

We remained hidden among the rocks for what felt like a very long time. I quickly grew bored and, when Mama wasn’t looking, nibbled on bits of bread and cheese from our sack. The sun rose higher in the sky. It was hot, crouching where the bright rays beat down on the rocks. We didn’t leave until the camp was emptied and the last of the dust had settled after the soldier’s horses. Then we crept down from our spot.

As I clambered back down the rocks, I stepped on a patch of loose pebbles and slipped. Mama was too far ahead to catch me, so I fell, spilling headfirst down the hill. A sharp chunk of rock sliced my arm on the way. Then I hit the ground.

With a start I sat up in the darkness, nearly tumbling out of my tree.

“Mama?” I called. Of course she didn’t answer. Had I really expected her to? I lifted my sleeve and felt the ridged scar along my forearm where I’d clipped the rock during my tumble. It was an old injury, and I’d never been able to remember how I’d gotten it. Until tonight.

I leaned back against the tree again and closed my eyes, attempting to shake my mother’s image from my mind. I scarcely thought of her anymore. I felt uneasy, knowing she could still creep into my dreams after all this time. Was the magic trying to tell me something? I shook my head. That was ridiculous. The incident meant nothing. Neither Mama nor I had ever spoken again of our secret journey or of the dark man under the black-and-scarlet pennant. Strange that I should relive the incident now, but then I supposed it was no stranger than any of the other wild things folk dreamed about.

I tried to go back to sleep, but remnants of the dream clung to my mind. The dark soldier’s face was as fresh in my memory as if it were only yesterday I’d seen him. I wondered who he was and why he was important, and the wondering kept me awake the rest of the night. I had a growing conviction that if I could ever tie together the loose ends of all my scattered memories, I might make sense of the mysteries of my past.

As the early light of dawn crept over us, I decided I could bear it no longer. I reached below and awakened Terrac with a rough shake of the twin branches he sprawled over. He woke with a start, tumbling from his perch. Luckily, we weren’t far from the ground and a convenient cluster of shrubbery saved him from a nasty landing. He wasn’t too kindly disposed toward me after that and even less so when I told him why I’d stirred him. It was one of the few times I managed to ruffle his placid disposition.

“You wake me at dawn’s first light and drop me from a tree so I can run and fetch for you?” he demanded in disbelief.

“I need the parcel now,” I explained patiently. “I’ve told you how to retrieve it, and I don’t intend to waste the morning arguing, so away with you. And be quick about it or I’ll be forced to set you in your place. Again.”

Waving a dismissive hand in the direction of Red Rock, I lay back in my lofty perch to gaze into the leafy green branches above. A pinecone was lobbed past my head, but I ignored it.

My companion grumbled, uttering a low string of phrases unworthy of a priest, but eventually the crackle of sticks and the rustle of underbrush told me he was walking away. I wondered absently if he would bother to return, then decided even if he didn’t, at least I was finally rid of him.

It was hours before I saw him again. He still had a grim set to his mouth and an offended air about him as he set the required parcel at the base of the tree and shouted up that if I wanted it, I could come down and get it.

Ignoring his injured attitude, I scrambled down, snatching up the leather-wrapped package.

“What took you so long?” I demanded. “Get lost along the way?”

“Yes,” he said sullenly. “You knew I would. I can’t tell one of these rotten trees from another.”

I sat down, my back against the tree trunk, to unwrap my bundle. Stripping away the oiled strips of leather I had wrapped it in for protection, I held the brooch in my hands. When I flipped it over, the tiny letters etched across the back looked just as I remembered them. They seemed less strange to me now that I had practiced writing a bit myself, but I was still not familiar enough with the letters to sound them all out. Irritated, I thrust the brooch at my companion. “Here. Tell me what this says.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Read it yourself.”

“You know I cannot,” I answered testily.

“I know that you could learn if you wanted to badly enough.”

“But at this moment I cannot,” I emphasized, as if speaking to a child. “You already read, while for me it will take months, if not years, to learn.” I shook the brooch at him. “This pin was given me by my dead mother, who claimed it held the secret to protecting me. Maybe this writing will give me some clue as to what she meant.”

He folded his arms, unmoved. “Then you’d better start attending your lessons. Now there’s something you’re suddenly eager to read, you’ll work twice as hard at your letters. Coincidentally, as Brig grows impatient with your lack of progress, your renewed efforts will spare me a beating from him. Let us consider that to be your good deed for the year.”

“I’m not the priest,” I reminded him sourly.

“Neither am I. Or have you forgotten?”

“Yes,” I said. “You lie so convincingly it’s easy to forget the truth.”

I saw his confidence falter. “I don’t lie,” he said. “If I’ve allowed Rideon to mislead himself, it’s only because I don’t care to be murdered.”

Before I could slip in a cutting remark, he changed the subject. “But never mind that. Let’s speak of your problem. I’ll make you a bargain. If you’re willing to redouble your efforts and pay attention to what I teach you, I promise I’ll have you reading by winter. Come now, that isn’t far off.”

I leaned forward. “Now I’ll make you an offer. You tell me right this moment what the writing on the brooch says or I’ll tell Rideon you’re not really a priest.”

Terrac winced but held his ground. “Tell Rideon I’m not a priest, and I’ll tell everyone how he knocked the feathers out of you.”

I knew he was waiting to bring that up. I sank back in defeat. “You win, priest boy.” I conceded ungraciously. What choice did I have? Terrac was a fair teller of tales and too honest to skim over details. I knew by the time he finished the story I’d be a laughing stock around the outlaw camp.

“Good,” he said now. “We’ll give up this sulking nonsense and return to Red Rock first thing tomorrow morning, where we will resume your lessons.”

Too dispirited to object, I nodded dumbly, returned the brooch to its protective leather wrapping, and tucked it into my tunic.

But as it turned out, we didn’t wait for the following morning to return to Red Rock. Brig found us that very afternoon. The purposeful way he strode into our little camp told me he hadn’t found us by accident. I ground my teeth. Obviously, Terrac had talked to him. I should have known better than to send the priest boy back to camp for the brooch. Brig stood silently before us and looked me up and down.

“Sorry,” Terrac mumbled. “He caught me and threatened to beat it out of me. He knew something was wrong when you stayed away so long.”

I could see by Brig’s lack of reaction to my battered face that he already knew what happened. Yet another thanks I owed Terrac. I was relieved at least when he asked no questions.

“Let us see the damage, Ilan,” he said, turning my face to examine the bruises. “Nothing serious,” he observed. “But you should’ve come back earlier and let me clean up these little cuts. For that matter, you’d have done better to avoid a fight with the Hand in the first place. Still, a beating is nothing to be ashamed of. Sulking about it, though, that’s another matter. Hiding away from camp only makes you look like a weakling.”

It stung that Brig, of all people, would kick me while I was down. That was why I said, “You ran away to hide in the forest when your Netta left you and took your sons. Maybe that’s why she went—she didn’t want to be married to a coward. I’m not surprised you’ve nothing to say to me about standing up for myself in a fight but criticize me instead for failing to run from one. When have you ever stood your ground for anything?”

Even as I said it, the unwanted memory flashed through my mind of Brig withstanding Rideon’s orders to protect a little orphaned girl. Right away I could have bitten my tongue out, but it was too late to call the words back.

Brig’s eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and pain. I thought if he hit me I would deserve it. I heard Terrac clearing his throat and backing away. But Brig wasn’t going to let me off so easily. He took a long breath and it was a moment before he spoke.

“You’ve developed a sharp tongue, Ilan,” he observed quietly. “I think I liked you better when you were that silent little hound.”

Filled with remorse, I tried to apologize. “I’m sorry, Brig. I don’t know why I said that. It wasn’t true.”

He held up a hand. “Never mind. If you feel you owe me an apology, you can make it up by coming back to camp. Stop skulking around out here like a petulant child I have to be ashamed of.”

“Alright.” My voice was heavy with regret, but if Brig noticed, it didn’t soften him. Terrac and I followed him back to Red Rock where I faced an unpleasant handful of days to follow.

The bruises on my face attracted a certain amount of attention back at camp, and a few of the outlaws asked if I’d stuck my face into a badger’s den. I told myself they meant no harm with their jokes and that for every man who remarked on my battered countenance there were just as many who appeared not to notice it at all. Still, I knew everyone had heard my story, and that was deeply humiliating.

I avoided Terrac during this time. Although I knew he hadn’t meant any ill in betraying me to Brig, I couldn’t shake the notion none of this would have happened if not for him. Of course I realized I couldn’t keep away from him forever. Sooner or later I must stick to our agreement about the lessons. But how could I do that when I couldn’t abide the sight of him anymore? My anger at him grew, and the strength of it only made me more miserable. I had grown accustomed to his odd, deprecating company, and now I found myself strangely lonely without him.

As for the Hand, he treated me as if nothing had ever happened. It stung to think my captain could dismiss me so quickly after his former harsh treatment, but I told myself it was for the best. I would keep out of his way until another opportunity to prove myself came along. Then I wouldn’t fail him.

Out of all the worries preying on my mind over the following days, my disagreement with Brig loomed largest. Since our heated words, he didn’t seem to look at me in the same way. I couldn’t say he treated me unkindly. But there was something missing from our friendship that had always been there before. I felt I no longer had his trust.

Chapter VIII

TIME PASSED AND MY FOURTEENTH birthday came and went with little to mark it. It wasn’t the true date of my birth anyway, but the day Brig and I had chosen to celebrate it, as I could never recall the real one. The two of us used to pass this day in some pleasant way, with the cooking of a favorite treat or the giving of a small gift. Other times, we might simply spend the day together, hunting in the forest or visiting one of the little woods villages. But this year, neither of us mentioned the occasion.

My lessons with Terrac resumed. Brig finally noticed I was avoiding them and put an abrupt stop to it. This time I set to work with an interest born of determination, promising myself I would soon be able to decipher the writing on my mother’s brooch. At first I held on to my resolution not to speak to the priest boy, but it was difficult to ignore someone you had to be close to for an hour out of every afternoon. Inevitably, the day came when he asked me a question about my lesson, and I unthinkingly responded. As easily as that, the feud between us was broken.

My eagerness to learn made a vast difference in the progress of my lessons. The day arrived when I began writing short words, and soon after that, I was spelling my own name. Even then, Terrac suggested I continue with our sessions until my skills had grown as far as possible. I enthusiastically followed his advice, for I was discovering in myself something unexpected. I enjoyed learning.

One afternoon I presented Brig with a gift: his name inscribed in large, neat letters on a sheet of parchment.

“And what do you expect me to do with this, wear it about my neck like a sign?” he asked gruffly, his needle barely pausing as it flew in and out of a tunic he was mending.

But I had seen the look of wonder on his face as he contemplated the letters I had set out. Here was I, one he had raised from a child, doing a thing that in all his years he had never learned. Only pretending to look away, I watched from the corner of my eye as he carefully folded the page and tucked it away for safekeeping. His unspoken pride meant more than I could tell. I felt that a brick had been laid, that day, in bridging the gap between us.

Not long after that, Dradac came to me and asked if I’d like to help him out on his road to recovery. His shoulder had healed nicely where he’d taken the crossbow bolt, but Javen said if he wanted to regain full use of his arm, he would need to exercise it often. I was pretty sure this was partially an excuse on the part of the giant to teach me combat skills without upsetting Brig. Either way, I was happy to comply, and we settled on the early morning as a good time to begin our exercises.

The following dawn couldn’t come quickly enough for me. I rose with the sun, breakfasted early, and went out into the morning chill to wait beside the stream for Dradac. This ritual became a familiar one in the weeks to follow. The redheaded giant was never there when I arrived, and I would sit on the dew-sprinkled grass by the water’s edge to wait.

I quickly found Dradac to be a more difficult master than I’d supposed. With his one undamaged arm, he made a more formidable opponent than most men with two sound ones, and he shed his usual, easygoing temper during our practice sessions so that I sometimes felt I was facing a dangerous stranger instead of an old friend. I realized he wanted me to take this training seriously for my own good, but even so, I was truly stunned on that first morning by the number of times he seized me by the collar and dunked me into the cold pool to “wake me up.” His strength was unsurprising for a man of his size, but more than that, he was quick. I soon learned just how quick as we progressed to mock fighting with knives.

Even with the blades dulled, by week’s end I had shallow cuts and bruises stretching halfway up my arms and even one or two across my face. Dradac believed in teaching by experience, and much as it unnerved me to see him flying at me with whizzing blades, I had to admit it did give me incentive to learn quickly. He was always watching me, forever on the lookout for signs of weakness. I had no idea how I was standing up to his expectations.

The sword wasn’t Dradac’s best weapon, but we worked with those too. I had learned enough by then to know what it was to have a particular aptitude for a certain style of fighting, and it was easy to discern how much more comfortable the giant was with a staff or pair of knives than a long blade. Nevertheless, he was skilled enough to defend himself competently with one, which was more than I could say for myself in the beginning.

I was surprised one afternoon to find Terrac skulking around the edges of our training ground as we practiced. Dradac let him watch us for a few minutes. Then, pausing from sparring with me, he wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow.

“Terrac,” he called. “Why don’t you come and practice with Ilan for a bit? Just until I’ve caught my breath.”

Terrac hesitated only a moment before nodding mutely and stepping forward. Dradac decided that with two inexperienced fighters it would be advisable to trade real blades for the bundled lathes we kept on hand but rarely used. He pressed one into Terrac’s hands, showing him how to grasp it properly, while I snagged another for myself. Then, standing back, he nodded for us to proceed.

As the match began, I tried to go easy on Terrac, remembering how ashamed I’d been after Rideon had forced me to injure him. Pacing circles around the clearing, we parried and blocked one another’s thrusts for a short time. Then, seeing he was working up a sweat and that his hands were beginning to tremble from the unaccustomed weight of the lathe, I felt a stirring of sympathy. That was why I dropped my defense and allowed him to tap me across the chest. It was hard not to laugh because he did it so gently, like he was swatting a fly that had landed on me.

“Killing stroke,” Dradac called out, and Terrac and I lowered our lathes. I thought Terrac would be pleased, but instead he was frowning as the giant stepped forward to reclaim his weapon.

“Another round?” Dradac offered. “You were doing well.”

Terrac shook his head. “Batting at one another with sticks like a pair of angry children holds little appeal for me.” He offered us a good afternoon and walked away.

“What’s wrong with him?” I demanded. “He looked at me like I was a piece of itchleaf in his pants.

“The next time you fight, make an honest attempt,” Dradac said. “Nobody likes to win by default. Nobody worth beating, leastways.”

After that, Terrac came regularly to our sessions. He wasn’t present every day, but he showed up often enough that he developed a fair skill at fighting with the lathes and, later, with real blades. Soon he was even besting me occasionally. I found myself enjoying those lessons.

I grew both physically and in my capabilities during that time. Even Terrac was no longer the scrawny weakling I remembered from our first meeting. His shoulders broadened, and as he continued growing, it became obvious he would soon be taller than me, a fact that disturbed me to no end. All the same, he still relied on me for the protection of my sharp tongue, if not that of my fists.

One afternoon, the two of us climbed together to the top of the highest rocks of Boulders Cradle where we looked down on the expanse of treetops spreading below. I had worked up a sweat on the climb, and now I was enjoying the feel of the cool wind drying the sweat on my skin. Lying on my belly near the edge, I looked down the way we had come. A small herd of deer was moving cautiously through the trees below. One moment I caught a glimpse of a tail or an antler through the leaves, and in the next the view was lost as the animal moved into the shadows. I said to Terrac, who was squatting silently beside me, “You know, if we had a bow handy and I was a fair shot…”

Terrac snorted. “You’d have to be better than fair. The greatest marksman ever known couldn’t take one of them down at this distance. You’d just waste a lot of arrows and try to make me go and find them.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” I said, but I gave up watching the deer. Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the fat clouds drifting so low overhead I felt I could reach out and touch them. “The Hand says you never know what you have in you until you’re pushed to your limit.”

“The Hand,” Terrac said and rolled his eyes. “I don’t need the likes of him for inspiration.” He stretched out on the stone beside me. “The rock’s hard,” he complained, squinting up at the sun. “And it’s too bright up here.”

“You know, you’re going to have to toughen up if you’re planning on living in the woods the rest of your life. Otherwise, you’ve a long time ahead to be miserable.”

“Who says I’m staying forever?” he mumbled, putting one arm up to shade his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten the priesthood.”

“Rideon says so,” I reminded him. “He’ll never release you from your oath.”

He didn’t say anything, but I sensed his unhappiness. “Look,” I offered in a rare moment of sympathy, “I think you make things harder on yourself than they have to be. The men would get used to you in time if you’d just try to belong. Prove your abilities to them, and they’ll respect you.”

“Just what I’ve always yearned for,” he said. “The respect of a filthy band of thieves and murderers. There’s deep ambition.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “Rideon’s no mere thief—” I started to argue.

“Why does everything have to be about Rideon with you?” he asked. “The Hand says this; the Hand thinks that. I suppose if Rideon threw himself down from this rock like a madman, you’d follow him?”

I didn’t have to think about it. “Of course.”

“Have I mentioned before how pathetic your devotion is?” he asked.

“A couple of times. Mention it again, and it’ll be you testing the fall from here.”

He frowned. “I can tell you something about Rideon,” he said. “He didn’t get to where he is by trotting blindly along at another fellow’s heels. If you dream of ever being anything more than his shadow—”

“I don’t.”

“—you should begin separating yourself from Rideon and making your own way. Pursue your own goals.”

“Shut up, priest boy, and worry about your dreams, not mine. It seems you aren’t in such a hurry to catch up to them.” That effectively ended the conversation.

But all his talk of unattained goals had me thinking. That evening, back in Red Rock Cave, I slipped a lantern down from the wall and carried it back to my sleeping nook behind the waterfall. Beneath the dim glow of the light, I probed my fingers into a deep niche in the wall, dusting aside the dirt and pebbles concealing the hiding place. I wiggled my fingers into the tight space until I managed to gain hold of a thin, flat object and drew it out into the light. Hands trembling in eagerness, I unwrapped the leather-bound packet and the brooch fell out onto the dusty floor.

Its hammered metal surface gleamed beneath the fitful flicker of the lantern, and the copper and amber inlays reflected the light in warm reds and browns. The pin was almost large enough to fill my palm when I picked it up, and because of its size I suspected it wasn’t a woman’s ornament but intended for a male wearer.

Flipping it over to examine the writing etched into the back, I knew a brief moment of panic where all my newfound knowledge of letters flew from my mind and I felt I was looking again at meaningless squiggles. Then the tiny letters lined up in my vision and suddenly made sense. They spelled out two words. FIDELITY and SERVICE, the famed motto of the house of Tarius. The house of the Praetor.

I mused long over my discovery before eventually rewrapping the brooch and returning it to its hiding place. What I couldn’t understand was how my humble mother had ever come to own a trinket once belonging to the Praetor or to someone in his family. Was it stolen? Given? Bought? Was the possession of it a danger to me, suggesting I had an affiliation with the widely hated Praetor Tarius? Or was it a form of protection from the Fists, as my mother appeared to have believed, an indication anyone harming the bearer harmed the house of Tarius? I suspected the answer depended on what company I found myself in.

Viewed in that light, I decided I would be wise to keep the brooch and its original owner a secret for the foreseeable future, even from Brig and Terrac. I returned the lantern to its place on the wall and curled up on my sleeping pallet, where I lay awake for a time, staring into the darkness. When at last I slept, I dreamed of being pursued through the night, chased by a darkness I sensed closing in around me but could never see.

Chapter IX

THE SEASONS TURNED, AND BEFORE I knew it, I was another year older. Little else changed in my life except my relationship with Brig. That was unpredictable these days, at times thawing briefly but always growing cold again. I had no desire to mend the rift, deciding I hardly needed the bearded outlaw now I was grown enough to care for myself. I broke his rules, flaunting my newfound freedom, and slipped calculated slights into our conversations for the amusement of onlookers. Brig’s response was to avoid me and, when he could not do that, to eye me warily, like a strange dog that might bite.

I was thinking of this one chilly morning in early spring as I crouched in the boughs of a thick elder tree, watching a small collection of men, wagons, and packhorses parade their way slowly down the Selbius Road. Undeterred by the temperature or the state of the thawing roads, travelers streamed through Dimming again on their way to Selbius or Kampshire, and we were glad to see them on the move for it had been a long winter. The coming of spring made the Praetor’s Fists and their way patrol more active too, but they troubled us less of late as they were caught up feuding with the savage Skeltai tribes along the provincial borders.

There was a soft rustle in the branches beside me as my companion, a youth named Kipp, shifted his position. He drew an arrow from his quiver but didn’t nock it to his bowstring yet. A careful examination of the woods around us belied the impression we were alone. There were nearly a dozen others of us strung out along the tree line, ducking behind stumps and lying low beneath piles of brush and bracken. We didn’t have the travelers outnumbered, but the better part of their party were children and old folk, and we calculated we had more than enough men to quell any resistance they might offer. We’d been lurking here in the shadows for an hour, since Ladley had first brought us word which road our prey followed, and I had long ago grown impatient.

Now I shifted my weight, flexing the muscles in my cramped calves as I counted heads in the train winding slowly into sight. Two wagons led the way, the first an open cart, the second a larger conveyance with a wooden frame arching over the top and a thin strip of canvas stretched over it. Several small heads ducked from beneath the roof of this wagon, and a skinny dog trotted along in its wake. I summed up the two drivers, both old men, and the trailing handful of travelers on foot. Half of them were women or youngsters. Bringing up the rear of the procession, a broad man in the now-familiar gray robes of a priest of the Light pulled along behind him a line of weary-looking pack animals laden with bundles. Seeing the Honored One among them, I breathed a sigh of relief Terrac wasn’t here to see us persecuting a priest. I could well imagine what he would say to that.

It appeared to me as I looked down on them that these miserable travelers could scarcely have anything worth robbing. Perhaps in our more desperate years this would have been a worthwhile catch, but these days, we rarely extended a hand toward such slender pickings. I observed as much to Kipp, who grinned.

“If Ladley says they’re worth our while, that’s good enough for me. He’s got a woman in Coldstream who tipped him off these travelers would be passing through. Information from the woods villagers is usually good.”

It was true. We had long ago formed an uneasy truce with a number of the surrounding woods villages, whose inhabitants weren’t averse to passing us useful bits of information. We occasionally ventured into their settlements for supplies, and as long as we didn’t steal anything or stir up trouble, most villagers turned a blind eye toward stealthy strangers in deerskin.

Kipp continued. “You hear what Ladley says about this caravan? He’s insisting some wealthy nobleman travels with them under the guise of a commoner to protect himself from that wicked band of thieves led by Rideon the Red Hand. Ladley claims this party comes from Black Cliffs in Cros. You imagine folk have heard of us all the way up there?”

I shrugged. “It’s not so far from here. Terrac says his old village is only a couple weeks distant. Merchants and peddlers travel a lot between Selbius and the Cros cities, and I guess they’d warn others, wouldn’t they?”

Kipp emitted a low whistle. “Infamous in two provinces. How much longer do you suppose it’ll be before the Praetor decides to take us seriously?”

I shushed him even though the caravan was too far away to hear his noise. “I don’t know.” I pointedly kept my voice low. “But Rideon will know how to handle it if trouble comes our way. His wits are a match for any Fist’s.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve got a bad feeling about all this attention.”

“I’ll be keeping my mouth shut and leaving those things to the Hand,” I said shortly. “You can start telling him how to run things if you want, but don’t expect me to back you up.”

“That’s the last thing I’d expect, the way you lick his boots these days.” He grinned as he said it, to show he only half meant the words.

He had a roguishly attractive smile. Funny, I was just starting to notice things like that. Even the once scrawny Terrac could be a pleasure to look at with his tunic off during sword practice.

I shook these distracting thoughts from my mind and returned my attention to the approaching party. I scanned their faces and dress as they drew near, but if any of them was a wealthy noblemen in disguise, none showed it. Soon they were passing beneath us. Kinsley whistled the signal, and we abandoned our hiding places to descend on the startled party. A woman screamed in fright, and many of the male travelers started and looked close to crying out themselves as our band dropped suddenly into their midst.

A few folk were stupid enough to put up a fight—two had walking sticks and one a short dagger—but our men quelled their resistance in a matter of moments with little bloodshed. Rideon preferred we not injure our victims if we could avoid it. This wasn’t sentimentality on his part; it just made sense to antagonize the Praetor as little as possible. I was glad of this rule, in view of the wailing little heads I saw poking out of the canvas-covered wagon.

We rounded up all our prisoners and ordered them to sit cross-legged on the ground. Brig and another man, Dannon, stood guard over them, clubs in hand and threatening to dash the brains out of anyone foolish enough to attempt escape. The remaining outlaws began sorting through the wagons, seizing anything of value, but I didn’t join them.

From the first, I had dashed up to hold the line on the packhorses before they could spook at the confusion and gallop off down the road. Now with one hand I loosed the knots holding the packs on the back of the first mare and began lowering the bundles to the ground. She was a cantankerous animal and made her mistrust of me obvious by sidestepping and tugging sharply to the full reach of her rope. I extended a hand to stroke her nose, but she drew back her lips and snapped dangerous yellow teeth at my fingers.

“Whoa. Easy there, lady.” I flattered soothingly. She seemed unaffected by my wheedling and stamped her feet, rolling a wild eyeball at me.

“She’s no lady. She’s a wicked old tart, that one.”

I jumped at the unexpected voice behind my ear. I tried to spin around but found myself suddenly snatched from behind, my arms pinned behind me. I kicked and wriggled desperately, cursing myself for my carelessness, but no amount of squirming could free me. My assailant’s arm may as well have been a band of iron around my chest.

“Kindly cease struggling, child, or I will be obliged to poke you in the back with this dagger, little as such a brutish act would appeal to me.”

I stiffened and ceased my struggles, feeling the sharp point digging into my back.

“That’s a good fellow,” the stranger said. “No need for violence, is there?”

I had no chance to respond. He raised his voice to shout at my comrades, who remained oblivious to my predicament. “Hold there, you thieving wretches. Stop what you are doing and take your greedy hands off those wagons. Let these good folk up, help them reload their possessions, and speed them on their way. Ignore my orders, and I’ll have no choice but to resort to force.”

My comrades paused, looking around incredulously to see who issued such outrageous orders. Then the voice of Rideon’s right-hand man, Kinsley, rose over the lull. “What is this now, Honored? I don’t know how we missed you, but settle down. You’re upsetting folk. No one’s going to suffer harm so long as they cooperate, and that includes you. Now why don’t you release our little hound there? Looks a bit white in the face.”

“No harm?” my captor demanded. “I doubt any of these people being robbed would agree with you, but we’ll not debate that. Just free them, together with their belongings, or you will find yourselves short one of your number.”

Kinsley frowned, turning to confer with Brig and a few others. The remainder of the men resumed their work, as if there had never been any interruption.

“You may as well know this is no good,” I warned my captor. “With the exception of one or two of my friends, my life wouldn’t buy you a pork pie from most of these men, let alone your freedom.”

“Not to worry, young man. I am prepared to adapt to the situation as necessary. I have fought giants and Skeltai in my time, and I think I’m a match for a ragtag band of thieves.”

Despite the confident words, he planted his blade a little more deeply into my back and tightened his hold around my chest. Then, startled, he glanced down to see exactly what his grip encircled.

“Upon my ashes,” he exclaimed. “You’re a woman. Or a girl, at least.”

“A low rumor invented by my friends to plague me,” I said.

“Is that right?” He surprised me by laughing. “Well, whether you call yourself one or not, you’re still a young woman, and as a priest of the robe, I should ordinarily release you and apologize for the manhandling. Unfortunately, since my companions are in danger at the moment—or at least their goods are—you can see I’m in no position to do anything of the kind.”

“If you did, I’d kill you,” I growled. “Give me the chance and I’ll have first stab at you.”

“Mean-spirited, eh?” He sounded amused. “In that case, I suppose we’ll both just have to wait and reconcile ourselves to whatever comes.”

I felt ridiculous standing there helpless, holding a private conversation with the stranger while my companions a few yards distant were engaged in a discussion of my fate. Brig had abandoned the prisoners and hastened over to join them.

“What are they dragging their feet about?” my captor demanded in my ear. “True, you aren’t much of a prize, but one thinks they would have some dredges of loyalty.”

I shook my head and wished he would quit talking to me. He wasn’t doing this right. I determined not to speak to him anymore. I’d wait until he either killed me or lent me the opportunity to do as much for him.

I couldn’t hear the discussion playing out before us but could see Brig shaking his head angrily and knew he was arguing on my behalf. Kinsley was gesturing toward me, shrugging, and everyone else just looked confused. I had never felt so humiliated and burdensome in my life. I might have told the priest he had made an unlucky choice. He ought to have snatched a more popular captive.

But I didn’t have to, for he seemed to read my mind. “I can see you have not exactly endeared yourself to your friends, young one. This grows awkward.”

“You aren’t the one looking foolish and helpless,” I gritted out, forgetting my resolve.

“I see. You have yet to prove yourself to these ruffians, then?”

“Shut up,” I said. “We shouldn’t be talking.”

“You’re right. This hostage idea is crumbling down around my ears—not one of my prouder moments. Something tells me it’s time to act.”

The decisive words had scarcely left his mouth when he shoved me roughly aside and charged forward, dragging his sword from its scabbard as he ran. He had no sooner dived ahead than a green arrow whistled past the spot where his head had been only seconds before. The shaft, angled downward, nearly skimmed my shoulder as I tumbled to the ground from the force of the priest’s shove. As I rolled back to my feet, I scanned the treetops and was rewarded with a quick glimpse of Kipp shimmied out on a low-hanging limb, bow in hand. I turned my attention back to the melee before me.

And a battle it was, though it shouldn’t have been. A lone man clad in cumbersome priest’s robes ought to have been no match for a handful of hardened brigands. But he was. None of the outlaws had anything better than hunting knives and daggers, and they were unprepared to fend off the attack of a broadsword. The first outlaw to encounter the priest was swiftly cut down, not to stir again. A second outlaw danced in to deal a tap of his pike at the priest’s chest and was quickly slashed across the forearm for it. I didn’t see what else became of him.

I slipped my knives from their wrist sheaths and rushed to join my comrades, who were fanning out to form a ring around our sturdy opponent. As we closed in on him, the priest spun, managing to be everywhere at once. Brig had no sooner swung a powerful blow of his stave at the priest’s head, when the broadsword was there to stop it. With a single slash, Brig’s stave became two short sticks. I chose that moment of distraction to duck into the fray and jab at our enemy with one of my knives, but he avoided that too with a long sidestep and a ringing slap across my shoulders with the flat of his blade.

Seething and feeling mocked, I was pushed out of the fight by Brig, who positioned himself in front of me. I watched, helpless, as our opponent plunged his blade into Dannon’s belly and spun to lop off Ladley’s right arm, followed by his head, in two clean sweeps. The priest sustained no injuries, appearing hardly winded, and I began to believe he might finish us all.

The outlaws were clearly daunted by his skill. They stepped up their attack, and the priest became a gray blur as he spun, slashed, and blocked. Never had I seen a man fight as he did. He moved with such speed I couldn’t have targeted him even had I a bow and been competent at using it. His robes swirled outward, revealing the glint of chain mail underneath, and his eyes sparked with a fire like none I had ever witnessed. He seemed unstoppable as he slashed our disintegrating line to bits.

There were only three outlaws standing now, Brig, Kinsley, and I. The others were either dead or grounded with injuries. I suspected several feigned worse wounds than they possessed to avoid further combat with the formidable priest, and I didn’t blame them. It was unnerving being one of the few still in his path, and I felt an urge, myself, to sit out this fight.

Instead, I straightened my back and kept a ready stance, trying to appear braver than I felt. I gripped the knives in my hands so tightly my knuckles ached. Brig hadn’t given me permission to reenter the fray, but I didn’t think I could afford not to. There was a brief pause of indecision, and then Brig charged. He had collected what was left of his broken staff, and he swung this at the priest’s head while Kinsley simultaneously attacked with a dagger.

The priest raised an arm, and Brig’s cudgel glanced off his elbow with an audible crack. Our opponent’s injury must have been screaming painfully, but still he lashed out, his sword licking a shallow cut across Kinsley’s arm. Then I watched, horrified, as his blade darted for Brig. Every thought flew from my mind except the need to defend the outlaw.

I ducked beneath the oncoming blade and threw myself at our enemy’s ankles.

Chapter X

IT WASN’T A BRAVE TACTIC or well planned, but it worked. The priest rocked on his legs, I tightened my arms around his boots so he couldn’t steady himself, and he fell backward, slamming into the ground. Immediately, I heard the quick crunch of approaching footsteps signaling Brig and Kinsley moving in, and I gripped my arms more firmly around our opponent’s legs.

I heard his hand scrabbling in the dirt for his dropped blade as he grated at me, “Release me or I’ll be forced to kill you!”

I ignored his words and held fast.

“Wicked little wretch…,” he muttered.

I wasn’t in a position to see anything besides his dusty feet, but I heard the sound of his hand discovering his sword hilt. I braced myself for the blow I was certain would be forthcoming. It fell, ringing across my skull like hammer on anvil, and I saw bright lights. Stunned, I briefly lost awareness of my surroundings before consciousness came roaring back. I heard sounds of conflict around me and realized the priest had slipped out of my grasp.

Crawling dizzily to my knees, head ringing so harshly I was powerless to do more once I got there than sit in the dirt, I observed the scene unfolding before me. The outlaws stood before the priest, obviously only going through the motions of a fight they didn’t believe they could win. Kinsley’s sleeve was soaked in red, his arm hanging limp. Brig stood weaponless, as if he would clash with the swordsman bare-handed. His face spelled defeat, and my throat constricted with fear as the priest drew back his blade.

“Wait!” The unexpected shout came from Kinsley. “There’s no sense to this,” he said to the priest. “You kill us, and our lad in the tree up there will still shoot you afterward. It’ll be a short-lived victory for you.”

He indicated Kipp, crouched high in his tree.

The priest said, “Your boy would have to shoot me before I reached him, and as he has yet to do so, I suspect he lacks either the skill or the nerve. I’ll take my chances.”

Only the way he panted between words gave away his weariness.

Kinsley said, “Kill him, kill all of us, and you only seal your fate. The captain of our band is a vengeful man with a deadly reputation. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Rideon the Red Hand.”

He paused expectantly, but if he thought to find our enemy impressed, he must have been disappointed, for the priest’s expression never altered. Kinsley frowned and continued with, “Rideon won’t let you walk free to boast of besting his men for long. You might go on for a year or two thinking yourself safe, but the Hand has a long memory and a far reach. Sooner or later, the morning will come when you wake to find your throat slit and your family drowning in their blood.”

The priest appeared unconcerned. “I have no family to fear for and, as you’ve already discovered for yourselves, my throat is singularly hard to slit,” he said. “I think you attribute more power to this outlaw captain of yours than such a man could possibly possess. Still, you’ve captured my interest. Who is this ‘Red Hand’ people in these parts speak of with such dread?”

“I offer you the chance to find out,” Kinsley said. “He’d like to meet a man with your skills.”

“An interesting offer,” said the priest. “But despite a degree of morbid curiosity, I’ve no desire to sit down opposite some murderous scoundrel as if we were on peaceable terms. It is not my habit to keep company with thieves and criminals.”

Kinsley wasn’t to be defeated. “A bargain, then? Allow us to keep our lives today, and we’ll return the favor the next time you pass through our woods.”

“Now that is the sort of agreement I can appreciate,” said the priest. “But let us go a step further, shall we? You allow these good traveling companions of mine to depart in peace and in full possession of all they bear with them, and in exchange, I’ll give you your lives.”

Kinsley looked at once relieved and uncertain. “The Hand will be angry if we return empty-handed. It’s not only about the goods. We were told a certain nobleman travels in your caravan under the guise of a commoner. Rideon believes such a person would bring in a tidy ransom.”

“I have been in the company of these folk since Black Cliffs. I can assure you none of them are any person of importance, traveling under pretense. Each is as humble as he appears. As an Honored One, you know my word is beyond question.”

Kinsley hesitated, but even he knew priests didn’t lie. “Very well, I’ll tell the Hand you’ve sworn it for truth,” the outlaw said. “You and your companions are free to go as you please.”

There was no gripping of hands to seal the agreement. The priest simply turned his back on us and began helping the travelers reload their belongings. Many of them had already taken the opportunity to flee off down the road, and those who remained gathered their scattered possessions with a haste that said they were just glad to be leaving with their lives. I believed they would have abandoned their belongings right there on the road if not for the priest’s organization. I half expected some of the outlaws to break the truce and attack the priest as soon as he was off his guard, but they didn’t. Kinsley, Brig, and a handful of others who conveniently found themselves able to stand again busied themselves with checking our injured.

Brig came over to inspect my head injury, and not until I felt his hands trembling as they fingered the lump where the priest’s sword hilt had struck me did I realize how anxious he’d been for me. Awkward at his concern, I assured him I was well enough, although my head continued to throb so that I wasn’t entirely sure of the truth to my words. Brig glared daggers at the priest’s back but made no irrational move toward him, and I was thankful for that as I didn’t feel up to defending him just now.

He ordered me not to walk about until I regained my color, so I sat and concentrated on nothing but slowing the waves of dizziness pulsing over me. I was so distracted that I didn’t immediately notice when someone sank to the ground beside me.

“Mind if I join you for a moment to catch my breath?” asked the priest, as casually as if we had not been trying to kill one another mere moments before.

I eyed him warily. “Won’t your friends leave without you? They seem in a rush to be on their way.”

“I can catch up,” he said carelessly.

Out of the corner of one eye, I watched as he rested his sword across his knee and dragged a gray sleeve across his sweaty face. This was my first chance to study the man as more than a blur of motion and without the distraction of keeping out of his sword’s reach. He looked weary, covered in dust and spattered with the blood of my comrades. Beneath the grime was a strong broad face with a long jaw and a nose as straight as it was wide. I was unsurprised no previous combatants had ever been able to get past his wide sweep to mar the clean proportions of his face.

Unable to resist my curiosity, I probed at the man’s mind with a thin thread of magic. I didn’t know him well enough to form a good connection, but for just a moment I brushed against his consciousness. And then I lost the link as he started, whirling to seize me roughly by the jaw and glare piercingly into my eyes. Startled as much by the knowing in his expression as by the abrupt action, I jerked the tendril of magic into myself again. Or tried to. But suddenly, it was being wrested from my grip and flung back at me with shocking force. The jar to my senses was almost a physical one, and I gasped as if a heavy weight had slammed into me.

“Serves you right for prying where you don’t belong,” said the priest, putting a steadying hand on my shoulder, despite the harsh words. “Hold on a moment and take deep breaths until the weakness passes. Perhaps I was rougher than I intended to be.”

“I don’t understand. What did you do to me?” I asked. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“You intruded where you had no right. I scooped you up and threw you back into yourself,” he said. “Until you think you’re strong enough to out-magic me, keep your grubby little mind out of my head.”

“My mind isn’t grubby,” I said. “And I couldn’t be less interested in what goes on in yours.”

“If you say so.”

He turned his shoulder to me and appeared content to forget my presence. But his words were sinking in, and looking at him askance, I realized that for the first time in years I was in the presence of another magicker. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Not when I had so many questions. But did I trust this peculiar stranger enough to ask them?

As I debated within myself, I saw the priest’s lips quirk upward in a faint smile.

“You’re reading my thoughts,” I accused. “Surely what you said about intruding on other people’s minds goes both ways, my lord.”

He looked startled. “Why do you call me that?”

“You’re not the only one who knows things,” I said smugly. “You told Kinsley that none of your companions was a nobleman traveling in disguise, but you said nothing of yourself. You see, I’m accustomed to the cunning ways dishonest priests can twist their words. There are a thousand ways to lie without uttering an untruth. But then, I suppose you aren’t a real Honored anyway, are you? Everyone knows priests of the Light take a vow against violence. Who ever heard of one carrying a blade and not hesitating to use it?”

He smiled. “I assure you, my young friend, the priest in me is every bit as real as the warrior, and the nobleman’s blood is just another piece of the whole. I gave up my title and inheritance long ago to become one of the Blades of Justice. It’s the only priestly order permitting violence—but always for a righteous cause. I’ve now retired from that life as well, and these days I travel through the land on nothing more urgent than my whims.”

He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I hope I can trust you to keep the secret of my identity to yourself. I don’t think either of us wants to stir up more trouble with your comrades.”

I had questions, not the least of which was why he would give up a comfortable inheritance to join an order of warrior priests.

But he evaded further questions by saying, “As for your other accusation, I was not prying into your thoughts. You were throwing them at me. You must train yourself to keep your feelings guarded in the presence of those with the talent for sensing them. It’s not good, walking around, crying out your thoughts and emotions to everyone within hearing distance.”

I shrugged. “I can’t prevent myself thinking. The mind runs free as it pleases, whether given permission or not.”

He said, “There’s a discipline I could teach you, if you like. Someone should. I cannot imagine how your parents neglected such basic instruction.”

“My parents are dead,” I said stiffly. “Killed in the Praetor’s cleansings.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “The province lost many magickers during those years, but the worst of those times are over now. And the thinning of our numbers only makes it all the more imperative those of us remaining teach our younglings what they need to know to survive with their abilities.”

“My magic and I have gotten along just fine up to now,” I said. “Anyway, assuming I needed help, you’re scarcely the tutor I would choose for myself.”

“We can’t always be particular about what we learn or where. You may never receive such an offer again, and I know that would disappoint you. I can feel the thirst for knowledge burning within you. You’re just waiting to be talked into it.”

“You’re reading my mind again,” I said, drawing back.

“Your thoughts are not words to be read off a page,” he corrected. “Following emotions is a subtle thing, like catching a whisper or a scent carried on the breeze. You don’t need to see the source to be aware of the resulting effect. Anyway, think on my offer. There is much I could teach you, given a few months, if you chose to come with me.”

“That’s impossible. My entire life is in Dimmingwood. I could no more leave my friends or the forest than I could abandon a part of myself. It’s not that I don’t want to…”

“I know. But what you want more is to be him,” he said.

“Him? Him who?”

“This Red Hand everybody speaks of.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he gave me no opportunity to do so.

“Never mind,” he said. “If you should reconsider, you can find me at the Temple of Light in Selbius on the first day of Middlefest. If you miss me there, inquire among the river people for Hadrian. I am known to them.”

He left me with much to think over. Our bedraggled band returned to Red Rock, empty-handed but for the dead and injured we carried with us. At first, Rideon and the rest of the band were disinclined to believe we had suffered such damage at the hands of a lone swordsman dressed in priest’s robes. But no one could deny the proof of the corpses we buried that day. Another wounded man died before the day was out.

These losses only furthered my confusion. I didn’t know what to make of Hadrian’s offer. The knowledge he promised filled me with a frightening excitement even as I wondered if it would be traitorous to seek out the company of a man who had slaughtered my fellows. I trailed Javen the rest of the day, helping him care for the wounded, but my mind was scarcely on the task.

As I worked, I heard a lot of talk about the gray-clad priest, some of it angry, some reluctantly admiring. All the while I bathed bloody cuts and held slashed sections of skin together for Javen to stitch up, I kept thinking of new questions to ask Hadrian if we met again.

Chapter XI

DURING THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, TRAVELERS and traders flocked to Selbius from the surrounding countryside, intent on arriving early before the Middlefest celebrations. Those who passed through Dimming left the shadowed wood significantly poorer than they had entered it.

There was a constant flow of comings and goings about both our camps during that time. To my disappointment, I was largely left out of the activity. Brig’s fears, seemingly confirmed by my mishap with the priest, had again become a deterrent. I was also kept busy with the menial tasks around camp the others no longer had time for. That I couldn’t blame on Brig, although I was certain if there was a way he could have increased my workload to keep me at Red Rock more, he would have.

These were my thoughts one afternoon in midspring as I stalked through the cool forest shadows with Terrac. I led us here in hopes of hunting down one of the sly hedge rabbits that loved to nibble among the thickets of hopeberries. Our band had feasted on thin potato porridge for three consecutive days, and I meant to have meat for supper tonight of it took me all day to hunt it down.

Terrac, unfortunately, didn’t share my determination. He crashed carelessly through the bushes, heedless of the noise he made as he collected bright berries to be later mashed into inks for his scribbling. Whatever game was in the area was probably fleeing his noise even now, but I stifled my rising irritation. No point in taking my frustrations out on him.

“I don’t think there’s any game here, Terrac,” I said. “I’m going to try over near Dancing Creek, all right? Maybe you should wait for me here. Just keep on with what you’re doing.”

In place of response, Terrac gave a startled cry. He had moved on ahead of me, and a high wall of brambles concealed him from my view.

“Terrac? What is it?” I asked.

No answer.

I moved after him, concerned he might have stepped on a venomous snake or happened upon an angry bear. Dragging my hunting knife free of my belt in case I was called on to defend us, I charged into the bramble bush, ignoring the sharp thorns snagging at my skin and clothes as I wrestled my way through to Terrac.

He was on his knees bent over the form of an unconscious man lying in a shallow pool of blood. The stranger lay with his belly to the earth, the toes of his boots pushed into the dirt, his hands formed into claws, gripping tightly at a clump of weeds as though he had tried to drag himself farther before surrendering to his weakness. I dropped to one knee at his side, and together Terrac and I turned him over.

His face was so battered and covered in blood that it took me a moment to note the distinctive scar lining his brow to the hairline and a narrow shock of white hair growing in that spot. It was this which helped me identify him as Garad from Molehill, one of our men. I didn’t know him well, for he hadn’t been up to Red Rock much, but I vaguely remembered him as a quiet man who used to chat with Brig.

“He lives,” Terrac told me quietly.

Pressing my ear over the man’s heart, I listened to the faint, uneven rhythm. As we watched, his eyelids suddenly flew open and he glared around him wildly.

“Garad, it’s all right.” I hastened to soothe him. “We’re no enemies. You know us.”

He fastened his gaze on me, and I thought there was confused recognition in his eyes before a convulsion of pain distorted his features.

Unthinkingly, I summoned my magic and directed it toward the suffering man, attempting to convey a sense of calm or comfort to his mind. Friends were here. There was no fear, no pain. I knew it was hopeless the moment I touched him. I could feel his life flickering like a guttering candle between existence and oblivion, and I didn’t think my calming suggestions were reaching him. He was too deeply steeped in his suffering. Still, I felt his reason fighting determinedly to the forefront.

He drew a ragged breath, and I expected him to scream out his pain, but he didn’t. Somehow he held the torment back enough to grate out his message. “Fists…t…tell the Hand it was Resid and the Fists. T…tried to fight back, but they knew we were coming. Warn… the others…”

I left Terrac to memorize the message because I could listen with only half my mind. Most of my attention focused on the inward struggle to find and unravel the threads of Garad’s pain, and it wasn’t working. His emotions were tangled and confused, and I couldn’t insinuate my thoughts into them. I tried another tactic, tracing the pain to its source and wrapping my mind around it. I couldn’t smother the force, but I could hold the worst of it back from his consciousness.

It was then the pain slammed into me. I was stunned as I took its strength into myself. Consumed by the agony that was now mine, I toppled backward to the ground. I gritted my teeth and arched my back.

“Ilan! Ilan, what is it?” I heard Terrac shout, but his voice filtered to me from a great distance, and I couldn’t concentrate enough to form an answer. There was too much pain to leave space for anything else.

“Get help!” I grated.

Terrac looked desperate. “I can’t! I don’t know my way back to camp without you!”

I was scarcely aware of his words because I was blacking out. The instant my consciousness began to slip, I lost my hold on the pain. The agony flowed from me as if a dam had burst and reverted to its natural course, pouring back into the prone figure beside me. Garad cried out as it coursed through his body again, but selfish relief washed over me. I was terribly weakened, and I sucked in air as if I couldn’t get enough of it, every fiber of me acutely aware of how wonderful it was to be free of the pain.

I grasped Terrac’s wrist to stop his hopeless yelling for help. “Be quiet and help me up,” I said wearily.

He looked confused. “You’re all right now? But what happened to you?”

“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Just help me sit up.”

He assisted me, and in a moment I was sitting upright. Beside us, the injured outlaw screamed again. I had no time to collect my strength as, staggered by weakness, I drew myself to my feet.

“What are you doing?” Terrac asked, steadying me.

“One of us has to fetch help. You don’t know the way, so that leaves me.”

“Do you think you can get there without collapsing?”

“Of course,” I lied. “I have no choice.”

“Then bring Javen. And Rideon. This man’s just holding on long enough to get his message to the Hand.”

“I’ll be quick,” I promised. I’d run myself to death if I had to.

Dredging up what energy I could, I pushed my way back toward Red Rock as speedily as my weak legs would carry me. Terrac, I quickly realized, could have run circles around me just now. But of course, his circles wouldn’t have been in the right direction.

I dragged myself onward until I reached camp. There I discovered Javen wasn’t to be found, and I could waste no time looking for him. As soon as I could gather breath, I explained the situation to a handful of the outlaws. Someone hunted down Rideon, and we left the camp with a dozen or so of the band following my lead.

Garad was dead when we arrived. Terrac had drawn his eyes closed, but it did little to lend him an appearance of peace. His face was distorted in a snarl of agony, his mouth open in a frozen cry, and I felt a selfish sense of relief I had been too far away to witness the end.

Rideon dropped to a knee at the dead man’s side, asking Terrac, “Did he say anything more of what befell him?”

Expression drawn, Terrac glanced toward me and said, “His pain was too great to say much. He ranted through his screams, but I couldn’t make sense of most of it. He and several others were on an errand near Tinker’s Path when they were attacked, ambushed by a troop of Fists who knew enough to be sure where to lie in wait. An outlaw of yours, one called Resid, betrayed them. There were no other survivors.”

“I know that location.” One of our men spoke up. “Heard some of them earlier planning a trip to the traveler’s way huts. If you pop in there quick enough, you can scrounge around for supplies the travelers have left behind for the next folk what stops by.”

“Why did I never hear of these intentions?” Rideon demanded.

The outlaw scratched his shaggy beard. “I, uh, couldn’t say, Hand. I didn’t think it was nothing worth mentioning, and I guess the others didn’t either. Anyway, I wasn’t in on the discussion myself. All I know is Mabias, Brig, and Spearneck were going together with a handful of others. I guess Garad and Resid from Molehill were among them.”

My stomach lurched at the mention of Brig. Surely he was mistaken—Brig couldn’t have been among those slaughtered. The possibility was too shattering too accept. I struggled after a shred of hope, anything to hold onto. None escaped according to Garad, I reminded myself, but hadn’t Garad been in such pain that even Terrac admitted half his words were senseless rantings? One other might still have survived—must have survived—I decided desperately. Brig was not a man to die easily.

Rideon carried on with his thoughts, apparently unconcerned with the fates of his men. “Resid,” he mused, “was a new member. What does he know? Everything?”

Kinsley stepped nearer. “He’s scarcely left Molehill, Hand. Never been to Red Rock and shouldn’t even know where it is. I keep the new ones in the dark until they’ve proven themselves trustworthy. The other men know that’s my rule and are usually pretty close-mouthed around new recruits.”

“All except a select few who invited him into their secret plans,” Rideon snapped. “How many others has he wheedled confidences from, sidling his way into their trust until they volunteered more information than they should?”

Kinsley said, “This is my fault for failing to search the new members carefully enough. I let a spy slip in among us.”

“You did,” Rideon agreed. “But there’ll be time for whining about your carelessness later. We’ve more immediate problems to hand. We’ve got to evacuate Molehill if it isn’t too late. Red Rock too. I’ll take no chances on what Resid may or may not have discovered. We have to operate under the assumption the Fists and their spy now know as much about us as we do ourselves. There’s no saying how much time we have, so we must act quickly.”

He spun on Terrac. “When did this ambush occur?”

Terrac shrugged. “Garad didn’t say, but I imagine it must have taken a man in his condition a while to cover so much distance.”

Rideon said, “Then let us waste no time. It appears we have little enough of it. Kinsley and the rest of you, come with me. Except you, Cadon. I want you to run up to Molehill as quickly as you can run. Spread the word to evacuate to the part of the forest where the trees don’t green. We’ll meet up and form our plans there.”

I interrupted with the question no one else seemed concerned about. “But what of our missing men? What of Brig?”

Rideon continued giving out instructions as if I hadn’t spoken. Only Terrac looked at me with sympathy. “I think it’s too late for them, Ilan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said firmly. “Brig lives.” I refused to consider the alternative.

Terrac frowned. “Garad was dying. It’s unlikely he would have dared lie to a priest, even if he had some unfathomable cause to.”

I scarcely heard him. I was thinking that if I never saw Brig again, I’d never have the chance to mend our damaged friendship. All I wanted was a chance to explain myself to him, to return things to the way they once were between us. Suddenly, every sly act of disrespect, every insult I’d ever tossed at him, was a bitter memory to me, like a blade twisted deep in my gut. It would haunt me forever if I didn’t get the chance to take it all back.

Rideon had finished issuing orders, and the others were dispersing to carry out his commands when I intercepted him, seizing the front of his jerkin and thrusting my face into his.

I said, “What are you going to do for Brig and the rest? You cannot mean to leave them to their fates.”

My captain looked down on me coldly. “Didn’t you hear the priest boy say they were dead? They’re beyond our aid. Now out of my way, hound. There’s important work to be carried out and little time in which to accomplish it.”

“But maybe they weren’t all killed. We have only Garad’s word on that! I won’t believe anything happened to Brig until I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Rideon shook me off impatiently. “Then you’re doomed to a lifetime of wondering. We’ve more immediate problems to occupy ourselves with than worrying about what happened to Brig. Like getting all our people out of Red Rock and Molehill before they meet the same fate as Garad here. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but I forbid you or anyone else to go running off after a corpse. We’ve the living to defend, so let’s move on and do what we can for those who aren’t beyond saving.”

I wouldn’t listen. “I’m telling you, I can bring Brig back. I can and I will!”

“And where do you expect to find him?” Rideon asked. “Do you think the Praetor’s men just leave the bodies of outlaws lying out on the roads for carrion? Do you never pay attention to anything that happens around you? No, the Fists bring their victims, alive or dead, to Selbius, where the crowds may witness the Praetor’s justice. Brig’s remains will be displayed on the city walls or hung up in the market square alongside the rotting bones of anyone else who has ever dared to flout the Praetor’s rule.”

I stood stupidly, factoring this new information into my plans as he shoved past. I was scarcely aware of his leaving. What he said changed nothing. I needed to see for myself whether Brig was truly dead. And even if he were… I couldn’t allow his corpse to be dishonored in the way Rideon described. One way or another, I must save him, and next to this, Rideon’s orders meant little.

I said, “Terrac, how far to Selbius from the way huts on Tinker’s Path?”

Terrac must have been following my thinking, for he looked uneasy. “You know these woods better than I do.”

I said, “I think it’s about a half day as the raven flies, but it’ll take longer for them.” There was no question as to who “they” were. “They’ll follow the road, and that’ll cost them time. There’d be no taking their horses straight through Heeflin’s Bog. And if I know Brig and the rest, I suspect the Fists will also have injured men of their own, which will slow them down further. But they’ve a good head start on us, so we’ve no time to waste. Come on, I’ll need your help.”

“No.”

The priest boy’s refusal drew me to a halt before I had gone three steps. I wasn’t much surprised by his response and had my argument prepared.

“Brig saved your life when you came here, nursed you back to health as much as I did,” I reminded him. “You can leave him to his fate now? Is that the kind of honor your old priests taught you?”

Terrac shook his head. “I know what you have in mind, Ilan. But there’s only the two of us against an unknown number of them. As a man of the robe, I cannot fight, even to save my life, so I’d be useless to you. I’m sorry for you and for Brig, truly, but Rideon has given his orders, and for once I am in agreement with him.”

I was furious but could waste no more time attempting to argue him out of his cowardice. “I see. Well then, may your friends ever be as faithful to you.”

I turned my back on him and set off into the underbrush without another look. I sensed I had shamed him and he was undergoing some internal struggle, so it was no surprise when, after a short pause, he came running after me.

We kept silent as we strode together through the thick trees. I set a brisk pace, and neither of us could afford to waste breath speaking. Every instinct within me screamed at me to run, to hasten to Brig’s side as quickly as my legs could speed me, but I restrained myself. We had a long distance to cover, and there was no sense in spending all our strength this early.

Chapter XII

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN WE came upon the traveler’s way huts along the Tinker Path. It was easy to see the evidence of what happened in this place. The ground around the buildings was blood-soaked and churned with the prints of men and horses alike. There must have been a dozen or more Fists here, but I didn’t share that fact with Terrac. His resolve was weak enough.

Behind the way huts we found our men, or what was left of them. I saw Mabias, Spearneck, and a couple others I didn’t know as well. The Fists hadn’t troubled themselves with carrying the whole remains back to Selbius, but every corpse had been beheaded, the decapitated bodies left where they fell. I identified the dead mostly by clothing or distinctive markings on their bodies. Of the traitor, Resid, there was no sign, and I could only assume he had ridden away with the Fists.

Resid was not the only man missing. My heart climbed back out of my throat as I realized Brig was not among the dead. I searched the sheds and the surrounding area, thinking he might have crawled, injured, a short distance, but all I found was his bone-handled hunting knife lying behind one of the sheds. My search here done, I slipped the knife into my belt and hurried a protesting Terrac off the road.

Much as I regretted the necessity, we had to leave the rest of our men where they lay. There wasn’t time to deal with any kind of burial. I still had no way of knowing whether it was a live prisoner or a cold corpse I was chasing after, but as long as there was any hope for Brig, I couldn’t give up. We pushed on through the wood, making for the shortcut through Heeflin’s Bog. I had to catch the Fists before Selbius. Once Brig was within the city walls, there would be little chance of getting him back.

We were weary and wet to the waist from our trudge through the bog when we came again onto the path the Fists took to Selbius. I was as dejected as I was exhausted for I knew too much time had been wasted in the crossing of the marsh and I feared we couldn’t hope to catch our quarry, let alone cut them off before they reached this point. But I wouldn’t admit this to Terrac, nor would I give in to his continual requests to turn back. We pushed on, following in the tracks of the company that had already passed this way.

It was past sundown when we approached a cluster of buildings looming ahead out of the darkness. We were still within Dimming’s borders, but only just, and I recognized the ramshackle buildings set a little aside from the road as one of the abandoned woods-folk farms. Thunder rumbled overhead, and a few cold sprinkles began to fall as the holding came into view.

The last of the Fist’s tracks were being washed from the road but not before I saw their horses had turned off the way, veering into the direction of the abandoned hold buildings. I caught the dim glow of light filtering out the shuttered windows of the hold house and felt a surge of hope. If the Fists had stopped here to take shelter from the storm…

Terrac was less pleased than I to have caught up to our enemies, but I wouldn’t hear his warnings. I struck off for the hold buildings, and he reluctantly followed. I shushed his protests as we neared, and we made several careful, silent circuits around the property, wary of sentries. When I was satisfied our enemies were oblivious to our approach, we crept closer. The rain and the dark were our allies, shielding us from unfriendly eyes.

We moved in as near as we dared, then dropped to our bellies in a little stand of weeds on a gentle rise overlooking the hold house. My heart was beating fast, and I expected discovery at any moment. Terrac parted the grasses and peered ahead. Seconds passed before I felt him stiffen beside me.

He said, “There’s a man circling the outer sheds. He doesn’t stop to look around, just keeps his head down and moves with purpose. Nothing else stirs.”

“Is he one of the Praetor’s men?” I whispered.

“Now how can I know that?”

I craned my neck, but Terrac was slightly ahead of me and I couldn’t see past him without the commotion of rearranging myself.

I said, “Does he look like a fighting man? Is he armed? Outfitted in the Praetor’s colors? A Fist would have a bear’s head worked into his breastplate.”

“At this distance do you think I can see a breastplate, let alone a bear’s head on it? It’s too dark even to make out his colors. Besides, he’s gone now, disappeared into the barn.”

I sighed and risked repositioning myself for a clearer view. My movements made the tall grass rustle, and I hoped no one was near enough to notice. I now had a good look at the hold house and its dilapidated outbuildings. I could see no movement below. No men, no sign of horses. The only evidence anyone was down there at all was Terrac’s claim to have seen someone—that and the spill of light issuing from the open doorway and windows.

I located the barn, an old leaning structure beyond the house. I waited and was at length rewarded when a lone figure wandered out its doors. I couldn’t make out any particulars about him. I followed his progress as he ducked his head against the falling rain and hastened to the dry shelter of the hold house. Not a sentry, then, just a man checking on his horse. For a moment he was outlined in the doorway as he stepped into the house, and I caught the glint of light falling across the steel at his hip and a quick glimpse of black leather over scarlet.

“A Praetor’s man, all right,” I whispered to Terrac. “There must be more of them inside the house or in the outbuildings.”

A plan began to take shape in my head as I scanned the shadowy rooftops.

“And how are we to discover whether Brig is with them?” Terrac asked.

I pushed aside my qualms. I would do whatever I must to get Brig back, and if that meant using Terrac as unwitting bait, so be it.

I said, “I see no sign of a watch, meaning either they haven’t set any or their sentries are too well hidden to be seen. The first, I think, for I’ve pretty good night vision and I can’t make out anyone hiding in the shadows.” I tried to sound confident because I didn’t want him turning tail right when I had use for him. “But we won’t risk everything on that supposition. We’ll go down just as if there were lookouts.”

Here was where I must slip in the crucial point and pray I could convince him of it. “You’ll go first,” I said. “One is less conspicuous than two. Slip down to the house and try to get close enough for a look in the windows. Don’t come back until you can tell me how many Fists there are and if Brig is among them. I think it would be best if I wait here for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Terrac said, frowning. “How is it I’m the one handling the dangerous part when this was your idea in the first place?”

How, indeed? I scrambled for a plausible excuse. “Because you’re the quicker of us and have the best chance of slipping back and forth unseen.”

His expression showed he wasn’t buying that horse, so I struck out with a better lie. “And because I’m, um, afraid.”

“Afraid?” The mingled surprise and disbelief in his voice made me wish I had thought of something better.

I hurried to elaborate. “I mean, I’m afraid for Brig. You know how close we were, and you’ve seen what the Fists do to their enemies. I’m afraid of what we could find down there and of how I’ll react. I might go mad and do something foolish to get us captured or killed.”

I inwardly blessed his gullibility as I saw the disbelief fade from his face. He nodded and said, “I suppose there is sense in what you say. Maybe it would be for the best if I’m the one to go. I’ll bring the news back to you, whether good or bad.”

Suffering an unexpected stab of remorse, I caught his arm as he started to turn away. I opened my mouth to confess, but what came out instead was, “You’re a good would-be priest, Terrac. An honest man. You can tell that to anyone.”

I couldn’t be sure if he detected the instruction behind my words, but he seemed to catch the seriousness of my tone. “I don’t know how good I am, but I think any friend would do as much. Now I’d best do this thing quickly if I’m going to do it at all.”

A part of me felt relief that he hadn’t understood. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Thank you, Terrac.”

He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and then he was away. I kept my head low, watching his awkward progress as he moved off. Slithering down the hillock on his stomach and scrambling to his feet at the bottom, he ran doubled over in the direction of the hold house in the clumsiest stealth approach I’d ever seen.

I returned my gaze to the sentry I had previously observed lurking beneath the shadowed eaves of the house. I could only hope he would take my friend in for questioning, rather than killing him on the spot, but there was little I could do to ensure that, and my conscience smote me. Terrac was my friend, and here I was betraying him for my own schemes. But when I thought of Brig, my guilt was instantly silenced. For me, Brig came ahead of any other, and this was the only way I could think to keep the Fists busy while I searched for him.

From here on out, speed was important. I slithered quickly through the grass until I made it down the brow of the hill and then kept low to the earth as I circled to the back of the hold yard. The looming shadow of the barn was my goal because, if Brig was dead, I imagined the Fists would have stowed his corpse in just such a place. I had to cancel out that horrible possibility before I could lay any rescue plans. I reached the barn without being seen and kept to the shadows, creeping around to the front entrance. The door was rotten and protested softly when I tried it so that I hesitated to test it further.

Abruptly, a strangled cry rang out across the yard. Although I’d been expecting it, I started anyway. The shout was immediately followed by sounds of a struggle, and I dropped flat to the ground, training my gaze on the house. I made out two dark silhouettes scuffling in the shadows. The smaller of the two was actually giving a fair account of himself, but inevitably, his larger opponent soon drew something from his belt, possibly a knife. I was too far away to be certain. He hooked his arm around Terrac from behind, pressed the object against the boy’s throat and Terrac immediately stiffened and fell still. I held my breath, praying he would have the sense to heed the Fist’s orders. Apparently he did, and I watched as he cooperatively allowed the knife man to drag him backwards toward the entrance of the house.

I wasn’t the only one to hear the struggle. A handful of Fists came rushing to fill the open doorway of the house. Apparently caught sleeping, no one had taken the time to throw clothing on, and they stood in various stages of undress, many of them barefoot, but all with swords in hand. A few stepped out to help their comrade with his captive while others cast wary gazes out into the wet night, probably wondering whether they could expect more intruders to descend at any moment.

Everything was in Terrac’s hands now. I could only hope whatever he told our enemies would dissuade them from searching the yard for his companions. I couldn’t afford to linger any longer and used my enemies’ brief distraction to try the barn door again. I winced at its muffled groan but didn’t hesitate this time, slipping through the doorway and into the building. The blackness within was even deeper than that outside, and I stood, disoriented, just inside the door. I allowed my eyes time to adjust to the dimness before beginning a swift search of the interior from top to bottom.

It was as I was giving up a hasty exploration of the hayloft that I made a peculiar discovery. My foot scuffed against something hidden beneath the thin layer of moldy straw on the floor and hurried though I was, instinct made me kneel to uncover the object. Certainly I had no time for distractions, but the thing had an odd shape, and for a moment curiosity took over so that I quickly dusted aside the straw to pick it up. In the darkness it was difficult to discern what it was, and I nearly cast it aside as a crooked bit of wood with a string tied to it. Then, recognizing its feel, I took a closer look and realized I was holding a bow.

Chapter XIII

THIS SEEMS AN UNLIKELY PLACE to find such a weapon, I thought, turning it around in my hands and noting how light and sturdy it felt. From the little I knew of bows, I judged this to be a good one. In the darkness, my fingers traced a line of carvings spiraling down the wooden arms. I’d never heard of anyone putting such detailed effort into the making of a bow, and I thought I would like to see it in better lighting.

I had no sooner had the thought than the weapon warmed beneath my touch and glowed with a faint orangey light. What evil magic was this? Startled, I threw the weapon away from me, and it sailed over the edge of the loft. After a moment’s hesitation, I worked up the courage to clamber down the rope ladder after it and found it lying in a pile of straw.

When I dared to reach out and tentatively take the bow into my hands again, I was relieved to find it cold once more. The glow was gone too. Had I only imagined it before? Yes, that must be it. Impulsively I slung the bow over my shoulder and returned to my search.

I made a hasty exploration of the rest of the interior, disturbing the Fist’s horses as I went so that they began whickering loudly and shifting in their stalls. Fearful lest anyone come to investigate the noise, I abandoned the barn and moved on to the outbuildings. I crept from one building to the next, heart sinking as I failed to find Brig locked away in any of them. I told myself this was a hopeful sign. If he wasn’t out here, he must be under guard in the house, and that at least meant he was alive. What was happening inside the hold house now? What were they doing to Terrac, and what was he telling them? I quickened my search.

The next shed I poked my head into was a privy, and the one after that appeared to be a place for storing herbs. Dark shapes hung from the ceiling, and it took me a moment to realize they were bunches of dried plants suspended upside down. The pungent scents of thickleaf and ravenspoison were heavy in the air. There was a low worktable scattered with cracked earthenware pottery and the rotting remnants of more clusters of weeds and leaves.

The shed held the bitter smell of decay, and I lingered only long enough to determine Brig wasn’t there. Backing out of the building, I pulled the door to and, turning away, stumbled over something. A stick of wood? No, it was a man’s outstretched arm. In the shadows I could barely make out his still form lying in a heap against the side of the shed. His shaven head was tilted at a side angle, his bearded face half buried in the dirt. Large crimson blotches darkened the back of his tunic. My stomach clenched, and with a strangled cry I dropped to my knees and flipped the body over.

I knew Brig was dead even as I felt for a heartbeat. Always before, when he was near, I could sense the life burning within him. But now I felt nothing from him, not even the barest tendril of warmth. He had been dead a while, and mingled grief and fury coursed through me as I saw evidence of torture. Despite what I felt, I couldn’t seem to shed tears. My throat hurt, but my eyes were drier than sand. I bent over him, gathering his still form in my arms as best I was able. He had always been a heavy man, and in death his body had grown rigid, resisting my efforts. I huddled over his form, cradling it protectively as he had sheltered me when I was small. My teeth were clenched so hard my jaw ached, and I welcomed the pain, wishing for more.

I sat there for an age, drowning in grief and anger and forgetting all sense of time or purpose. Eventually I became aware of the weight of my new bow slung across my back, and strangely this brought me back to myself. I remembered I had a task before me, and my heart hardened with resolve. I remembered how Rideon said they would display Brig’s remains as a gruesome spectacle in Selbius. I thought of the sons Brig rarely spoke of, probably young men by now, and wondered what was the likelihood they would ever visit the city, see their father strung up in that way, and know him? I thought of Netta, who had left him for his thieving ways, and wondered whether she would be pleased or sorry to see him come to such an end. Whatever she felt, I knew Brig would have hated her to see him so.

I shook the thought from my mind. If I wanted to spare my old friend that fate, I needed to keep my head clear. It was past time I took all of us away from this place—Terrac too, if I could manage it. The plan I formed was not a clear one and certainly not brilliant, but it was all that came to me just then. I had no time to dwell on the particulars or the many possible failings.

I forced myself to abandon Brig’s lifeless body and ducked back into the herb shed where I collected all the crushed ravenspoison I could find. It was dark, and I had to identify the vials of dried herbs by smell rather than sight. I mentally thanked Javen for teaching me all he knew of herbal concoctions and remedies. I worked quickly, stuffing my pockets full of vials, mindful my presence could be discovered at any moment. Then I hurried back to the barn, moving stealthily along the edges of the yard. I managed not to attract the attention of the sentries, if there were still any around, and slipped back into the relative safety of the shadowed building where I emptied the vials entirely into the drinking water of the Fist’s horses. I spared only one mount, a strong-looking gray I had need of.

I also found the Fists’ waterskins hung up alongside the riding gear, and I tipped a little herbal powder into these as well. I had no real expectation of anyone drinking enough to do them harm, since the taste should quickly warn the drinker against further sampling. Still, I thought it worth a try. Several of the horses were dipping their noses into their water buckets even as I left. I felt bad about the animals but reminded myself ravenspoison wasn’t fatal, only sickening enough to put a man—or a horse—off his feet for a day or two.

Outside I found a battered old onion cart. Its sides were rotten, but the bed and wheels might be sturdy enough for my purpose. I slipped back into the barn for horse and harness, which I brought out by way of a narrow back door I discovered in my earlier search. Even with the use of this concealed exit, I couldn’t imagine how my movements had thus far failed to capture my enemies’ attention. I could only be grateful for whatever Terrac was doing in there to keep them occupied. If only he could buy me a few more minutes... I longed for something to happen, anything, to keep all eyes away from me a little longer.

A shout went up in the distance. “Fire!”

That would do. I didn’t have time to wonder who raised the cry or what sparked it. I could only be grateful for the sudden commotion that erupted as other shouts joined the first, followed by the echoing bang of the farmhouse door being flung open and the thundering of many feet pounding outdoors.

I led the horse forward and the rickety cart followed, wheels creaking and wobbling as if it would collapse into pieces at any moment. We kept to the outer ring of the holding, immersing ourselves among the deepest shadows. I could see the hold house now, one wall burning and greedy tongues of flame licking up to the wood-shingled roof. Fists poured out windows and doorways, scrambling to remove themselves and their gear from the path of the flames. The lightly falling rain did little to dampen the blaze, and the winds of the storm spread the flames all the swifter.

A new shout rose up in the distance. “This is the boy’s work! Find him and bring him back!”

No one paid heed to the order.

I almost smiled to myself. It appeared Terrac was a little cleverer than I’d thought him. I only hoped he had the sense to put this place behind him. When I reached the shed, I left my cart in the shadows. Stooping over Brig’s motionless form, I took hold of his shoulders and attempted to lift him from the ground. He was heavier than I expected, and I grunted with the effort. I realized my back suddenly felt strangely warm. Was that the bow again, radiating heat through my tunic? I hesitated in confusion.

The sound of a footfall behind me was all the warning I had. I dropped my burden and leapt to one side, dodging none too soon as a thick cudgel descended where my head had been mere seconds before. Rolling to my feet, I slid my knives from their wrist sheaths… and became vividly aware of a powerful stirring at the back of my consciousness. An unfamiliar, inner voice seemed to be hissing instructions at me, only I couldn’t make out the words. Startled, I nearly froze in my confusion, but hesitating at this moment would mean death. I shoved the distracting voice aside and dove for my attacker with the single thought of silencing him before he alerted others. He clearly hadn’t anticipated I would choose to attack him directly, and I could have caught him with a blade squarely in the chest then. But I stayed my hand at the last possible second. This enemy had a familiar face. Not a foe, but one of ours. Resid.

I hesitated, and the outlaw seized the opportunity to launch another blow at my midsection. He hadn’t put his full strength behind it, but when his cudgel connected with my ribs, the force still knocked the breath from me and sent me reeling backward to slam into the wall of the shed behind me. Pain raged like fire up my injured side as my adversary lifted his club for another swing, this one aimed at my head. Again, the whispered commands hissed through my mind, and I could almost make them out this time. I dodged Resid’s swing, felt the wind from it whistle past my ear, and staggered sideways, the pain in my ribs slowing my movements. I tripped over Brig’s sprawled form and reeled backward, attempting to keep my legs under me, knowing if I allowed myself to meet the ground, the fight was over. I would be finished as surely as Brig was. Brig, who had been sold out by a comrade, a man he believed he could trust.

The angry thought sent a surge of strength through me. I regained my balance and lashed out with one booted foot, catching Resid in the belly. My enemy doubled over, and I dodged in to swipe my twin knives at him. I aimed for his throat, but he turned his head at the last instant and I dealt him, instead, a shallow slash across one cheek and a deeper stroke into the side of the neck, inadvertently finding an artery. A dark fountain of blood spewed outward.

An approving murmur seemed to come from somewhere in my head. Was it my magic speaking to me? That had never happened before, but I had no time to puzzle over it. Resid, stunned and weakened, stumbled toward me still. He moved awkwardly, and I had no difficulty ducking beneath his next onslaught and slashing across the wrist with which he held his cudgel. The weapon fell from his fingers, and I moved easily in to open his throat with my blades. My enemy collapsed at my feet, and I felt no pity. He should never have turned on Rideon. Or at least, he should not have killed Brig in the bargain.

Looking down on Brig, a wave of misery washed over me, and in this sudden bleakness, my original plan felt useless. But I had gone too far to turn back now. I pushed aside my weariness and the throbbing pain in my ribs and knelt again to haul at Brig’s shoulders. I wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the burning in my side, but the dead man now felt like a load of bricks, and for all my efforts, I couldn’t have dragged him to the cart if the simple act could have restored his life. Giving up, I sat and leaned my weary back against the rough wall of the shed and rested my head in my hands, scarcely aware of the tears slicking my cheeks.

That was how Terrac found me. Unconsciously, I sensed his approach even before I felt his hands gripping me firmly by the shoulders and raising me to my feet. I didn’t bother to resist.

“You can’t sit here crying,” he said. “The fire has spread to the barn, and the Fists are distracted. If we’re ever going to escape, this is our chance. Get up.”

Ordinarily, I would have been angry at his ordering me around, but I was empty of any emotion now except pain. What did anything matter anymore, when things could never be right again?

I didn’t realize I was sobbing until Terrac snapped, “Be quiet. There’ll be time for grieving later. But for now you have to do what I tell you or we’ll never get out of this alive.”

I obeyed and stopped my bawling, only because it felt like too much trouble to argue. I allowed him to lead me to the onion cart, where he told me to stand at the horse’s head and keep hold of the bridle.

“Don’t move until I return,” he ordered and he left me there. He disappeared around the shed and returned a few minutes later, dragging Brig’s lifeless body along behind him. I kept my eyes forward but listened to the muffled grunts and sounds of him struggling to lift the heavy corpse into the back of the cart. He didn’t ask for my help, which was good because I didn’t know that I was in a condition to give any. Lost inside my own wretched world, nothing of what occurred in this one seemed of any significance.

There was a heavy thud as Terrac achieved his goal, and then he was beside me again, snatching the horse’s halter and leading the animal forward. I shuffled alongside the cart because I knew he would prod me if I didn’t, and we moved away from the hold yard with its crackling blaze and out into the night. Terrac never tried urging the horse to speed but gently coaxed the nervous animal every step of the way. We moved with nothing like stealth as we lurched along with our creaking, rickety cart, and in a different time, I would have been amused by our pathetic retreat.

But despite our clumsy flight, no enemy shouted or came running in pursuit as we put distance behind us. Terrac kept us well away from the road, and we slogged our way along over uneven, rocky terrain. I decided my throbbing ribs weren’t broken as I’d first supposed, but walking was still little short of agony. It was only sheer willpower pushing me forward and that will was more Terrac’s than mine.

The rain made our journey doubly miserable, and even when it abated, it left behind a deep clingy mud, making walking difficult. Twice the wheels of our cart sunk into the mud, and it took both of us pushing to break free again. Slowly I came back to myself a little. After the second halt to free the cart from a mud sink, I broke the long silence between us.

“So how did you escape?” I asked the question because it seemed I should, not because I truly cared to know. “The last I saw of you, you were being dragged into the house by a handful of Fists. I didn’t think you’d get free of them alive.”

“I’m glad to know you considered that when you sent me in,” Terrac said coldly. “It took me some time to realize this was how you planned things all along. That you fed me to the wolves intentionally.”

“I didn’t do it for myself, if that makes any difference to you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It wasn’t personal, Terrac. It was for Brig. I had to give you up.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Don’t think I didn’t see your reasoning or feel its implications. You put Brig’s rescue ahead of the safety of the ‘cowardly boy priest’ because you believed his wellbeing was the more important of the two. His is the life of value.”

“Was,” I interjected miserably, but he appeared not to hear me.

“I thought we were friends, Ilan, but I should have known better than to trust someone like you.”

“Yes, maybe you should have,” I snapped. “Maybe this friendship should never have begun. What common ground could there be between a worthless woods thief and a high-minded priest-in-training? Does it occur to you for a moment that if you had been different, I might have put your life first? But it’s difficult to care about someone who doesn’t stand up for himself or anyone else, who never shows a sliver of courage or confidence when you need it.”

I sensed I hurt him, even if he didn’t show it. A long silence stretched, and when he spoke again, his voice was emotionless. “I bumped a log from the fireplace when no one was watching and caught the floor rushes afire. They were so dry they went up like kindling, and I slipped out during the confusion.”

It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. “And what did you tell them, that they allowed you to sit unwatched and unbound?”

“Exactly what you told me to say, that I was a good priest and an honest man. Your words came back to me when they questioned me, as I suppose you intended them to. I invented a story of how I was traveling late along the road when the storm blew up and upon seeing the light in the window of the hold house, decided to stop and beg shelter for the evening. I approached stealthily at first because the place had an abandoned look and I feared I would stumble upon thieves or other dangerous folk trespassing.”

He shrugged and added, “The Fists said I had too ‘soft’ a look about me to be a cutthroat, and besides, I had the mark of the church to lend credence to my story.”

He indicated the pale scar of the priesthood branded on the inside of his forearm.

“So they decided I was harmless,” he said. “I was permitted to share their fire and what food they had, which was decent of them. They didn’t seem like bad men.”

“Oh no, not bad men at all,” I said sarcastically. “They’ll sit down to share a bit of bread with a stranger, and they’ve got pretty shiny armor and better polished manners. But what they did to Brig, oh, that was purely incidental.”

He frowned. “I’m not saying they were right in the way they treated him, but let us remember Brig was an outlaw and well aware of the penalties he would face—”

“Penalties?” I broke in, unable to contain my anger. “Penalties! Did you see what they did to him? Stop the cart! Walk back there and take a look.”

“I didn’t mean—” he tried to speak, but I wouldn’t be soothed.

“I said take a look! I want you to see, to know what your ‘decent’ heroes did to him.”

I could feel the tendons standing out on my neck and the hot blood rushing to my face, but I didn’t care. I suddenly realized I needed to smash something. Anything. Terrac’s face would do.

But he didn’t give me an excuse. Drawing a deep breath as if to steady his emotions, he said, “I think we’d best speak no more on this. We’re both weary and at the end of our tethers, and further discussion will only lead to more hasty words and later to regrets.”

I said, “I’m in the mood for hasty words and regrets, and I’ll speak on as I please.”

“Then I refuse to stay and listen.”

He quickened his pace to move ahead of me, effectively ending our discussion, for I couldn’t muster the stamina to keep up. I suspected he knew my aching ribs made quick strides a torment.

We kept up our forward progress, passing along the edge of a shallow wooded ravine sometime late in the night. I was lost deep in my dark broodings so that I didn’t immediately notice when one wheel of the cart got too near the edge and began to slide in the mud toward the downside of the gap. Not until I saw the cart tilt sharply sideways did I realize it was about to fall.

“Terrac!” I shouted. “The cart!”

But it was too late. The rickety cart skidded further in the muddy earth, and Terrac dove out of its path no more than a second before the entire cart flipped over and tumbled down the hillside, dragging the struggling horse after it. I stood rooted to the spot as both cart and horse disappeared into the darkness below. I could hear the rig crashing through the trees on the way down, the awful screams of the horse plunging helplessly after it, and finally the thud as they hit bottom.

I didn’t wait for more than that. Ignoring the pain in my side, I threw myself recklessly over the steep edge and began scrambling down the hillside. I heard Terrac clambering after me, but as he paused to pick his way more cautiously than I did, I reached the bottom before him. I first discovered Brig’s body, thrown from the cart. Nearby, the gray horse was tangled in its harness and half-buried beneath the rig, but still alive and screaming shrilly as it thrashed to free itself from beneath the wreckage. Its movements gradually quieted, growing feebler as I approached, and I saw at a glance it wouldn’t survive.

I heard the noisy approach of Terrac behind me and left him to put the animal out of its misery. I could handle only so many gruesome tasks in a night. I turned my back on the scene and tried not to be aware of what happened, which was difficult because Terrac had to interrupt my unawareness twice, once to request the use of my knife and again to inquire where he ought to place the blade for the swiftest result.

The cart, I determined next, was beyond repair. Both wheels were shattered, not that that particularly mattered with no way to bring it out of the ravine and no horse to pull it even if we could accomplish that feat. I climbed back up the hillside, collecting as many scattered pieces of the rig as I could find, and heaping them into a pile. Terrac helped me lift Brig’s remains gently onto the top of the heap. Then the priest boy wisely withdrew to a copse of pines on the far side of the hill, leaving me alone with my grievous task.

I gathered an armful of brush, the driest I could find on such a damp night, piling it carefully around the body, and removed my ragged old cloak, using it to cover Brig’s face. For lack of a better parting gift, I laid one of my long-bladed knives across his chest. I remembered the strange bow I still carried and briefly considered leaving it instead, but somehow I was reluctant to part with it. Anyway, it hardly made a fitting gift either. There seemed nothing more to be done, and so I used my flint stone to set fire to the smaller bits of brush, managing after several tries to coax to life a fitful flame. The fire spread reluctantly over the rain-dampened kindling, but at length, the entire funeral pyre was wreathed in flames.

I sat at the edge of the circle of firelight that penetrated the night and watched the blaze consume Brig. Whenever the flames threatened to die, I added more brush until I had a tall bonfire raging. The heat warmed my face and the smoke burned my eyes, but I didn’t move back. After a time, I reached behind me and, for no particular reason, pulled out the bow to examine.

It was a finely crafted weapon, making it all the stranger that I discovered it in an abandoned barn. The pale wood looked and smelled freshly cut and took on an almost living glow beneath the firelight. It took me a moment to realize the carvings spiraling up the limb weren’t random designs, but strange runes unlike anything I’d ever seen. I had a peculiar feeling, looking at those runes, almost like the stirring of magic I felt when sensing another life nearby. Maybe I would ask Terrac later if he could decipher the unfamiliar form of writing. He was the scholar, not me.

But hard on the heels of that thought came the memory that the priest boy and I weren’t exactly on friendly terms at the moment. I glanced at the burning pyre, and loneliness washed over me as I remembered the one person who cared for me most, the only friend who knew about my forbidden talents, was now gone forever. In the face of that, everything else lost significance. When I looked back to the bow, there appeared to be a forlorn sense to its unreadable runes that matched my pain.

It was a mark of the strangeness of my mood that I didn’t flinch this time when the bow began to glow orange and gold. I felt it grow warm in my hands and pulse like a stilled heartbeat throbbing suddenly to life. Inside my head, I seemed to hear its quiet moans of anguish, perhaps echoing my hurt, or maybe crying out for some loss of its own. Either way, the result was oddly comforting. I continued tracing my fingers absently up and down the runes as I watched the flickering flames.

My grief grew muted, and while there was a chill loneliness in my heart, an ache of regret beyond words, I shed no more tears for my loss. It was as if with the death of Brig my own essence had abandoned me as well, leaving me incapable of feeling anything but emptiness. Was this how Rideon had grown so cold? I felt a sudden surge of understanding for the man, an understanding that had nothing to do with sympathy or affection.

Trying to shake this alarming change, I dug deep inside myself, seeking some spark to prove who I was still hid within, but it was like reaching into an empty shell. I dipped into a chasm of nothingness, sifting blank thoughts and meaningless images through my fingers in search of something I knew should be there. Even my unease at this discovery was a quiet, distant thing, as if I were merely a witness, observing myself through another’s eyes.

I felt older, emptier, and vastly changed as I sat hunched before the flames, lost in thought, until the fire burned low and a pale dawn came to chase away the stars.

Chapter XIV

I WATCHED TERRAC WARILY THE following morning, but if he was still angry over my betraying him to the Fists, he gave no sign of it. It took us all of the following day to find our way to the place in the wood where the trees never greened. Here, the rest of our band had set up a temporary camp after evacuating Molehill and Red Rock. It was nearly dark by the time we stumbled on the outlaws a few miles upstream of the creek leading to Red Rock Falls. The gathering was large, the combined number of both our camps crowded together into the temporary one.

Immediately on arrival, I felt a pervading sense of gloom hanging in the air. Until now, we thought ourselves impervious to attack, hidden as we were deep within the safety of Dimming’s shadows. But our confidence had been shaken, and we were all acutely aware of the danger that might break over our heads at any time. No one knew as yet what had become of our homes at Red Rock and Molehill; the only thing we could be certain of was that it was unsafe to return. Rideon moved among the outlaws, planning with them, seeking to lift their confidence. Wherever he had been, spirits lifted, but it was obvious it would take time for us to recover our former self-assurance.

I had to give an explanation for my disappearance, and as my story quickly spread through the gathering, I was hailed as a kind of hero. No one appeared to care that I had set out to save Brig and returned without him. What mattered was that one of their own had struck a blow back at the Praetor’s men. A dozen times over, my attack on the Fists was declared the most daring and bold deed anyone had ever heard of from such a youngster. Suddenly, men who hadn’t so much as given me their names before today were clapping me on the back and congratulating me around the campfire.

Terrac, unwilling to partake in the glory, wandered off and left me to deal with it alone. In a different time I would have enjoyed retelling my tale as many times as it was requested and recounting my actions in the most fantastically exaggerated manner possible. But now I couldn’t enjoy the attention because I knew, whatever the others thought, my mission was a failure.

My thoughts were dark ones that first night back as I sat surrounded by my throng of newfound admirers. I huddled over a bowl of venison stew, not because I was hungry, but because someone had shoved it into my hands. I forced the warm liquid down my throat, reasoning that as long as I kept my mouth full, I couldn’t be expected to talk. I was quickly wearying of recounting my adventure.

When I heard the sounds of someone’s approach and silence descended over my companions, I didn’t need to look up to know Rideon stood over me. I was expecting this moment.

“Hound,” Rideon greeted me.

I knew now was the time to apologize and beg forgiveness for disobeying his orders in following Brig, but I couldn’t find enough fear inside to prod me to it. Instead, I looked up and met his gaze unflinchingly.

He didn’t react with the anger I expected.

“The men tell me you are a hero tonight, that you’ve defeated a handful of the Praetor’s Fists and survived to boast of it. They also say you’ve killed the traitor Resid.”

“I did,” I admitted, bracing myself for whatever was coming.

“Perhaps I’ve underestimated your courage and skill. You broke my orders, but in so doing, you risked your life to strike a blow for all of us. For that, it seems to be the general will we should honor you tonight. Bold deeds notwithstanding, I warn you the next time you discount a command of mine so blatantly I’ll kill you on the spot.” Here his voice hardened momentarily. “But on this singular occasion, it would be ungrateful to kill a returning hero.”

He offered the ghost of a smile or the nearest thing to one I had ever seen on his face. “And so, for this night and this night alone, I make you immune to our laws. Revel in your glory for a few hours and at dawn return to work.”

He looked around at the gathered assembly. “All of us will set to work. There are difficult days ahead, but I’m confident we will survive this setback and be the stronger for it.”

As he turned on his heel and strode away, I wished I could feel flattered, could know a thrill of joy at receiving this recognition before my comrades. But the time when I would have felt pleased was past. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.

Despite Rideon’s advice to enjoy the moment, I sought my bed early that night. I was exhausted, and the purple bruises marring my ribs still pained me. I found an out-of-the-way spot, well distanced from the others, and curled up beneath a tall elder tree.

I woke at one point during the night, thinking I heard footsteps rustling in the leaves nearby and Terrac softly calling my name. I kept still and when his footsteps eventually receded breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t know why he sought me, but all I wanted was to be left alone tonight. I cradled my head in one arm and rested my other hand on the finely grained wood of the bow beside me. I didn’t have any arrows for it as yet. I thought in the morning I would ask Dradac to make me some fine new ones, the best he ever fletched. I fell asleep stroking the smooth wood and vaguely wondering that it felt warm to my touch.

Despite my exhaustion, I spent a troubled night tossing and turning on the rocky ground. For the first time in a long while, I dreamed of the night my mother died all those years ago and of the brooch she left me. Then I dreamed of Hadrian, the priest of Light who promised to teach me about magic if I came to him in Selbius.

I awoke early the next morning and lay awake, staring up into the scattered patches of lightening sky peeking between the leafless branches of the trees overhead. I was unused to seeing so much sky. The bare branches made it look later in the season than it was, but I knew elsewhere in the forest the trees would still be thick with greenery. Three days short of Middlefest, it seemed wrong to be surrounded by this gloom and deadness.

I rose and passed through camp, stepping carefully to avoid trampling on the sleeping forms of my comrades where they huddled on the ground. I remembered from past explorations a small spring not far from this spot, probably one of the factors Rideon had taken into account when settling on this site. Finding the gurgling stream only a little distance away, I knelt and washed the sleep from my eyes and filled my waterskin.

When I rose from the stony banks, I found Brig sitting nearby on a fallen log, watching me. His gray eyes were fixed on a point in the distance, his weathered face creased in the half frown that always meant he was puzzling over something. He rubbed listlessly at the calluses on his rough hands, and his mouth moved as if he were muttering beneath his breath. The sight of him sent a pang through me, but I felt no shock or alarm, only comfort. I shook my head and smiled, noting how the front of his faded woolen tunic was fastened crookedly. I leaned forward to right it for him, as I had done many times before, and stopped abruptly, my hands hovering inches from him.

Cold reason reasserted itself, and Brig’s image wavered. I had to stop this. Brig was gone. Unless I wished to let go of my reason entirely and live the rest of my life in a world of pathetic imaginings, a place where the dead walked and events I didn’t like could be changed, I needed to pull back from what I was doing. As much as it pained me to do it, I pushed Brig’s flickering image aside and forced myself to see the reality instead. The space opposite me was empty, occupied only by a fallen tree stump with a handful of jumper beetles crawling on its surface.

But my vision of Brig helped me form a decision I’d been contemplating for a long time. It was as if he had appeared to remind me of things I already knew but had refused until now to accept. Of old obligations unfulfilled and promises broken.

I returned to camp, where the outlaws were just beginning to stir in their dew-soaked blankets. Someone started to build a campfire, until Rideon ordered there be no fires lit today. We weren’t safe from discovery yet, he said.

I slipped quietly among the men, found the lonely spot where I had passed the night, and collected my bow. Then I set my back to the camp and my comrades without a word of farewell. No one called out to me or even, I suspected, noted my departure.

I’d come to a decision, and with this newfound direction a little of the strangeness of last night fell away. I was done settling for whatever fate served up to me. If I followed along the road life set at my feet, the future was already a given. I would be a hunted criminal, forced to skulk within the boundaries of Dimming the rest of my life, wondering daily if this would be the day a Fist’s blade or the Praetor’s noose found me. Such an existence I had once craved, but Brig’s death had opened my eyes to the waste of it.

It was time to step off that path.

Not An Ending, But A Resting Place

GOLDEN AND AMBER LEAVES CRUNCH loudly beneath my boots, startling my thoughts back to the present as I follow the forest trail leading away from Rideon and the others. I have come far since the dark night so long ago when I lost my parents. In some ways I’ve journeyed farther still since losing Brig two nights ago. But as I leave the outlaw camp behind, anticipation stirs within me, and I contemplate the distance I have yet to travel.

A sudden flair of warmth radiating from the bow slung across my back seems to echo my sense of hope.

Continue Ilan’s Journey In… Book II: Betrayal of Thieves

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Afterword

C. GREENWOOD STARTED WRITING STORIES shortly after learning her ABCs and hasn’t put down her pen since. After falling in love with the fantasy genre more than a decade ago, she began writing sword and sorcery novels. The result was the birth of her best known works, the Legends of Dimmingwood series. In addition to her writing, Ms. Greenwood is a wife, mom and graphic designer.

Want to learn more about C. Greenwood or her books? Check out her website at http://www.cgreenwoodauthor.com/ or “like” her on Facebook.

Legends of Dimmingwood Series

Magic of Thieves ~ Book I

Betrayal of Thieves ~ Book II

Circle of Thieves ~ Book III

Redemption of Thieves ~ Book IV

Journey of Thieves ~ Book V

Rule of Thieves ~ Book VI

Catalysts of Chaos Series

Mistress of Masks ~ Book I

Betrayer of Blood ~ Book II

Summoner of Storms ~ Book III

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THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD

David Dalglish

Chapter I

THE TWO BROTHERS WERE ALMOST to the wall when the skulls flew overhead.

“Make them stop!” cried Harruq Tun, hands pressed against his ears. Beside him, Qurrah Tun stood mesmerized by the sight. Hundreds of skulls bathed in purple fire sailed over the walls of Veldaren like dark comets. Gaping mouths shrieked mindless wails, their voices bone-chilling and unrelenting. A few soldiers fired arrows, but most hid behind their shields.

“Why do you cower?” Qurrah asked, striking his brother on the shoulder. “The skulls are nuisances, nothing more.”

“Sorry,” Harruq muttered. He shivered as a skull sailed just above them, its screech turning to chaotic laughter. The sound raced up and down his spine, triggering fear no matter how irrational.

Qurrah watched as if immune to the sound. He was so much smaller than Harruq, his slender body wrapped in rags, thin flesh clinging to bone. Yet he was unafraid. Shame and embarrassment burned in Harruq’s cheeks. He towered over his brother, his hands beefy and arms muscular. Nothing should scare him. He was supposed to be Qurrah’s protector, not the other way around.

“Where can we climb?” Harruq asked, hoping to get his mind off the skulls.

“There,” Qurrah pointed. A narrow set of stairs climbed to the parapet and Harruq led the way. The city gates were lost in the distance, city guards clustered about them.

“Look,” Harruq said. “Orcs.”

He spoke the word with an odd reverence, but they both understood its significance. Unlike the humans, the two brothers’ skin was dark and tinged with gray, their ears long and curled to a point. They were half-orcs, condemned for the tainted blood coursing through their veins. The people of Veldaren hurled the word at them like a dagger, but in truth neither had ever seen a full orc before.

“Now we’ll finally see,” Qurrah said, “what we are, what we are meant to be.”

Thousands of orcs spilled into the west, needing no light to see in the darkness. They howled and cheered, drums and war chants mixing with the shrieks of the skulls. Harruq felt his temples throb. A wail rolled over him as a deathly comet swirled about, spotting the two and eying them like prey. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop from shaking.

“Can you stop them?” Harruq asked, squinting at the sky.

“Perhaps,” said Qurrah, eyes distant and unfocused. “But orcs don’t use necromancy, not if the stories I’ve heard are true. Someone else travels with them—someone who must be strong.”

“When it comes to this mind stuff, no one’s stronger than you.”

Qurrah chuckled.

“We’ll see.”

He closed his eyes, letting his mind sink into the ether. Like scent to a bloodhound, Qurrah could sense the magic flowing all about him. The flame surrounding the skulls flared even brighter, but beneath their tails trailed long threads of silver. When Qurrah looked up, he saw hundreds of the threads twisting and curling together, coiling toward a hidden presence deep within the orc army. Taking in a deep breath, Qurrah pooled his strength and focused on the skull taunting his brother, visualizing the thread and seeking to sever it.

There was a pull on his chest—the taste of copper on his tongue. When he opened his eyes, the skull fell to the battlements. The jaw snapped and rotting teeth clattered to the streets below.

“You did it!” Harruq picked up the skull, frowning at its ordinariness. Shrugging, he flung it toward the distant army of orcs.

“Not done yet,” Qurrah said, sweat lining his face, his breathing soft and ragged. “There’re so many. So…many…”

He closed his eyes. This time, he didn’t grab just one thread. He grabbed them all. They screeched and twisted in his grip. His head pounded, and the pull on his chest was so great he felt he might pitch over the wall to his death. Qurrah’s well of magic drained at frightening speed. He almost let go, but he thought of his brother, shaking under the spell of the skulls.

No, he thought. Enough. Cease your chatter.

He clutched tighter, the threads braiding into a giant rope in his mind. High above, the skulls quieted, and their fires dimmed.

When the necromancer noticed Qurrah’s meddling, his mental link pulsed with incredible energy. Colors swarmed through his mind, dark purples and reds across a macabre canvas of black. He felt his chest tightening, his neck constricting. A scrying eye was upon him, now, and he was losing. It felt like an arrow pierced his mind, and through it words seeped into his head.

Run. Die. Collapse. Fear. Failure.

An apparition swirled before him, blacker than the shadows, red eyes smoldering. Its rank claws touched his face, turning the sweat on his brow to ice. The arrow squirmed deeper. Qurrah focused every bit of his will upon it, desperately seeking to repulse it. His well of energy, which he’d thought empty, burgeoned and over-flowed. The arrow snapped, banishing the necromancer’s presence, but leaving a solitary impression squatting at the back of Qurrah’s mind:

Curiosity.

Qurrah opened his eyes. He lay on his back in his brother’s arms, yet he didn’t remember falling.

“You’re alright!” Harruq hugged him.

Qurrah laughed.

“He lost,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “And he doesn’t know how badly.”

One by one, the skulls’ fire went out and they fell like morbid hail upon the city.

“Limitless,” Qurrah said, his smile trembling. Blood ran from his nose, and his skin was so pale Harruq could see his veins. “The well is limitless.”

His eyes rolled into his head. Without another word, he collapsed.

He dreamt of fire poured into flesh and a man whose eyes were glass.

“Qurrah!” Harruq shouted when his brother finally opened his eyes.

“How long?” Qurrah asked as he lurched onto his feet.

“Not long,” Harruq said, holding Qurrah’s shoulder to steady him. “The orcs are almost here.”

As if on cue, they heard a collective roar from the south. Harruq glanced at the stairs along the wall, but Qurrah saw this and shook his head.

“We need to get closer to the fight,” Qurrah said, slurring his words. “I need to see him.”

“Sure thing,” Harruq agreed. “Come on. I have an idea.”

He grabbed Qurrah’s arm and hooked his elbow around it. Qurrah was too weak to complain, so together they ran down the streets. They passed closed homes containing people praying for safety and victory. Looming ahead of them was the southern gate. Hundreds of soldiers stacked against it, their shields braced and ready. All along the walls, archers released arrow after arrow into the darkness.

“How are we to get closer?” Qurrah asked.

“Ignore them,” Harruq said. “I know what I’m doing.”

He led them into an alley in between several worn buildings made of stone. He stopped just before the next set of homes, for he heard talking. Holding Qurrah back, he peered around the corner to find a soldier dressed in finely polished armor raising his sword in salute. At first Harruq did not see who he saluted, but an elf fell from the roof and landed before the soldier.

“An elf,” Harruq whispered, managing to grab Qurrah’s attention. Now both peered around the corner, curious why such an exotic creature had arrived mere seconds before war.

“Greetings, Dieredon,” the soldier hailed, pulling off his helmet. He was a middle-aged, blond-haired man who had numerous scars on his face.

“Greetings to you as well, guard captain Antonil,” Dieredon said, taking a step back and kneeling. “Though I fear greetings is all I may offer you.”

Antonil pointed to the wall, and he asked something which neither could hear when the orc army shouted another communal roar.

“The Ekreissar will not aid you,” Dieredon said when the noise died. He shook his head, and a bit of sadness crossed his face. “We have been forbidden. Ceredon insists this is a minor skirmish, nothing more. We are not the keepers of man.”

“Minor skirmish?” Antonil shouted. “What about the necromancer traveling with them? You’re the one who said he was dangerous, that he might be…”

Another communal roar, even closer.

“I know,” Dieredon glared. “Forgive me, Antonil. I will watch, and I will pray. Whoever started this war will not go unpunished.”

The elf whistled, and to the brothers’ surprise a winged horse landed on the rooftop of a nearby home. Its skin and mane were sparkling white. Dieredon bowed one last time and then leapt into the air, using the ledge of a window to swing himself onto the roof. He mounted his horse, patted her side, and then took off into the night.

“Damn it all!” Antonil shouted, slamming his mailed fist into the wall. Still shaking his head, he stormed back to the gate, muttering curses.

“What was that all about?” Harruq asked.

“King Vaelor asked for aid and the elves declined,” Qurrah answered, chuckling. “The King’s pride will not take too kindly to that.”

“He and his pride can suck a rotten egg,” Harruq said. “Hurry or we’ll miss the battle.”

He pulled his brother down the alley to where a tall, crumbled house leaned near the wall.

“Onto my shoulders,” Harruq suggested, grabbing Qurrah’s knees and hoisting him high. Qurrah latched onto the roof, paused, and then stepped onto Harruq’s shoulders. The extra height boosted his head and chest above the roof, allowing him to climb to the top despite a moment of flailing. Harruq clapped for him, and he smiled at the next roar from the orcs. It was a goofy smile, and Qurrah recognized the fear hiding behind it.

“Hurry,” Qurrah said as Harruq climbed, using a windowsill as a foothold. Together, they stood upon the roof and gazed over the wall, mesmerized by the sight before them. Mere seconds away, hundreds and hundreds of orcs charged. Their race could see as well in night as in day. That same racial ability allowed the two brothers to watch the approaching orcs,  lean muscle bulging underneath their sweat-glistened pale gray skin. Some wore mismatched armor, though most had only skulls, straps of leather, and war paint covering their bodies.

Wave after wave of arrows rained upon them, and those who fell were trampled by the rest, but the masses were not even slowed. Harruq pointed past the army to where a long line of men stood in the distance, carrying no light or torch.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

Qurrah searched the line, and he saw what he suspected.

“The necromancer,” he observed, pointing to the black shape hidden underneath robes and a hood. “Those alongside him are dead, Harruq. They serve only him.”

“Huh,” Harruq said. “Lot of good he’s doing. How are the orcs going to get through the wall, they have nothing but…”

The man in black robes lifted his hand. Qurrah saw pale and bony fingers hooked in strange formations. Then came the fire, erupting as if those fingers were a crack releasing the melted rock of the abyss. The sudden light blinded them both. The fire burned through the orcs as a solid beam, melting their bodies and scattering their remains. When it struck the wooden gate, it exploded. Wood shattered. Guards behind the gate howled as molten rock struck them, piercing through their shields and armor.

The orcs roared at the sight, not at all upset at their own losses. The way into the city was clear. Axes and swords held high, they rushed the opening.

“A minor skirmish,” Qurrah chuckled, echoing the elf’s words. “How amusingly wrong.”

Harruq had anticipated watching the fight over the wall from the roof, but instead they turned and watched the orcs slam into the human forces that surrounded the opening. The first push was brutal. Screams of pain and the sound of clashing of metal on metal flowed into the city. Harruq watched an orc wielding two swords cut off the arm of one soldier, and, as the blood from the limb splattered across his face, he turned and decapitated another with two vicious hacks. The orc roared in victory only to die as a soldier shoved his sword in his side and out his back.

“Will they make it through?” Harruq asked, in awe of the display. Qurrah glanced over the wall and then back to the main combat. Archers continued eviscerating the orc forces. If they could push into the city, their arrows would be a nuisance at best, but it seemed they had underestimated the human soldiers.

“They are running out of time,” Qurrah said. “But they might.”

He glanced back to the necromancer, and then he saw his eyes, just hints of red underneath the hood of his robes. Qurrah shivered as whispers shot up his spine.

You silenced my pets, it said.

“I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered back. He felt a touch of cold on his fingers, like the fleeting kiss of a corpse lover.

You ally with the city of men?

“Again, I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered.

“Who are you talking to?” Harruq asked. “Qurrah, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Qurrah said. He tore his gaze back to the fight. More orcs had pushed inward, leaving them bunched in a wide circle. They flung themselves against the surrounding guards. Again he felt a cold chill, this time creeping across his arms like frost spiders. The sensation of being watched was unbearable.

“We need to move,” he said. “If the guards falter we might suffer.”

“We’re already high up,” Harruq said. “We’re perfectly safe…”

“I said now!” Qurrah shouted. He doubled over, hacking and coughing. His breath was raspy and weak. “Please,” he insisted. “Take me from the wall.” “Alright then,” Harruq said, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Just hold tight.”

He leapt off the roof, pulling Qurrah with him. As his feet smacked the hard ground, his knees buckled and he fell back, catching his brother as he did. Without a word of thanks, Qurrah stepped off him and leaned against the wall. His whole body shuddered. He had often looked into the darkness. For the first time, the darkness had looked back, and it was amused. Whoever this necromancer was, Qurrah knew he had been an idiot to challenge him.

“Lead the way,” Qurrah said. “And forgive my outburst.”

“I understand,” Harruq said, ignoring the pain in his knees and the bit of blood running from his elbow to his wrist. “We need to hurry, though.”

He looped his arm through Qurrah’s and then hurried down the alley. As a soldier’s body collapsed at the end, the two stopped, and Harruq swore.

“The orcs made it through,” he said, to which Qurrah nodded. “This could be bad.”

An orc stepped into the alley, blood splashed across his gray skin. He held a sword in each hand, dripping gore coating both. Shouting something in a guttural language neither understood, the orc charged.

“Get back,” Harruq ordered as he shoved Qurrah to one side. He slammed himself against a house, barely dodging a downward chop of the blades. The orc attacked again, all his strength behind the swing. Harruq ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Qurrah lunged before the orc could strike again, latching onto his wrist and letting dark magic flow. The orc howled at the sensation of a hundred scorpions stinging his flesh. Flooded with adrenaline, he hurled Qurrah aside, desperate to break the contact between them. Qurrah’s thin body crumpled against the dirt. At the sight of it, Harruq felt his rage break loose.

He slammed his fist into the orc’s stomach, followed by a brutal kick to the groin. Harruq rammed his elbows into the orc’s face, baring his teeth in a feral grin as he felt cartilage crunch. Staggering back, the orc dropped one of his swords and clutched his face.

“His sword,” Qurrah shouted loud as he could. “Take it, brother!”

Harruq obeyed without thought. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the sword, and rolled forward. Steel smacked where he had been. Now on his back, Harruq tossed the sword in front of himself, clutching the hilt with both hands. The orc smashed his own blade downward, and as they connected, Harruq did not feel fear or the strain of his muscles. He felt exhilarated. Even though the orc pressed with all his strength, he could not force the kill.

At last, Harruq forced him back, and in the brief opening he spun his sword around and buried half the blade into the orc’s gut. The orc gasped something unintelligible, dropped his other sword, and fell limp. Harruq stared at the body, his hands shaking from the excitement and his breath thunderous in his ears. A hand touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if struck.

“Well done,” Qurrah said, his eyes locked on the corpse. Harruq recognized that look. His brother had seen something he wanted, and he would have it. “A strong life and a fresh death.”

“The battle?” Harruq asked. Even as they stood there, he watched several orcs go running past, howling murder.

“We will partake in our own way,” Qurrah said, kneeling beside the orc. The savage clutched his stomach, his hands the only thing holding in his innards. Qurrah’s thin, ashen face curled into a sneer. Harruq turned away. Perhaps his brother would think him weak, but he would not watch. He heard a sudden shriek of pain that morphed into a long, drawn-out moan. As the last of the air left the orc’s lungs, Harruq turned around, startled by the sight.

“Beauty in all things,” Qurrah said, purple light dancing across his face. “Especially those things that are controlled.”

An orb floated above his open palm, seemingly made of thick, violet smoke. Within its center, a face shifted, its sunken eyes glaring. When it opened its mouth, no sound came forth, just a soft puff of ash.

“A soul seeking release,” Qurrah said. “How destructive, I wonder?”

“Get rid of it,” Harruq said as he picked up the other sword the orc had dropped.

“You disagree?” Qurrah asked, his delight vanishing into a sudden frown.

“No,” Harruq said. He thought to explain and then just shrugged. “It makes me uneasy,” he said instead. “But do as you wish.”

The frailer brother approached the end of the alley where the sound of combat was strongest. His steps faltered only once. When Harruq moved to catch him, Qurrah glared and leaned against the side of a house. When a luckless orc rushed too close to the exit, Qurrah hurled the orb. Its explosion conjured shadows and shifting mists of violets and purples. The orc collapsed, white smoke rising softly from his tongue. In the sudden blinding light, Qurrah laughed.

“Never,” he said, “could I have imagined it so beautiful.”

An hour before dawn, the city’s soldiers cornered and killed the last of the orcs. The Tun brothers were not there to watch, for they had snuck back to the outer wall at Qurrah’s insistence.

“I know his plans,” Qurrah whispered as they stared across the open grass and the arrow-pierced orc bodies that covered it. “He is familiar to me, though I know him not.”

“He isn’t your former master, is he?” Harruq asked as he adjusted his newly acquired swords. He had taken a belt and some sheathes from one of the dead bodies, but he was having a devil of a time getting them to fit correctly.

“No,” Qurrah said. “He is dead. I killed him. Whoever this is, he is someone else. Someone stronger.”

He pointed into the darkness.

“There,” he said. “He returns.”

Robed in black, the figure approached unseen by the guards. He lifted his hands, which shone a pallid white in the fading moonlight. So very slowly their color faded, from white, to gray, to nothing, a darkness surrounding and hiding them.

“What’s going on?” Harruq asked. He pulled one of his swords out from its sheath, pleased by the feeling of confidence it gave him. Qurrah said not a word. His eyes were far away, and his lips moved but produced no sound.

“Qurrah?” Harruq asked again. “Qurrah!”

He struck his brother on the arm. Qurrah jolted as if suddenly waking.

“The dead,” Qurrah said. “They rise.”

Sure enough, the arrow-ridden bodies stirred. As if of one mind, they rose together, ignoring any injuries upon them. Some hobbled on broken legs while others shambled with twisted and mangled arms. The brothers watched as hundreds more lumbered through the still-broken southern gate. A few belated alarms cried out from the exhausted guards, but they were too few and too late. Unencumbered, the horde of dead marched out to where the necromancer extended his arms to embrace them.

Harruq and Qurrah watched until the sun rose in the east and all trace of the necromancer vanished.

“What is it he wanted?” Harruq asked, breaking their long silence.

“More dead for his army,” Qurrah surmised.

“No,” Harruq said. “With you.”

Qurrah nodded, knowing he disrespected his brother to think he might not have noticed.

“He wanted my name,” Qurrah said. “I did not give it. I have served a master once. I will not do so again.”

Harruq frowned but said no more. Together they climbed down from the wall and returned home.

Home to the two half-orcs was in the older, mostly abandoned southern district of Veldaren. Those with wealth had drifted northeast, closer to the castle and away from the busy streets and markets. When King Vaelor had ordered all trade to come in through the western gate, and not the south, it had been the final nail in the district’s coffin. The homeless, hungry, and destitute flooded the rows of abandoned buildings, clawing them away from their legal owners with their very presence, or sometimes their murders.

Harruq and Qurrah played that game well. They had grown up on the streets of Veldaren and fought for every scrap of food they’d eaten. They had punched and kicked for every soft, dry bed. Then, one day, they finally killed.

“A fine home is any home that’s yours,” Harruq said as he forced back a couple planks sealing a window. “Ain’t that right, Qurrah?”

“Whatever you say.”

Once the window was unblocked, the two climbed in. They lived in what had once been a large shed. The door was still boarded shut, but the window, well...

For two such as they, windows worked as well as doors.

They sat diagonally of each other so they had room to stretch their legs. Harruq unhooked his belt and placed his swords in a corner, brushing their hilts against his fingertips.

“I want to learn how to use them,” he said. “Think anyone will teach me?”

Qurrah laughed. “You’ll find plenty who’ll teach you how to die by one,” he said. “I’m not sure about the other way around.”

Harruq shrugged. His mind kept replaying the fight with the orc. Untrained and unprepared, he had still won. What could he accomplish with training? How many might fear him if he had skill to match his strength and steel to match his anger?

“I know of a way,” Qurrah said, pulling at one of many loose strands of his robes. “A way for you to practice. You saw what I did with that dead body.”

Harruq nodded, disturbed by the hungry look in Qurrah’s eyes.

“I did,” he said, “and it scared the abyss out of me.”

Qurrah dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “With exposure comes understanding. I am always in control, so don’t fear what I do. But I must learn, Harruq. I have no school, no teacher, nothing but scattered memories of my wretched master when I was nine. Nevertheless, death... death has a way of teaching us things. I can sense its power so clearly in its presence. I need it. You must give it to me.”

Harruq crossed his arms and stared into the corner.

“People die every day here,” he said. “Shall I find their bodies and bring them to you?”

“For now,” Qurrah said. “Yes. If the death is fresh, the power should still linger.”

Harruq reached out, grabbed his brother’s wrist, and clasped his hands in his.

“I won’t like it,” he said. “But I’ll do it for you.”

“We are better than them,” Qurrah said, standing so he could look through the cracks of the boards across the broken door. “Stronger. Life is for those who take it. I need you to understand this, brother. Together, we can become something great.”

“Like what?” Harruq asked. “What can we become?”

Qurrah’s eyes twinkled, but he said not a word.

Guard captain Antonil marched through the street, leading fifty of his men marching in perfect union. His face was a portrait of stoic calm, but it was all a lie. His heart was troubled and he had not a soul to tell why. He held a proclamation of King Vaelor to the entire nation of Neldar. He had argued as best he could, but his words meant little. When Antonil asked that someone else deliver the proclamation, a frown had crossed the king’s smooth face and he had slammed his lotioned hand against a table.

“It will mean more coming from you!” the king had shouted. “They will know the seriousness of my order. I will not be flooded with spies, treated like a mere peasant, and then insulted by such blatant snubbing of my humble call for aid. Let them know I am king, my dear Antonil. Make sure they know.”

Antonil halted at the center of Veldaren where the four main roads of the city interconnected and a large marble fountain towered over all. Not bothering to call for silence or attention, he unrolled the scroll and shouted its edict. Because of his rank, the troops in attendance, and the overall respect given to the man who had engineered the city’s successful defense only days before, he was quickly given a respectful silence.

“By order of the King, all elves are to be removed from Neldar lands. They shall not travel within our cities, live in our settlements, or trade with our people. They are banned in all possible sense of the word. They have abandoned us, so let us abandon them. These are the words of your King, Edwin Vaelor, and may they never be forgotten.”

Antonil closed the scroll and then nodded for his soldiers to return to their post. Holding in a curse, he headed to the royal stables. He needed to speak with Dieredon and personally break the terrible news.

Qurrah smirked as the guard captain hurried away.

“Elves banned,” he said to his brother. “Amusing, though unnecessary. Only handfuls live within these walls, and they are just diplomats and messengers. Our king is a spiteful, paranoid one.”

“Not my king,” Harruq muttered loud as he dared. He meant to say more but stopped as another man neared the fountain. He was large, well-muscled, and scratching at a long beard that stretched down to his belt. In a massive voice, he shouted to the mulling throngs.

“The royal guard is in need of able-bodied men to help rebuild the walls of the city,” he shouted. “The work will be hard, but we offer a threepence of copper a day. Come to the castle and ask for Alvrik.”

He repeated the message three more times and then wandered back north.

“A threepence,” Harruq said. “We could eat well for weeks.”

“The king must be desperate for workers,” Qurrah said. He raised an eyebrow at his brother. “I take it you’re interested?”

“I’m strong enough for whatever they want from me,” Harruq insisted.

“We have no need for money.” Qurrah reminded him. “We take what we need. We always have.”

“My days are spent in boredom and you know it,” Harruq said. “How long will they offer that much coin?”

Qurrah popped his neck, wincing as he did. “So be it,” he conceded. “Take the work…if they’ll take you.”

This put a bit of a damper on Harruq’s enthusiasm.

“Course they will,” he muttered, his frown betraying the confidence in his voice. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Alvrik,” Harruq muttered as he approached the giant double doors leading into the castle, which were flanked on each side by two soldiers. “Avrik? Alrik? Avlerik? How the bloody abyss did he say his name?”

He stopped when he realized the soldiers were staring at him with none-too-happy looks on their faces.

“Oh, hello,” he said, doing his best to smile. “I was looking for, er, Alvrik. He was just in the center of town, and...”

“Does the orcie want some money?” one of the guards asked. He jabbed his elbow into the soldier next to him as both laughed in Harruq’s face.

“Just want some work,” he grumbled, his deep voice almost impossible to understand.

“Head around back,” one told him. “Alvrik will be waiting.”

“That’d be west,” said the same rude guard. “You know which way west is, right?”

Harruq’s hands opened and closed as he imagined his swords within them, ready to butcher for blood while the soldier proceeded to say the word ‘west’ as long and drawn out as possible.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and hurried off.

Accompanied by a young man scribbling on a sheet of parchment, Alvrik sat at a small table in front of a group of people waiting in line to address him. Harruq slipped into the back and tried to calm down. Never before had he done anything like this. He had stolen food, fled from guards, lived in poverty, and kept to himself. For he and his brother, that was life. What the abyss was he doing asking for work?

A swelling of nerves in his gut almost forced him to leave. Several men in front of him turned away, dejected or angry. He didn’t hear the reasons why and didn’t want to know. The idea of so much money, more than enough to buy warm food and clean drink, kept him there. At last it was his turn, and he approached the table where Alvrik sat chewing on a piece of bone long since void of meat.

“You,” he said before Harruq could mutter a word. “You don’t look like all the others.”

“I’m not like the others.”

“That so?” Alvrik’s face hadn’t changed in the slightest. “Tell me why.”

“Stronger,” he said. “Tougher. Whatever work you got two men doing, I can do alone. Whatever hours you got them working, I can do double.”

“A large boast,” Alvrik said. He took the bone out of his mouth and pointed at Harruq’s ears. “You got orc blood in you.”

“I do.”

“Will that be a problem?” Alvrik asked.

“Up to all the others you hire,” Harruq said. “But I’ll be fine. I don’t start much, but I always finish.”

Alvrik laughed. He nudged the man next to him, who grabbed the quill.

“Give me your name,” he asked, dabbing the tip into the ink.

“Harruq,” he said. “Harruq Tun.”

“Well, Harruq,” Alvrik said, slowly nodding his head. “I’ll see you right here at sunrise tomorrow. Got that?”

Harruq grinned ear to ear, even his nervousness unable to diminish his excitement.

“I’ll be here before the rooster knows it’s dawn.”

A sharp pain in his gut dragged Harruq from his dreams. He lifted open a single eye and glared at the blurry image of his brother.

“The sun is almost up,” Qurrah said, kicking him again. “You need to be as well.”

“What are you...awww, damn it.”

He sat up straight and shook his head, trying to clear the fuzz that clogged the vast empty space between his ears. Qurrah helped by offering a third kick, this one right to the kidney. Harruq gasped and staggered to his feet. He was outside their little home in seconds, urinating on the grass.

“Hadn’t pissed yet,” Harruq shouted to his brother. “You could be a bit kinder, you know.”

“At least you’re awake,” Qurrah said back. “Now get to the castle. I may not approve, and I still don’t trust them, but for once we might have something worthwhile to eat. I won’t let a simple thing like sleep keep us from it.”

Chapter II

MONTHS LATER, HARRUQ AWOKE AT the dawn, jerking upward and uttering a sharp gasp. A constant cry of danger rang in his ears. A quick survey showed he slept alone in their small shed, his brother missing.

“Qurrah?” he dared ask.

“Outside,” came Qurrah’s muffled reply.

Harruq stretched, pushed away a plank of wood from the window, and climbed out. The sun was halfway visible, the standard noises of the city only in their infancy. Leaning against the shed, his eyes staring off toward the sunrise, waited Qurrah.

“What are you doing out here?” Harruq asked.

“Did you sense it?” Qurrah asked.

“Sense what?”

The smaller half-orc shook his head.

“If you must ask then you did not, at least not directly, though I did hear you startle awake. Perhaps a fleeting glimpse of it…”

“Qurrah,” Harruq said, crossing his arms and frowning at him. “What is this about? Tell me.”

“Remember the necromancer we witnessed at the siege?” Qurrah asked. “It is him. He has haunted my dreams lately, and today he whispered the name of a place I have already researched for my own purposes. I think we are being guided, though I dare not pretend to know why.”

Harruq shifted,  the dark expression on his brother’s face making him uncomfortable.

“What’s the place?” he asked.

“It is where our mother came from,” Qurrah said. “A town called Woodhaven. Well, two towns really, Celed and Singhelm. They have since grown together and merged. It is an interesting place, Harruq, where elves and men live together, each in their respective parts of the city. Their tolerance of other races is, obviously, a necessity. I have thought to take us there.”

“Why do we need to leave?”

“Your work is almost done,” Qurrah said. “The walls are repaired, and half the men who worked with you have already been cut loose. I, however, have much to learn but cannot do so here because of prying eyes and attentive ears. I need privacy. I need silence.”

“What for?” Harruq asked.

“No,” Qurrah said. “Don’t ask when you full well know the answer.”

At this Harruq nodded. Yes, he did know. Over the past few months, he had killed seven men and carried their bodies to his brother.

“I still have at least a week,” Harruq said. “Give me until then, alright? We could use the money.”

“I have saved much of what you earned,” Qurrah said. “We will be able to eat, not well, but enough to live.”

“If you say so,” Harruq said. “Good luck with your, uh, studies. I have a wall to finish building.”

“Stay safe,” Qurrah said, offering a small wave as his brother trudged north. When he was gone, the smaller half-orc slipped back into the shed, removed a false floorboard, and grasped a small pouch containing various herbs, bones, and knives. Reaching back in again, he took out an object wrapped in sackcloth and soaked in blood. A knife in hand, he opened the pouch and closed his eyes. His mind attuned, he carved into the remains of a man’s heart.

On his way back home, the threepence jingling in his hand, Harruq spotted a patrol of guards approaching. He glanced to the right, where the small alley led back to their shed. If he hurried, he might be able to make it before they noticed…

He was halfway down the alley when he heard a voice call out.

“Hey!”

Harruq kept going. He was used to harassment and verbal abuse from the guards. Once out of sight, though, he was usually out of mind. He relied on that as he turned a corner into the small space around their shed. Qurrah, who had been resting on the shallow grass, hurried to his feet at Harruq’s approach.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing, but you might want to hide in there. Quick!”

“I will do no such thing,” Qurrah said.

“I said hey!” shouted the same man. Harruq stepped in front of Qurrah and then turned, staring down a group of five heavily armored guards. Swords and clubs hung from their belts, though a fifth carried a weapon neither of them had ever seen before. It was a wooden stick with a bulbous gem on one end.

“You stop when asked or pay the price,” said one of the guards.

“If he can even understand us,” said another.

“We understand perfectly,” Qurrah said, stepping to one side. “What has my brother done to warrant your attention?”

“We’re on a quest,” said the man wielding the strange weapon. He had a stubbly beard and a hooked nose with a thick scar along the top. “A great quest from the king, you could say. We’re to rid scum from the city, elven scum. You know what I think? I think elves can look like anything. They’re devious little pricks like that, and you two seem rather ugly and devious, don’t you all agree?”

The other guards laughed and shouted in agreement. They had spread out, flanking the half-orcs on all sides. The leader stepped forward and gestured with his weapon.

“You know what this is? This detects elves, and every elf I find I get to politely escort out of the city. Oh, and their possessions, well, obviously they were stolen. That coin you got there, you might as well hand it over before I take it.”

Qurrah glared while Harruq clutched the coins tighter and fought down his anger. He glanced back to the shed, cursing his idiocy for not retrieving his weapons while he had the chance.

“The coin,” demanded a guard to their right. “Hand it over.”

“No,” Harruq said.

The leader rammed his fist into the half-orc’s face. Harruq staggered but held his ground. Blood ran down his face, and he spat some away from his mouth. He waited for another punch, but nothing came. The man was staring in total disbelief at the weapon he held. As he had stepped closer to punch, the gem at the end had shimmered a soft green.

“Of all the dumb luck,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “We got some real elves here!”

They drew their swords. Harruq held an arm defensively in front of Qurrah, his eyes darting in all directions. Slowly, the leader extended the stick, poking it against Harruq’s chest. The soft glow turned into a brilliant flare of emerald.

“Elves,” the man said. “No doubt about it.”

He laughed to the others and then punched Harruq in the gut. As the half-orc doubled over, the guard grabbed his hair and tugged.

“Got to be a disguise,” he said. Another guard used the hilt of his sword to strike Harruq’s back. The blow blasted the air out of his lungs. The leader of the guards tugged all along Harruq’s face, pulling hair and scratching skin.

“I’ll be,” he said. “It is real. No illusion and no disguise. You two cretins have god-damned elf blood in you.”

“You jest,” Qurrah said, hanging back and showing no sign of aggression. The soldiers clearly thought Harruq the more dangerous of the two, and he was more than willing to let them continue thinking that.

“No jest,” the guard said. “You two are leaving this city, now.”

“My things,” Harruq said, his voice coming out as a weak croak.

“I don’t see anything,” said the guard, scooping down and retrieving the scattered coins Harruq had dropped.

“In the shed,” Qurrah said.

“That where you two live?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” the leader said. “Go and get whatever the abyss you can carry.”

Harruq climbed into the shed, throwing Qurrah a worried look before he did. When he came out holding his sheathed swords to his chest, the guards tensed, readying their weapons.

“Drop those right now,” they ordered him. Harruq clutched them tight, and the look on his face was clear. He would fight, and die, before he gave them up. The lead guard, already having their coin as well as the bonus of having found elves in hiding, was willing to let it slide.

“You draw them, even fiddle with them in their sheaths, you die, that clear?” he told the half-orc. Harruq nodded, again saying nothing.

“Calm yourself,” Qurrah whispered to his brother as the two marched in front of the guards toward the main streets.

“Trying,” Harruq whispered back.

They marched at sword point. Onlookers cackled as they passed, figuring the two were thieves or vagrants caught brawling. Their orcish features lent them no kindness, and a few children even threw rocks until the guards shooed them away. The whole while Harruq burned with shame and rage.

They reached the western gate, which remained open during the day. Without ceremony, they were kicked through, both falling to the dirt and scraping their knees.

“Get going,” one said. “See if somewhere else will take your mutt ass.”

It was not just adrenaline that caused Harruq’s hands to shake, but Qurrah put his hand on his wrist and begged him to calm.

“Never forget this shame,” he said. “Let it burn in you. Let it be a reminder of what I have always said. We are better, superior. Never feel guilt at what we do to them, for you see what they would do to us.”

Harruq stood, brushed some dirt from his pants, and then offered Qurrah a hand. Together they trudged west, without food, water, or blankets. The guards watched them go, smirking all the while.

That night Harruq collected a bunch of sticks and twigs, which Qurrah lit with a clap of his hands. The two huddled over the fire, each lost in their thoughts. Harruq broke the silence first.

“So where will we go?” he asked.

“Where else is there?” Qurrah said. “Perhaps we were meant to go to Woodhaven. The journey will not be long, perhaps a week or two at most. There are enough animals about for me to kill, so do not worry about food. As for water, there are many small streams, and we can beg from the occasional farms we pass. We were to leave anyway, now we do so sooner.”

“Sooner?” Harruq said. “We paraded through the city like criminals and were tossed out with swords at our backs. If we were to leave, I wanted to leave on our own terms, not like that.”

He swore a few times, getting progressively more colorful as he went.

“Two minutes alone with that guard,” he muttered. “I’d have him drinking through a brand new hole in his neck.”

“How skilled are you with those?” Qurrah asked, gesturing at the swords in the grass next to Harruq. Even though they lived in such cramped quarters, Qurrah still knew very little of Harruq’s life other than what he did at his request.

“I’ve watched the guards training new men,” Harruq said, drawing a blade and holding it with one hand. “And I’ve been practicing every night after you’re in bed and no one is around to watch and get curious. Near the castle they have these stumps for smacking with your sword. Not sure what for, but it helps them, and it seemed to help me. I snuck over there plenty of times. No one guards a big, beaten log.”

“But you have yet to face men in combat,” Qurrah said. “Do not be overzealous about your skills. Confident, perhaps, but not foolish. Don’t die on me, brother, for I need you more than ever.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harruq said, growing quiet. The subject of Qurrah’s experiments always made him uneasy.

“This time there will be a slight difference,” Qurrah said.

“What’s that?”

The half-orc shook his head.

“Not now. Another time I will explain.”

The two grew quiet, and they stared at the fire as the time passed. At last, when Harruq was sure Qurrah would not bring up the subject, he spoke.

“About the guards,” he said. “You think they’re telling the truth?”

Qurrah glanced up.

“About the elven blood in us?”

“Yeah.”

Qurrah chuckled, but it was mirthless.

“I do, and it does not surprise me as much as it should. I’m not sure who would mate with our mother, but some elf man did. We are smarter than most realize, you know that. Our features are sharper, and we only resemble the orcs that attacked Veldaren. It is a part of us. Unwanted, perhaps, but I shall not cower and hide a part of who I am.”

“Just strange, is all,” Harruq said.

“Life is strange.”

They both lay down to rest, a new life awaiting them in Woodhaven.

Chapter III

IN SILENCE, HARRUQ TUN STARED at the body. Seven, he guessed. No older than seven. He didn’t know the boy’s name or why he had wandered into the forest. The bloodied corpse was sprawled across the knotted roots of a tree, its innards spilled through a massive gash from shoulder to waist. The eyes remained open, their young innocence spoiled by a lingering look of horror.

You’re an orc, aren’t you?

Harruq snarled and shook his head. He shouldn’t have spoken to him. Shouldn’t have let him ask questions. The last of his adrenaline faded as images of the child’s quivering lips and trembling hands haunted his vision.

“Half,” Harruq whispered as he wiped blood from his swords onto the grass. “Only half.”

The kill had been quick, just a single cut through the shoulder blade, the heart, and then the lung. No suffering, little pain. It was all he could offer.

“He’s dead, Qurrah,” the half-orc shouted. His deep voice, like a bear’s growl, seemed right at home in the forest. “Come on over.”

Qurrah approached through the trees, clutching a worn bag in his long fingers. His brown eyes glanced over the dead boy. He nodded in approval.

“Well done,” Qurrah said.

“Killing kids is hardly worth a well done.”

Qurrah frowned as he glanced from his prize to his brother, who sat against a tree, arms on his knees. “Take pride in all you do,” Qurrah said. “Only then will you improve.”

Harruq shrugged. “You need me?”

The smaller half-orc opened the bag he carried. Inside were ashes, roots, herbs, and a sharpened knife: all Qurrah needed to work his art.

“No. You may go.”

Harruq rose, glanced at the body, and then departed.

“What are they looking at?” Harruq later asked as the two brothers walked down the winding streets of Woodhaven.

“Let us see,” said Qurrah.

Harruq muscled his way past two men, his brother following in his wake. They found a proclamation nailed to a post.

“What’s it say?” Harruq asked.

“All children are to be kept outside the boundary of the forest,” Qurrah said, his eyes narrowing. “Six have been killed by the…”

Qurrah laughed, a hideous sound.

“By the what?” Harruq asked.

“The Forest Butcher,” said an aged woman next to him, her voice creaking as if she had tiny pebbles lodged in her throat. She glanced back to the worn brown paper. “Hope they find him. Been a long time since we had an execution, but whoever that sick bastard is deserves a gruesome one.”

“Such hatred in a meager body,” Qurrah said, and his smile earned him a sneer.

“Come on, Qurrah. I’m getting hungry,” Harruq said as he trudged off, his hands at his sides grabbing the air where his swords no longer were.

The two brothers lived in the poorest part of town, sheltered in an old building long abandoned. When they had first arrived, several homeless men claimed it as their own. Harruq had slit their throats when they slept and then Qurrah worked his art. The few vagabonds left in the city quickly learned to avoid the worn building marked by holes in its roof and long shadows that lingered no matter where the sun shone.

Harruq shoved open the door and then halted as he breathed in the stuffy air.

“Nothing like home, eh?” he said.

“Move, before the meat spoils,” Qurrah said.

The big half-orc stepped out of the way. Qurrah came through, carrying a slab of meat in his hands. He weaved across the missing planks in the floor and sat next to a small circle of stones. Above him was a hole in the ceiling for the smoke to escape.

“Since when has spoiling meat stopped me from eating it?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah laughed. “Which explains so much.”

Murmuring a few words, he smashed his hands together. Fire burst to life in the center of the stones. Harruq grabbed a small pot and brought it to the fire, but Qurrah stopped him.

“There is no need,” he said.

“How come?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah narrowed his eyes and stared at the meat in his hands.

“I have something I wish to try.”

The bigger half-orc stepped back, willing to watch his brother work. While Harruq was skilled in swords and had all the muscle, Qurrah possessed far more interesting talents.

Qurrah mumbled words, sick and spidery. The bones in the slab of meat snapped erect as if pulled by invisible strings. He kept whispering, his eyes wide. The meat floated from his hands and then lowered into the fire. Qurrah twirled his finger, and the slab turned as if on a spit.

“We’re eating fancy tonight,” Harruq said, tossing the pot back to its corner. His stomach growled as the aroma of cooked meat filled his nostrils.

“Glad you approve,” Qurrah said.

They ate in silence until only bones remained, which Qurrah then tucked away in a pouch. Harruq relaxed and enjoyed the heat while his brother tightened his robe and leaned toward the fire.

“Things are more dangerous now, aren’t they?” Harruq asked after a pause.

Qurrah nodded, his thoughts distant. “They’re ready for us. Many elves will be lurking inside the woods as they hunt for the Forest Butcher.” Again Qurrah chuckled at the name his brother had earned.

“Will we stop for a while?” Harruq asked.

The smaller half-orc shook his head. “Of course not. I must keep learning, increasing my strength. We will resume, just this time amid the darkness.”

Harruq nodded, obviously uneasy. “Hey brother?”

“Yes Harruq?”

“Are you sure what we’re doing isn’t wrong?” He twiddled his fingers, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean… they’re children.”

Qurrah sighed. He had sensed apprehension in his brother before, especially when it came to the children. Such nuisances needed to be eradicated.

“If given a choice,” Qurrah asked, “would you split a seed or burn a flower? Let the children meet their end before they learn the torment and anguish of their parents. Besides, kill a child and the mother has one less mouth to feed. Kill the mother or father and all the children suffer and starve.”

The larger half-orc shrugged. He was not convinced but that mattered little. He would trust his wiser brother as he always had. Qurrah let his eyes drift back to the fire. “Tomorrow night, bring me a body, but don’t let yourself be caught. A gruesome execution does not suit my immediate plans.”

“Sure,” Harruq said. “Whatever you want.”

They slept in their pile of hay and cloth. Harruq did not wake until late morning, but Qurrah slept far less. The dream had come again.

Woodhaven burned behind him, billowing smoke. The sun was gone, and no stars penetrated the blanket of rainless clouds that loomed above. Far away, a wolf howled.

Come to me, said a voice. Qurrah looked to the distance. He could see a man cloaked in black standing upon a hill. Red eyes burned through the blackness within his hood. The feeling of absolute power then was greater than Qurrah had ever felt, greater than even the master of his youth.

Why should I follow? Qurrah heard himself ask. Hands stretched to the heavens, the cloaked man laughed. His power surged with the laughter, obliterating Qurrah’s ability to stand.

Because I am eternal, said the figure. I sire war. I sow bloodshed. I create my dead, and the dead follow.

What must I do? Qurrah asked.

You know the words.

As the dream began to shatter, the words did indeed come to his mind. He could have everything he desired, but to obtain it he must give all he had.

My life for you.

Those were the words.

The following night, Harruq slipped out into the street. Lamps were lit here and there, casting shadows across the road. Harruq stayed far from Celed, the elven side of town, since they sent all their children to be raised in Nellassar, deep in the heart of the Erze forest. It was the human children, especially the poor and the destitute, that Harruq sought. Of course, none would be out playing, not with so many dead and missing. He would need to take different measures.

Not far from their home, a ratty building operated throughout the night. It was Maggie’s Place, half tavern and half orphanage. Maggie enjoyed the free labor and the ability to rant and slap her orphan workers without fear of reprisal while still maintaining the image of a heart of gold to her regulars. The tavern filled the first floor, while the orphanage and a few modest rooms for rent composed the second.

Harruq stepped into the alley beside the tavern and looked up. A window. Perfect. As he searched for a way to scale the wall, he saw a drunken man watching him.

“Get lost,” Harruq growled. The man obliged, taking his bottle of ale and running. That taken care of, the half-orc went around back where he found a few worn and uneven crates. He lifted one and approved of its strength after a simple test. Satisfied, he went back around and placed it against the wall. He was about to go back for a second when torchlight flooded the alley.

“Move and you’ll find an arrow in your throat,” said a voice.

“Pincushion him anyway,” urged another.

Harruq held a hand before his eyes, cursing his awful luck. He saw two figures, night patrolmen, and both human. One had a readied bow aimed at his neck.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harruq said.

“Sure you haven’t,” one of the patrolmen said. “Then what’s with the crate?”

The half-orc’s mind groped for a reason. “Um, well, I needed to piss, so I came out here.”

“So you needed that to go behind?” asked the other. Harruq nodded. “Bullshit. Put your hands up. I see those sword hilts.”

Harruq mumbled another curse, his pulse racing. It wouldn’t take long to down the closer soldier, provided the archer wasn’t too good a shot. Even then, he risked at least two arrows sticking in his flesh. Unsure of what to do, he played dumb and let the first soldier approach.

“Careful, he’s a biggie,” the bowman said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the other before smashing the butt of his sword into Harruq’s face. Rage surged through the half-orc’s veins, his orcish side screaming for blood. He fought it down even as a mailed fist smashed against his spine. Harruq collapsed to his knees, choking down a furious roar.

“Goes down easy, I say,” the guard said to the bowman. “How much you want to bet this guy is the sick bastard killing the kids?”

“How much you wanna bet we can hang him even if he isn’t?” the other asked.

Both guards laughed, and the sickness in Harruq’s gut grew. A boot kicked his stomach, and he knew his patience was near its end. Visions of ripping out entrails filled his mind, and all his willpower kept him crouched there. A kick to the face forced him over, and he reached for the impact point along his cheek. A sword hilt quickly found his exposed chest. Rolling over only shifted the next few blows to his back. When the heel of a boot crushed down on his kidney, Harruq felt ready to slaughter, no longer caring if he was caught or killed. He would make them both pay.

The tip of a sword pressed against the side of his neck, drawing blood from the slightest pressure.

“He looks mad,” said the guard. “Died fighting us, don’t that sound right?”

Every muscle in Harruq’s body tensed, knowing his moment to act would need to be perfect. Before he could, a feminine voice shouted down the alley, startling all three.

“Both of you, stop that this instant!”

Through blurred vision, Harruq saw a woman with auburn hair standing at the edge of the alley. The patrolmen also turned to look, their weapons still in hand.

“Who the abyss…oh, go on back to your forest, Aurelia. Nothing to see here.”

The woman pointed to the bleeding half-orc.

“I see plenty.”

“Just cleaning up some filth.” The bowman shifted his bow onto his shoulder. “Now move along.”

“I don’t see any filth. Some blood and dirt, maybe, but no filth.”

Harruq closed his eyes and listened as he tried to slow his pulse. He had no clue who this Aurelia was, but if she wanted to intervene he was glad to let her.

“This does not concern you, elf,” said one of the guards.

Harruq coughed at this. The woman saving him was an elf? Had the world turned upside down?

“Oh really?” Aurelia said. “How sad.”

“We said go, now, or else.”

“Or else what?”

The sword point left Harruq’s neck, and he assumed the guard made a threatening gesture. The next few seconds were a jumble. Sounds of surprised yells and sizzling fire filled the alleyway. The half-orc lifted his head, gasping at what he saw. One of the night patrol stood knee deep in dried mud. The other was hanging upside down from a flaming whip that failed to burn him.

“Get on up, orc,” Aurelia said. “Or half-orc, whatever you are. I can only keep them like this for a little while.”

Both men glared at Harruq as he stood, but while their mouths moved and their chests heaved neither produced a sound. The half-orc looked to the woman shrouded in the shadows cast by the fallen torch of the patrolmen.

“I said move along,” she said. “I need to give these men a talking to.”

“I’m going,” Harruq grumbled before staggering down the alley. He did not attempt either stealth or silence. Seething, he limped back to Qurrah and their home. Neither said a word as he discarded his armor, tossed his swords into a corner, and crashed onto their bed of straw. For a long moment, only the sound of Harruq’s heavy breathing filled the room.

“I assume things didn’t go well?” Qurrah finally asked. Harruq didn’t bother to answer.

The swarming sensation of power enveloped him. Beneath angry clouds, the man with red eyes beckoned.

I am waiting, he said. All the power of Dezrel is waiting.

What must I do? Qurrah asked as he crept up the hill toward the dark man as if approaching a god.

You know the words.

Can I trust you?

The red eyes flared in laughter. Can you trust anyone?

Qurrah crawled faster, knowing the dream was ending. But it couldn’t end. He had to know. He had to decide.

Say them. Say them and live.

My life for you, Qurrah shouted as the world crystallized. A red line slashed across his mind, and as the dream shattered into shards the words of the dark man ripped through him.

Then come reap the rewards.

Qurrah lurched awake, gasping for air. His throat ached, and he could feel the tiniest trickle of blood down his trachea. The night was still deep and the town quiet. Beside him, Harruq snored loud enough to wake the drunkest of men. Far away, a wolf howl beckoned.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said, leaving the town.

His doubt faded with each step. All was identical to his dreams. A mile from town, he saw the hill, a smoldering fire atop it to guide his way. Waiting there was the dark man, his red eyes shining down on him as he approached.

“Say the words,” the man in the black robe ordered. His voice was quiet but deep, a mixture of hate and malice compressed into audible form.

“How can I make such a promise to one whose name I don’t know?” Qurrah asked. In answer, the man in black stood. His eyes flared and his arms spread wide. All his power rolled forth, and on trembling knees the half-orc looked upon a man more ancient than the forests, more powerful than the fury of nature, and more death than life.

“My life for you,” he gasped as a fresh wave of terror crawled over him.

“I would have it no other way,” the man in black said. “Now tell me your name.”

“I am Qurrah Tun.”

“And I am Velixar. Rise, Qurrah, and join me by the fire. Ever since I felt your presence back at Veldaren, I have yearned to speak with you.”

The half-orc took his seat opposite the man. He stared at Velixar, hardly believing what he saw. His face was smooth, his lips small, and his sunken eyes glowing a deep crimson. His features, however, kept changing. Every time Qurrah blinked the man’s face reassembled in some minutely different way. No matter how high or low his nose, or how wide or narrow his forehead, those burning eyes remained.

“What are you?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar laughed.

“How much do you know of the gods of this world, Qurrah Tun?”

Qurrah shrugged. “I know their names and little else. Karak is death, Ashhur is life, and Celestia everything else, if the ramblings of priests and elves is to be believed.”

Velixar nodded, the fire in his eyes growing. “This world is young, Qurrah, and Karak and Ashhur are young gods. Only five-hundred years ago they came and gave life to man.” Those eyes twinkled. “I was one of the first they made.”

The half-orc pulled his ragged robe tighter about him as he stared into the fire. “How is that possible?” he asked. A soft wind blew, making the fire dance, and in the flickering flames Velixar smiled.

“I was the favorite of Karak, my dear orcish friend. He gave me life when other men would have long turned to dust. When he was defeated, and his servants were cast into the abyss, I alone escaped punishment.”

“I am not orcish,” Qurrah said, harsher than he meant.

Velixar raised his hand in a small gesture of apology. “Orcish blood is in your veins, but perhaps I am mistaken. What are you then?”

“I am a half-orc,” Qurrah said. His shoulders hunched, and his head lowered as a reluctant bit of shame stung his words. “The blood of both elves and orcs fills my veins.”

He expected to be scoffed, mocked, or banished. Instead, Velixar laughed.

“Such blasphemy against the elven goddess,” he said. “Appropriate, so appropriate. You have sworn your life to me, half-orc. You should learn what you stand to gain.”

The cloaked man reached across the fire. His fingers brushed Qurrah’s pale face. Sudden, awful pain pierced his skull. Visions flowed through those fingers, dominant and brutal.

Qurrah marched through a burning city commanding a legion of walking dead. Screams of men and women sang a constant chorus, and in the distance, a castle crumbled to stone and dust. A demonic chant filled his ears, two words repeated again and again. It was a warcry against all life.

“For Qurrah! For Qurrah!”

As the vision faded, one last sight burned into Qurrah’s mind: it was he, dressed in deep robes of black, his eyes glowing a bloody crimson.

“That was Veldaren,” Qurrah said as Velixar’s fingers pulled back. He felt awe and fear at the sight of the magnificent city ablaze.

“I want all of Neldar to burn,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “Will you aid me?”

Such a great request, a desire for destruction that most would hesitate before. For Qurrah, though, it was a fate he had long expected. It was within his blood, the cursed, the race of the ugly and the destructive. Yet it had been his elvish blood that had him banished. Such foolishness. Such idiocy.

“King Vaelor cowers at the very thought of an elf,” Qurrah said. “The rest of the city despises us for the orc within me. I will punish all of their ignorance.”

“Tomorrow night, come to me,” Velixar said. “I have much to discuss and you have much to learn.”

Qurrah stood and bowed before his new master. “I will be here,” he said. “And I will be ready.”

“Go.” Velixar waved his hand, and Qurrah obeyed.

Harruq was still snoring when Qurrah returned to bed. If he had not been so preoccupied, he would have noticed the slight irregularity of the snoring and the exaggerated movements of his brother’s chest.

Chapter IV

HARRUQ HURRIED DOWN THE ROAD, doing his best to pretend he knew what he was doing. Most of his bruises had already faded, hidden beneath the gray hue of his skin. He drew many glances, however, and he did his best to ignore them. The people of Woodhaven accepted him but still viewed his blood in bad regard. Elves and humans held little love for the orcish kind and had ever since their creation. That distaste suited Harruq just fine. Deep down, Harruq felt he deserved their ire.

He stopped by Maggie’s Place, not bothering to go inside. It was early morning and anyone already drinking would hardly be useful. Instead, he stopped the first random passerby that appeared to be a kindly person.

“Do you know of a woman named Aurelia?” he asked, butchering the pronunciation. The passerby, an elderly woman, sneered at him.

“Have fun finding that forest slut,” she said before walking on. Harruq shrugged, deciding his ability to pick kindly people wasn’t very impressive. He tried again, this time with a tired man trudging down the street.

“Never heard of her,” the man said. A few more unsuccessful attempts sent Harruq away from Singhelm and further into Celed. There the reception toward him took a significant turn for the worse. Many refused to meet his eye or acknowledge his question. The half-orc’s frustration grew.

“That’s it,” he muttered to himself. “Just one more and I’m going home. To the abyss with all this.” An elf approached. He had long brown hair, walnut eyes, and an elaborate bow slung on his back. The hardened look on his face gave Harruq little hope.

“Do you know of a woman named Aurelia?” he asked anyway.

“Aurelia?” the elf asked. “Why in all of Dezrel would you be looking for her?”

“She, um, I kind of…” The half-orc faltered. “I owe her a favor.”

The elf smiled as if trying to appear amused, but it faltered miserably.

“You are looking in the wrong place,” he said. “Search the woods just outside town. Call her name a couple times. She’ll hear you.”

“Thank you,” Harruq said, grateful even though his insides churned. He had faced many men in battle, and yet here he was, his heart skipping beats at the thought of meeting this mysterious Aurelia. What was wrong with him?

“You are welcome, half-orc,” the elf said before moving on, the bow still hung comfortably on his back. Harruq watched him go, staring longer than he felt he should. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being led into a trap.

“So be it,” he said. He would not be afraid of meeting an elf in battle. Grumbling, he stormed off for the forest.

“Aurelia!”

No answer.

“Aurelia! It’s me, from last night! Can you hear me?”

Only the calm, scattered sounds of the forest returned his call.

“Damn elf,” Harruq grumbled, crossing his arms and looking all about. “She’s probably not here. He just sent me out here to look stupid yelling at trees.”

“And what elf would that be?” asked a familiar voice from behind. Harruq whirled, his heart jumping as Aurelia stepped out from behind a tree.

To his eyes, she was even more beautiful in the streaming daylight. Long auburn hair trailed past her shoulders, curled, and ended in several thin braids. Her face and eyes were small, the curve of her bones soft and elegant. She had small lips locked in a frown as she stood cross-armed, as if waiting on him. Her ears, upturned at the peak, were tiny even for her race. She wore a long green dress bound by a golden sash.

“Well? Who sent you here?” she asked. “Was it some mean man trying to toy with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Harruq said before resuming his slack-jawed staring. Aurelia uncrossed her arms, those same soft features turning remarkably fierce as she glared at him.

“Stop that. If you don’t shut your mouth, I’m turning you into a toad.”

He shut his mouth.

“So why are you here?” she asked.

“I was just, um, I never got a chance to thank you.” Harruq felt his face flush. This was the most awful thing he had ever done. He’d prefer to face a dragon in unarmed combat. He’d have better odds surviving, too, based on Aurelia’s cold, steeled look.

“You came all the way out here to thank me? Hardly sounds like an orcish thing to do.”

One would not have thought gray skin could turn so red, but it did.

“Well, I still want to repay you.” Harruq held out a small bag containing copper coins. “It’s all I have. Please, take it.”

Aurelia glanced at the bag. “No,” she said.

“But why?”

The elf shook her head. “Your swords. Where are they?”

Harruq glanced at his waist. “They’re at my home,” he said.

“Are you any good with them?”

The half-orc shrugged. “Better than most. So yeah.”

The elf looked him up and down, sending chills roaring along his spine. It seemed so strange that she had saved his life, since at that moment he felt like all she wanted was to see him dead.

“Come tomorrow with swords to spar,” she said at last, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “You can train me to wield my staff in melee combat.”

“I don’t see a staff,” Harruq said.

“I don’t see any swords either,” she shot back.

“Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow,” Aurelia said. “Early morning.”

Harruq nodded, his whole body fidgeting. Now that he’d found her he wanted nothing more than to escape. He was supposed to thank her and go, not be mocked and ordered around.

“Go on home,” Aurelia said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

He did as commanded, and that fact disturbed him greatly. Qurrah was awake when he returned.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I went out to train,” Harruq said.

“Without them?” Qurrah pointed to Harruq’s swords stacked in the corner. The larger half-orc shrugged.

“Didn’t need them.”

Harruq went to the other side of the house and started punching holes in the walls. Qurrah might have inquired further but he was lost in his own secret. The night didn’t come soon enough for either of the two brothers.

The air was cold, a sudden chill from the north chasing away the heat of the day. Qurrah wrapped himself best he could as he climbed the hill. He spotted the small fire, and beside it Velixar bathed in its red glow. The fledgling necromancer took his seat across from the man in black.

“Are you ready to listen?” Velixar asked. Qurrah nodded. “Good. The story of this world’s gods is not lengthy, nor complicated, but it is a story that you must learn.

“Celestia created the rock, the grass, and the water. Her hand formed the wildlife, and to tend her creation she created elves. The goddess gave them long life and abundant land so quarrels within their race were of the petty sort. Then the brother gods came. Ashhur of Justice, Karak of Order. There are many worlds beyond our own, Qurrah. I have seen fleeting glimpses of them in my dreams. Karak and Ashhur came from one of those worlds, and Celestia welcomed them. To them she gave the grasslands and rolling hills.

“These brother gods did not make their own creation. Instead, they made man, much the same as man existed in their former world. They wanted to make a paradise, one of justice and order. The world they came from was full of chaos, death, and murder. This world, this land of Dezrel, would be different.”

Both men shared a soft laugh, Velixar’s far bitterer than Qurrah’s.

“What caused their failure?” Qurrah asked.

“Karak and Ashhur spoiled their creations. Crops grew bountiful and healthy. A single prayer cured all sickness and disease. Mankind spread across the land with remarkable speed, forming two kingdoms. East of the Rigon River was Neldar, ruled by Karak. To the west was Mordan, governed by Ashhur. However, there was a delta at the end of the river controlled by none. Within were a few small villages with no government, no ruler. Karak brought his troops to establish order. Ashhur was quick to defend it, and in turn, claim it as his own.”

“You speak of centuries ago,” Qurrah interrupted. “Yet you claim to be one of Karak’s first.”

“I was his high priest, half-orc,” Velixar said, his eyes narrowing. “He blessed me so I would never die of sickness, age, or blade. I have watched the world evolve, and I have watched gods make war. Do not accuse me of having a lying tongue. The truth is always enough, even for those who walk in the darkness.”

“Forgive me, master,” Qurrah said, bowing. His teeth chattered in the cold.

Velixar waved a hand. The dwindling fire between them swelled to a healthy blaze.

“The two brothers were arrogant to think they could create a paradise with a creature so full of faults as man,” Velixar continued. “I saw the battle waged in the small town of Haven, there in the center of the delta. It is an awesome thing to watch gods duel. Ashhur fled before either could strike a killing blow. I summoned our armies, as did the priests of Ashhur. Think now of the many deformed creatures that walk this world. Know they were all mere animals before the gods turned them into soldiers for their war. The elves were vicious in this time, slaying any who dared come near their forests. But some elves did side with Karak, determined to help end the war so the world could heal.”

“Did Celestia not interfere?” Qurrah asked.

In the darkness, Qurrah watched as Velixar’s face curled into a deep snarl.

“Celestia befriended both brothers, but she took Ashhur to be her lover. She begged each to stop, though neither listened. It was a dark time, Qurrah. All squabbles and wars since are a pittance compared. Ashhur’s great city of Mordeina nearly toppled to my hand, but then the priests of Ashhur brought the dead to life to fight against us. Yes, Qurrah, it was the priests of Ashhur, not Karak, who first created the undead. We were beaten back, forced into Veldaren with little hope of survival.”

The man in black removed his hood to reveal a long scar. It ran from his left ear, across his throat, and down past the neck of his robe. “I died in that battle. Celestia had begged Ashhur to make peace. He should have listened. The two gods fought once more as I remained a rotting body.”

The fire between the two suddenly roared with life. Its flames danced in the air far above their heads. Amongst the fire’s flickering tails, Qurrah saw images take shape. They were scattered and random, without time or order. He saw a small town besieged by corpses. He saw massive armies of undead marching across the plains to battle a horde of hyena-men. He saw the walls of a great city smashed to pieces as men climbed over, swords high and armor shining. And then he saw Karak and Ashhur cross blades.

He tore his eyes from the fire, unable to withstand the strength of the image. The fire shrank back to a small blaze.

“Most men cowered at the sight of it. Do not be ashamed,” Velixar said. “There might have been a victor, but Celestia interfered at last. She cast each god far beyond the sky, to where she herself had made a home. She gave half to Ashhur and half to Karak. The souls of the soldiers who fought and died alongside them were given to their masters. She cursed the elves who sided with Karak, branding them the ‘orcs,’ or ‘betrayers’ in her tongue. Once the brother gods were locked away from the world, and each other, Celestia issued her final decree.”

“What was it?” asked Qurrah after Velixar remained quiet for a moment.

“She ordered that Ashhur and Karak continue the fight they refused to end for all eternity. Many centuries have passed, Qurrah. I am the hilt of Karak’s sword, the greatest priest in the war against Ashhur, and I have not relinquished my position.”

The man’s eyes grew so bright that the half-orc felt the urge to grovel.

“Ashhur himself killed me. Karak brought me back. He cursed those who had failed him, changing his realm into the abyss. I was the only one he spared, and he gave me life with all of his dwindling power.”

The two sat in silence as the fire crackled between them. Qurrah dwelt on all he had heard, trying to decide what he believed. Strange as it seemed to him, he accepted every word.

“So what the priests say of how Karak is the god of death and darkness,” Qurrah asked, “is it true?”

Velixar’s eyes narrowed, and that vicious snarl returned.

“There were good men and evil men in his abyss after the war. The punishment was not to be eternal, not then, but Celestia chose Ashhur over my master.” Qurrah watched as Velixar’s hands clenched so tight his nails dug deep into his skin. Flesh tore, but no blood surfaced. “She took all who were good out of the abyss and gave their care to Ashhur. Left with nothing but thieves and murderers, Karak had no choice but to make it eternal. The abyss is dark, Qurrah, and there is fire, but there is also order.”

“What do you wish of me?” Qurrah asked. Velixar’s face softened into a dark smile.

“To fight the war. Celestia may have condemned it to continue forever, but she slumbers now. Harnessing enough power, we can defeat the goddess. We can bring all of Dezrel under our control and declare victory for Karak.”

Qurrah stood, his eyes glimmering with anticipation. “Where will we strike first?”

“Woodhaven is a symbol of cooperation between races. That must be ended. We will burn Veldaren to ash thereafter. Once all of Neldar is in chaos, we may proceed however we wish.”

“Will we strike the elves?” Qurrah asked.

“Why do you ask?”

The half-orc laughed.

“Mother was an orc who had lived here in Woodhaven. I do not know her name, other than what she instructed my brother and I to call her: Mama Tun. Our father was from Woodhaven, she told us. We later found out he was an elf, bizarre as it seems.”

“It is a wretched elf who would mate with an orc,” Velixar said.

“No true elf would,” Qurrah said. “This means he was weak to have done so. His weakness has seeped into my blood.”

“You hold no weakness,” the man in black said. “The blood of orcs and elves is more similar than either race would care to admit. What happened to your mother?”

“I don’t know. I was sold,” he said, his face visibly darkening.

“To whom?”

“I was never given his name,” Qurrah said. His voice, already soft and quiet, grew even quieter. “He was Master. That was all that mattered.”

“Tell me of your time with Master,” Velixar ordered.

“There is little to tell,” Qurrah said. “I was his slave. I cleaned up after him while he fed me scraps of his failed experiments. I slept in a cage. One time he caught me practicing words of magic. As punishment, he shoved a hot poker down my throat, ruining my voice into what you hear now. One night tribes of hyena-men stormed his tower, wanting vengeance for the many of their kind he had taken to butcher and maim.”

Qurrah kept his eyes low, unable to meet Velixar’s gaze.

“I was afraid when they came, but as I watched Master slaughter hundreds of them with his golems and his shields of bone I felt at home amid the carnage. I knew then what I was to become.”

“How did you escape?” Velixar asked.

“Master exhausted himself defending his tower,” Qurrah said, waving a dismissive hand. “He collapsed at the very top. I cast a spell upon his throat, filling it with ice. I watched him die and then I left that disgusting place forever.”

“You were a worthy apprentice,” Velixar said. “Especially to learn such a spell on your own. Your master was blind.”

“He was weakened,” Qurrah said. “Even the clumsiest of fighters can slay a sleeping man.”

“How old were you then?” Velixar asked.

“Nine,” Qurrah said.

The man in black shook his head. His expression showed there would be no further argument. “If you had been mine at the age of nine… my previous apprentice Xelrak held but a shred of your strength.”

Qurrah straightened at the name. “I have heard of Xelrak. He toppled the Citadel.”

Velixar smiled as he remembered a cherished memory. “Indeed. It was his finest hour, and a significant victory for Karak. The paladins of Ashhur are all but crushed.”

“What happened to him?”

His burning eyes held no kindness when the man in black spoke.

“Xelrak failed. Despite all the power I granted him, he failed. He tried to destroy the Council of Mages, but they destroyed him instead.” Velixar gave a greedy look at Qurrah. “He was but a starving boy when I found him. I gave him a name and lent him my power. It is how I have survived all these centuries. I do not risk my own life, choosing instead to give my power to others. I am the hilt, and my apprentice is the blade. But you…”

Again that greedy look.

“You are extraordinary. I do not have to give you unearned power. I must simply guide and instruct.” Velixar stood, and when his power flared, Qurrah fell to his knees and worshipped his new master. “You are what I have searched for all these years. You and I will destroy this world side by side. We will lay waste to all life and put absolute order upon every last soul.”

“Teach me,” Qurrah said, his mouth buried into the dirt. “Show me the power I have sought for so very long.”

Velixar looked down at his thin, ragged apprentice. “Rise. Let us begin.”

Velixar taught until the stars retreated from the obnoxious sun. Qurrah returned home, his eyes sagging and his mind exhausted. When he climbed into bed, he fell asleep instantly. Not long after, Harruq rose, took his swords, and left for his own meeting.

“You’re late,” Aurelia said, stepping out from behind a tree. Harruq shrugged and held out two branches he had whittled into crude imitations of swords.

“Had to make something for me to spar you with,” he said.

“Those sticks are unnecessary,” Aurelia said as she took up her staff, the tiniest hint of a smile curling on her lips. “Draw your swords.”

“Are you sure?” Harruq asked, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to her completely unarmored figure. “I’ll only end up hurting you.”

“You won’t,” she said. “Here. Strike me with your blade.”

The half-orc’s jaw dropped a little. “You’ve lost your mind?”

“I said hit me, orc!” Aurelia shouted.

Harruq snarled, and out came his weapons. He swung for her face, turning the blade at the last moment so the flat side struck her. The sword smacked off Aurelia’s cheek as if she were made of stone. The clear noise rang throughout the forest.

“What the abyss was that?” Harruq asked.

Aurelia laughed. “I’ve cast an enchantment that protects me from your blades.”

Harruq looked at his weapons and then shrugged. “Interesting. Do I get one too?”

In answer, Aurelia smacked her staff against Harruq’s shin. The half-orc roared in pain as he hopped up and down on one foot.

“Damn it!” he shouted. “What was that for?”

“Hitting you is my reward for doing well,” she said. “Consider it my way of making sure you don’t go easy on me. So are you ready to begin?”

Harruq mumbled something obscene. He nodded, swinging in a low chop. As his sword struck her staff, the sparring began.

Aurelia was familiar with her staff, the wood comfortable in her grip. She had no sense of tactic, though, and all it took was a quick feint or two before she left herself horribly open.

Harruq used only one sword, running it in slow circles, stabs, and the occasional feint. He enjoyed the steady workout but savored even more watching Aurelia move gracefully through the air. Whenever his eyes lingered too long, however, he’d feel the sharp sting of Aurelia’s staff against his arms or chest.

When they finished, Harruq slumped onto his rear and rubbed his bruises.

“I shouldn’t be able to hit you,” Aurelia said as she sat across from him, her legs tucked underneath her.

“Yeah, so?” Harruq asked.

“So tomorrow don’t let me hit you,” she said.

The half-orc mumbled and rolled his eyes. Aurelia leaned back against a tree, her eyes studying him. Her look gave him shivers, both good and bad.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said. Harruq raised an eyebrow. “Your childhood. Your likes. Your life.”

“For what reason?” he asked.

“I heard those men. I saved you from the gallows. I would prefer to know more about the life I spared.”

Harruq leaned his head on his fist and stared at the grass, growing increasingly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Not too much to tell really. My brother and I grew up in Veldaren, and about three months ago the king kicked out all elves. Believe it or not, that included us.”

Aurelia grabbed his sleeve to halt him. “First, who is your brother? Second, since when are you elvish?”

The half-orc chuckled, but still kept his eyes downward. “Our mum was an orc. Dad was an elf. Never met dad, and mum sold Qurrah and me when we were both little. I ran away and lived on the streets of Veldaren. Found Qurrah about a year or two later, hiding in the streets after he escaped his master. My brother, well…”

She watched as Harruq struggled through some sort of internal debate. His brown eyes finally rose to meet hers.

“Qurrah’s like you, but not. You can cast magic right?” Aurelia nodded. “Well, he can too. But he… he’s different. When we were kids, he found a little mouse. It was dead as dead can be. He closed his hands around it, just like this, and then whispered some words he learned from secretly watching Master.”

“Master?” Aurelia asked, interrupting him again.

“Yeah,” Harruq said, frowning. “My brother didn’t have too much fun before I found him. We were both sold, but I escaped. Qurrah, though, he was sold to Master...forget it, that’s for another time. All that matters is that he learned those words before he met me. He whispered something, opened his hands, and then just like that the mouse got up and started running.”

“He brought it to life?” she asked.

“Well…” Again he stopped, obviously uneasy about what he wanted to say. “It was still dead, but it was moving now. That make sense? Qurrah could make it do whatever he wanted. He let it run off and die, that first one he showed me. He was pretty shy about it. Don’t think he had any idea how I would react.”

Harruq suddenly stopped and laughed. “You should have seen us, Aurelia. We spent the rest of the day chasing after mice so we could stomp them and have Qurrah bring them back to do tricks.”

Aurelia smiled at the burly half-orc.

“You really made them do tricks?” she asked.

“Well, yeah, some jumps and flips. We tried to see how high we could make one climb before… what?”

She was smiling, but when pressed she refused to answer him. Instead, she stood, brushed off her dress, and flipped her hair over her shoulders. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

“Sure,” Harruq said. “But how many times will we be doing this?”

Aurelia shrugged. “Until I feel you have paid me back.”

“So what, a couple days?”

“You know very well I can’t obtain any proficiency in such a short time,” she said.

Harruq shrugged. “Fine then,” he said. “How long you want me stuck here with you?”

“Two weeks,” she said. The elf danced away behind a tree. Harruq followed, but all he caught when he stepped around was a tiny line of blue fading on the afternoon wind.

“That was interesting,” he said before returning to Woodhaven.

Deeper in the forest, Aurelia stepped out of a glowing blue portal. An elf waited there, an ornate bow slung across his back.

“So do you think it could be him?” he asked her.

“Perhaps,” Aurelia said. “I think it’s in him. Something is wrong, though. He’s too light hearted, too free.”

“What does that mean?” the other elf asked, his fingers twitching at the string of his bow.

“I don’t know, Dieredon.” Aurelia sighed. “It means he’s capable, but would not do so without reason. If he’s butchering the children, he’s doing it for someone else.”

“Who?” Dieredon asked.

She shrugged. “My guess is his brother. He sounds like a necromancer.”

Dieredon nodded. “I’ll find him and watch him for a bit. If either of them slaughters another child, I will see it and put an end to it.”

Aurelia pulled a few strands of hair away from her mouth and tucked them behind her ear.

“This seems like a small matter for a scoutmaster to be involved. Are you sure you have nothing more important to do?”

“Murdered human children?” Dieredon shrugged. “Let the humans and orcs do as they wish, but when they butcher their young they must be made to suffer. You were right to contact me, Aurelia.”

“I hope so,” Aurelia said. “I saw one of the bodies, and what was done to him, those vile carvings…”

Dieredon kissed her forehead.

“Put it behind you so you may focus on the task at hand. If the half-orcs are guilty, they will make a mistake soon enough. Your eyes and ears are vital in confirming their guilt.”

“I’ll try to keep him talking,” Aurelia said. “And I’ll find out more about his brother. I hope I can bear Harruq’s company in the meanwhile. He can be quite a brute sometimes.”

“Come now,” Dieredon said, his face suddenly brightening into a smile. “He sounds like a real fine man to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you two got married. Perhaps a kid or three. Little gray-skinned Aurrys crawling over the forest, wouldn’t that be cute?”

She smacked him with her staff and then teleported away, leaving Dieredon to laugh long after her departure.

“Where did you get the bruises?” Qurrah asked when Harruq returned to their squalid home.

“Practicing,” Harruq said. “We have anything to eat?”

His brother motioned to a small plate of bacon and some eggs still in their shells.

“Wonderful.”

The smaller half-orc watched his brother wolf down the meal.

“Would you accompany me into madness?” he asked. Harruq gave him a funny look, half a piece of bacon still hanging in his mouth.

“Of course I would,” he replied. “If you go mad, I’ve got no chance in this world. You brains, me brawn, right?”

“Yes,” Qurrah said absently. “That’s right. But would you kill? Without reason, without pause. Could you?”

Harruq cracked open an egg and swallowed it raw.

“Don’t I do so already?” he asked. “If I had to pick between the world and you, the entire world would be a bloody mess.”

He swallowed the other egg, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and burped.

“Well put, Harruq,” Qurrah said.

Chapter V

“DID YOU PRACTICE THE SPELLS I taught you?” Velixar asked as Qurrah took his seat by the fire.

“Yes,” Qurrah said. “I am more than pleased with them.”

“You will need to keep a fresh supply of bones with you,” Velixar said, reaching into his pouch. “Take these for now until you can obtain more.”

Qurrah accepted the bones, stashing them into a small pocket he had sewn onto his robe. A silence fell over the two as far away a wolf howled.

“I wonder,” Velixar said, gazing in the direction of the howl. “Do you have a brother?”

Qurrah shifted his weight a bit. “Why do you ask?”

Velixar looked up to the moon and stared as he spoke.

“I have had dreams. I see you beside me, a strong ally, but I see another half-orc leading my army. He is strong and wields two enormous swords. Again I ask, do you have a brother?”

Qurrah pulled out a bone from his pouch and stared at it.

“I do,” he said. “You wish for him to help?”

“He will do more than aid us,” Velixar whispered to the moon. “His power is as great as yours, Qurrah. You two are vessels of possibility unseen in centuries. It is as if one of the gods had a hand in your creation.”

Qurrah chuckled. “If any god had a hand in creating us, we were forgotten soon after. We both have suffered, I more than Harruq. We never had a home or a family. By will alone we survived. There is nothing special about us, not even our blood.”

“And that is why you are strong,” the man in black said, his lips ever-changing. “All things are for a reason. Even those who dwell in the darkness such as I will not deny this truth. You were meant for me. I will train you, and you will aid me in sundering all that brings false stability to this chaotic world.”

“For death and power,” Qurrah whispered.

“For Karak,” Velixar corrected. “When can I meet your brother?”

The half-orc shrugged. While he seemed calm, the man in black did not miss how his eyes still refused to meet his.

“Give me time,” Qurrah said. “Let me make sure he is ready.”

“Is he not open to Karak?” Velixar asked.

“He is open,” Qurrah said a bit too vehemently. A glare from Velixar calmed him before he continued. “My brother can be a mindless butcher, but he must be angered or spurned into battle. When peaceful, his mind entertains ideas that run… contrary to what he and I are.”

“And what is that, Qurrah? What are you and your brother?”

The fire sparked a shower of orange into the sky as Qurrah spoke.

“Superior.”

In the distance, elven eyes watched that cough of flame stretch to the stars, as well as the sight of those two huddled figures talking long through the night.

The first week of training went well for both Harruq and Aurelia. The half-orc kept on the offensive, determined not to add a fresh set of bruises to his body. Aurelia still fell for the feints, however slow, but her blocks were already quicker and more precise. They fought until both collapsed against trees, sweat soaking their bodies.

“You’re starting to get the hang of it,” Harruq said after their fifth session.

“Don’t flatter me,” Aurelia said, refastening one of her braids that had come loose. “You’re still going too easy.”

“If I move too fast you won’t learn anything,” Harruq insisted.

“How do you know?” she asked. “Do you train elves often?”

The half-orc grinned. “All the time. I’m known for it, in fact. Harruq Tun, trainer of elves, slayer of dragons, and man of the ladies.”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “Not this lady.”

“Never said you were one, elfie.”

Aurelia gave Harruq a brutal glare. “And why not?”

He picked at some grass and said nothing.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well what?” He looked up, his face blank and his eyes wide as if he hadn’t a clue.

“Why am I not a lady?” Aurelia asked.

“I don’t know,” Harruq said. “Did you cast a spell on yourself or something? Look like one to me.”

She stood and took up her staff. Instead of grabbing his swords, Harruq ducked behind a tree.

“Don’t hurt me,” he shouted. His face poked around the tree, his long brown hair falling down past his eyes. Much as she tried not to, Aurelia burst into laughter.

“Get over here,” she said.

A small silver dagger appeared in her hands. Harruq eyed it warily.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“When was the last time you cut your hair?” Aurelia asked.

The half-orc shrugged, for some reason embarrassed. “I don’t know. I just hack it off with a sword if it ever gets to be a bother. Been awhile, though.”

“It shows.” The elf motioned to the grass before her. “Sit, and tell me another of your wonderful stories while I make you look less like an animal.”

Harruq grumbled, but when she frowned and crossed her arms the normal defiance in him melted away. He plopped down and sighed.

“Something must be wrong with me,” he said.

“Shut up and start telling me more about yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it.”

So the half-orc shut up, paused, shrugged, and then began.

“Well, this isn’t a happy tale, but it’s the only one I can think of. It’s about a present Qurrah gave me. He’s a softie at times, and this is one of them times.”

Aurelia smoothed his hair in her fingers, frowned, and then sliced off a large chunk with the incredibly sharp dagger. Brown hair fell in clumps at Harruq’s feet.

“You’re going to leave me some up there, right?” he asked.

“Don’t make me cut your ears,” Aurelia warned.

Harruq began his story. He told her of a gift from his brother, a tiny sword Qurrah had whittled from bone. A bully had stolen it, but then Qurrah used a dead rat under his control to steal it back while they slept.

The haircut and the story ended at the same time. Dirty hair was strewn over the grass.

“Never had much,” Harruq said. “That bone sword was my only possession. Still had to hide it because of that bully. You know, it’s probably still there, buried underneath our home.”

“You and your brother had such rough beginnings,” Aurelia said, tucking away the dagger. “Very rough.”

Harruq shrugged. “Never seemed a big deal to us. Others were better off. A few were worse. We did what we had to live, just like everybody else.”

He ran a hand through his now shoulder-length hair, shaking away loose strands. It felt odd having so little hair on his head. Aurelia sat down on her legs, her hands folded upon her dress.

“Harruq, have you killed before?” she asked.

The half-orc opened his mouth and then closed it. A boy’s face flashed before his eyes.

You’re an orc, aren’t you?

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ve killed.”

He eyed Aurelia, desperately wishing to know what she thought yet unable to figure out why he even cared. He thought he saw pity in her eyes, perhaps compassion. But there was a hardness there, a doubting that made him wonder just how much of him she truly knew.

“Tell me of the first time,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not today. Maybe some other session, if I feel I can.”

They both stood, Aurelia stepping away while Harruq stretched and popped his back.

“Goodbye Harruq,” she said.

The elf was almost past the trees when he spoke. “Hey, Aurelia?”

“Yes, Harruq?” she said, turning to face him.

“Have you ever killed?”

She paused, and then ever so slightly nodded. The two parted without another word.

“What did you learn this time?” Dieredon asked as Aurelia arrived at their designated spot in the forest.

“Something is wrong,” she told him. “He’s kind-hearted, even goofy. He takes to his swordcraft with almost perfectionist precision. Everything else he does is for fun or survival.” Aurelia sighed and rubbed her hands across her face.

“It could all be an act,” Dieredon ventured. “Or just a side of his personality. Perhaps you see the elf in him. There are multiple sides to all men, for only the insane and the dull contain just one facet to their being. It could be Harruq’s orcish side that pushes him to kill the children.”

She nodded at the possibility. “I will defer to your wisdom. The more time I spend with him, the more I wonder. What about you? What have you learned?”

Dieredon’s face darkened. “His brother worries me. I have seen him conversing at night with a strange man.”

“Strange?” she asked. “How so?”

He chuckled. “It may sound odd, but I can see his eyes. They burn like fire. He dresses himself in the black robes of a priest, and I cannot find his tracks come the morning. That doesn’t happen, Aurelia. If it moves, I can track it. And I can’t find a thing.”

“These two brothers are certainly a mystery,” Aurelia said.

“When will you meet this other brother?” Dieredon asked.

“Qurrah?” Aurelia shrugged. “When Harruq is ready for us to meet.”

“Very well. I will continue tracking them. There have been no murders for the past few days. It seems our warnings have worked, for now.”

Aurelia smiled. “Praise Celestia for that. May she watch over you, Dieredon.”

“And you as well, Aurelia Thyne,” he replied.

“Clear your mind,” Velixar said to his apprentice. “Let the emptiness give you comfort.”

The wind blew, swirling cold through his ragged clothes. Velixar watched his apprentice take several deep breaths.

“For this spell to work, you must have a significant idea in mind,” he said. “Make it bleak and vile. If you are to darken someone’s dreams, your own mind must be just as dark.”

Qurrah breathed out, his eyelids fluttering as a memory surfaced in his meditation.

“Send the image to me, my apprentice. Let me have the anger, the darkness, and the despair.”

Velixar lurched backward as the memory rammed into his mind. Qurrah was unpracticed, and his delivery brutal. Still, the vision did come, clouded and chaotic.

A gang of children slept on a stack of hay. They were filthy, scrawny, and diseased. A small rat crept near, its mouth covered with flecks of white foam. When close enough, it latched onto the hand of the biggest child, who awoke screaming. Time distorted so that days passed as that scream lingered. His face paled, his mouth foamed, and then he died, screaming, still screaming.

The vision ended. Velixar opened his eyes.

“What is it that I saw?” he asked.

“The second time I ever killed,” Qurrah said. “I watched that wretched bully succumb to madness from the disease carried by an undead rat. He took something I made for my brother, and I made him pay dearly for it.”

The man in black nodded, going over the memory in his mind.

“Could be darker, though,” he said. “You need not use memories, but they are easier to project. Any thought can be sent to those who slumber. After you have practiced, we will try with images you created on your own.”

The half-orc pulled his robes around him and looked back to the city. “When will we assault Woodhaven?” he asked.

Velixar’s face was an unmoving stone. “When did I say we would?”

“When we first met,” Qurrah said. “You said the cooperation between the races needs to end. If we are to destroy our home, I must know when.”

Then Velixar did something completely unexpected. He laughed.

“It will not be our hands that destroy Woodhaven,” Velixar said. “King Vaelor will do so for us by starting a war that will give us the dead we need.”

“How?” Qurrah asked.

The fire burned in Velixar’s eyes, deep with anticipation.

“I will darken his dreams, just as I have shown you. He is a cowardly man, and fears the elves already. I played a large part in his decision to banish the elves from the city. After I’m done, he will want them gone from all his lands, including here.”

The man in black gestured to the city nestled against the forest.

“This city has long been treated neutral, even though it resides within Neldar’s border. The elves will not take kindly to removal from a home many have lived in since before our dear king’s grandparents were alive.”

“I eagerly await the bloodshed,” Qurrah said. He bowed to his master.

“Go. The night is young. Taint the dreams of the slumbering.”

Qurrah left Velixar to sit alone before the fire. The dark night sang a song of crickets and wind. In the quiet, Dieredon entered the light of the fire.

“Greetings, traveler,” the elf said, bowing. “The town is not far, and all are welcome. Would you not sleep in safety rather than in the wild?”

Velixar looked at the elf, dressed in camouflaged armor and holding his wicked bow.

“You are a scoutmaster for the Quellan elves, are you not?” he asked.

“I am. And you have remained outside our village for several days yet vanish with the morning sun.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Velixar asked.

Dieredon frowned, noticing the subtle yet constant changes to the man’s facial features. His instincts cried out in warning. This man was dangerous.

“Children have been dying in our forest, all found horribly butchered,” Dieredon said.

“As you can plainly see, I am nowhere near the forest,” Velixar said. His voice was calm, disarming. Dieredon did not buy it.

“Give me your name,” he said.

“Earn the privilege,” Velixar countered. The elf’s arms blurred, and then the bow was in his hands. He pulled no arrow, though, for he held the weapon much like one would hold a staff.

“Leave this place,” Dieredon ordered as two long blades snapped out of either side of the bow and many spikes punched out the front. The man in black rose to his feet, an aura of death and despair rolling out around him.

“You should not threaten those who can rip the bones from your body with a thought,” he said, his voice dripping with venom.

“And you should not threaten an elf who can tear out your throat before a single word of a spell may pass through your lips. Go. Now.”

“As you wish,” Velixar said, giving a low, mocking bow. Then he was gone, fading away like smoke on a strong wind. Dieredon sprinted back to Woodhaven, knowing that the darkness was no longer safe to him.

Chapter VI

ONE SWORD CAME FROM ABOVE, aiming for her shoulder, while the other thrust low. The staff twirled, batting the thrust to one side. Aurelia spun, evading a downward strike slicing through the air by just an inch. She continued the turn, her staff whirling. The swords sliced, trying to block, but they were too slow. The staff cracked against Harruq’s forehead.

He staggered backward, his eyes going wide and blank.

“You could fell an ogre with that hit,” he said.

“Very funny,” Aurelia said. She smiled. “That was my first good hit of the day. Mind if we make it the last?”

“I’m doomed,” Harruq said, ignoring her. “Oh, the agony. What a way to die.” He collapsed, his arms splayed wide and his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Aurelia giggled. “Never thought a half-orc dying could be so adorable.”

His eyes flared wide.

“I’m not!” he insisted.

She slid over beside him, her long hair cascading toward his face.

“Oh, but I think you are,” she said. “Since you’re down here, how about I—”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Harruq sat up, breathing heavily even though the sparring match had been relatively casual. The elf smirked and trotted away.

“Hey, Aurelia,” Harruq said.

“Yes, Harruq?” She turned around.

Harruq tapped his fingers against the hilts of his swords and glanced about the clearing.

“I…you still want to hear that story?” he asked.

The playful atmosphere vanished into the trees. Aurelia returned and sat on her heels. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He tensed and jerked away, then blushed at his reaction.

“Sorry,” Harruq stood up, his face burning red. “This is stupid. I’m leaving.”

“Stay, please,” Aurelia said. The half-orc halted, turned, and sat back down. His face was still beet red but the elf paid it no mind.

“Alright,” Harruq grumbled. “No interrupting, and no saying a thing. I just want to get this over with. Don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because you must,” she said, a bit of her stubbornness returning. “Because I need to know.”

The half-orc nodded. He began his story.

“The only money I ever made was working for the king,” Harruq said. “This was after the orcs attacked Veldaren about a year ago and busted up the walls. They were hiring everybody to help rebuild and I was just as strong then as I am now. They weren’t paying much, but you got to remember we were stealing food to live. Those few coins they gave me were a treasure.

“Most didn’t mind me working with ‘em. I worked hard, harder than most, and I kept my mouth shut if you can believe it. Only one guy there hated me, and I mean hated. Perry was his name. Always calling me names, trying to make me lose my balance while lifting and carrying things. Then he did something stupid, Aurelia. He did that in front of Qurrah.”

Harruq thrust out his chin and squinted.

“This was how that Perry guy looked. Seen dogs look more human. He was strong, and I think he was the strongest before I showed up. I told him about this contest me and Qurrah made up, some arm wrestling thing. Guy was drunk out of his mind, so when I told him we could win four gold coins he should have figured something was off.

“We met after work, just past sundown, and I led him straight to Qurrah, who cast a spell on Perry then, kind of like you did with the guards. He shouted until his head turned purple but made no sound for the effort. Then Qurrah cast another spell that made him go all tough and rigid. Felt like I was holding a stick. We took him inside and put him on the floor.

“He wasn’t supposed to die,” Harruq said, staring right into Aurelia’s eyes so she would know he spoke the truth. “We didn’t mean to have what happened happen, but well... Qurrah put a bunch of meat on Perry’s face. It was old and rancid. Poor guy still had to keep smelling it though, and then Qurrah cast his spell.

“The meat started bubbling and turning watery. It ran down his face, getting into his eyes. It burned him. His skin turned black, like it was rotting. He called me dogface all the time, Perry did. We were making him just like what he called me. A dogface. But it went wrong. I yelled at Qurrah to stop, and I think he wanted to, but he kept shrieking more of that curse. Then he…”

Harruq rubbed his eyes and refused to meet Aurelia’s gaze.

“And then Qurrah removed the spells that kept him from talking and moving. He screamed and screamed and he just, he just…he tore off his own face. He reached up and yanked that mess off him. He died. Qurrah fell over, too weak to stand. Never seen him so scared in my life. He kept staring at that guy’s face and blubbering, saying he didn’t mean to. That’s all he said, over and over. He didn’t mean to. He tried to stop. We burned the body and haven’t ever talked about it since.”

Silence filled their clearing as Harruq’s story ended.

“I asked for the first time you killed,” Aurelia said after an agonizingly long pause.

“I know,” Harruq said. “And I did. I brought Perry to Qurrah. I failed to stop him when I saw something was wrong. If there is blame, it falls on me.”

The elf stared off into the forest, her brown eyes seeing nothing. Harruq and Qurrah’s relationship could not be clearer to her mind. Qurrah directed, Qurrah ordered, and then Harruq bore the guilt and the blame. Did Harruq ever consider disobedience? She didn’t know.

“We done here?” the half-orc asked.

He left without giving her a chance to answer.

The final days of sparring with Aurelia passed quietly and swiftly. Aurelia asked for no stories and Harruq told her none. They simply enjoyed each other’s company, fought to the extent of their skill, and then parted. On the fourteenth and final day, however, Harruq was in an unusually quiet mood. His mind refused to stay on the mock combat, and many times a quick jab of Aurelia’s staff cracked his arm or wrist when he should have easily deflected it away.

Finally, the elf called it a day. She set aside her staff.

“I thank you for sparring with me,” she told him.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Better to spar with someone than practice alone.”

Aurelia smiled. “You’re different than what I expected, Harruq. Smarter, too.”

Harruq blushed. “No need for lies,” he said.

The elf laughed a little but said nothing. Instead, she walked over and gave Harruq a quick peck on the cheek.

“Keep your big butt safe, okay?” she said.

The half-orc tried to answer but his mouth refused to cooperate. Somehow, it seemed to have become unhinged. Besides, it wasn’t as if he could think of anything to say. All his mind could concentrate on was the feel of the elf’s soft lips on his cheek, the flowery scent of her perfume mixed with sweat, and the quick brush of her breasts against his arm.

By the time his jaw and mind began working again, Aurelia was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded. The elf smiled.

“Nothing. Just a big stupid half-orc I’m going to miss. Bye-bye.”

She waved and then vanished into the forest. For a long time, Harruq remained. He ran a hand through his hair and pondered what in the abyss was wrong with him.

“Never get involved with elves,” he mumbled. “Never ever should have gotten myself screwed up like this.”

But a part of him liked it, and that scared him even more.

Harruq arrived at the clearing the next morning at the same time as always. Aurelia stepped out from behind a tree, her cold, emotionless face so different from the previous day.

“We have sparred our two weeks, Harruq,” she said. “You have no need to come here.”

“Yeah, well, you heard what I said yesterday,” Harruq said, his face red.

“What was that?”

He kicked a rock. “It’s better to spar with another, remember?”

Aurelia frowned. “You know I am a sorceress. My time should be spent studying my craft. I only wanted to be proficient with my staff, not a master.”

A tiny bit of panic crept into Harruq’s voice. “Yeah, but, but, it’s only an hour or two, and who said you were proficient anyway? I could beat you without trying, and so could anyone better than me. It would be stupid now to just stop and…”

Aurelia crossed the distance between them and placed her hand across his mouth to shut him up. A grin lit her entire face.

“Okay, Harruq. I will do as you wish and keep meeting with you.”

“For sparring,” he said after she pulled her hand away.

“Sure. That too.”

Harruq blushed but let it go.

“Well, you ready to go, little elfie?” he said, trying act gruff.

“Of course.” Aurelia retrieved her staff, smiling to herself. The offer flattered her more than Harruq could know.

“Well,” Aurelia said, twirling her staff. “Ready for a go?”

“Oh yeah,” Harruq said, drawing his swords. “You’ve got no idea.”

But she did, and it made her laugh all the more.

Chapter VII

“IT IS TIME I MET your brother,” Velixar said as the clouds rolled above, obscuring the waning moon. He had trained with Qurrah for almost two months, and over that time the half-orc had grown greatly in power. “King Vaelor’s nightmares have never been stronger, and he will act upon them soon.”

“I am not sure Harruq is ready,” Qurrah said. “It is difficult enough bringing me here. The two of us sneaking out each night might be noticed.”

“You will draw no attention,” Velixar said, ending the debate. “Bring him. Let him swear his life to me.”

“As you wish, my master,” Qurrah said with a bow.

“Hey Aurry, I got something for you!”

Harruq tramped into the clearing, his two swords sheathed. Aurelia waited there, her arms crossed.

“A present from a half-orc,” she said. “Should I be worried?”

“Nope. Just take it.” He held out a small brown box. It was in poor shape, picked out of a heap of trash, but the elf could see the great care spent attempting to clean and fix it.

“What is inside?” she asked as she took the box.

“Open it,” Harruq said. “You’ll see.”

Aurelia pried off the lid and peered inside. A small bouquet of flowers lay on the bottom of the box. She lifted them up, smiling at the violets, blues, and reds.

“That’s sweet Harruq, but why?”

“Just to, you know.” He kicked a rock. “Wanted to thank you for sparring with me,” he said.

“They’re beautiful,” Aurelia said as she inhaled the aroma. “But why the box?”

Harruq turned a new shade of red. “Well, I’d look weird walking down the street with those flowers in hand. I do have a reputation to keep.”

The elf laughed. “Thank you, Harruq. Are you ready to begin?”

He nodded, eager to have the awkwardness pass. Aurelia twirled the staff in her hands as her smile faded into seriousness. Harruq drew his swords, and then they sparred.

“You’re out later than normal,” Qurrah said when Harruq returned to their home.

“I get restless stuck in here,” he said. He dropped his weapons in the corner, shed much of his leather armor, and then released a loud groan as he settled down.

“Harruq, I must ask a favor of you,” Qurrah said. He sat next to his brother.

“Sure thing,” Harruq said. “What you need?”

Qurrah fiddled with the bones in his pouch. “There is someone I need you to meet.”

Harruq raised an eyebrow. “The person you’ve been sneaking off to each night?” he asked.

“You know?” Qurrah asked.

“Course,” he said, shrugging. “You’re sneaky, brother, but I’m not as deep a sleeper as you think I am. So who is this person?”

Qurrah bit his lower lip. “His name is…he will tell you his name. He is powerful, Harruq. Very powerful. I’ve taken him as my teacher, and I want him to become yours as well.”

Harruq raised his arms and flexed, watching his calloused hands open and close. “What can a teacher of magic offer me?” he asked.

Qurrah chuckled.

“You’d be surprised,” he replied. “But will you accompany me tonight?”

“Fine, fine, I will,” he said.

“You will impress him, Harruq, do not worry about that.”

Qurrah left his brother to rest.

“Grab my wrist,” Qurrah said as the dark cloud arrived that night. Harruq did so, and together they stepped inside. He felt an unseen hand grab his chest, and then they were running blind. The minutes crawled, their frantic breathing the only audible sound. Qurrah lagged further and further behind, unable to keep the pace. Harruq tightened his grip on his wrist and pulled him along. The terrain sloped beneath them as they climbed a hill. Another quick shift and they were stumbling down that same hill. The cold hand vanished. The cloud dissipated. Before him, standing with his arms crossed, waited Velixar.

Qurrah stunned his brother by falling to one knee and bowing his head.

“Greetings, master,” Qurrah said. “I have brought him as you asked.”

Delighted, Velixar grinned as he surveyed the tall, muscular half-orc. As with Qurrah, he saw the untapped potential, incredible strength, and skill waiting for a purpose to harness it. The subtle shift of Velixar’s features slowed as he approached. When he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice, Harruq struggled against a sudden urge to join his brother on one knee.

“So you are Harruq?” the man in black asked.

“I am,” Harruq said.

Velixar reached out a hand. It was frail, bony. So similar to his brother’s.

“Kneel.”

Harruq did so unwillingly.

“I am Velixar,” he continued. “I am the voice of Karak. I’ve heard much about you, Harruq Tun, bastard child of an orcish womb. You are strong, and I sense your anger raging to be unleashed.”

Harruq trembled, indeed feeling that anger. He felt it deep inside his chest, urging him to rise and defy Velixar.

“The orcish were elves who swore their lives to Karak. Part of you still yearns to do what your ancestors have done. They reveled in bloodshed, warred against men who followed a false god. I offer you a chance to do as you were meant to and serve Karak. Answer me this question, half-orc. Do you love your brother?”

A chill ran through his spine. He glanced to Qurrah, who still knelt. His eyes were focused on him. In them, he saw pride.

“Aye, I do,” Harruq said. “I would do anything for him.”

Velixar let his hand slowly lower until his fingertips hovered before Harruq’s forehead.

“Then I ask you this: will you devote your life to the protection of his? Will you swear your life to me, as your brother has? I can guide you, teach you, and give you the power to protect him. Answer me.”

Harruq looked once more at his brother and then let his head fall.

“I swear my life to you. And to Qurrah.”

“I would have it no other way,” Velixar said.

A hand touched his forehead. All the anger that had raged inside Harruq roared like a fire suddenly loosed upon a dry forest. Sweat poured from his skin. His head jerked upward, his eyes soaking in the white of Velixar’s hand and the dim glow of the stars. Power flowed into him, his muscles stretching and tightening in a chaotic manner.

“Rise, Harruq Tun,” Velixar said. “Revel in the power of Karak.”

“By the gods, brother, if you could see yourself,” Qurrah said, his voice full of shock and wonder.

“Just one god, Qurrah,” Velixar corrected. “All this by the hand of one. I am that hand.”

Harruq stood and looked down. His arms and legs bulged with muscle. He flexed his arm and stared at the growth that traveled all the way up to his neck. He felt within himself a lifewell of energy, one infinitely deep.

“Discard your swords, Harruq,” Velixar said. “You are the protector of my disciple. You deserve better.”

He slid his two swords out from their sheaths, stunned by the ease in which he moved them. It was if they went from being made of steel to air. He tossed them aside. Velixar pulled from within his cloak a chest the size of a small stone. He placed it on the grass where it shone gold in the light of the stars. As the two brothers watched, he whispered a few words of magic, enlarging the chest to normal size.

“Over the centuries, I have gathered many items to aid those who would swear their lives to me,” Velixar said. The locks clicked open, the lid raised, and then he reached inside and pulled out two swords sheathed in gleaming obsidian. “These swords were once wielded by Aerland Shen. He led the elves that aided Karak in the great war against Ashhur. When Celestia cursed his kind, they shared his curse.” Velixar smiled at Harruq, his eyes gleaming.

“Long have I waited for someone to wield these blades. An elf crafted and used them in battle, an elf cursed into an orc. These swords can only be held by one who has the blood of both inside him.” Velixar held the hilts out to Harruq, who drew one from its sheath. The sword’s blade was deep black and wreathed in a soft red glow. He weaved it through the air, his mouth agape at the ease in which it glided.

“They are not as long as your previous weapons,” Velixar said, “but you will adjust. These blades will make you faster and more skillful than ever before. Forget everything you know about yourself, and know only that you are unstoppable.”

Harruq took the other sword and held both in his hands. He noticed the writing that flared on each hilt, one red, the other gold.

“What do they say?” he asked, staring at them in wonder.

“Condemnation and Salvation. You are judgment, Harruq. May it be swift and merciless.”

Harruq sheathed the swords and clipped them to his belt. He knelt as his head swirled.

“Thank you, master.”

“None are more deserving,” Qurrah said, putting an arm on his brother’s shoulder.

“There is one, and it is you, Qurrah,” Velixar said. He pulled out one item more before closing the chest and shrinking it back to its original size. In his hand remained a long black whip that curled about as if alive.

“Weapons may not be your preference, but I trust you will find some use for this.”

As both brothers watched, the whip burst into flame. Velixar cracked it once to the grass, instantly charring the green earth into ash.

“Why?” Qurrah asked.

“Magic is not your greatest weapon, my disciple. Fear and pain are, and this whip is capable of producing both.”

The fire died as the whip wound itself around Velixar’s arm like a snake. He held it out to Qurrah, who took it with great reverence.

“With but a thought it will strike as you wish,” his master told him. “Let it learn your heart, and you will find it more than sufficient.” Velixar held out his arms and smiled at the two half-orc brothers. They both knelt before him, basking in his unhidden power. “It is time you used these gifts. Not far is a small village. Go to it. Slaughter everyone without exception.”

Harruq’s muscles screamed for use. He could barely register the request asked of him. All he could think of was wielding his swords in battle.

“Which way do we go?” he asked.

“I know the way,” Qurrah said, his eyes lingering on the whip curled about his right arm. “Their nightmares are crying out to me. You have prepared them, haven’t you master?”

The man in black nodded. “They know death is coming. So go.”

Qurrah bowed once more and then began walking west. Harruq followed.

As the two left his sight Velixar broke out in hysterical laughter.

“Yes, I do believe the time has come,” the man said to his master. “Celestia has faltered greatly to let them fall into our hands.” He paused, listening to the soft whisper of Karak in his mind. “Perhaps. With Qurrah’s magic as strong as it is, I have an ally worthy of your name. All of Neldar will burn, and thereafter, you will have your freedom!”

Velixar traveled west, following unseen after his two apprentices. He would witness their first true test, and he would bask in the bloodshed that was sure to come.

The two traveled over the gentle hills, only the rough gasps of Qurrah’s breathing breaking the silence. As the two neared the village, Harruq dared to speak.

“Qurrah,” he asked, “who is this Velixar?”

“He is a teacher,” the half-orc whispered in between ragged breaths. “One wiser than I ever thought possible.”

“So we’ll do what he says? We’ll kill the village, all of them, without reason?”

Qurrah stopped their progress by turning and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. His eyes burned into Harruq’s, so strong in force that the larger brother could not look away.

“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”

Harruq’s fingers traced the hilts of his new swords. He knew what his brother asked. He had killed before, but this was different. This was a complete surrender to the murderer within. He thought of his vow to Velixar, and also to his brother. Obedience. Loyalty. He had sworn his entire life to them. What else did he know? What else could he be?

He thought of Aurelia only once before he spoke. Her face was a white knife in the darkness of his mind, and he buried her deep within his heart as he yielded to the wisdom of his brother.

“Yeah,” Harruq said. “I understand.”

“Good. Now come.” The two resumed traveling up the small hill. They stopped again, however, for from their vantage point they could see the village.

“See the torches?” Harruq asked, pointing. His brother nodded.

“Velixar’s nightmares have pulled them from their slumber. It would be too easy otherwise.”

“It’s going to be easy anyway,” Harruq said, drawing his blades. The soft red glow splashed across their faces.

“Are you ready, brother?”

“I am,” he lied. “Let’s go.”

Chapter VIII

JEREMIAH STOUTMIRE WALKED THROUGH THE village of Cornrows, the hair on his neck erect. The cool spring breeze was weak compared to the ice that locked his spine. He held a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other. At first, he had thought himself foolish waking in a full panic from a nightmare he could not remember. Then he saw others about, lit torches in their hands, and he knew his fear was justified. A young, fat-nosed farmer saw him awake and approached.

“Couldn’t sleep either, Jeremiah?” he asked.

“Aye, had the worst nightmares.” Jeremiah glanced at the sword in the farmer’s hand. “You feel the same, don’t you?”

The farmer nodded.

“Feels like the dark god himself is coming for us. Part of me wants to grab my children and run.”

“Perhaps it is a warning,” Jeremiah said. “Ashhur may be granting us a chance. Bandits, or worse. The orcs have struck Veldaren once. They may well have found a way across the bone ditch again.”

“Hard to rest with torchlight flickering into your bedroom,” said an elderly man behind Jeremiah.

“Something ain’t right, Corren,” Jeremiah said, “and I’d bet all my harvest you feel it stronger than we do.”

Corren stroked his beard as his eyes went blank.

“Two men come from the east,” he said, his voice distant. “But they are not men. Troubled spirits, half-demons...”

The two farmers stared at Corren in horror as the old man’s voice returned to normal.

“Ashhur will not grant me to see any more.”

“Gather the children on the west side of the town,” Jeremiah ordered. “Tell everyone they must be ready to flee.”

“Flee from what?” the farmer asked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Jeremiah shouted. “Tell the others!”

The man went to do as ordered. He had not the heart to argue, not with the fear of his nightmare still lingering. He spread the word to the rest searching the town.

“Ashhur help us,” Corren suddenly whispered. “Hurry. I feel they have arrived.”

A warcry rolled from the east, a primal, mindless roar that shook every man in the village.

“Flee west,” Jeremiah ordered Corren. “And take every one you find with you.”

The old man put a hand on the young farmer’s shoulder.

“Fear not,” he said, a weak smile on his face. “Ashhur’s golden eternity awaits us.”

Jeremiah raised his sword so that the flame of his torch flickered across it.

“Not this night, not if I can help it,” he said before running toward the battle cry.

The town held only ninety members, half of them younger than eighteen. When the second brutal cry rolled over the houses, most were running west, dragging children and carrying young ones in their arms. The men, young and old, took up torches, shortswords, even rakes and sickles, and prepared to defend their homes. Bravely they fought, and bravely they died.

“Run, run, run!” Jeremiah shouted to a mother pulling along a young boy. “Run west, and don’t look back!” A horrible shriek of pain tore his attention past them to a circle of torches, held by the gathered defenders of the small village. He kissed his sword as he approached, horrified by the massacre he saw in the dim light.

A great half-orc bore down on a strong child of thirteen that Jeremiah knew well. Strength in fields and spirit meant little compared to the might of a warrior conducting the dark god’s power. Condemnation tore through his rusted sickle, cut his arm from his body, and then hooked around, severing his ankles. The boy fell, dying in four pieces.

Jeremiah knew then he would enter the golden eternity before the dawn.

Someone swung a torch while another man thrust his short sword. The half-orc shattered the sword with a savage swipe while ignoring the torch as it smashed across his leather armor. He roared as he chopped that man’s head into pieces. The dropped torch sputtered and died.

All the courage he could muster failed to move Jeremiah forward. He watched the raging warrior butcher friend after friend, so many having never seen their eighteenth winter. Harruq tore a neck open, punctured the same man three times, and then gutted another who had closed the distance. The man died after his final slash passed an inch from the half-orc’s skin.

“Come on,” Jeremiah said to himself. “Hang it all, come on!”

The half-orc held both swords out wide and roared at the remaining three facing him. When they held their ground, Jeremiah could bear the sight no more. He charged, screaming the cry of one expecting to die. He did not get far though, for a sharp burning pain enveloped his wrist. His arm jerked back, and the sudden force spun him to his knees. As he knelt there, a voice spat down at him.

“Pitiful.”

Jeremiah looked up to see another half-orc clad in ragged robes. The fire came once more, wrapping around his throat. Smoke blurred his vision, the smell of his own charring flesh filled his nose, and he dropped his sword to claw at his neck. Flesh burned off his fingers. He felt the pain fade away. Then nothing.

The whip slithered off his throat and coiled around the half-orc’s hand.

“Simply pitiful,” Qurrah said again, but Jeremiah did not hear it. His soul was already on its way.

Red eyes watched from afar, their owner relishing the carnage amid the dying torchlight. A smile grew on his ever-changing face.

“Beautiful,” Velixar whispered as the number of dead grew. Shifting sighs and mindless moans drifted from behind. Velixar glanced back at his companions, who now numbered in the thousands.

“Surround the town,” he commanded them. The nearest nodded, the movement swinging the entirety of his rotting face. He moaned to the others, sending them in motion. The man in black extended a hand to his two disciples.

“Send on their souls,” he said, “but leave the bodies for me.”

Harruq stormed through the village, roaring for any to stand and fight.

“We’re coming for you,” he shouted, his voice like the growl of a dog. “You are weak! Weak!”

The cry of a child sent him bashing through the door of a small home. Inside, a girl huddled beside her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. Harruq paused, and deep in his heart, some piece of him shrieked in protest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Salvation and Condemnation quivered in his hands. “There’s no room for compassion. Not here. Not tonight.”

He left the house, blood covering his blades. He let out a primal cry to the stars, whether of anguish or elation, he did not know.

Qurrah broke away from his brother when the last died before them. He could smell the fear of the villagers, and like a tracking dog he could use it to find where they fled.

Flames danced across the side of one house, alerting Qurrah. The half-orc coiled the whip around his arm and pulled out a scrap of bone from a pouch. It was time to test the spells his master had taught him. An elderly man came around the corner, a torch his only weapon. He glared at Qurrah with unabashed hatred.

“Weakness,” the necromancer hissed in the wispy tongue of magic. The old man dropped his torch and wobbled on his legs. His elderly arms, already shriveled, shrunk even more. Skin tightened against his frame, and in seconds it was if the man had become a living skeleton decorated with flesh, hair, and clothes. The man took a staggered step forward, still determined to fight Qurrah even as his arms struggled to bear their own weight. He let out a moan of unintelligible loathing.

“You are not worth my time,” Qurrah told him. “So consider this an honor for your determination.”

He began casting, relishing the feeling of control flowing throughout his body. Never before had he felt so powerful, so invincible. He prayed the night would never end.

“Verl Yun Kleis,” he hissed. Hands of ice. The half-orc lunged forward, grabbing the old man by the wrist. Blue light swirled around the contact of their flesh, causing the water and blood inside his arm to freeze. Qurrah’s smile broadened as the man collapsed and died while still within his grasp. When he let go, the icy flesh hit the dirt hard enough to crack the arm at the shoulder. Blood poured out from the body but not the arm.

“A marvelous spell,” the half-orc gasped, fighting away a momentary wave of dizziness.

He closed his eyes and attuned his mind to the village. A stench of fear trailed west. Women and children, all of them panicked and confused.

“Harruq, they flee west,” Qurrah whispered, magically enhancing his voice using a spell Velixar had taught him. His quiet words flooded the town, audible by all yet still sounding like a whisper. The fleeing residents of the town heard and were terrified. His brother heard and obeyed.

The two met at the edge of town. They saw scattered groups of families not far in the distance.

“Get them, my brother,” Qurrah ordered. “None may live or they will tell of the half-orcs who destroyed their town.”

“Then they’re dead,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together. Power crackled through them. He took up the chase.

An elderly man and woman, propping each other up as they ran side by side, refused to turn when Harruq barreled toward them. Salvation took the woman’s life, Condemnation the man’s. The two bodies collapsed, their lifeless limbs entangled. Not far ahead of them, a woman ran in only her shift, a child clutched to her breast.

“Why do you flee?” Harruq roared when her crying eyes glanced back at him. “This life is pain, suffering! I’m here to end it, end it all!”

The woman ran faster and her child cried louder. It didn’t matter. Harruq rammed her with his shoulder. To protect her child, the woman rolled so that her side took the brunt of the fall. As the half-orc’s blades twirled in the air, the mother kissed her child one last time before curling up around the joy of her life. Then the blades fell.

On the half-orc ran. Innocent blood stained his sword as life after life ended. Harruq felt no remorse and saw no pain. The blood haze of rage and dark magic blocked all. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. They all died. Only seven managed to keep ahead of his berserking madness: a mother, her two children, a few farmers, and their daughters. They dared to hope.

As they ran, a strange sight met their eyes. In the distance were hundreds of bodies lined in perfect formation. They held no torches or lanterns. The wind shifted, and upon its gentle flow the stench of death came to them. The villagers slowed, fearfully eyeing the line. The stars were bright, and there was no mistaking that something was amiss. They were no soldiers. Only a scattered few wore armor. Still, they stood in the straight lines of a disciplined army.

A roar from Harruq at their heels spurred them on. They charged the line, crying out for aid.

“A creature attacked our town,” shouted the mother. “Please, my daughter is still there. They might hurt her. Please, help us!”

“There’s two,” shouted one of the farmers. “They killed my wife! You have to…”

Their words trailed off once they were close enough to see clearly. Flesh hung from their bones, pale and rotting. Wounds spotted nearly every one, although no blood poured from them.  Their saviors were men, orc, and elf, but they were dead.

“Ashhur help us,” an exhausted farmer murmured before the line advanced upon them. The Forest Butcher at their heels, they could not run. Velixar’s army of undead tore the seven apart and cast their remains to the dirt. So ended the last life of Cornrows.

Harruq halted before the mess that had been his prey. The line of undead stood motionless, their unfocused eyes looking nowhere. The wind blew through them, shifting their hair and whistling through the holes in their bodies. The half-orc said nothing, just stared at the carnage and the servants of his master as he waited for Qurrah. The mindless rage that had consumed him slowly faded. By the time his brother arrived, it was all but a memory.

“The undead took them,” Qurrah said, his breath quick and shallow. “Velixar did not trust us.”

“I trust little,” Velixar said, stepping through the line of his servants. “The truth is I do not take risks. If any survived you would have been identified and my plans ruined.”

Both brothers bowed to their master.

“What are the plans you speak of?” Harruq asked.

“In time, my dear bone general, I will tell you both. For now though, I must deal with your brother.” Velixar brought his gaze to the young necromancer.

“Let us return to the village. It is time we test your power.”

The three stood in the center of the town, corpses scattered in all directions. There was an eerie silence creeping about, its soft touch tickling Harruq’s spine. He held the hilts of his twin blades in his hands, drawing comfort from them. At that dark moment, it was his only comfort.

“You know what I ask of you,” Velixar said.

“I do,” Qurrah said. “I pray I do not disappoint.”

He closed his eyes, his hands stretched to either side. His fingers hooked and curled in strange ways, many times so twisted and odd that Harruq could not bear to watch them dance. Words spilled from the frail half-orc’s lips. Some were strong, demanding, while others came limping out, twisted in form and barely existing as they were meant to exist. The words, however, did not matter as much as the dark power rolling forth from Qurrah. His sheer will would determine the full strength of the spell.

A cold wind came blasting in, seemingly from all directions. Faster and faster, the words poured from Qurrah’s pale lips. Harruq braced himself as his hair fluttered before his eyes. The spell neared completion, and Velixar hissed in sheer pleasure at the power flaring from his apprentice. Qurrah shrieked out one final word, the signal, the climax of the spell.

“Rise!”

All around corpses staggered to their feet.

“Qurrah,” Harruq stammered but could say no more.

“Eight,” Qurrah gasped, dropping to his knees. “It is…I am sorry, master.”

Velixar walked about, examining each of the undead farmers. He remained quiet, hiding all emotion from his apprentice and even refusing to look at him.

“This is the first time you have ever brought the dead back to life,” Velixar said. “Correct?”

“Of this size, yes,” Qurrah answered. His entire body rose and fell according to his unsteady gasps.

The man in black turned to him.

“When I was first taught that same spell I managed only four. Rise from your feet, Qurrah Tun.” He faced the undead. “Kneel!” he shouted to them. At once, the eight bowed to Qurrah. Velixar placed a hand on the half-orc’s shoulder.

“It is your servants that should bow to you,” he said. “And one could not ask for a more gifted disciple.”

Qurrah stood but kept his head bowed. Harruq shifted on his feet, scared and confused. The eyes of his brother…tears?

“Thank you, my master,” whispered the half-orc. “I have never felt more honored.”

Velixar placed a hand atop Qurrah’s head and accepted the tears he knew the half-orc tried to hide. He had long thought the weaker emotions fled from his soul, but that night he felt an overwhelming sense of pride.

“Harruq,” Velixar said, his normally unshakable voice faltering. “Escort your brother home. Protect him, even unto death. He will usher in a new age to this world. Of this I have no doubt.” He shouted an order to Qurrah’s undead. The eight obeyed, marching out of town to join the rest of Velixar’s army.

“I will take control now,” he said to his disciple. “In time, the burden of sustaining life in them will seem weightless. Until then, let me bear it. Look at me.”

Qurrah did, his eyes red and his face wet. “Yes master?” he asked. No weakness tainted his voice. The man in black put a hand on either side of Qurrah’s face and drew him close.

“Become a god among men,” he whispered. “Remain faithful to me, and to Karak, and I shall see it come to pass.”

Qurrah nodded but said nothing. Instead, he turned and joined his brother.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

“I’m thinking that’s a great idea,” Harruq said. The two stepped around the bodies of the slain as they headed east, leaving Velixar alone in the emptiness of Cornrows.

“Incredible,” Velixar said when they were gone. “Never would I have guessed they had such power.” He paused, listening to the words of his master. The man in black smiled.

“If you didn’t know then I do not feel as blind,” he said. “He will surpass me. Surpass us all. Should I bring him to your dark paladins?”

Karak’s answer was swift.

Let him learn at your side. He loves you, and this love will drive him to power not seen since I walked Dezrel. Use it. Give me a sacrifice worthy of my name. Burn the east to the ground.

Velixar closed his eyes and bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” he said, the goal of all those who worshiped Karak and knew the true purpose of their lives. “And I will bring order.”

The Tun brothers did not go straight home that night. Harruq veered them off into the grassy hills south of Woodhaven.

“Why do we go this way?” Qurrah asked, his arm draped around his brother. His sagging body seemed ready to collapse into slumber at any time.

“I need to retrieve the swords I dropped,” Harruq said quietly. “I want to train with them.”

Qurrah nodded so absently that Harruq wondered if his brother even heard him. They walked in silence under the beauty of the stars.

“Hey, Qurrah?”

“Yes, brother?”

“What we did…is it…”

“Did you revel in the power granted to you?” Qurrah asked. Harruq paused, searching for an honest answer.

“Aye,” he said at last. “I did.”

“Then why do you now question it?”

Harruq shrugged. “Velixar’s strong. What do you think he wants with us?”

“Order,” Qurrah said. “We will kill, brother. It is all we are good at. It was what we were made for. What other purpose do you see for your life?”

Harruq shrugged. “I said it before. I’m here to protect you.”

“Then kill those that seek to kill me,” Qurrah said, a bit of his sleepiness leaving him. “Our master has given us so much. Power. Weapons. A purpose. What more could we ever ask for?”

“Yeah, what else,” Harruq said, shifting more of his brother’s weight onto his shoulder. Qurrah’s eyes drooped, and it seemed sleep would steal him away before they reached town.

Harruq found his blades without too much trouble. He laid Qurrah down. His brother slept peacefully, and in silence the half-orc took the old weapons into his hands. He looked to the stars. Even as a child, those far away lights had awakened something in him, something so different from what he thought he was. Right then, it was awakening guilt and fear.

“I do what I choose,” he argued to the stars. “No, what I must.”

The words felt hollow, nothing more than self-serving lies. He kept remembering the mother with her young babe clutched to her breast as she fled from him. When he had rammed her, she had tucked the child to guard it from the fall. Right before the kill, she had held him, trying to protect him.

“Why?” he asked. A part of him worried he might wake his brother, but he was too drained to care. “Why did she do that? She could have run faster without the child!”

No, he knew that answer. She would not abandon her child just as he would not abandon Qurrah. Then what was bothering him so? He fell to his knees and stabbed the old weapons into the dirt. The faces of those he had killed danced before his eyes, especially the mother and her child, and the young girl holding her little sister. The fear in their eyes. The screams. The panic. Horror.

“I do what I have to do,” he said again. But did the villagers have to die? All those children, mothers, sisters, fathers…nothing but a test. And all those small bodies he left for his brother to mutilate? What was it his swords were accomplishing? Every action, every kill, seemed to confirm the words of his brother. He was a killer and nothing more. His legacy would be one of death and emptiness.

The ghosts of the village clung to his back and neck. His choice was made. When he looked to the stars, he saw Aurelia’s face among them. He tried not to think of what she’d say if she knew what he had done. Guilt and regret meant nothing so he choked it down. It didn’t matter what he wanted. His oath was made. His swords had swung. The weight of blood was on his shoulders, and who was he to fight against it?

“I’m sorry if I’m weak,” Harruq whispered to his sleeping brother. “I can’t be like you. I can’t be strong like you…”

The half-orc buckled the old pair of swords next to the gleaming black blades on his belt. He then gently took his brother into his arms and carried him back to town. The weight of his brother in his hands was a feather compared to the burden on his heart.

Chapter IX

HARRUQ ARRIVED LATE TO HIS sparring match with Aurelia. His face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot.

“Rough night?” Aurelia asked. She blinked as a tingle in her head insisted that something was different about the half-orc. After a few seconds, she saw it.

“Harruq,” she asked, “is it me, or did you grow thirty pounds of muscle overnight?”

“Yup,” Harruq muttered. “I’m magical like that.”

The elf glared at him.

“Sorry,” he said, his face reddening. “I had a long night.”

Aurelia nodded. She twirled the staff in the air and then hooked it underneath her arm.

“Ready to start?”

The half-orc shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Instead of starting, she lowered her staff and crossed her arms. “Something’s wrong, Harruq. Tell me what bothers you so?”

Harruq sighed and looked away. He gently tapped his swords together. “I don’t know. Bored.”

“Am I not a challenge?”

He made vague shrug that could be taken either way. Let her think that was it, he thought. It was a whole lot better than the truth. Aurelia, however, seemed none too pleased. She twirled her staff again.

“You might be surprised, orcyboy, but I could beat you in a spar.”

Harruq scoffed. “You have no chance,” he said.

“First to three hits,” the elf said, taking a few steps back.

“Very well,” Harruq said, drawing his swords in his gigantic arms. “Guess you need a reminder of who you’re learning from.” He lowered his weapons and thrust out his chest. “Here. I’ll prove it. Two free hits. I’ll still beat you.”

Aurelia eyed him, obviously insulted. She gave him two quick raps across the chest.

“Two to zero,” she said before dancing away. Harruq raised his swords and roared.

He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, twice as fast as he had ever moved in their previous sparring matches. Aurelia leapt backward as blades dove for her chest and abdomen. Her staff shot spun back and forth to parry thrust after thrust. Harruq pressed his attack, shifting on one foot so that his next two attacks came slashing downward for her thigh and ankle.

The staff blocked one but the other banged against her calf.

“One to two,” Harruq said. He double thrust, offering the elf no reprieve. She jabbed her staff upward, pushing the two attacks high and giving her room underneath. Ducking forward, she tried to strike the half-orc’s leg.

She badly underestimated Harruq’s new speed though, and one blade looped around to block the attack. The other went straight down, the edge smashing hard against the top of Aurelia’s skull. While it did not draw blood, the jolt of it knocked the elf to one knee and gave her a dull ache in her head.

“Have you lost your mind?” Aurelia asked as she rolled away. Harruq’s mad charge was her answer, and it sparked fear in her heart.

Sword strikes assailed her impossibly fast. Any thought of the fight being practice left Aurelia’s mind. It felt too real. She stayed defensive, parrying with all her skill while constantly dancing away. Harruq pressed closer, and every time the elf pulled out of a roll or landed from a leap backward, he was upon her. Notch after notch covered her staff as the swords chopped harder and harder.

His strength grew as the fight progressed. He held nothing back. He weaved his swords through three stabs, feinted a high slash, and then twirled up and around for a low thrust. Aurelia fell for the feint and brought her staff up high, leaving her lower half exposed. Her slender frame twisted. A sword cut a thin line across the green fabric of her dress but did not touch skin.

She thought Harruq might stop and claim the cut counted. He didn’t.

Instead he crosscut, his left arm swiping right while the other swept left. She turned to one side, using her staff to press one sword into the dirt and knock the second swipe just above her. The staff continued twirling, positioning Harruq’s hands further out of place. She used the awkwardness to gain further separation between them.

Her hands ached from the force of every block and parry. Her breath was fast and shallow. Her hair, which she had failed to tie up before the fight, hung in wild strands before her face. She was beautiful, but Harruq did not see it.

To Harruq, she was the young girl cradling her sister.

Aurelia thrust her right hand forward, her fingers spread wide and stiff. Words of power poured from her lips, and without hesitation the forest obeyed. Vines shot from the earth and wrapped around Harruq’s arms and legs. Down he went. Aurelia gave him no chance to recover. She raised her outstretched hand higher. More and more vines appeared, covering the half-orc’s arms and legs with green. They lifted him into the air, his boots dangling two feet above the ground.

Harruq bellowed like a bull caught in a cage. He jerked against his restraints but they held firm. Aurelia calmly walked over, raised her staff, and tapped him on the chest.

“Three,” she said.

The half-orc roared his protest.

Aurelia swung the staff with all her strength. The end cracked against Harruq’s cheek. Blood shot from his mouth.

“Four!” she shouted. The fierce pain appeared to knock some sense into him. He looked down at Aurelia with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he said. Blood ran from a busted lip. The skin on his cheek was already blackening.

“I don’t know what just happened,” she said, the quiver in her voice belying her calm speech. “But I know I don’t like it and will not accept it. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” Harruq said. “Now will you let me down?”

For a moment, she said nothing, catching her breath and doing her best to calm the flood of adrenaline that still rushed through her. Harruq twisted against the vines, but they still held firm. Blood continued to trickle down his chin.

“I’m not blind,” she said, suddenly looking away. “Not stupid, either. I don’t know why I’m here. Lie to me if you must, just don’t expect me to believe it. Forgive me for hoping you could trust me.”

The vines released, freeing the half-orc who smacked against the ground. By the time he picked himself up, the vines had pulled into the dirt.

“I have something new planned for tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

“You’re going to pay for that,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore wrists after she was gone. His heart was not in it, though. More than anything, he was embarrassed and frightened about losing control.

“It can be one of your most powerful spells,” Velixar said. “It is quick, deadly, and strikes from nowhere. Listen to these words very carefully. If you give it enough of your power, nary a soul can withstand the shock and blood loss.”

The man in black listed off a stream of seven words. Seven times he pronounced them, giving his disciple ample chances to hear the precise, delicate pronunciations and mimic them himself.

“Prepare the spell with these words in the morning and you may trigger it at any time with but a single word.”

“And what is that?” Qurrah asked once the words were tucked firmly into his mind.

“Hemorrhage,” Velixar hissed. The frail half-orc smiled, loving the sound.

Harruq sat nearby. The spidery, intangible lessons in spellcasting had little to do with him, but he politely remained silent and respected their usefulness

“Harruq Tun,” Velixar said suddenly, jolting him from his drifting thoughts.

“Yes, master?” he asked, rising and straightening his back. He could feel the eyes of his brother on him and did not wish to disappoint.

“Qurrah has told me of the troubles in your heart. I must see them.”

“He did?” Harruq asked, glancing at his brother. His stomach dropped, and his heart quickened as Velixar approached. He felt like a truant servant caught by his master…which perhaps he was.

“You killed many yesterday,” the man in black said. “Do you feel guilt for their deaths?”

Harruq took a deep breath, analyzing every word before he opened his mouth. Velixar could surely tell if he lied. But what did he believe? Did he even know?

“I’m not strong like Qurrah,” he said. “Sometimes I can be weak. Only after, though. I will try to never question the order of my master or the will of my brother.”

Velixar nodded although he appeared not to listen. Instead, his eyes burrowed into Harruq’s, prying information not from his mouth but from his very soul.

“Tell me, Harruq, why do you mourn the lives of those you kill?”

“I don’t,” Harruq said. He wasn’t sure if it was lie or truth, most likely a lie.

“War is brutal. Life is brutal.” Velixar put a cold hand against Harruq’s face. “You do not understand, but we are bringers of peace. We will end all war. We will end all murder. We will end everything, Harruq. Kneel. I will show you.”

Harruq obeyed. His insides churned as icy fingers pressed against his forehead. Images crackled through his mind. The entire world burned to ash and blew away on the wind. The painting revealed beneath was in fluid motion, an artwork of death and fire. He saw a city burning, people fleeing in the streets, and then he saw himself dressed in black armor that oozed power. Salvation and Condemnation waved high above his head, both drenched in blood. He looked like a god among men, and the way the soldiers fell at his feet made him think he might have been one.

This red-dream self looked straight at him and spoke, but Harruq could not understand the words. The sound of his own voice chilled him, though, for it was dark, it was dangerous, and it was exactly like Velixar’s.

A god among men, said a second voice, one he had never heard before. It was darker than any shade that haunted his nightmares. There was only one it could be, and it was no mortal.

Protect your brother, and I will grant you a kingdom. Live as you have always lived, and I will reward you with eternity. Kill, as I desire you to kill, and you will find a peace unknown to the mortal realm. The time for questioning is over. Trust your god as I now trust you.

Love me, Harruq Tun. Kill for me.

The dream shattered. Amid the haze of red and black, he heard the cries of battle urging him on, offering him a future he had always feared and desired. A life of killing and battle. A life given to Karak. An orcish life.

The icy fingers left his forehead.

“It is a select few who have received such a gift,” Velixar said in the quiet night. “You have heard the voice of the dark god himself. Now tell me, what is it you saw?”

“Please, brother,” Qurrah said. “I need to know.”

Harruq stared at the dirt, each breath making his shoulders heave. His mind reeled, and for reasons he did not understand, he opened his mouth and said, “That which I fear and desire. I have had no questions answered, but I do know this: the time for questions has long ended.”

Velixar nodded. “Indeed, Harruq. It is time for action. I am done with both of you. Go home and rest. Tomorrow we will begin my plan. War shall come to Woodhaven.”

“We await your orders,” Qurrah said. The two bowed and then returned to town beneath the blanket of stars.

As the two brothers left, another soul traveled in the dark. He made not a sound as he moved. Any attempts at tracking his passage would be utterly futile, for not a single blade of grass remained bent when his foot stepped away. He was Dieredon, Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves, and few souls could match his silence, speed, or skills with blade and bow.

When the village came into view of his eagle-like eyes, his gut sank. Not a single sign of life decorated the streets or moved in the fields. He prayed to Celestia he was wrong, but his heart knew he wasn’t.

He found nothing to convince him otherwise as he quickly scanned the village. He found many homes left wide open, yet none answered him when he called inside. Everywhere, staining the earth a dark crimson, there was blood.

“It is as I feared,” he whispered to the night. He stood, took his bow off his shoulder, and then thoroughly searched the town. He found no trace of life barring a few rats that fed off the now unguarded remnants of food. Several homes, those with their doors smashed open, had gore smeared on their floors. One pained Dieredon’s heart greatly; amid a great red circle on a wooden floor laid a small, bloodstained doll.

He said a silent prayer before moving on.

At the edge of the town, he found many frantic tracks fleeing west. He followed them, wincing as some ended in dried smears of red upon the grass. Others led far past the others. They ended at once in an enormous pool of blood, leaving the town a somber image in the distance. Chasing them the whole while were twin sets of tracks, one of enormous weight, the other light as a feather.

“Every one of them,” he said, his hand clutching his bow so tight his knuckles were whiter than the moon. “They slaughtered even those that fled. Yet there are no corpses.”

The corpses had been taken. Or made to walk again.

“The man with infinite faces,” Dieredon concluded. Another thought came to him. “Or was it you, Qurrah Tun?”

He raced back to Woodhaven, his mind decided. It was time he had a talk with one of the brothers Tun.

Harruq arrived at the sparring point in the forest less disheveled than the previous day, and he seemed in better spirits.

“So what is your surprise for me?” he asked.

Aurelia smiled from her seat against a tree. She patted the grass beside her.

“Have a seat. How’s your head?”

Harruq grumbled as he plopped down. “My head is fine.”

From behind her back, Aurelia pulled out a small blue object.

“Ever seen one of these before?” she asked. The half-orc stared at it, thinking. Suddenly he knew, and he looked at Aurelia in total disbelief.

“Is that a book?”

The elf nodded. “Is it a safe assumption that you don’t know how to read?”

Harruq frowned at the book. “You’re not going to teach me elvish, are you?”

Aurelia gave him a playful jab to the side.

“No, it is in the gods’ language, your gods anyway. Karak and Ashhur got something right having humans speak and write the same language.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not know the story of Karak and Ashhur?” The half-orc shook his head. “I will tell you it, if you care to hear. Mankind, as well as orcs, wolf-men, hyena-men, and all the other odd races scattered about Dezrel, are less than five hundred years old. Many elves remember the arrival of the brother gods and the creation of man.”

“Huh,” Harruq said. “You may have to tell me the story sometime. Are you one of the elves that were there way back then?”

She gave him a wink.

“No, but my father was. I’m not that old, Harruq. In elven terms, I am but a child.”

“How old a child?” he prodded.

“Seventy.”

“Seventy?”

The elf laughed.

“Don’t be too shocked. You have elven blood in you as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you lasted a couple hundred years yourself. This is assuming someone doesn’t kill you, which I find rather unlikely.”

Harruq gasped at the thought. He had always felt akin to man and orcs, whose lives burnt out so quickly. The idea of living two hundred years was…well, more than he could handle.

“Strange,” he said. “Guess I have plenty of time to learn to read, don’t I?”

Aurelia laughed. “You do, but I would prefer we not take too many years. Spending that much time around you is bound to give me bad habits.”

She handed over the book. Harruq opened it and flipped through the pages. Each one depicted various symbols, lines, and curls. Aurelia winced at the rough way he handled the paper.

“What are these?” he asked.

“The human alphabet. And you’re going to learn it.”

He protested, but it was a weak protest. They went over the alphabet several times until Harruq could repeat most without thinking too hard.

“I want you to take it home with you,” she said when they were done. To her annoyance, Harruq refused to accept the book.

“I really don’t want to take it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Well I, just…” His face turned a mixture of gray and red. “Qurrah doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

Aurelia sighed and set the book down beside her.

“Why don’t you tell him about me? Well? Why not?”

“I’m just embarrassed, all right,” he finally muttered.

“Embarrassed? Why?”

“Qurrah’s smart, can read and everything. He’d want to know why I never asked him. That and, well, you’re a…you know…”

“What?”

Harruq grew redder. “An elf!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Harruq viciously plucked blades of grass. “I don’t know.”

Aurelia stared at Harruq for a while, her eyes probing. The half-orc endured the gaze, concentrating fully on his grass-removing project.

“I would feel better having met your brother,” she said at last. “But you may take as long as you wish.”

“Good. Can we spar now?”

“Of course,” Aurelia said, picking up her staff.

Hours later, they finished and said their goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow,” Harruq called, sheathing his blades. The elf did not reply as she vanished behind the trees. He stared after her for a bit, then turned toward home. Before he could take two steps, a sudden weight crashed into his side. He tumbled best he could, his shoulder absorbing much of the impact. His legs tucked underneath him and pushed, shooting him back to his feet. Out came his swords.

Standing before him was Dieredon, his bow held in both hands like a staff. Long blades stretched out from either end, tiny razor teeth lining the front. The elf twirled the bow in his hands and then charged. Two quick hits batted one of Harruq’s swords out and away. A feint, so quick Harruq blocked on instinct, took care of the other. His weapons gone, the half-orc was exposed. Dieredon wasted no time smashing the half-orc’s groin. As he doubled over in pain, a snap kick smacked his chin, splattering blood and forcing him to drop.

The sharp tip of a blade pressed against Harruq’s throat before he knew what was happening.

“Move,” Dieredon said. “Please, move. Give me an excuse to kill you.”

Harruq was too stunned and disoriented to give him what he wanted. Instead he lied there, his nose throbbing and his swords limp in his hands.

“What do you want?” he asked, ignoring the sharp pain in his throat as a tiny drop of blood trickled down his neck.

“The entire village of Cornrows is missing,” Dieredon said. “Most likely dead.”

Harruq’s breathing quickened. His hands tightened around the hilts of his weapons.

“I had nothing to do with it,” he said. “Why would I?”

“Children have been dying since you arrived here in Woodhaven,” Dieredon replied. “Butchered, intestines removed, strange carvings on the bodies, and pieces of them missing. We thought a sick mind, but now I understand better. Necromancy requires many interesting artifacts for spells. Your brother is a necromancer, isn’t he?”

Harruq said nothing. He fought back his swelling anger and panic.

“I don’t understand what Aurelia sees in you,” Dieredon continued. “You murdered the children and gave them to your brother. You’re the Forest Butcher. Admit it so I may kill you.”

“I will admit no such thing,” Harruq said, his jaw trembling. “You’re guessing.”

“I have also seen your brother meeting the strange man in black of the ever-changing face. What is his name, Harruq? What is it he offers you?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

The tip buried in deeper. The elf lowered his face so the fury in his eyes was all Harruq could see.

“Yes, I am out of my mind. I will let you live. Until Aurelia sees you for what you are, I will spare your life. But know I will be watching you, and I will be watching your brother. One false move and I’ll kill you both. Is that clear?”

Harruq nodded, shivering as he felt the tip of the blade rubbing against the tender skin of his throat.

“Good. Pleasant days, half-orc. May Celestia watch over you…and condemn your actions to death.”

The biting tip left his throat, the blades in the bow retracted, and then the elf vanished. Harruq struggled to his feet, clutching his neck as he gasped for air.

“Damn elf,” he cursed. “How dare you threaten us.”

His hands shook violently as his adrenaline faded. He had been terrified, convinced the elf would kill him, yet he didn’t.

“Big mistake, elfie,” he said. He snatched his swords and sheathed them. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

After a bit of debate, he decided not to tell Qurrah. Velixar had already made it clear they needed to be careful. Now he understood why. He wouldn’t tell Aurelia, either. That would be stupid, and stupid he was not…most of the time.

“I need a drink,” he said, turning toward the town and trudging back. All he could think about was getting a good, stiff drink. If he was lucky, he might get in a good bar fight. Nothing helped him forget his worries better than walloping a fellow drunken idiot.

Chapter X

SHE FELT GUILTY FOR SPYING on him, but Aurelia was convinced she had no other choice. Over the past month, she had grown close to the half-orc Harruq Tun, and with that closeness was danger. She saw only a goofy young man while Dieredon swore she met with a killer. Only one of them could be right, but who?

Perhaps not, she wondered. Perhaps she saw the elf in Harruq while Dieredon saw the orc. The kindest man might become a brute when surrounded by other brutes. When Harruq was with his brother, or the strange man in black, how then did he behave? Could he kill? Could he murder?

She had to know. It took a simple invisibility spell to approach their rundown home unnoticed, her feet moving silently because of her natural elven grace. It was midday and the sun was high in the sky. Most of the murders occurred once darkness fell, and always when the child wandered into the forest to play. Lately no murders had been found, and Aurelia couldn’t decide if she should be worried or hopeful that they had stopped at the same time she had begun training with Harruq.

Aurelia peered through a gap in the boards. She and Harruq had finished their sparring an hour before, and she expected him to be resting. She was right. What surprised her was how Qurrah remained asleep as well. Dieredon had mentioned nocturnal visits between the other brother and the man in black, but she had no idea how long they lasted. For Qurrah to still slumber they must last for several hours, if not the entire night.

She looked at him, sprawled out on a thick pile of straw, and wondered how he managed to walk, let alone cast spells as Harruq implied. His skin was pale and had a stretched look across his bones. He looked like a drained, emaciated version of his larger brother.

A good set of meals would do him wonders, Aurelia thought.

Boring as it was, Aurelia sat down and prepared to wait. She glanced around, making sure there was no chance a wandering passerby could accidentally bump into her invisible form. The sun moved along its path in the sky, and the brothers finally awoke. Qurrah vanished, returning later with meager portions of bread and tough meat. Aurelia watched, oddly amused by their silent noshing. Harruq continuously glanced over at Qurrah, and when the frailer half-orc was overtaken by a coughing fit, Harruq was there, pounding his brother’s back and looking like his world was about to end. Qurrah merely looked embarrassed and pushed him away.

They clearly love each other, thought Aurelia. Maybe Harruq more than Qurrah.

The day passed, and it was thankfully uneventful. She was almost ready to leave when Qurrah pulled Harruq closer and began whispering. Aurelia cast a spell over her ears, heightening her already sharp hearing. A pall settled over her as she listened.

“…must resume,” Qurrah was saying as her spell enacted.

“It’s dangerous,” Harruq said. “I thought you were learning enough from Velixar.”

“Exactly,” said Qurrah. “But I must practice what I learn. These nights are not enough, will never be enough. What point is sharpening your sword if you never wield it?”

Harruq had no reply. Eyes low, he stepped out into the night, Aurelia trailing not far behind. They travelled deeper into the town. A knot grew in her stomach as she noticed he had both his swords, and as they approached the poorer parts of the town, the knot only tightened. She watched the half-orc glance in through the windows of the buildings he passed. She found herself praying he only meant to steal possessions…just possessions, nothing more. Keep the swords sheathed, she prayed. Sheathed and bloodless.

He continued wandering, and she found herself circling several streets multiple times. Stalling, she thought, but it was little comfort. The day was almost done, the town covered with long shadows and darkened spaces. The older boys and girls would still be out to play, but the younger ones…

Harruq stopped. Aurelia positioned herself to the side, struggling to keep her breathing calm lest she alert him to her presence. They were beside an old house made of slanted boards shoddily nailed together. There was no glass for the window, nor a covering. She wondered what the occupants did during the winter months, preferring her mind dwell on that than the terrible look marring Harruq’s face. His skin had turned ashen. His right hand stroked the hilt of his sword like an itch he couldn’t ignore. He put a hand on the wood. Aurelia could only imagine what he saw: a small child slumbering in bed, positioned by the window to keep him cool. Just a child like any other the Forest Butcher had claimed.

When Dieredon had first come to her, she had expected little difficulty in the task.

“They are new to the town, and when they came so did the murders,” he had said. “Meet with one of them, discover who they are. If they are the vagrant scum they appear to be, it will be easy enough to catch them in their crime. The humans can then deal their judgment with a rope.”

It seemed perverse that she had met Harruq by saving him from the fate she was supposed to doom him to. Still, Aurelia was not one to judge by appearances, and what she had seen that night had seared her heart. Two soldiers beating Harruq bloody without cause or reason, Harruq who was so kind to her when they sparred, who brought her flowers and told her stories, who looked upon her like she was a goddess of light in his dreary world…

Harruq drew his sword. It shook in his hand. Aurelia watched as if in a dream. She felt magic spark on her fingertips. Under no circumstances could she watch him. She couldn’t. Nor could she believe it. He was so kind to her, so kind.

“Why,” she whispered.

He put a hand inside the window. The other pressed his sword against the side of the house. No longer a dream. A nightmare. She would kill him, burn his whole body to ash so she never had to look upon his dead face. Hatred burned in her breast. Qurrah, she thought. You make him do this. Put the blood on your own hands, you coward.

She knew the moment she struck with a spell her invisibility would end. She wondered how he would look at her when she killed him. Surprise? Anger? Shame? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. Magic sparked on her fingertips. Harruq might have seen if he had looked over, but his eyes stared through the window. He pulled back the sword. His hand reached in. Aurelia prepared to kill him.

“Damn it,” she heard him say. “I’m sorry, Qurrah. I can’t.”

He sheathed the blade.

Aurelia felt her world slow and the nightmare relent. He did no harm, she thought. No killing. He may not be the Forest Butcher, and even if he meant to do what she feared, it didn’t mean the others were him. The hope felt juvenile and ignorant but she clung to it tightly. The magic left her fingertips, and doing her best to calm her heart, she followed Harruq back home.

“Nothing?” Qurrah asked when Harruq stepped inside.

“Nothing.”

It seemed Qurrah would leave it at that, but he clearly saw the apprehension on his brother’s face.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What happened?”

Harruq sighed, and he removed his swords and flung them to the ground.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “We don’t need it. You don’t need it. Our war is coming, Qurrah. Let us fight it when it comes, but not sooner, not now, not while they sleep…”

He looked away as if expecting to be berated for the outburst. Instead, Qurrah walked over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” he said in his raspy voice. “Your power was given at a cost. Any hesitation or doubt risks the permanency of your gift. I understand, please know that. In time, you will learn, and you will see things as I do. Until then, rest. Velixar will come for us soon. I do not want to fail him. That is all that matters. We must not fail.”

Aurelia had heard enough. She knew their roles, the balance and position of their hearts. It was absurd, poor souls without a home, family, or position to be speaking of power and obligation. Her hatred of their unknown master grew. He was a puppet-master, and her dear friend was one of his puppets. If they still doubted, even for a moment, perhaps she could save them. Perhaps there was still time to pull them from the necromancer’s cold fingers.

Aurelia turned and ran for the forest. Dieredon had not known of her spying, but she would tell him everything. If there was any hope, it was in his skill with blade and bow. To free the puppets, one must cut the strings.

It was time for Dieredon to slay the man in black.

That night, Velixar gave them their orders, putting in motion his plan to blanket the east in war.

“In Celed there is a male elf by the name of Ahrqur Tun’del,” he told the two under the cover of stars. “He has visited King Vaelor before, and was quite vocal when the elves were expelled from his capital city. He is well known in Woodhaven, at least to those of elven blood. I need him killed and his body brought before me.”

“How will we hide the body?” asked Harruq.

“Wrap it in cloth and make sure you are not seen,” Velixar said. “And make no mistakes.”

“We will not,” Qurrah said. “How will I know where this Ahrqur lives?”

“I will show you, my disciple, but first I have a gift for my dearest bone general.”

Velixar drew out his magical chest. He set it beside him and let it grow out to normal size. From within he pulled out a suit of armor stained a deep shade of black. He threw it to Harruq, who managed to catch it even though his mouth hung wide open.

“The first Horde War was caused by a disciple of mine,” the man in black explained. “He blessed the armor of one of the leaders of the orcish clans. I claimed it when he fell on the battlefield.”

Harruq examined the suit, turning it over in his hands. It was composed of many interwoven straps of thick leather. Obsidian buckles and clamps held the pieces together. The only color was a yellow scorpion emblazoned on the chest.

“Why the scorpion?” he asked.

“The orcs have forgotten Karak, whom they once served. They worship animals as their gods, believing they take strength from them. The warlord who wore that armor worshipped the scorpion. It is appropriate, for his opponent crushed him underneath his heel like one.”

Harruq folded the armor as best he could and clutched it to his chest.

“My thanks, master,” he said. “We do not deserve what you have given us.”

“You will earn your gifts in time. Ahrqur is a skilled swordsman. The armor, weapons, and strength I have granted you will make you near invincible. Do not fail.”

Velixar turned his attention to Qurrah.

“Give me your hand,” he said, and the thin half-orc obeyed. Velixar closed his eyes and whispered a few brief words. Qurrah’s head jerked suddenly, and his eyes flared open. Velixar released his hand as the half-orc murmured.

“I know where he is,” he said. “It is all I can see.”

“Go now,” Velixar said. “The night is young. Hide his body in your home and bring it to me tomorrow. And Qurrah, remember to bring his blade with you.”

The two brothers bowed and then left to do as their master commanded.

Dieredon watched the brothers travel back to Woodhaven. He had been waiting outside the town, and in the starlight the swathe of darkness rolling across the land had caught his eye. He had followed and from a distance observed the short meeting. His eyes flipped between the half-orcs and their master. His heart was torn. He had already warned Harruq that he would tolerate no strange behavior, yet he had given a similar warning to the man with the ever-changing face.

“I do this for you, Aurelia,” he said, his decision made. He removed his bow and ran across the grass.

Velixar had not moved since the brothers’ departure, his hands resting on the grass, palms upward. His hood fell far past his eyes, blocking nearly all of his face. Yet even with lack of sight and sound from Dieredon’s approach, the man knew someone neared.

“Greetings Scoutmaster,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “I would call you otherwise but I have not been granted your name.”

“You have not earned it,” Dieredon said. He halted directly in front of the motionless man. Less than six feet separated them.

“I have been watching you,” the man in black said. “I have dipped inside your dreams. You have seen me before, haven’t you?”

“You were the necromancer that led the orcs against Veldaren. You helped them cross the bone ditch.”

“Correct,” Velixar said, his smile visible beneath his hood. “It was a glorious day. Men of the east no longer trust the elves, and the elves hold little love for our beloved King. Of course, thousands died, but what is a little sacrifice compared to such gains?”

“They joined your army, didn’t they, necromancer?” Dieredon asked. Velixar laughed.

“You are wise, elf, and you are strong, but you have sheltered arrogance.”

The man in black stood, pulling the hood back from his face. His eyes shone a blinding red. His face was a pale skull covered with dead gray skin. Maggots crawled through the flesh, feasting. Dieredon delayed his attack, stunned by the horrific sight.

Velixar, however, gave no pause. From within his robe he pulled out a handful of bone fragments. A word of power sent them flying. The elf dropped low, his right leg stretching back as he crouched. The bone fragments flew over his head, faster than arrows. Then he was up, his bow in hand. The string vanished from the bow, spikes pierced the front, and out came the long blades at each side.

“You foolish mortal,” Velixar said. His voice was far deeper than before, less like a man and more like a demon. “I do not fear your steel.”

Pale hands shot upward, hooked in strange formations. Dieredon stabbed a long blade straight at the man’s throat. The blade halted halfway there, crashing against an invisible barrier. The elf struck again, this time lower. Velixar’s image rippled as if beneath water, his body protected by some unseen wall. Faster and faster Dieredon swung, whirling his blades against where he perceived the wall to be. Power rippled in the air, black and deadly.

As the elf fought against the shadow wall Velixar began another spell. Words of magic flew off his tongue in perfect pitch and pronunciation in spite of their incredible difficulty. A strong thrust from Dieredon finally shattered the invisible barrier but the explosion of power sent him flying backward. He rolled when he hit the ground, his legs tucked, and then with a kick he vaulted himself into the air. He landed on his feet and lunged at the necromancer, the blades of his bow leading.

“Be gone!” Velixar roared, the sound of a daemon unleashed. Dieredon fought, but it felt as if a thousand hands pulled him back. Pain spiked within his chest, and a sick sound filled his head as two of his ribs broke. A harrowing gasp escaped his lips. He dropped to his knees as the pressure finally ended.

Dieredon lifted the bow and reached to his quiver. The blades retracted, and in the heartbeat it took him to draw two arrows, a thin string materialized in the air, ready to be drawn. The elf fired the arrows.

Velixar laughed as they pierced into his stomach and chest. No blood ran from them.

“You must do far better than that,” he said, his fingers hooked in strange positions. Another blast of dark power washed over Dieredon. He felt his right shoulder crack into fragments. Darkness swam before his eyes, darkness dominated by twin red orbs. The elf reached into a small pocket of his armor and drew out a glass vial.

“Healing potions will not aid you,” Velixar mocked.

“This is no healing potion,” Dieredon said. He threw the vial. It shattered. Velixar snarled as holy light of the elven goddess burned his decaying flesh. After a few seconds, the light vanished. Velixar glanced about, seeing no sign of the elf.

“No matter,” he said. “Come my minions. It is time to hunt.”

He spread his hands wide and let all of his power flow freely. A swirling black portal ripped into existence behind him, a bleak wind wailing from it. Out came his undead, marching in rows of ten. More than a hundred rows spilled out, surrounding their master with mindless perfection.

“Find him,” he ordered as he covered his face with his hood. “He is wounded. Find him and kill him.”

As one, the thousand moaned their acknowledgment. They scattered, spreading out like a ripple in a pond. In the center stood Velixar, his hands out and his eyes closed.

“Reveal yourself to any one of them and I will know it,” he said, his sick face smiling. “You’re no longer amusing, Scoutmaster. It is time you died.”

The chorus of droning moans agreed.

“If there was any time I needed you, Sonowin, it is now,” the elf said as he fled across the grass. Each breath made his chest ache. His right arm hung limp, and his other hand clutched his shoulder. He desperately needed to bandage it but had no time.

A wave of undead moans reached his sensitive ears. Dieredon shuddered.

“How many does he command?” he asked. He crouched as he ran, his right arm dragging against the grass. Under normal circumstances, he might have been able to hold his own against the undead. However, these were not normal circumstances.

Minutes passed, long and painful. The light of Woodhaven beckoned him to his left but he dared not approach. Velixar would expect him to flee there, but he was as at home in the wild as he was in any town. He halted his run and fell to one knee. His adrenaline was still high, but deep inside he knew he had to find a place to rest. The real pain was coming.

A glance behind did little to raise his spirits. He saw at least thirty undead shambling as fast as they could in a widening arc. If he remained where he was, he would be seen.

He struggled to his feet and ran.

More minutes passed. The glow of Woodhaven drifted behind him. Breathing was agony. Moving was torment. All his extremities grew cold and his head felt light. The pain in his shoulder threatened to send him into shock. It was just waiting for his body to succumb.

His eyes searched for anything that could grant him cover. The forest was too far, and all about was shin-high grass.

“No choice,” he gasped. His entire right half of his body ached. “Celestia, grant me mercy. I cannot go further.”

He stumbled to the ground. His face and armor were camouflaged with greens and browns, but just grass would make it difficult to go unnoticed. Still, he had no choice but to try. He tucked his bow beneath him and then smashed his face into the dirt while sprinkling grass atop his head. He shifted his legs back and forth until as much grass sprang up around them as possible. He covered the rest of his body in his cloak. A few words of magic shifted its colors, better emulating the nearby terrain. He tucked his arms underneath him, closed his eyes, and waited for his fate.

For the longest of time, silence. His shoulder pounded with each heartbeat; his chest screamed with each breath. Colors swam across his eyes. His ears, incredibly sensitive even compared to other elves, strained for the sound of approaching dead. He heard nothing but a strange ringing inside his skull. It seemed he had put more distance between them than he first thought.

A footstep fell beside his head. His heart and lungs halted. The pain had diminished his skills. They were atop him, but he dared not move. He sent a silent prayer to Celestia as more footfalls clomped all around him. He guessed at least ten. Soft clacking sounds of bone, swinging metal, and crushed grass erased the silence of the night.

Dieredon’s heart resumed. His breathing continued, slow and steady. He fought down a laugh, despite all his training. As dire as his situation seemed, he could honestly say he had been in worse shape before and survived. Three times, even.

Then his ears heard what he had feared: something walking directly behind him. The others might not see him, but seeing wouldn’t be necessary if one stumbled directly atop his prone body. His good hand fingered the bow pinned beneath him. If discovered, he would die fighting. The footsteps neared. A clacking sound haunted his hearing. It rattled sporadically, and it was most certainly bone hitting bone. He imagined a loose jaw hanging by only one side, or perhaps a hand held by a thread of flesh banging against a rotted femur.

It took all his will not to scream when a great weight pressed against his shoulder. The pain that exploded throughout his body was so great he blacked out as he lay there in the grass, a horde of undead searching for his wounded form.

As Dieredon fought for his life, Harruq and Qurrah snuck through the streets of Woodhaven. They avoided the light of lamps at all costs and stopped only a moment so Harruq could don his new armor. They had to be careful, for if any saw the two half-orcs traveling amid the dark their lives would be forfeit.

When they neared Celed, Qurrah halted. He stared down a particular street for a long while before closing his eyes. Harruq waited in silence.

“That is the way,” Qurrah said. “It will be the only gated home.”

“I already see it,” Harruq said. He pointed at a sizable mansion towering above the smaller nearby homes. The two brothers hurried into the space between the fence and the surrounding buildings.

“It seems our friend has some prominence,” Qurrah said. Harruq nodded in agreement. The two-story mansion was beautifully painted and decorated. The sides of the building were a deep brown, like the trunk of an ancient tree. The roof jutted out far past the walls. It was the color of wet leaves. Many windows decorated the front, all covered with silken curtains. The fence surrounded the entire property, black iron spiked ten feet at the top.

“How do we get in?” Harruq asked. Qurrah examined the fence, his face locked in a frown.

“I don’t know. I have no spells that can aid us.”

The bigger half-orc stood and stretched his muscles.

“Well, up to me then.” He took out Condemnation, grinning as the soft red glow lit up his face. “Let’s see how strong this girl is.”

He swung the blade. Qurrah closed his eyes and hoped no significant enchantments guarded the fence. If any did, they fizzled against the magic of the ancient sword. Harruq sliced two of the bars cleanly, and a third dented in enough so that a follow up chop cut it like butter. Pleased, Harruq took two of the bars into his hands. His neck bulged, his arm muscles tensed, and then the iron screeched backward. Both winced at the noise. They did not move for the next five minutes.

When both felt comfortable, Harruq shoved the third bar forward, giving them a nice clean entrance. The two brothers slipped under, the bigger half-orc having to press his arms together to squeeze through. They slunk across the lawn to the front door.

“Hold,” Qurrah said softly. “I will take care of this.”

Qurrah stood erect, his hands touching the sturdy oak. Words of magic slipped from his lips. The shadows that weaved about the door suddenly gained life, crawling and gliding until impenetrable darkness covered every bit of oak.

“What’d that do?” Harruq asked. His deep voice seemed like thunder in the quiet, although he did his best to speak softly.

“Follow me,” Qurrah whispered. “You will see.”

He took a step forward and vanished into the shadows. Harruq glanced around, swallowed, took two quick breaths, and then hopped into the door with his eyes squeezed shut. He expected to thud against wood, feel a strange sense of vertigo, or some other bizarre sensation usually accompanied with magic. Instead, he felt only the slightest tingle of cold air before his feet thumped against the floor. He opened his eyes to see a posh living room decorated with red and gold furniture, silk sheets, and a lit fireplace. Everything oozed elegance, to a point that even the half-orcs knew was over the top. When Harruq looked behind him, the darkness had left the door.

“Why did you not do that to the gate?” he asked.

“I can let us pass but a single object at a time,” Qurrah whispered. “The bars had gaps between them.”

Harruq gestured to the room.

“Amazing no one ever robbed this guy before,” he said. Qurrah shot him a glance, his meaning clear. The half-orc shrugged, drew his swords, and began walking. A sleek staircase led to the upper floor, while through the hallway they could see a room with an iron stove and shelves for storing food.

“Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

“Up,” Qurrah said. “And quiet, before you wake him.”

“Too late,” said a voice from the stairs. Both turned to see Ahrqur standing at the top step, his arms crossed. He was dressed in a long green robe. Silver swirls marked the sleeves and front. Brown hair fell far past his shoulders.

“Pleased to meet you,” Harruq said with a bow.

“Indeed,” Qurrah said, his hand itching to retrieve his whip curled underneath his raggedy robe.

“If you are thieves, you are certainly incompetent ones,” Ahrqur said, his voice full of contempt. He descended halfway down the stairs, his eyes never leaving the two. “Of course, what could one expect from Celestia’s cursed?”

“We are not thieves, Ahrqur Tun’del,” Qurrah said. “We are assassins.” The whip writhed around his arm, begging for use.

“Arrogant ones at that,” said the elf. “Such a claim is foolish. If you were assassins, you would strike without chatter. You are nothing but pretenders.”

Harruq clanged his swords together, showering the ground with sparks. His armor shimmered as his anger grew.

“Pretenders with wonderful toys,” the elf continued, eyeing Harruq’s blades. “Toys I will take from your dead bodies.”

He leapt down the stairs in a single bound. His feet hardly touched before he was vaulting over a red silk couch to land before the fireplace. He drew an ornate sword that hung over the fireplace, letting the scabbard fall to the floor. The blade gleamed in the firelight, impossibly sharp and deadly.

“I have killed a hundred like you,” Ahrqur said.

“And I hope to kill a thousand just like you,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together one more time before lunging across the room. Salvation and Condemnation smacked hard against Ahrqur’s blade. The weapons sparked, all three of the swords imbued with powerful magic. The elf fell back, his arms lacking the strength to block the massive blow. He danced away, his sword whirling upward to deflect two quick slashes by the half-orc.

Ahrqur found no reprieve for three bones flew for his eyes and face, even veering to follow the elf’s dodges. The elven blade whirled, cutting two out of the air. The third smacked into his throat. Luckily, the bone was part of a finger and lacked a sharp enough edge to cut skin. Instead, the elf was left gasping as he retreated from another series of strikes from Harruq.

“Pretenders, are we?” Qurrah asked as his fingers performed a dark weave. “How much I wish for your pride to suffer.” Magical energy rippled out of him and tore across the air. The elf whirled, sensing the incoming invisible blow. Only a tiny part hit his shoulder, immediately encasing it in ice. Then Harruq was upon him, slashing recklessly.

Ahrqur batted his sword left and right, then jumped as Harruq swung back in a scissor-cut that should have shredded his waist. The elf landed atop one of his couches, balancing with ease.

“What reason do you have to kill me?” the elf asked. “Are you here for money? I could pay you twice the pittance you work for.”

“Just shut up,” Harruq said, hurling Salvation across the room. Ahrqur leapt again. The sword punched through the couch and embedded in the wall. The half-orc gripped Condemnation in both hands, snarling as the elf launched his own offensive series. The elven blade glided through the air, repeatedly feinting and looping wide so that Harruq’s sword danced about for phantom blows. Ahrqur let out a mocking laugh, gave him an obvious feint, and then kicked high. The foot smashed the bottom of Harruq’s chin, the same sore part Dieredon had hit.

Harruq staggered back, his sword swinging wildly. The elf charged in, knowing he outmatched the half-orc in speed and skill. The kill would be his.

“Hemorrhage.”

A sudden purging of blood vessels exploded across Ahrqur’s side. The force smashed him into a decorative table. He rolled off the broken thing and glanced down at the blood soaking his robe. Despite the wound, no cut or hole was visible in the cloth.

“You are pathetic, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said, his hands whirling. “You are skilled but you are soft. You lack spirit, will. It is why you cannot resist my power. Hemorrhage!”

A visible wave of distorted reality crossed the distance between the necromancer and Ahrqur. The elf crossed his arms against the blow. His mind was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden tearing sensation that hit him. Blood splattered from two horrid gashes along his forearms, soaking the carpet crimson. He collapsed to one knee, his hands latched around his sword. He tried to raise the blade, but all the strength had left his hands. He had lost too much blood. When Harruq came charging forward, Condemnation red and hungry, all he could do was dodge.

Condemnation shattered what remained of the table. The elf rolled, his arms tucked against his chest. When he pulled out of the roll, he dashed for a large dresser. Inside was a stash of healing potions. All he needed was one and he could fight again. Just one. As he reached to open a drawer he felt his leg jerk back, halting his momentum. He crashed to the floor, screaming in pain as one of his forearms landed hard. Then he felt his ankle start to burn.

“Take him, brother,” Qurrah said, his whip wrapped around Ahrqur’s left foot. Harruq did not bother to cross the distance. He had had enough. Condemnation flew through the air, its aim true. The blade sank into the elf’s back. Blood and fluid covered the carpet as all life fled the body of Ahrqur Tun’del.

Harruq strolled forward, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the sudden quiet. He drew out his sword, grimacing at the sick wet sound it made.

“What do we do about all the blood?” he asked.

“We will clean it, but first we must drain the body.”

The two dug through dressers upstairs, grabbing old and expensive robes and shirts. They then dragged the body outside to where the deceased elf had kept a private garden. Thick brick walls guarded against any prying eyes. They dug a large hole in a corner and then bled the body dry, letting the fluids soak into the dirt. Occasionally, they would halt and listen, worried their violent struggle had reached unwanted ears. No curious investigators arrived, however, and they continued with their dark deed. When the blood dripping from the elf’s wounds became but a trickle, they filled the hole and moved on.

Using the clothes and robes from upstairs, the two brothers wiped away as much of Ahrqur’s blood as they could. They tossed the bloody clothes, the table, and the pieces of glass they into the fireplace and burned them. Harruq wrapped the body in spare blankets he found in a closet.

“Grab the sword,” he said as he hoisted the dead elf onto his shoulder.

“I have it,” Qurrah said, retrieving the elven blade and its dark green sheath from the floor. They gave one last look around. Everything was back in place. No drawers remained open or scattered, no blood stained the floor, and only the sword that used to hang above the fireplace was blatantly missing.

“Come brother, the night is waning fast,” Qurrah said.

Harruq shifted the body to a more comfortable position.

“Lead the way.”

The two slipped out the front door and into the night. Upon arriving home, Harruq tossed the body into the far room, stripped off his gorgeous black armor, and plopped down onto the bed.

“Night, Qurrah,” he said. “Sorry, but that elfie wore me out, and I never thought cleaning a place could be so tiring. I need to rest.”

“Good night, then,” Qurrah replied, crawling onto his side of the uncomfortable bed. He curled his rags about him and drifted off to sleep, pleasant memories of the battle looping in his mind.

Chapter XI

DIEREDON WAS STUNNED BY THE simple fact that he was awake. He had expected death. He had also expected darkness. Instead, the welcoming light of morning met his eyes when he leaned up and looked around. The elf smiled, then laughed. They had walked right over him but not seen him.

“Thank you, Celestia,” he said, his smile remaining even as the pain in his ribs and shoulder reawakened. The stinging, however, paled compared to the previous night. He sat up, cradling his right arm. A look around showed no sign of Velixar or his undead. The morning continued to be full of delightful surprises. The elf pulled out a roll of thick cloth from a knapsack and began bandaging his wounds.

“Aurelia, we need to talk,” Dieredon said while fashioning a sling for his right arm. “Those half-orcs have some very interesting friends.”

He stood, tested the tightness of his bandages, took up his bow, and then headed for town.

Harruq awoke late the next morning. His tired eyes winced at the sunlight. He covered his face with an arm, moaning against the evils of interrupted sleep. Then he remembered Aurelia.

“Aaah, I’ll be late,” he said. He rubbed his eyes once, and then blinked when he saw his brother leaning against the far wall, waiting for him.

“What will you be late for?” Qurrah asked, his voice hinting only mild curiosity but his eyes revealing otherwise.

“Nothing. Just my practice is all.”

“Indeed. Your practice. I have held my tongue, Harruq, but I will hold it no longer. Your hair is cut. You come back every morning bruised. What is it that you hide from me?”

Harruq lowered his eyes in shame. “It’s not…I didn’t mean anything…”

“What is it, Harruq? Tell me the truth.”

“I…I’ve been training with someone.”

Qurrah crossed his arms. “Who is he?”

The half-orc chuckled.

“She, not he. She saved my life, and she’s also been teaching me to read.”

“How did she save your life?” Qurrah asked.

“Remember a few months back when I came home beaten, bloody, and blue?” he asked. “Guards caught me trying to sneak inside Maggie’s Tavern. They attacked me, said they were going to arrest me as the Forest Butcher. Aurelia stopped them.”

Qurrah rubbed his chin, lost in thought. He glanced at Harruq, a tiny smile forming on his face.

“May I meet her?”

Harruq immediately began blubbering.

“No, but you see, I don’t know if she’s ready, and you might not…I need to let her know you’re coming first!”

Qurrah chuckled.

“Why do you worry?”

The big half-orc let his gaze drop to the floor. “She’s an elf. Is that alright?”

Qurrah walked over and put a hand on Harruq’s shoulder.

“You may be with whoever you wish, my dear brother. Just do not try to deceive me.”

Harruq nodded. “Alright, then you can come this morning. We’ve got to hurry though, or we’ll be late.”

“I am ready,” Qurrah said. “When you are ready, lead on.”

The big half-orc flew about their home, grabbing his old swords and donning his faded leather armor. When ready, he nodded to Qurrah, who let out a rare laugh.

“You are amusing, brother,” was all he said before following him out.

“This is it,” Harruq said as he gestured about the small clearing he and Aurelia sparred in.

“Where is she?” Qurrah asked. Harruq shrugged in response.

“She’s never here. She always shows up after I do.”

The smaller half-orc scanned the area, seeing no sign of the elf.

“Perhaps she is not coming,” Qurrah offered. “You are late, after all. On the other hand, perhaps I scared her off. I do have a creepy aura about me, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Suuuure, Qurrah,” Harruq said, crossing his arms as he waited. “You’re big and scary and send little kiddies running when they see you on the street.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said a female voice behind the two brothers. “Any man who would hang out with a brute like Harruq must be a disturbed individual.”

Both turned to see Aurelia step out from behind a tree. She smiled at Harruq, and then nodded to his brother.

“Care to introduce me?”

“Oh yeah, this is—”

“Qurrah Tun, my lady,” Qurrah said with a bow that sent Harruq’s jaw dropping. “It is a pleasure to meet you. May I have the name of the one who has brought civility to my brother?”

Aurelia laughed at Harruq’s flabbergasted look.

“I am Aurelia Thyne,” she said, offering a quick curtsy. “And it will take years to civilize that big lug. I’m not sure I have the patience.”

“If your patience matches your beauty then my brother will soon be dressed in nobles’ finest, sipping wine and commenting on the taxing errors of our dear King of Neldar.”

Aurelia blushed. She smiled at Qurrah. “You surprise me. It truly is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And it is a pleasure to meet the elf that my brother is so smitten for.”

Aurelia giggled at Harruq’s squirming. “He’s a loveable puppy dog, but I do not think he is smitten. Are you, Harruq?”

“Um, course not,” the half-orc said. Aurelia and Qurrah shared a quick, knowing smile. The frail half-orc’s face lost much of its lifelessness, and a gentle caring filled his eyes. His seriousness quickly buried it, but Aurelia had seen enough.

“I shall leave you two to your studies and sparring,” Qurrah said after a long pause to torture Harruq. “Although I doubt the wisdom of leaving him alone with such a beautiful teacher.”

“Good thing you will not have to worry about that, considering I see no beautiful teachers around,” Aurelia replied.

Qurrah walked to Aurelia and bowed again, taking her hand in his and kissing it. As Aurelia smiled, he rose and whispered into her ear.

“He loves you, elf. I can feel it. Do you love him back?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Will you hurt him?”

“Never.”

“Then accept my blessing.”

Finished, Qurrah bowed once more, wished his brother good luck, and then trudged through the forest toward Woodhaven. When he was out of earshot, Aurelia walked over to Harruq and jabbed him in the side with a finger.

“Now why did you take so long to let me meet him?” she asked.

“I, but, he, but…”

“No buts. He was a perfect gentleman.”

The half-orc threw his arms up in surrender. He sat down beside her and did his best to focus on the letters. Aurelia seemed impressed enough with his progress, and they soon began working on simple words further into the book.

“Why does your brother speak so strangely,” she asked once they were done, trying to broach the subject casually. She sat stretched out on the grass, her legs crossed and her weight leaning back on her arms. The whole time they had taught she had found her mind wandering to the sick, spidery voice Qurrah spoke in, a voice that had nearly spoiled his otherwise surprising charm.

“Qurrah was sold to a necromancer. I told you that, right?”

Aurelia nodded. “I believe you did.”

“Well, he caught my brother practicing a spell once. Qurrah was forbidden from ever casting magic, yet he tried anyway. He’s like that, always been, always will. Anyway, his master took a hot poker and shoved it down his throat. Said that way he’d never cast again.”

Harruq chuckled.

“He was wrong, obviously. Qurrah was stuck talking like that. Like a snake hiss or a raspy whisper.”

“Or a dying man,” Aurelia whispered, so soft that Harruq could not make out her words.

The streets were all the same to him, so down them all he wandered. The image of Aurelia and Harruq danced in his mind, and conflicting feelings rippled through his chest.

“She seems a kind enough elf,” Qurrah said, talking to himself since he had no company. “Beautiful as well. Of course Harruq would be attracted to her. We have elven blood in our veins, do we not?”

The words felt hollow against the constant ache in his heart. Hard as he tried, he could not place it. Was it anger? No. Surprise? A little, perhaps. Jealousy? Certainly not. Worry? Fear? Doubt?

The only emotion he was certain of was confusion. So he walked and would walk for the rest of the morning, wishing there was something he could do to banish the sick, hollow feeling in his stomach. There was nothing he knew to do though, and that made it so much worse.

Their sparring ended, Harruq and Aurelia sat side-by-side against a tree, both glistening with sweat.

“Getting better,” the half-orc said. “You’re going to be beating my ass in a few weeks if you keep learning as fast as you are.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, patting his hand. “Your ass is safe with me.”

Harruq laughed at the absurdity. Aurelia, meanwhile, absently drew lines in the dirt. He watched for a moment, suddenly nervous and quiet. The words of his brother echoed in his head.

“Aurry?” he asked. “You said most elves remember when men were created…do you know how orcs were made?”

The elf looked at him. She was trying to read him, Harruq could tell, but he endured it without protest.

“When Ashhur and Karak warred, there were elves that sought to end it,” she said. “Against Celestia’s orders, they joined Karak, hoping their aid would finally end the conflict. When our goddess imprisoned the two gods, she cursed those elves. She stripped them of their beauty, their intelligence, and their long life. They weren’t evil, Harruq, but Karak offered them strength and they accepted it. The dark god drove them to war against elves and men. Finally the orcs were banished to the Vile Wedge between the rivers.”

“Do any still worship Karak?”

“Most don’t,” Aurelia said. “They’ve turned to worshipping animals now. I’ve even heard of some worshipping Celestia once more, hoping she will forgive them and remove their curse. They are a sad race, Harruq, but believe me in saying there is no shame in your blood.”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Aurelia’s eyes. He watched her trace lines in the grass. Seeking a way to lighten the mood, he asked her how to spell his name.

“Harruq?” she asked. “Hrm. My best guess would be H-a-r-r-u-k.”

A soft blow of air from her lips turned the grass to dirt so that a large space lay available for her to write on. She wrote ‘Harruk’ in the dirt with her finger, spacing out each letter. Harruq stared at the words representing his name, feeling a tiny thrill.

“How about my last name, Tun?”

She wrote out T-u-n. The half-orc stared, absorbing every detail of his name.

“Can I see your name?” he asked. Aurelia nodded, tracing her hand across the dirt.

“A-u-r-e-l-i-a.”

The half-orc smiled at the name.

“It even looks all pretty,” he said, eliciting a laugh. “Do Qurrah now.”

Aurelia did not begin writing immediately, instead thinking over the pronunciation.

“Qurrah,” she said at last. “It is a little tricky, but I bet it is spelled like this.”

Letter by letter she wrote ‘Qurrah’ in the dirt. Harruq stared at it, whispering his brother’s name as his eyes traced the letters. As he did, a thought hit him. His eyes went back and forth from his own name and Qurrah’s.

“You spelled my name wrong,” Harruq said.

“What? How?”

The half-orc reached over, erased the k in his name and drew a clumsy, capitalized Q at the end. He leaned back and smiled. The name in the dirt now read ‘HarruQ’.

“Why did you change it?” she asked. “It’s a rather odd spelling.”

“Look at my brother’s name,” he said. Aurelia did, and then she saw what Harruq had also seen.

“Your name is your brother’s, only backwards.”

“Yup,” Harruq laughed. “Mum was always smart for an orc. Even knew how to read, if you believe that. Bet she did that on purpose.”

“Yes, but why?”

Harruq shrugged. “Thought she was being clever? Who knows! But I can spell my name now!”

“Good for you,” Aurelia laughed. “Now go on home, you bother me.”

“Well fine then,” the half-orc said, feigning insult. “I see someone’s jealous I saw it before she did.”

Harruq dodged the first two springs of water but the third one caught him square in the face. He was still dripping when he arrived home.

“You and her go swimming?” Qurrah asked him.

“Shut up,” was all he said.

Qurrah laughed. The pit in his stomach suddenly didn’t seem so awful.

“Aurelia!” Dieredon screamed to the wilderness. Birds whistled, but no elven voice spoke back.

“Aurelia!” he shouted again, wincing at the pain in his chest. After arriving in town, he had found one of his stashed healing potions and downed it. His ribs had gone from several pieces to just a single break, and his shoulder was slowly regaining strength. It would still be days before he was back to full health, days he did not have to spare.

“I’m here,” Aurelia said after the third yell from Dieredon. The elf turned and smiled at her even though she winced and moved to examine his arm, which remained in a sling.

“They are nothing,” he told her. “Please, you must listen to me. Stay away from the half-orcs. They aren’t safe.”

“Nonsense,” she said. She guided a hand across his chest, feeling the break. Her hand then traveled to his shoulder, and a deep frown grew across her face.

“Who did this to you?” she asked.

“The man in black, the one continuing to train the half-orcs. I approached him last night and he nearly killed me.”

“Harruq is no threat to me,” Aurelia insisted. “And I have met Qurrah. He showed me nothing but kindness.”

“Then it is a false kindness,” Dieredon said. He paused for a moment, grabbed his chest with his healthy arm, and then looked at her again. Pain was evident in his eyes.

“That man has an army of undead. I barely managed to hide until daylight. Woodhaven is in danger, and so are you.”

Aurelia stepped back, frowning.

“Are you sure it was Harruq?”

“I saw the warrior with my own eyes. I ignored them and went after the master, just as you asked.” He gestured to his wounds. “You can see my reward. I could not kill him. There are very few I cannot kill, Aurelia, and I do not appreciate adding another to that list.”

“I will still see him,” Aurelia said. “I will be careful, but I will still see him. He needs me. I know it.”

Dieredon gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“Very well. I will trust you, Aurelia.”

He turned to go. Aurelia grabbed his hand and stopped him.

“Where will you go?”

The elf glanced back to her.

“War is coming. I must alert my kin. If this man and his army do attack Woodhaven, he will find the Quellan army descending upon him from the sky. Besides, I have been separated from Sonowin far too long. I miss her.”

Aurelia smiled for the first time since she had seen Dieredon.

“I am surprised you have gone so long without retrieving her,” Aurelia said. “She is a beautiful horse. I wish to see her when you return.”

“I promise,” Dieredon said. Aurelia released his hand.

“May Celestia watch over you,” she said as he left.

“And she over you,” Dieredon replied. Then he was gone, through the forest and back into town. There he bought a sturdy horse and began his long ride south to the Quellan forest.

“It is a beautiful blade,” Harruq said, examining the elven weapon that had belonged to Ahrqur. They were killing the final hour before dark. Then they would hoist the wrapped body onto Harruq’s shoulder and sneak out of town. Qurrah sat meditating in a corner while Harruq yammered to himself. The blade was in one hand, the decorative scabbard in the other.

“He was a skilled swordsman,” Qurrah said. “He was also arrogant. I would expect such a blade from one like him.”

Harruq shrugged. “If I didn’t have my own two swords, I’d use it.”

The half-orc cut the blade through the air a few times and then sheathed it. He turned the weapon over in his hands, marveling at the swimming colors of dark green and black. He paused when he found a name written in gold near the hilt.

“Tun’del,” Harruq read aloud, slowly and carefully. “He even has his name on his sword.”

“Did I not say he was arrogant?”

Harruq stared at the name on the scabbard, mesmerized by the beauty of the writing. He ran his fingers over it, enjoying the feeling of pure gold. When he covered the second half, he paused.

“Qurrah,” Harruq said. “Look at this.”

The bigger half-orc shifted the blade so that his brother could see. He kept his hand where it was. Qurrah read the name, and then glanced at his brother.

“That is our last name.”

Harruq nodded.

“Aurelia showed me. T, u, n, she said. And then this sword here has our name…kind of.”

Qurrah stared at the name, thinking.

“He was an elf,” he said. “I guess it is possible he was our father, although I feel it more likely a coincidence. Our mother was intelligent, at least for an orc, but was she smart enough to leave us clues within our own names?”

“Well, he’s dead now, so we’ll never know,” Harruq said, tossing the blade onto the floor. Qurrah, however, was far from dismayed. He grinned at his brother and then spoke in his hissing voice.

“Would you like to have a conversation with our dear old dad?” he asked.

Chapter XII

THE BODY OF AHRQUR TUN’DEL lay atop several strange markings and shapes drawn in the dirt. He remained wrapped in the blankets and sheets the two half-orcs had used to smuggle him out of his house. The wrappings provided a bit of relief against the growing smell of death that already permeated their home.

“His spirit will be bound to mine,” Qurrah said, sitting on his knees before the body. His eyes were closed and his hands atop Ahrqur’s head. “Any question you or I ask he must answer truthfully. Do not be disturbed by the sound he first makes. Spirits brought back into our world rarely enjoy the journey.”

Harruq nodded, dressed in his black armor. They did not have much time before Velixar’s dark cloud arrived. They could not rush, but nor could they dawdle. Qurrah inhaled deeply and began casting his spell.

The words of magic were similar to those when he raised the eight corpses back in Cornrows. The bigger half-orc was aware of subtle differences, but had little clue to what they were. Words of power were beyond his understanding.

The body quivered, but it was not a physical quiver. Translucent silver crept about the wraps. Blue smoke floated into the air. The blue and silver grew thicker and thicker. Qurrah’s words grew louder, more powerful, and then Ahrqur’s spirit ripped into the air, a glowing blue-silver form of insanity. The spirit looked much as he did in life, except his clothes were different. They were silvery robes, beautiful and decadent. The spirit wailed. It took all of Harruq’s strength to resist the urge to cover his ears.

“Cease such nonsense,” Qurrah ordered. The spirit immediately hushed. A bit of coherence came to his eyes, and he glared down at the half-orc.

“Greetings, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said. “Remember us, the incompetent thieves?”

The spirit glared harder.

“Did his tongue die with him?” Harruq asked.

“I haven’t told him he can speak yet,” Qurrah responded. His eyes flicked back from Harruq to the spirit. “You may talk, spirit, but keep it quiet.”

“You take my life, and now you dare keep me from eternity?” the spirit moaned. “For what reason do you torment me? I have never harmed you, never said a cursing word, but now this?”

“Just a few questions and you may return to your slumber.”

Qurrah paused, a smile growing across his lips.

“Tell me, did you ever sleep with an orcish woman?”

The spirit recoiled as if struck.

“You dare ask me if I ever committed an act so disgraceful and…”

“Answer me!”

The cry from Qurrah rolled over him like a horde of stampeding horses. All his resistance broke away, meaningless, preventing nothing.

“Yes,” Ahrqur said. The words dripped out of his mouth, quiet and disgusted. “Yes. Once.”

Harruq shook his head, hardly able to believe it.

“You did?” he asked. “How long ago?”

“Many years. Fifteen. Twenty.”

“Why did you sleep with her?” Qurrah asked.

“She filled me with drink and then tricked me,” the elven spirit said. “Never would I willingly have touched one of Celestia’s cursed.”

Qurrah shook his head. “Answer me truthfully, you wretched spirit. Was it willing or was it not?”

The spirit gave no answer. The half-orc stood, his hands clenched into fists. He hooked them through the air as he repeated his question.

“Was it willing or not?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Ahrqur whispered, grimacing as if filled with horrid pain. “When she approached me, I offered no resistance. Now will you let me return to peace?”

“Not yet. Harruq, would you like to tell him?”

Ahrqur glanced at Harruq, who was grinning wide.

“You can see we have orcish blood in us, right?” Harruq asked.

“Aye, you stink of it,” the spirit said.

“Well, we also have elven blood in us. Our mum said she bedded an elf before she was thrown out of town. So guess what? I’m thinking we’re the children you sired with that orc lady so many years ago.”

The glow of the spirit faded. It looked back and forth, shaking and moaning.

“You cannot be bastard children of mine,” Ahrqur said, his voice weak and distant. “Celestia cannot hate me so.”

“Celestia has nothing to do with this,” Qurrah said. “It is truth.”

Almost all the spirit’s glow was gone. Only hatred and disgust lingered in his eyes.

“May I be released now, wretched spawn of mine?” Ahrqur asked.

“Yes. Go rest in your shame. I have no use for you.”

The spirit gave Qurrah one last glare then dissipated into the fading light. Silence filled the room.

“Well, what did you think?” asked Harruq.

“I think,” Qurrah said, “that was enjoyable.”

The two paused, each thinking the same thing. Finally, Harruq voiced his thoughts.

“You think Velixar knew it when he sent us to kill him?”

Qurrah stretched, letting out a small sigh as his back popped.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Although I don’t know why. A test of some sort perhaps?”

“Getting tired of tests,” Harruq said.

“Keep such thoughts buried and dead.” Qurrah pointed to the door. The cloud of darkness waited. “Bring the body.”

“Excellent.”

Velixar beamed at his two disciples. At his feet lay the wrapped corpse of Ahrqur. “Tun’del was a skilled swordmaster. You both have proven yourselves as strong as I believed. Unwrap the body. It is time we begin.”

Much preparation later, Qurrah and Velixar stood on opposite sides of a naked Ahrqur. The elf lay on his back. Thin scars and symbols decorated his body, including a slanted Y across his forehead. Thirteen stones surrounded the corpse, each dabbed with a bit of Qurrah’s blood. Velixar held a piece of Ahrqur’s flesh in his right hand.

“Are you ready?” Velixar asked his disciple.

“Yes, master,” Qurrah said.

The elder necromancer crushed the flesh in his grip, signaling the start of his casting. Dark, slithering words flowed from his lips, ominous in the starlight. As the minutes passed, the blood on the stones began to glow. Qurrah took up his own chant, a single phrase he was to repeat so that the spirit of Ahrqur could not flee once Velixar summoned it.

“Drak thun, drak thaye, kaer vrek thal luen,” he chanted. A part of him shivered, the words so similar to black words Master had spoken before the hyena-men had come. He repeated his designated phrase, feeling the magic flowing from him to encircle the body.

“Kala mar, yund cthular!” Velixar shrieked in a voice stronger than his frail form should have possessed. The call echoed throughout the night, sending wolves yipping away and night owls crashing in a squawking frenzy. The symbols on the body flared to a brilliant crimson.

A sense of exaltation soared through both necromancers as Ahrqur opened his eyes and snarled.

“Rise, slave,” Velixar commanded. “Your soul is trapped in your body and answers only to my command.”

The naked elf rose, his eyes burning with red rage. The symbols on his body faded until they were but faint scars.

“Give him his clothes,” Velixar ordered his student. Qurrah fetched a pair of black pants, a red shirt, and a black cloak, all of which Velixar had prepared before the brothers had brought the bloodless body to him.

“Dress,” the necromancer ordered. Ahrqur growled some inane argument, but a glare from Velixar sent him cowering.

“You must obey my every command, wretch, before you may return to the peaceful death you left. Fight me and you shall find your stay here lasting longer than your rotting body’s.”

The undead Ahrqur whimpered. Qurrah watched the display, fighting against feelings of jealousy. He had commanded Ahrqur’s spirit to speak truthfully, but Velixar’s very glare sent him groveling to his knees. The elf stood and dressed, covering his white form in the red and black garb. Once dressed, Harruq gave him the ornate elven blade.

“Your quest is a simple one,” he told his slave. “Go to Veldaren. Do whatever you must to sneak into the king’s castle. Kill if needed. When you find King Vaelor, wound him but do not kill him. Do not be captured, either. Die in combat.”

Ahrqur nodded, his eyes seething. Velixar reached out and placed his hand on the elf’s forehead. Qurrah watched as smoke rose from their contact, yet neither flinched. When the necromancer drew back his hand, a strange symbol lay overtop the faint scarring of the slanted Y. It was of a fallen man wreathed in flame.

“When you fall, the enchantment upon your forehead shall burn your body to ash. Then your soul may find peace.”

“I shall do as you command,” Ahrqur said in a lifeless voice.

“Of course,” Velixar said. “There is no other way.”

Ahrqur glanced to Qurrah, and his mouth opened to speak. Both Tun brothers felt a bit of panic, wondering what their new master might say if he learned what they had done. Instead, he closed his mouth and glared at Velixar one last time before running north on legs that would never tire.

“When will you know of his success or failure?” Qurrah asked once his eyes could no longer perceive the elf’s faint outline.

“Immediately,” Velixar whispered. “All he sees, I see. All he hears, I hear. His thoughts, dreams, and nightmares are available to me, hidden behind locked doors to which I now hold the key.”

Again, Qurrah lusted for such power and control. Velixar smiled, clearly seeing the desire the half-orc hid behind his eyes.

“One day you will hold such control. For now, be content with what I have taught you.”

Qurrah gave a soft laugh and then nodded.

“I believe that shall suffice.”

Harruq did not know why, but the short exchange sent chills running to the pit of his stomach.

The night was hot and miserable when Velixar met the half-orc brothers and told them the news they had long waited to hear.

“Ahrqur was successful, and in ways beyond what I could have hoped for,” he told them, joy dancing in his features. “King Vaelor has long felt inferior to the kings of his past. I have haunted his dreams, and I know his heart. He wishes a war with the elves to prove his worth. Ahrqur gave him his reason, and it was beautiful.”

“What is it your slave did?” Qurrah asked.

“In a court full of human nobles, he broke through, slew four of them, and then took the king’s left ear.” Velixar laughed. “He killed five guards before he was slain. Two more died in the fiery consumption of his corpse.”

Qurrah smiled at the image. Harruq’s blood heated at the thought of battle, but the coldness in his stomach refused to succumb.

“Vaelor cannot yet risk war,” Velixar continued. “He must have all the people see him as a peaceful man driven to conflict. History does not favor the warmongers, not among the peasants and scribes. They favor so-called great men, driven to war by horrid acts of others.”

The man in black spat his disdain.

“It is a sad age when conquerors are seen as warmongering butchers and the cowards backed into corners are seen as the true heroes. Ashhur can be blamed for poisoning so many with such rubbish.”

“What will the king do?” asked Harruq, his hands rubbing the hilts of his blades.

“He has already evicted elven blood from his kingdom. Woodhaven, however, still contains hundreds of elves. In his pride, Vaelor will demand them to leave. A messenger is already en route. I have haunted his dreams as well. He is but a distant cousin to the king, spoiled and stupid. He carries orders to the elves of Woodhaven: leave or die.”

“They will never leave,” Qurrah said. “They are stubborn and will defend their homes until death.”

“It is more than that,” Velixar said. “The Quellan elves have already been pushed across the rivers by the Mordan people. Both races of elves fear for their existence. Celestia has grown distant to her clerics. Mankind breeds like mice while the elves find themselves gradually dwindling. A man fighting an elf is like a grain of sand blowing against a stone, yet strong winds and fields of sand can reduce the sturdiest of boulders to dust.”

“What are we to do?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar looked at him and smiled.

“Kill the messenger and the guards that accompany him. Vaelor will be furious at the death of family, however distant. He will have every excuse to war with the elves and we will exploit that war to our purposes.”

“Will you accompany us?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar shook his head.

“Bring me the head of the messenger. I will retrieve an elf to deliver it to the king.”

The man in black stood and motioned to the stars.

“Follow the left wing,” he said, his finger pointing to the constellation in the stars referred to as the raven. “It will not be long before you see the light of their campfire. Make haste. The battle grows closer with every move we make.”

“Yes, master,” they echoed before beginning their trek.

It was not long before they saw the firelight in the distance.

“Can you run, brother?” Harruq asked.

“No, I cannot. The night is long. I will hurry, but please let me rest when I must.”

“Course I’ll let you rest when you need it. Come on, let’s go.”

They stopped twice for Qurrah to catch his breath. His weak body gasped for air, sweat lining his face and neck. In the starlight, he looked so pale, so frail, that Harruq wondered how his brother could be so fearsome in combat.

When they neared the firelight, they stopped to plan.

“So what should we do?” Harruq asked.

“They are not asleep,” Qurrah said. “Something keeps them awake. I fear they know of our arrival.”

“Velixar?”

“I believe so. He tests us again.”

Harruq patted his swords.

“So be it. What’s the plan?”

Qurrah could see two men positioned on either side of the campfire. They kept their backs to the fire and sat far enough away so their eyes would not fully adjust to its light. They camped within a sparse copse of trees, the trunks not nearly thick enough to hide their approach.

“They are wise and alert,” he whispered. “Perhaps I can get close enough to cast a spell on one or two. They are on flat ground, so I see no way to ambush them.”

“Then why don’t we just walk over, say hello, and then whack ‘em?” Harruq asked.

“My dear brother,” Qurrah said, “that is a very good question.”

Brazenly, they approached the campfire. They kept their weapons sheathed and hidden. The closer they got before the men panicked the better.

“Halt, who goes there?” one of the guards shouted to them as they neared. They wore polished chainmail shining red in the firelight. The crest of Neldar adorned their tabards. Longswords hung from their belts.

“Me be Harruq Tun!” the half-orc said as he stepped further into the light, grinning stupidly. “And this be me brother, Qurrah!”

“Get back you smelly thing,” the other guard said. Both stood to face him as other guards stirred from their blankets and bedrolls. They still wore their chainmail, proof something had disturbed them greatly. Sleeping in armor was far from comfortable.

“Me only a little smelly,” Harruq slurred. “Do you have any food, me be starving, and me brother no be feelin’ too good. Just look at him!”

Qurrah chuckled at the act while his concealed whip writhed about his arm.

“What is going on?” asked a whiny little voice. From the lone tent, a skinny man in purple and red emerged stinking of perfume.

“It is nothing,” one of the guards said. Harruq held in a chuckle. It was obvious the guard had little love for the disgusting noble.

“Nothing? By Ashhur, it is the smelliest, dirtiest nothing I have ever seen. Shoo you foul beast, we have no need of your stench.”

“You have little need of what we bring,” Qurrah said, the whip uncurling from his arm and falling to the dirt. A single thought made the black leather burst into flames.

“Assassins!” a guard shouted, drawing his blade. The other guards, six in total, did the same. The perfumed man in the center shook as he realized combat was about to erupt.

“It is seven against two, you stupid pigs,” he shouted. “What are you thinking?”

“That you will die last,” Qurrah said before casting his first spell. The fire in the center of the camp flickered and then died. The half-orcs, through their mixed blood, could see well in the darkness. The humans had no such natural ability. Until their eyes adjusted to the moonlight, the only thing they could see was their burning red eyes, the demonic glow of Harruq’s blades, and the fire that burned but did not consume Qurrah’s whip. In that darkness, they were demons of another plane, furious and merciless. The men fought but their hearts were afraid. Qurrah could sense it and knew the battle was already theirs.

Harruq bellowed a battle cry, clanging his swords together for effect. The guards gathered as best they could, forming a wall in front of the noble. Harruq charged, a roar rolling out his mouth like a tornado. It was loud, strong, and seemed to shake the earth to those before it. When he crashed into the line of guards, the blood ran quick and free.

Of the seven, only two stood their ground against the glowing blades. One swung his sword in a high, round arc while the other stabbed forward, hoping to gut the half-orc because of his charge. Harruq’s charge, though, was far from mindless. His speed far beyond the guard’s, he knocked the stab away, then shifted his weight so that both Salvation and Condemnation blocked the other attack. The weaker blade shattered against the magic of the twin swords. One weaponless and the other horribly positioned, the two were defenseless. Salvation took a throat. Condemnation pierced rib and lung.

Harruq ripped his blade out of the guard’s chest and shoved the body to the side. The dying heap of flesh collided against two other men, knocking them back and delaying their attack. He mocked them, adrenaline flooding his veins.

“Is that all you can do?” he screamed. “Where’s the fun in this?”

“Here’s your fun,” one said, stabbing at Harruq’s side from behind. The blade punctured the black armor and bit into flesh. The half-orc roared, and then twisted so fast it left the expert guard breathless. His upper body jerked left to prevent the sword from going in any further. Salvation swung around, ringing against the blade. Condemnation followed through, aimed straight for the guard’s throat.

He ducked underneath the swing, feeling the air of the cut just inches above his head. Then he was up, both hands gripping his sword tightly. Harruq came charging in, both swords striking. The guard parried one after the other, constantly retreating. The others came to his aid, swinging careful, tentative blows. All three tried to engage without being put at risk, much like men prodding a bull. Of course, the result was similar. The bull got madder.

“If you’re gonna fight me, fight me!” he yelled. He ignored several strikes, accepting the cuts so he could close the distance between him and his opponent. The sound of steel was quick and brutal, but after the humiliation against Dieredon, Harruq felt as if his opponent moved through sand. At the end of three seconds, both of his blades had found flesh.

The guard fell at his feet, bleeding from a severed arm and a gutted belly. Soaked in blood, Harruq turned to the remaining guards and bellowed like the mad beast he was.

The remaining two facing him were trained well. They held firm when Harruq charged, and stayed close together. Because of this, they managed to survive the initial onslaught.

“Do not come closer,” Qurrah said, cracking his whip across the grass. Fire spread before his feet, which were black with smoke. The two guards ignored his threats, knowing the difficulty of using a whip in melee combat. Casting magic would also be a great risk. They only needed to close the distance and Qurrah was theirs. However, knowing was easier than doing. Much easier.

When the two tried to close in, Qurrah lashed out with his whip. One ducked away in fear. The other managed to deflect the lash and then charge, his sword leading. The flaming leather curled back around like a living thing. Qurrah sent it at the nearest opponent. He blocked, and then realized blocking was what the whip wanted him to do. A cocoon of fiery leather enveloped his sword, pulling him closer.

The half-orc’s free hand reached out. A soft blue enveloped it as he whispered words of a spell. His hand touched the chest of the guard, causing frost to spread out across the man’s tunic then seep inward as the guard screamed out in horrid pain. The scream halted as quickly as it had begun. The frost had reached his lungs, encircled them, and then froze them still. The man retched silently. Qurrah ignored him, knowing he would soon be dead.

The other guard charged Qurrah and swung his longsword. The necromancer smirked, preparing another lashing. The flaming leather wrapped around the guard’s sword hand, charring flesh to bone as he screamed. The blade dropped as the guard held his blackened hand before him, bits of white bone catching the moonlight.

“Mercy,” he begged, falling to his knees as the necromancer approached.

“There is no such thing,” Qurrah said before magically hurling two pieces of bone through the man’s eyes. He turned to the other guard, who still gasped in vain for air. He watched until death claimed him.

Harruq relished the feeling of true combat against skilled opponents. One would slash out, hoping for an opening, then back away as the other guard lunged, preventing Harruq from any chance to counter. Blood ran down his arms and sides from several minor cuts. The pain was good. It helped focus his mind. It also fed his rage.

“Kill me,” he shouted to one guard after another hit and fade. He smacked away a thrust but did not attempt to counter.

“Can you not kill me?” he asked, holding his swords out wide. Neither one attacked, instead holding their swords in defensive positions. Harruq shook his head, feeling his anger growing. These men did not fight with their hearts. They fought with their heads, and such foolishness could not be tolerated.

“Fine, I’ll show you a real warrior,” he said. His muscles tensed, his legs bulged, and then he charged the two, oblivious to his own safety. Overwhelming any of their attacks, he was a moving mountain of muscle, dangerous and powerful. The meager defenses of the guards faltered. One tried to block as Condemnation came for his head. The blade broke through and cleaved his skull in two. The other brought his sword down too late. Salvation tore through his chainmail. Harruq whirled on him, a quick double strike knocking the sword from his hand.

Helpless, the man staggered backward, clutching his wounded side. His eyes pleaded, but his mouth would dare not say the demeaning words. Harruq cut him again and again. His arms, his chest, his face: it all bled. But he remained alive, at least until that final moment when the two magic blades scissor-cut his neck. Harruq sheathed his swords and held the decapitated head of his foe high above him.

Full of pride, Qurrah watched his brother roar his victory to the night sky.

Chapter XIII

“PLEASE, LEAVE ME BE. I can give you gold, slaves, whatever you want!”

Qurrah chuckled. “Tie the bonds tighter. I do not want him breaking my concentration.”

Harruq nodded, yanking harder on the knot that held the noble’s hands behind his back. He was on his knees, his silk outfit stained by grass and dirt. Blood ran from where Harruq had broken his nose.

“Name a price, name it, anything, just name it!”

Harruq glanced at Qurrah, who only chuckled louder.

“We have little need for riches, noble. All we want is you.”

The man paled. “Me? What do you want me for? The elves…they sent you to attack me, didn’t they? Whatever they paid you, I can double it. Triple it!”

Qurrah shook his head. “No elf hired us, and no gold was put in our pockets.”

The flaming whip appeared, charring grass as it touched the ground.

“Then what do you want with me?” the man shrieked.

“You’ll see,” Harruq whispered into his ear before backing away.

The eyes of the nobleman grew wider, and panic gripped him entirely.

“No, no you can’t. You wouldn’t! Please, I beg of you, don’t…”

“Enough,” Qurrah said. His hand reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing the sides of the man’s face. Haunting words of magic flowed from the necromancer’s mouth. The noble’s jaw dropped, and black veins appeared in his eyes.

“By the gods, what is that?”

Harruq followed the man’s upward gaze but saw only clear night sky.

“Keep it away from me!” the man shouted as Qurrah released his hand and backed away. A glint of pleasure shone in his eyes as he watched his handiwork. The nobleman struggled against the ropes, his gaze locked on the sky.

“Please, no, take it away, I’ll do anything, anything, just keep it away. Don’t let it touch me, please, please, DON’T LET IT TOUCH ME!”

The man screamed for the next two minutes. Then he died.

“What did you do to him?” Harruq asked once the man was dead.

“Fear is an entertaining weapon, is it not?”

The warrior shook his head in wonder, but Qurrah said no more.

“Do we leave the bodies here?” Harruq asked.

The necromancer trotted over to the dead noble and did not answer. Instead, he ruffled through the silk robes until he found a scroll marked with the seal of the king. Qurrah ripped it to shreds and let the pieces scatter in the wind, then he turned to his brother.

“Do you remember what our Master wanted?”

Harruq unsheathed Condemnation and nodded.

“Aye, I do,” he said.

When they returned to where Velixar waited, Harruq dropped the head of the noble. It rolled twice before stopping face down in the grass.

“Excellent,” the man in black said. He looked his giant warrior up and down. “You are wounded. Is it serious?”

“Bah, I can handle far more than this,” Harruq said. “I’ll bandage them when we get home.”

“Very well. Leave me. Your work is done this night.”

Lying in the grass next to Velixar was the dead body of an elf male. Qurrah glanced at it, and then looked to his master.

“Do you need help bringing him back to life?” he asked. Velixar shook his head.

“Of course not. Both of you must rest. I will not be able to see you for a while, my disciples. The elves are more than wary of my presence now. Be ready come nightfall, and watch for my shadow. When it does come, that means war is on the horizon. Our glorious time has almost arrived.”

Raising a pale hand, he dismissed them. Qurrah turned to leave, but Harruq lingered.

“Master,” he asked, “when this fight starts, which side will we be on?”

His brother narrowed his eyes, knowing exactly why the question was asked. Velixar, however, seemed either not to know or not to care.

“If the elves win, Vaelor will have no choice but to leave them be. The assault of my orcs has weakened his army. They cannot suffer any more losses. If the humans win, however…”

A grin spread wide across his ever-changing face, chilling Harruq’s spine.

“If the humans win, the elves will declare full scale war against the kingdom of Neldar. So which side do you think will have the privilege of our blades and magic?”

“We will kill the elves,” Harruq said. The man in black nodded and then dismissed his bone general.

“Go. Patch your wounds.”

The half-orc bowed and then joined his brother. The two journeyed across the hills and then snuck inside Woodhaven. When they reached their home, Harruq removed his armor and began wrapping strips of old cloth around his wounds. Qurrah watched him for a moment before speaking.

“You know what you must do, should it come to it,” he said.

Harruq nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

He wrapped a long piece of cloth around his chest and then struggled to make his beefy hands tie a firm knot behind his back. Qurrah crossed the room, silent. He took the bits from Harruq’s hands and tied them in a double knot.

“Do your best to convince Aurelia not to fight,” he said, his voice quieter than normal. “Do everything you can. Make her listen.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” Harruq whispered.

“Will you if you must?”

The half-orc did not answer. Qurrah stepped around and stared into his brother’s eyes.

“If we meet her on the field of battle, if we fight her, she might attack me instead of you. Her or me, brother. Who would you choose? Which of us will die?”

The burly half-orc buried his gaze into Qurrah’s eyes. He did not flinch, and he did not lie, when he spoke.

“She would die. I would hate it forever, but she would die.”

The necromancer nodded. “Never forget it. Now let me help you dress those wounds. Some look deeper than you let on.”

Harruq remained silent as his brother scanned him, tightening bandages and cleaning some of the nastier cuts. His mind lingered on the fight that night, blocks he had missed, moves he made he shouldn’t have, and opportunities presented he had not taken advantage of. But mostly he thought of Aurelia, giggling as vines held him and she blasted his back with springs of water.

He did not sleep well that night. It would be a long while before he did.

The mood in Woodhaven grew somber as dark rumors spread. First came word that troops were on their way to enforce an edict evicting all elves from the city. The more this rumor spread, the more elves seemed to arrive. Elven men and women with camouflage and great longbows patrolled the city. Even more lingered in taverns and the homes of kin. Many humans left for the homes of family and friends, wanting no part of the coming conflict, while others spent hours whispering with the elf men in the bars. The tension grew. A group of men, not daring to admit where their pay came from, built sturdy palisades between the two halves of town. Everyone knew why but none spoke of it, at least outside of a whisper.

Two weeks after Harruq and Qurrah had slaughtered the messenger from Veldaren, the burning lights of an army encampment filled the fields north of Woodhaven. Soldiers of Neldar had arrived.

Antonil Copernus was quiet as he gazed at the town. The wind teased his long blond hair, never letting it rest as he stood. The moonlight cast an eerie glow on his gold-tinted armor, which was carefully polished. Behind him, the tents of his soldiers, numbering more than six hundred, lay scattered about in loose formation. In the silence, an elf walked up beside him, his keen eyes taking in the torches that lit the city.

“The city is quiet,” the elf said. “They await battle.”

“Let us hope it does not come to that, Dieredon. Perhaps they will accept the king’s orders for now.”

The elf shook his head.

“You know they will not.”

Antonil glanced at the elf, who was painted in camouflage and still wore his wicked bow slung across his back. He sighed.

“You’re right. I do know.”

Silence followed. The two continued staring, each wishing to speak their mind but unable to summon the courage.

“You are a wise man,” Dieredon said, breaking the moment. “You know who is in the right in this conflict, as do I.”

“Yes, we both do,” Antonil agreed. He glanced to the elf, his face asking the question he could not voice.

“No, I will not fight at their side,” Dieredon answered. “Never could I raise my bladed bow against you. However, I cannot fight against my brethren. I will let fate decide tomorrow, without my involvement.”

Antonil clasped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you. If there was a way I could stop this, I would.”

“Then stop it.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You can! Defy the king’s orders. Stop the bloodshed that his fear and paranoia are about to unleash.”

“An elf came, killed several nobles, and took the king’s ear. Then his cousin is slain bearing a message to this town, his head left at the gate of our city. Paranoia it might be, but it is justified.”

Antonil quieted. Dieredon watched him, amazed just how young the man could still look in the moonlight. He was a year beyond forty, yet he commanded the entire Neldaren army. Publicly, he handled the weight wonderfully, but when prying eyes were gone, his all-too-human fear and doubt showed. When the man spoke again, his voice trembled.

“I will not break my oaths. His Majesty asked I enforce his edict, and so I shall.”

Dieredon nodded, the sparkle in his eyes fading.

“I had hoped otherwise, but follow your oaths and your heart as you must.”

The elf whistled. From the night sky came the sound of soft wing beats. Then a white, winged horse swooped down, landing in front of Dieredon.

“Come, Sonowin,” the elf said to his cherished companion. “Let us leave this place while it is still in peace.”

The beautiful creature neighed in agreement. Dieredon mounted Sonowin, needing no reins or saddle. Antonil saluted the elf just before his mount leapt into flight.

“Stay safe, friend,” he said.

“You as well, friend.”

Before the elf took to the sky, however, he paused.

“Antonil…something more is at work here. Be wary. I will not take sides in this conflict, and neither shall the Quellan elves, but if I find who caused this war, I will kill him. It is the least I can do.”

A great beat of white wings and then the elf was in the air. Antonil watched him fly far south, watched until he was a tiny white dot among a blanket of stars. Before he stopped watching, however, he saw more than fifty similar white dots line the horizon. The guard captain smiled, somehow heartened by the sight.

“Let us hope for miracles,” he whispered to the night. “And let us hope that at tomorrow’s end all my troops are still alive.”

He stared at the stars for a long while before joining his troops in slumber.

Harruq and Qurrah waited anxiously at their door. They were fully armed and ready. The half-orc’s sister swords were sharpened and gleaming. Wrapped around his arm, Qurrah’s whip writhed hungrily. Their eyes rarely blinked, but as hour after hour passed and no blanket of shadow came to them, their patience wore thin.

“The human army is right outside the town,” Harruq grumbled. “We can’t wait until tomorrow night.”

“Patience, brother,” Qurrah said. “Just…patience.”

Another hour, and still no shadow. Harruq stepped back inside and plopped down. The other half-orc remained at the door, his eyes not leaving the gray outside.

“He’s not sending for us,” Harruq said.

“You are correct,” said Velixar’s voice, startling both of them. They turned to see their master emerge from the shadows of their home, his red eyes gleaming.

“How did you get in here?” the warrior asked.

“Listen to me,” Velixar said, ignoring the question. “I have little time. The elves have erected barricades near their homes. Surely you have seen them. Slip past their defenses and wait. When the battle comes, slaughter the elves from behind. You must weaken them enough so that Vaelor’s army has a chance at victory.”

“We will not fail,” Qurrah promised. “Where will we meet you?”

“Listen for where the screams are at their worst,” Velixar said as his shadow began to fade. “There shall I be.”

A pale hand reached inside his robes and pulled out five glass vials. Qurrah knelt and accepted the gifts.

“The vials contain powerful healing elixirs. If either of you are injured tomorrow, drink from them and resume the slaughter anew.”

“Thank you master,” Harruq said, accepting three from his brother before kneeling as well.

“We will await you in the chaos,” Qurrah said.

Then the man was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the room. The two glanced at each other. Harruq shrugged.

“That was easy. Bed time?”

“Sleep if you must,” Qurrah said. “I will join you in a bit.”

Harruq removed his armor, lay down on the bed of straw, and slept. The necromancer stepped outside his home, walked to the side, and stared at the flickering lights in the distance. Campfires and torches. An army, the same that had removed him and his brother from their home, slept so close. Every one of them contemplated their death.

Qurrah closed his eyes and inhaled the cold night air. Yes, the tension was delectable. The quiet moments before battle were a rare thing that so very few were lucky enough to experience. Fear, worry, hope, prayer, regret, and sorrow all floated to the stars.

The half-orc let his attuned mind drink it all in. Beautiful, he thought. Absolutely beautiful.

The next morning Harruq did not put on his armor or prepare his blades.

“I have to see Aurelia,” he told his brother, who nodded in understanding.

“I will wait for you,” Qurrah said. “Return before the battle starts.”

“I will,” Harruq said. Then he was gone, rushing down the streets of Woodhaven toward the calm forest that nestled about it.

“Aurry, are you there?” he shouted. He had hoped the elf would be waiting for him, but as he neared their usual clearing there was no sign of her. His heart skipped, and he feared she had already gone off to prepare for battle.

“Aurelia, come on out now,” he shouted again. His eyes searched the forest.

“I’m here,” Aurelia said. Her voice was quiet, subdued. Harruq turned and tried to smile.

“There you are. Are you doing alright?”

The elf shrugged. Her hands hugged her sides, her walnut eyes filled with worry.

“The elves are going to fight today, Harruq. I’m sure you’ve heard why.”

“Are you going to join them?” he asked.

The elf nodded.

“They are my family. This is my home. I cannot abandon them.”

Harruq’s heart skipped, and the words of his brother echoed in his head. He had to make her understand.

“Aurry, I’m asking you, please don’t fight. You aren’t needed. The elves will win, right? Right?”

Aurelia shrugged. “We’re outnumbered four to one. We might win, but we’ll still suffer many deaths. If I am needed, I will fight.”

“No,” Harruq said, running up and grabbing her arms. “No, you must understand, you can’t fight. You can’t!”

“Why?” she asked as tears formed in her eyes.

“I can’t lose you, Aurelia. Please don’t fight. For me, will you not?”

It seemed all the forest paused, listening for the answer.

“Harruq, I love you. But I also love my home. I love my brethren.”

She stood on her toes and gave him a quick, soft kiss on his lips. A tear ran down Harruq’s cheek as he stood in shock. His mind relished the soft feel of her lips on his, the scent of flowers, and the subtle fire that had escaped onto his tongue.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, taking a hesitant step toward the trees.

“Sure thing,” Harruq said, rubbing the tear off his cheek and pretending it had not been there. Aurelia smiled. Tears were on her cheeks as well, but she left them alone.

“Bye-bye, Harruq.”

“Bye-bye, Aurelia.”

Then she was gone. He stood there, not moving, his mind a chaos of fear, swords, Velixar, his brother, and that lingering kiss. Then he screamed to the sky, one long, primal roar of hopeless confusion.

He stormed back to Qurrah, his chest a boiling pot of rage. She had not listened. He had begged, he had opened his heart, and she had not listened. So fine then. If he saw her, well then…then…

Even in his anger, he could not voice the words in his mind, but the feeling was there. Death. If he met her, there would be death, and that death would be preferable to the torment of pain he felt in his heart. Qurrah did not have to ask what her answer was when he returned to their home.

“I am sorry,” was all he said before handing Harruq his weapons. “Get ready. When the fighting begins you will forget all about her.”

“Unless I see her,” he said. Qurrah chose not to respond. Suited and ready for battle, the Tun brothers left their home in Woodhaven for the last time.

Chapter XIV

“THE MEN ARE READY, MILORD,” Sergan said. “Do we march?”

Antonil stared at the small town, seeing very little motion within. No people wandered the streets. No traveling merchants hawked their wares. He sighed and turned to Sergan, his trusted advisor in war. The man was old, scarred, and had dirty hair falling down to his shoulders. He had seen many wars, and the axe against his shoulder had claimed more than a few lives.

“Yes, let us end this, one way or the other,” Antonil said. “Order them to march. I’ll lead us in.”

“Yes, milord.”

Sergan turned and started barking orders, all his calm and politeness vanishing. The guard captain glanced at the edict from the king he carried in his hand. A rash impulse filled him, an insane desire to tear the paper to shreds and return to his liege bearing a lie on his lips. Under normal circumstances the king would know no difference. His advisors, however, were many, and every one of them would betray Antonil for the chance to gain esteem in the eyes of the king.

No, he would have to deliver the message, regardless of his desires. He sighed one final time, turned toward his army, and began the march.

Where Celed and Singhelm met there was a small clearing. No buildings or monuments marked it, just a single circle of grass upon which no house would ever be built. On that spot, Singhelm the Strong and Ceredon Sinistel, leaders of Neldar’s troops and the Erzen elves, respectively, had made a pact that a city could exist between the two races without bloodshed. Singhelm had long since passed away, while Ceredon remained, two hundred years older, as the leader of the elven elite Ekreissar.

It was in that clearing Antonil halted his army. The men shuffled around nervously, their eyes searching for enemies that always seemed to be hiding beyond their vision. The guard captain unrolled the edict, his gut sinking as he realized where he stood. Long ago, man and elf had agreed to live together in peace. Now, on that very same spot, he would rescind that agreement.

Beyond the clearing loomed several palisades. All nearby windows were closed, and several boarded. A few humans stuck their heads out their doors to glimpse the armored men trampling through their city. Most kept themselves far from danger.

“Elves and men of the city of Woodhaven,” Antonil shouted. “By order of the noble and sovereign King of Neldar, all elven kind has been banned from human lands. The elves of Woodhaven have ignored this edict, ignored the laws of the great kingdom in which they live. This will not be tolerated any longer. All elves must leave the city, which being outside the forest of Erze, falls inside our borders. Those who do not immediately leave will be forced out at the edge of a sword. These are the words of our great King Vaelor, and may they be never forgotten.”

Antonil rolled up the scroll in silence. Only coughs and the shifting sounds of uncomfortable armor filled the air. Seconds passed, slow and crawling.

“If one may speak for the elves of the city, please let him come forth,” the guard captain shouted. “I seek the answer of the elven kind. I do not want blood spilled this day.”

A single elf approached. He was dressed in a long green cloak, silvery armor, and he bore his bow openly. Antonil could barely make out his features, since he was so far down the street. The elf halted, drew an arrow, and fired it into the air. It smacked the dirt an inch from Antonil’s foot. Sergan shook his head and stared in wonder at his commander. The man had not flinched.

“I shall take that as your answer,” Antonil shouted to the town. “Woodhaven desires death.”

He drew his sword and spoke softly.

“So be it.”

Elves appeared in the windows of every building that lined the center. Full quivers hung from their backs. Sixty more elves joined their lone companion on the street and readied their bows. The men in the center raised their shields, but they knew the deadly aim of a trained elf. They were about to be massacred.

“Stand firm!” Antonil ordered, raising his own shield. “Stand firm. Do not break formation!” A shout came from the elven side, and then the hail began. More than a hundred arrows rained down on the army, each deathly precise in its aim.

Not one hit flesh.

Antonil lowered his shield. Something was wrong. He did not hear the screams of pain, the thudding of arrows onto shields, and the angry cries that should have followed. Instead, he heard a stunned silence. As his shield lowered, his eyes took in a shocking sight. A black wall encircled them, translucent at times, but flaring when an arrow struck it. The projectiles snapped and broke as if hitting stone. The guard captain looked around, seeing his entire army protected.

“Sergan!” he cried.

“Yes my lord?” the old man asked.

“Do we have any mages with us?” Antonil asked. Sergan shook his head, flinching as an arrow aimed straight for his eye bounced away, its shaft broken. The guard captain nodded, raised high his sword, and then turned to his army.

“Stay calm, and do not move from where you stand!” he shouted. The men quieted and listened to their commander. “I do not know what blessing we have received, but when it ends…”

His voice drifted off. Movement behind his army caught his eye. He shoved a few men aside, tore through the center of his army, and then emerged at the back.

Far down the street, his robe flowing in a nonexistent wind, walked a pale man dressed in black. His low hood covered all but the chin of his face. His gait was slow and steady. He kept one hand outstretched, and from it flowed a black river that branched out to form the shield that had kept the men alive. No arrows fired. The battle was at a standstill, all because of this mysterious stranger who walked so calmly down the street.

“Men of Neldar!” this man screamed, sounding like a giant among mortal humans. “Some of you are meant to die this day. Rejoice, for your souls will leave this mortal coil in the glory of combat. Raise high your swords, and slay the elves that seek your death. Fight without pain, and slaughter without mercy. I have given them fear, and the battle is yours for the taking!”

The shield shook, power flared throughout, and then it exploded outward. The wooden shutters on the buildings shattered into splinters. The sides of homes rocked as if hit by the winds of a hurricane. Bows cracked and broke in the hands of their masters. The few stray animals hit by the wave vomited their intestines and died. The elves that endured it found their minds a chaos of horrors, inescapable terror clutching their hearts.

“Kill them all!” the man in black screamed. The men charged, driven by madness they had never felt before.

“Come, the battle is ours,” Sergan shouted, pulling against Antonil’s arm. The guard captain resisted the urge, his eyes locked on their supposed savior.

“You are him,” Antonil whispered. “The man Dieredon spoke of.”

“Come, Antonil Copernus,” the old veteran screamed, pulling harder. “Your men need you! The bloodshed has begun!”

Antonil’s gaze broke. He ran to where the sixty elves that had lined the street engaged a large portion of his army. They had discarded their bows and drawn swords, wielding them with a precision his men would be blessed to ever match. They didn’t need to, for they had numbers, momentum, and morale. When Antonil shoved to the front line, they also had leadership. The sixty dwindled to forty before fleeing.

“Give chase,” Antonil shouted. “Those in the back, flush them out of the houses.”

Velixar watched the Neldaren army scatter, some chasing elves down streets, others barging into locked homes. Screams of pain and dying, although just few and random, filled the air. He drank it in and smiled.

“Where are you my disciples?” he asked. “Let me hear the screams of your victims so that I may find you.”

Flying overhead, Dieredon watched the beginning of the battle with a sickness in his stomach. The man in black had come. He watched the arrows bounce off the magical shield, and then watched the human army charge and overwhelm the small elven force that had come to face them.

“I will keep my word, Antonil,” he said. “Fly back to the others, Sonowin, we will battle this day.” The horse snorted, making Dieredon laugh. “No, I am sure you won’t be hurt.” Sonowin banked, giving the elf one last view of the battle before soaring east to where the rest of the Quellan elves waited atop their magnificent pegasi. His horse neighed a quick question, one Dieredon wished he could laugh at.

“Everyone can be killed,” he said, tying his hair behind his head. “And no, I have no plans of breaking my ribs again.”

The horse made an interesting little noise, one Dieredon had long ago learned was laughter. He smacked her rump, earning himself an angry neigh.

“Fly on. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?”

A snort was his answer, but the creature did fly faster toward the rest of its kin.

“When should we attack?” Harruq asked. His twin swords itched in his hands. Qurrah, sitting next to him in a little back alley next to Ahrqur’s old home, laughed.

“So eager to kill, brother? I was beginning to think you had grown soft.”

The bigger half-orc smashed his swords together, focusing on the pain the shower of sparks caused his hands.

“I’m still who I’ve always been,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Qurrah’s smile faded at the ferocity in his brother’s words. He glanced down, his mind spinning and reeling.

“Tell me if you love her,” Qurrah suddenly ordered. Harruq glanced at him, his eyes burning fire.

“Why now, why do you have to ask?”

“Answer me, brother. Now.”

“No. I don’t love her. Is that what you want to hear?”

The other half-orc tightened the grip on his whip. “Forget what I want. If you do not love her, then kill her. Now get your head beyond her and focus on the task at hand. I want you fighting for a reason, not just to forget. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harruq said. “So when do we know when to start?”

Kill them all!

Both shot to their feet as Velixar’s bellowing command rolled over the town.

“Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

“Follow me,” Qurrah said. The two rushed past the elaborate elven homes toward the sound of combat. They kept to the back alleys, and because of this, they met their first target: three elves fleeing toward them, hoping to use the lesser-known pathways to avoid the overwhelming numbers of their opponent.

“Bring them down,” the necromancer said.

“With pleasure,” Harruq said. He raised his blades and charged.

The closest elf realized the half-orc was an enemy and cried warning before rushing ahead, his longsword ready.

“Come on, pansy-boy,” the half-orc warrior roared. The two collided in a brutal exchange of steel. The elf shoved his sword upward, using his forward momentum to slam the point straight at Harruq’s throat. Harruq swung Condemnation left, deflecting the incoming thrust. His other blade stabbed, tearing away the soft flesh beneath his attacker’s ribcage.

The elf leapt back, landed shakily, and then lunged once more. His speed was not what it should have been, though, and Harruq needed little opening. He swung both swords, the entirety of his might behind them. The elf blocked. His sword was elven-make and had been wielded in his hands for two hundred years. Never would he have guessed Harruq’s were older by three centuries. Never would he have guessed that those two blades would shatter his own, pass through the explosion of steel, sever his spine, and cleave his body in two.

The half-orc continued his charge, engaging the two elves behind. They struck as one, their swords aiming for vitals high and low. Harruq knew he could not block both, so he accepted a thrust curving to the side of his armor, grinning darkly. As the sword punched through the enchanted leather, the half-orc cut his adversary’s throat, using that same swing to parry the other attack away.

The remaining elf swore as his eyes grew red and watery. He backed away from the half-orc, his sword held defensively before him.

“What demon magic is this?” he asked.

“Mine,” said Qurrah.

And then blood poured out from the face of the lone elf. The eyeballs hit the ground before the dead body did.

“Hurry,” the necromancer said. “This is but a taste of what we must do.”

“Very well,” Harruq said. He tried to follow but the pain in his side stopped him. He clutched his bleeding side and breathed deeply. His armor had saved him, but the elf had managed to penetrate deeper than he thought.

“Are you fine, Harruq?” Qurrah asked, glancing back and halting his walk.

“I’m coming,” he said, marching after his brother. He hid his pain well.

The alley opened up to the main street, running south from the center of town into the forest beyond. It was there that the bulk of combat had spread. Elves battled in the street, horribly outnumbered. They were skilled, though, and a steady stream of arrows from homes continued to weaken the human forces.

“Halt here,” Qurrah said. To their right was a two-story elven home. Three bowmen fired from the windows at a party of fifteen soldiers. The men of Neldar had their shields raised high, but the synergy between the elves in the home and the elves on the street was superb. The Tun brothers watched the sword wielders on the ground dance in, make a few precise swings to change the positioning of the shields, and then dart away. Arrows quickly followed these maneuvers, biting into exposed flesh.

Qurrah motioned to the building housing the archers.

“Go inside. I will distract them.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, now go!”

Harruq kicked open the barricaded door and then barged up the stairs.

Qurrah withdrew a few pieces of bone from a pouch. He tightened his grip about them, whispering a few words of magic as he did. Then he looked to the window. He could barely see a bow and part of a hand. Qurrah waited. The Neldaren warriors charged, hoping to overwhelm their opponents before arrows took them all. The elf in the window leaned out to unleash a killing strike, but it was Qurrah who did the killing. Four pieces of bone leapt from his hand. They hit the elf’s neck and temple, making a satisfying crack.

The archer spilled through the window and landed with a clattering thud.

“The rest are yours, brother,” he whispered.

Inside felt like a modest rendition of Ahrqur’s home. Stairs in the center led to the upper floor. Harruq charged up them, making no attempt at silence. Either they would hear him through the chaos of battle or they would not.

It turned out they did. An arrow flew across the room and pierced his shoulder when he reached the second floor. He bellowed, letting the pain spark his rage. One archer continued to fire out the window, believing his companion capable of finishing a single warrior. He believed wrong.

The elf fired only one more shot before Harruq crossed the room. The arrow lodged into Harruq’s side, and then Salvation tore through his bow and into flesh. A kick sent the remains tumbling out the window. The other archer pulled back and fired at point blank range. Harruq roared as he felt a sharp pain bite into his neck. His mind blanked. He dropped his swords. His hands closed about something soft. By the time his rage calmed, blood was on his hands and the remains of an elf lay in the dirt below the window.

“Stupid elfie,” he said, gingerly touching the arrow in his neck. Not knowing what else to do, he closed his hand about the shaft and pulled.

A minute later, still lying in agonizing pain, the half-orc managed to pry open one of his healing potions. He gulped the swirling blue-silver contents and then tossed the vial. Ripping the other arrow out of his side, he felt a warm, soothing sensation fill his body.

“Are you alright?” he heard a raspy voice ask from atop the stairs.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had to take care of something here.”

He trudged down the stairs to where Qurrah waited.

“How many did you kill?” the necromancer asked.

“Just two,” he replied. His skeptical brother raised an eyebrow.

“That is a lot of blood for just two.”

Harruq ignored him. “Where to?” he asked instead.

Qurrah glanced outside the door. “The battle is moving on. Follow me.”

“Lead on,” he said, trudging after his brother into the daylight chaos.

Out the window Aurelia stared, frowning as she watched the battle unfold.

“Aurelia,” called a voice from behind. She turned to see a female elf, a friend of hers from many years before she moved to Woodhaven.

“Yes, Felewen?”

Felewen stood beside her and faced the window. Her hair was tied in a long, black ponytail, her slender figure covered by rare chainmail crafted of the hardest metals known to the intelligent races. She had come from deep within Nellassar, the thriving capital of the Dezren elves, as just one of many that had arrived to protect the town.

“Many are dying,” Felewen said. “The humans have a spellcaster of their own who repelled our ambush.”

Aurelia nodded. She knew something had gone wrong; otherwise, the battle would have been over in seconds.

“Very well,” Aurelia said. “Will you accompany me?”

Felewen smiled at her. She drew her longsword and saluted.

“But of course, Lady Thyne,” she said with none-too-subtle sarcasm. Aurelia tried to return a smile. She failed.

“Come. Let’s end this now.”

The two left the building and joined the fighting on the streets. It did not take long before a group of soldiers spotted them.

“Show them no mercy, Aurelia,” Felewen said, her warm voice turning cold.

“They will die with little suffering,” the sorceress responded. “It’s the most I can give.”

Electricity arced between her hands. Blue fire surrounded her eyes. The five human soldiers raised their shields and charged as a single unit. Felewen stood next to Aurelia, her sword high and her armor gleaming. She kept the blade out and pointed at the center soldier. When the bolt of lightning came shrieking out from Aurelia’s hands, that same soldier found himself lifted from the ground, his hands flailing, his useless sword and shield falling.

The blue electricity entered through a second soldier’s body through his right eye. He died instantly. Then the remaining three were upon the elves, and it was Felewen’s turn to kill. The first soldier to swing at her found his sword cut from his body, his hand still clutching it as it flew through the air. He cowered back, pulling his bleeding arm behind his shield. Another leapt forward to defend him. A longsword punched through his throat before he even saw her swing.

Shock and panic took over, and then the wounded soldier turned to flee. The final human soldier smashed his shield forward, preventing Felewen from chasing. The slender fighter flipped backward, clutching her sword in both hands. She landed softly behind the sorceress.

“Take him,” she said. A bolt of lightning hit his shield, numbing his arm and knocking him back. The shield slumped low, but he charged anyway, fully willing to die fighting.

“For Neldar,” he cried, thrusting at Aurelia’s chest. Felewen was there first. All it took was three cuts. The first took the man’s sword from his hand. The second took his arm from his body. The third took his life. A final bolt of lightning shot down the street, killing the wounded soldier who had fled.

Felewen wiped the blood from her blade and sheathed it. She used the same cloth to clean the blood from her face.

“Come,” she said. “We must go north where we are needed most.”

The two ran through the town, listening for sounds of battle. The worst seemed to be about the middle of Celed and steadily working its way south. They encountered a few soldiers as they hurried there. All died before they had the chance to swing their blades.

“At last!” Felewen cried, staring out from a side alley. They were behind a group of ten soldiers battling a pair of elven warriors who stood back to back. “Make haste, they need us!”

Felewen charged, desperate to arrive before her brethren were overwhelmed. Aurelia stepped into the street and summoned her magic. Frost surrounded her hands, and a thin sheet of ice spread beneath the human soldiers. Many of them stumbled, unable to balance the sword and shield in their hands and the heavy chainmail on their bodies. Felewen slid on one leg, her sword out and ready. She passed right between two men, slicing out heels and tendons as she flew by. The elf reached the end of the ice, turned, and went sliding back.

The two she had cut were on the ground, unable to stand after such precise hits. As she reached them, she stabbed one of their legs to halt her momentum, yanked her sword free, and then rolled around to stab the other in the throat. Another roll back, and she delivered the first soldier the same fate.

The elves they saved wasted no time recovering. They both pressed forward, unafraid of fighting on the ice. Their light armor made balancing an easy task while their human counterparts were doing all they could to swing and stand at the same time. Two men fell to each of their blades, bringing the total down to four.

As Felewen lay upon the ice, a soldier stabbed down at her. She spun on her rear, her sword out in an arc. After knocking him off his feet, Felewen snapped her legs high above her, spinning her body off the ground. She landed on her stomach, her sword skewering the guard’s innards. She pulled herself to her feet with the hilt of her sword, twisted the blade, and then finished him.

The remaining soldiers turned to flee, but there was one slight problem. An enormous ball of fire erupted at their feet, engulfing all three in flame. Two died from the horrible burns. A third slumped and whimpered in pain. Aurelia walked over to him and knelt on one knee. She placed a hand on his head and looked over his wounds while he glared up at her.

“Your wounds are beyond saving,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

She ended his pain with a small lance of ice through his forehead.

“Thank you for your aid,” one of the elves said. “We must fall back to the forest. If they chase us there, it will be suicide.”

“We will not have to fall back so far,” Felewen disagreed. “They have scattered about our town. Their numbers mean nothing now. Besides,” she grinned, “we have Aurelia Thyne.”

Both bowed politely.

“Never could we have used a mage’s power more than now,” one said. Aurelia blushed and waved him off.

“Please we must…”

A cold chill spread through her body, like water from an underground stream meeting a creek. She whirled and stared down the street. Walking without escort was a lone man shrouded in black robes. The cowl of his cloak hid much of his face.

“Come, brother,” one of the elves said. “It is the one who protected them from our arrows.”

The other nodded, took up his sword, and charged. His brother was not far behind. Felewen joined them, for she too had watched as the black shield had knocked aside their arrows and then shattered their bows.

Aurelia did not move. Her eyes were frozen on this strange man. Power rolled off him. He was strong, and even more so, he was terrifying. She had no doubt of this man’s identity; he was the nameless necromancer, one of the few who could best Scoutmaster Dieredon in combat.

“Stop, you cannot defeat him,” she shouted. None listened. “Felewen, please!”

Felewen glanced back to her, and that small pause saved her life.

The man in black had made no threatening move as the other two charged. They were almost upon him when he cast aside his hood to reveal his ever-changing face, his deep red eyes, and his horrible smile. His hands lunged forward, the floodgates opened, and all his power came rushing forth. A wall of black magic rolled like a tidal wave conjured from his fingertips. The elven brothers tumbled through and vanished. Felewen leapt back when she saw the attack coming. She rolled behind a house and tucked her head.

The wave continued down the street, straight for Aurelia.

“I do not fear you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. A wall of water swirled about her, flowing from the otherwise dry dirt street. She sent it forward, just as tall and high as Velixar’s. The two met in a thunderous roar, intermixing in a maelstrom of darkness, water, and air. Then they both dissolved, their magic spent.

Aurelia held back tears. Velixar’s magic had peeled the flesh from the elves’ bodies. Blood leaked through muscle and tendon, and their innards spilled from their abdomens. She hoped they died instantly, but she knew better. They had suffered tremendously.

“You monster,” she shouted. “What meaning does this battle hold to you?”

“Everything,” Velixar shouted, hurling a flaming ball of fire from each hand. “I desire panic and bloodshed all across the east!”

Aurelia summoned a magical shield about her body. The fireballs thudded three feet from her body and detonated. The two nearest buildings crumpled, their walls and roofs blown back by the power. The elf winced, nearly knocked to her knees by the force.

“What madness gives you such a desire?” she asked, sending forth the strongest spells she knew. Several lances of ice flew down the street, followed by a ball of magma. The ball rolled behind the lances, covering the ground in flame. Velixar laughed.

A wave of his hand created a similar shield as Aurelia’s, but instead of keeping it close to his body, he shoved it forward. The lances shattered into shards when slammed against it. The ball of magma halted when touching the barrier and then reversed direction. The elf glared, detonating the attack with a thought. Molten rock covered the street, splattering across both Velixar’s and Aurelia’s shields before sliding to the dirt.

“How long can you keep this up?” the necromancer asked. He took out a bag of bones and scattered more than thirty pieces. “How long before you break?”

One by one, the bone pieces shot straight at Aurelia.

The elf dropped to one knee, words of magic streaming out her mouth as fast as she could speak them. Her magical shield could halt attacks of pure magical essence, such as the conjured fire, but animated objects were a different matter. The magic projecting them would die at her shield but the pieces would retain their momentum.

The dirt before her rumbled, cracked, and then ascended in a great physical wall. On the other side, pieces of bone thumped against it, one after another.

“Cute,” Velixar said, “but pointless.”

An invisible blast of pure force shattered the wall. Aurelia crossed her arms before her face as chunks of earth slammed into her slender form. She rolled with the blows, her mouth casting before she halted. Ice spread from house to house, walling Velixar off on the other side.

“From dirt to ice?” Velixar asked. “The end is just the same!”

The center of the wall exploded inward, but this time Aurelia was prepared. A rolling thunder of sound shoved all the broken shards forward, sending even the remaining chunks of the wall down the street in a chaotic assault. Velixar grinned. Clever girl.

The wave of sound and ice slammed his body. He flew backward, ice tearing his skin, but no blood came forth from those wounds. The larger pieces smashed his body from side to side, which turned limply with each blow. When the wave passed, Aurelia leaned on one knee, gasping for air as she stared at the man in black, now a crumpled mess of robes in the center of the street. The body suddenly convulsed, the chest heaving in quick, jerky spasms. When the sound reached her, Aurelia knew her doom. Velixar was laughing.

He stood, brushed off pieces of ice clinging to his robes, and then glared at her from afar.

“Not good enough,” he said.

Wild anger contorted his face. Black lightning thicker than a man’s arm tore down the street. Aurelia gasped as all her power flowed into her shield. The collision sent her flying, her magical barrier shattered into nothingness. The lightning continued, swirling about her body. Every nerve in her body shrieked with pain. She landed hard, unable to brace for the fall. The air blasted out of her lungs, and for one agonizing second they refused to draw in another breath. Slowly the black magic seeped out of her, the pain faded, and then she sucked the dusty air into her lungs.

“You are a powerful sorceress,” Velixar said, his anger gone as quickly as it had arrived. “But I have fought the founders of the Council of Mages. I have killed men who thought themselves gods. I have died but once, to Ashhur himself. There is no shame in your defeat.”

Aurelia struggled to her feet. The well of magic inside her was dry. In time, her strength would return, but she doubted the necromancer would give her a day to rest. She used a bit of the magic she did have left to summon her staff. If she were to die, she would die fighting any way she knew how.

The man in black paused, extended his hands, and began to cast. He would give her no chance to strike.

A blade stabbed his side. Velixar whirled, his speed far beyond any mortal. He stepped past Felewen’s slash and slammed a hand against her chest. Dark magic poured in. Her arms and legs arched backward, her sword fell from her hand, and her mouth opened in a single, aching shriek. Bits of darkness flared from her mouth, her eyes, and her nostrils.

Done, Velixar shoved her smoking body back into the alley and left her to die. When he turned, he snarled. Aurelia was gone.

“You have delayed me my kill,” he said to Felewen’s body. “Pray you are dead before I return.”

He placed his hood back over his head, pulled it down to cover his features, and then began his search for the sorceress.

Chapter XV

ONE AFTER ANOTHER THE DEFT strokes came in, and one after another Antonil batted them away using the methodical style that had helped him rise to his place at the top of the Neldaren army. His opponent, a young elf whose swordplay was raw compared to most of his brethren, tried to give him no reprieve. The guard captain didn’t falter in the slightest.

“You sacrifice planning and thought for sheer speed and reflexes,” he said, his breathing steady and practiced. He assumed the elf spoke the human tongue, and the sudden killing lunge proved him correct.

Antonil pulled his head back, the point stopping just shy of drawing blood. An upward cut took the blade from the elf’s hand. Antonil’s sword looped around, thrust forward, and buried deep inside flesh. The elf fell, gasping for air from the fatal wound. Blood pooled below him. Antonil pulled his sword free and saluted him with the blade.

“Well fought,” he said. An arrow clanged against his sword and ricocheted off.

“A warning for your honor,” said a camouflaged elf as he stepped out from behind a door. A second arrow followed the first, thudding against Antonil’s shield. “A second out of respect.” He drew a third. The guard captain charged, his shield leading. While his upper body was covered, nothing stopped the arrow from flying underneath and piercing through the metal greaves protecting his shins. Antonil stumbled, pain flaring up his right leg. He forced himself to continue running. If he could close the gap, the bow would prove no match for his longsword.

Another arrow struck an inch from his left foot. His leg was aflame, yet he continued to charge, pulling back his shield so his sword could lash out. But the elf was not close enough, and he was more skilled with a bow than in just firing arrows. He snapped the wood up, cracking Antonil across the bottom of his hand, which held firm to his blade.

Undaunted, the elf stepped closer, ducked underneath the guard captain’s return swing, and then kicked at the arrow still lodged in his shin, finally making Antonil drop his blade.

The elf stood, drawing an arrow as he did. Antonil, now lying on the ground, struggled to bring his shield over his chest. Part of it caught beneath his side and would not come. He would not be able to block in time.

A loud wooden crash stole away the elf’s focus. The door to the home behind him exploded into splinters as a huge projectile shot through it. The elf spun, his eyes widening as he saw what had shattered the door: a massacred elven body. He readied his bow and released an arrow at the next sign of movement.

Unfortunately, it was another elven body, curiously missing its left arm and leg. An enormous half-orc in black armor followed, soaked in blood and roaring in mindless fury. He spotted Antonil’s attacker, screamed an incomprehensible challenge, and then charged. The elf fired another arrow but was horrified to see it sail high. Behind him, Antonil delivered another kick, this time aiming for the elf’s knee instead of his bow.

The elf had to dodge the kick, and that dodge was all it took. The half-orc swung his glowing black blades, cutting his bow, and his body, in twain. As the blood poured free, he roared, looked about, and then ran off toward the sound of combat. A frail form in rags followed from inside the house, a mirror image in looks but for the paler skin and lack of muscle.

“You saw nothing,” this second half-orc said to him before following the warrior.

Antonil struggled to his feet, shaking his head all the while.

“It keeps getting stranger,” he muttered. He took a step and immediately regretted it. As his leg throbbed, he yanked the arrow out. His armor had kept it from penetrating too deeply, the barbs unable to latch onto any soft flesh. Of course it still hurt like the abyss, but he could deal with that. What he could not deal with, however, was how few in number his soldiers had become. More than four of his own men lay dead around him, joined by three dead elves, five if he counted the two the half-orc had thrown through the doorway. A good ratio considering the skill of the elves, but not good enough. Men he had trained were dying, and for what?

“I have honored your will, my lord,” he said. “But it is time I honor my men.”

From his belt, he took a white horn bearing the symbol of Neldar. He put this ancient horn to his lips and blew. All throughout Woodhaven rumbled the signal to retreat. He gave the signal two more times before clipping the horn back to his belt and hobbling north.

Aurelia raced down the twisting back alleys of Celed. The dreaded chill of Velixar was far behind her, but still she hesitated to slow. Never before had she felt so vulnerable. As she stopped to catch her breath, a loud horn call echoed throughout the town. The elf sighed, clutching her staff to her chest as she slumped against the side of a house. The battle was over…but would the man in black obey the call?

She thought not.

Suddenly a hand closed about her mouth. The foul smell of sweat and dirt filled her nostrils. An arm reached around, pinning her staff and hands against her chest.

“We may have to leave,” a voice growled into her ear, “but I’m not leaving without something to remember.”

Aurelia felt her stomach churn. Her assailant turned her around and flung her back against the wall. She glared at a pock-marked soldier bearing the crest of Neldar.

“You’re a pretty one,” he said, his smile missing several teeth. He yanked at his belt while his other arm pressed against her chest and neck.

“And you’re an idiot,” she spat. Much of her magic was gone, but not all. Her hand brushed his, and a small shock of electricity crossed between them. The soldier instinctively pulled his hand back, giving Aurelia the opening she needed. She squirmed out from beneath, gripped her staff, and then whirled. The wood cracked against the back of his skull, knocking him against the wall just as hard. Blood splattered from his broken nose.

“You’ll pay for—”

The end of her staff dislodged two more of his teeth. The soldier panicked and turned to run, but found his feet entangled. Aurelia marched over, remembering how difficult it had been to strike Harruq and how strong a blow he could take without showing pain.

“Are you as strong as a half-orc?” she asked. Her staff collided with his ribs. He curled up at the blow, crying out in pain. Guess not, she thought. A shove put him on his back. He pleaded to her, sputtering blood, but she ignored him.

“Some people should not reproduce,” she said. Down came her staff, all her might behind it. The end smashed his genitals, eliciting a cry of pain beyond anything her spells could do. She continued to strike, punctuating every word with another blow.

“So, let, me, fix, that, for, you!”

She stopped when he passed out from the pain. She turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood, a strange gesture of kindness considering what was left of his manhood.

“Glad to give you something to remember the town by,” she said. After a flirtatious flip of her hair, she started down the street.

Aurelia froze, her blood as cold as when she had sensed the man in black. This time no magic could be blamed, and no sense of death. No, it was just the sight of Harruq, dressed in black armor and wielding ancient blades dripping with blood. Just the sight of him massacring an elven warrior.

“Oh, Harruq,” she whispered. Then he saw her, and all time stopped.

The two half-orcs heard the sounding of the horn but did not know its purpose. So far from any human soldiers, they could only guess.

“Maybe they’re rallying at the horn,” Harruq ventured. Qurrah shrugged, glancing down the vacant street in search of victims.

“Perhaps, or perhaps the elves are retreating, or even the humans. Either way, our time is running short. We must find our master. So far no resident of Woodhaven has seen us and lived, but I do not wish to press such luck.”

“Looks like we have no choice,” Harruq said, crossing his swords in an ‘X’ before his chest. Far down the street, where the road hooked left like the back leg of a dog, an elven archer approached, his bow ready. Two arrows flew into the air. Both half-orcs dodged as the arrows whistled past.

“Close the distance,” Qurrah said before beginning a spell. Harruq charged, bellowing a mindless war cry. The archer fired two more arrows and then bolted around the corner.

“He’s seen us!” Harruq shouted, easily veering about the arrows as he increased speed.

“Wait, brother, it might be a trap!”

Qurrah doubled over hacking, his reward for trying to shout so loud. Harruq halted, his head jerking back and forth as he debated what to do. Qurrah glanced up, tried to speak, and then swore as the elf leaned around the corner and fired another arrow. He did his best to dodge, but he was far less mobile than his brother. The arrow pierced between his left shoulder and collarbone, burying the barbed tip deep in his flesh. The half-orc let out a stunned gasp. He staggered right, clutching his shoulder as he slumped against the front of a home.

“Qurrah!” Harruq shrieked, racing to his brother. Qurrah shoved away his clumsy attempts to examine the wound.

“Kill him for me,” the necromancer gasped. “Go! He cannot live!”

“But you’re bleeding real bad and…”

“I have the healing potions, now go!”

Harruq’s gut screamed against the idea, but in the end, he listened to his brother. He drew his swords and gave chase.

Qurrah waited until Harruq was around the corner before taking out one of his small glass vials. Before he could pull the cork off the top, he heard a voice speak.

“So many dead by your hands yet a single arrow nearly takes your life?”

The half-orc froze, the vial clutched in his hands. An elf emerged from behind the building, his body decorated in a brilliant green cloak and silvery armor. It was the same elf who had fired the first warning shot to Antonil before the entire battle had begun.

“I am but a poor outcast,” Qurrah said, hiding the handle of the whip underneath the palm of his hand. The coiled leather vibrated, hungering for blood.

“Do not lie to me. I have watched you two slaughter my brethren. I have seen much of your handiwork.” The elf glared at him, ugly hatred skewing his handsome features. “By now your brother is dead. Three of my best warriors await him around that corner. I thought it appropriate you knew this before I took your life.”

“Do not talk to me of what is appropriate,” Qurrah said. “Kill me, if you will, but do not bore me with your chatter. I have suffered beyond anything you can do to me.”

A firestorm of anger overwhelmed the elf’s features. He stepped back and drew an arrow. Qurrah lashed his whip, but his speed was not enough. An arrow tore right through his hand. The whip fell, the fire vanishing the second it left contact with Qurrah’s skin.

A second arrow followed. The half-orc rocked backward, his brown eyes wide in shock, as the tip pierced deep into his throat. The healing potion fell from his hands and broke against a rock. He slid back, resting against a home as he gasped for breath.

The elf grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and that sick anger filled his face.

“How many of my kin died to your hand?” he asked. A twist of his hand sent spasms of pain all throughout Qurrah’s body. He coughed violently, and blood ran down his lips and neck.

“Don’t feel like answering?” the elf mocked. “Why did you kill them? For money? Power? How many died to better your miserable excuse of a life?”

Another twist. Qurrah leaned forward, clutching at his tormenter’s shaking hands. Words spilled from the half-orc’s mouth, garbled and nearly unintelligible.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” the elf asked, ignoring the flailing hands that pawed at his face.

“Hemorrhage,” the half-orc hissed.

The elf’s face exploded.

Qurrah fell over onto his side, breathing as slowly as he could through the blood that filled his throat. The dead body of the elf crumpled in front of him, all of his hate-filled features gone from his face except for a single eye. The half-orc stared, wondering if his brother was truly dead.

Darkness crept at the corner of his sight. His strength was fading fast, and he had little doubt that if he passed out he would never wake. He struggled to lift a single numb hand, then flopped it down on top of the dead elf’s leg.

Qurrah took as deep a breath as he dared and then spoke the words of a spell. Each syllable was slow torture, garbled in blood and born of pain most horrid. Thankfully, the spell was not complicated, and the words were few. He finished the spell mere seconds before his mind succumbed to the sleep that crawled at his eyes.

Even though he was dead, life energy still swirled inside the elf’s body. Normally this energy would be consumed by the earth in burial, but Qurrah had other plans. His spell took in this life energy through his hand, filling his body with it, healing his wounds and clearing his mind. The darkness fighting for control in his head subsided, a shred of strength returning to his limbs.

There was still the slight problem of the arrow lodged in his throat. Qurrah had a solution but it was far from pleasant. Most likely he would die, but he had to try. He heard no screams coming from around the corner, but he knew that meant nothing. He had to believe his brother was still alive. He had to help him.

Qurrah took out his last healing potion, popped the cork, and then held it before him. Blood was beginning to fill his throat once more. His stolen energy was quickly fading. He had no time to waste. He tilted his head as high as the arrow in his neck allowed, positioned the mouth of the vial against his lower lip, and then closed his hand around the arrow shaft. One last hissing breath. One tremble of his fingers. He yanked the arrow out.

Sheer reflex kept him alive. His head shot backward and his arm went limp. The potion tilted enough so that half spilled down his throat. With the pain so unbearable, he dared not cough against the liquid that came burning down. Some of it went into his lungs, but he kept them still.

Qurrah reclined, closed his eyes, and let the potion do its work. He could feel the magic flowing through his body, concentrating about his ruined throat. Part of him hoped the liquid would heal the damage done so many years ago, but he knew better. A scar that old was beyond repair. He would have to settle for surviving. That was just fine with him.

When he finally dared a loud, gasping breath of air, the pain was not so bad. Qurrah stood, picked up his whip, and then went to help his brother. He expected to see his body dead in the street, for why else had he still not returned? He held hope that Harruq still fought against his enemies, or that more had come beyond the three the elf had claimed.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of Harruq hunched over the dying body of Aurelia Thyne.

“Harruq,” he tried to call out. The flesh in the back of his throat tore. Blood poured down his throat, slick and hot. Qurrah cursed. Such a wound would kill him if he did not seek help. He needed to steal more life, and for that, he needed another body. He glanced behind. The dead elf was dry, but far down the street were two more he and his brother had killed.

He glanced once more to Harruq. Three elves lay dead about him. He could use them, knew he should use them, but something turned him away. It was the look on his brother’s face. He could not bear to see it.

Qurrah hobbled to where two bodies full of life energy awaited his coming.

Harruq barreled around the curve, determined to catch the foul elf that had dared injure his brother. As he turned the corner, the twang of bowstrings filled the air. Three arrows hit his chest, barely puncturing his armor. He bellowed, furious. All three elves were in the center of the street, away from cover or protection. They would die, all of them.

The archers fired another volley as if not surprised the first three had done little but anger him. One zipped by his head as he ran, two others thudding into his chest and arm. Blood soaked the inside of his armor, but the wounds were superficial, halted by the magical leather before penetrating deep enough to be a bother.

“For the head,” the closest elf shouted in his native tongue. He managed one last shot before Harruq closed the distance. The half-orc batted the arrow away without thinking.

“You bastard!” he shouted, slamming into the elf without pausing. He buried his swords deep into the elf’s chest as he plowed forward. “You hurt my brother! You spineless cowards!” The other two abandoned their bows and drew their blades.

“Your brother is dead,” one elf said. “Gaelwren waited for your departure. He will not find it difficult killing a wounded dog.”

The anger inside Harruq consumed him entirely. He charged the elf, abandoning any hint of precaution. He slammed his blades down with all his might. The elf blocked once, twice, then three times, wincing each time he did. Then the other elf was behind Harruq, stabbing at his back. While mad with rage, Harruq still knew very well where his opponents were.

He spun, avoiding the thrust, and then trapped his assailant’s arm with his elbow. A flex of his muscles cracked bone, and the sword fell from a limp hand. Harruq let him go, bellowed at the first elf, and then hurled both his blades. They turned end over end through the air, one missing, one not. The one that missed sailed until it hit ground and bounced. The hilt of the one that did not smacked him hard in the forehead.

The elf staggered back, swiping at Harruq as the half-orc charged. A thin line of blood appeared on the half-orc’s forehead, but he was oblivious to it. His hands were around his enemy’s throat and his strength at its greatest. The crunching flesh underneath his fingers was all that mattered. The elf behind him retrieved his sword and attacked, his right arm hanging useless, his left stabbing desperately. Harruq flung the dying body around by the neck. The sword buried up to the hilt in the makeshift shield.

Harruq dropped the dead elf and lashed out. His backhand broke the elf’s jaw. Reeling, the elf staggered back, only able to raise his meager arm above his head. Harruq smashed an elbow into his chest, followed by knuckled fists atop his skull.

“Stay down,” Harruq said. He retrieved Salvation and Condemnation from the dirt, and then stomped over to the beaten, bloody elf warrior.

“Mercy, I am beaten,” the elf gasped as Harruq lifted his head by the hair.

“No such thing,” he said. Salvation tore out his throat. Condemnation hacked off his head. He sheathed his blades, breathed in deeply, and then let it all out in an ecstatic, primal cry. As the last of it left his lips, he saw an elf’s shocked walnut eyes from a nearby alley. His gut lurched. The fire in his veins sputtered.

“Why so surprised?” he asked Aurelia, shame draining the thrill of his kill.

“How could you?” she asked him. “What harm have we done to you?”

Harruq shrugged. “You think you know me, but you don’t. I kill, Aurry. It’s what I do. It’s what I do best.” He drew out his swords, still dripping with blood. “Perhaps you didn’t believe it, but this is me.”

“Don’t do this,” Aurelia said softly. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Please, Harruq. I don’t want to fight you.”

“I didn’t want you to fight either,” Harruq said, his eyes leaving hers for an instant. He took a step toward her and raised his swords, just as when they sparred.

“Stop this,” Aurelia said. Her staff remained at her side. “Will you kill me, too?”

“I asked you not to fight, but here you are. Qurrah made it simple, Aurry. Either I love you or I kill you.”

Sparks rained down as he clanged his swords together.

“Is that how you feel?” she asked. The tears in her eyes ran down her cheeks, not to be replaced by any more. “So be it.” She took up her staff and held it defensively. “You are a fool, Harruq. May you die as one.”

Harruq charged, his black blades gleaming. Every nagging doubt, every tiny part screaming for him to sheath his blades, he channeled into his mindless rage. His swords hacked chunks out of the staff, which held together only by Aurelia’s powerful enchantments. She blocked several attack routines but one finally slipped past. Her dodge too slow, a black blade cut across her cheek. She paused, rubbing her cheek as Harruq smirked.

Blood. It was as she feared. Harruq’s weapons were enchanted.

“Your spells won’t save you,” he shouted. “No elf will save you. No one!”

“Why this hatred?” she asked, smacking away a dual thrust. “When have I shown you anything but kindness?”

Harruq gave her no answer. Instead, he stabbed with Salvation, a higher thrust of Condemnation trailing behind it. Aurelia turned her staff horizontal and pushed upward. Both swords stabbed high above her head. A quick turn and one end of her staff rammed the half-orc in the gut. The blow knocked the wind out of Harruq.

“For what reason do we fight?” she asked. “For what reason do you harbor this hatred?”

He glared. “I told you. I’m fighting elves. You’re one of them. No simpler than that.”

“Liar.”

Harruq snarled, the elf inside him all but invisible. He charged, recklessly hacking at Aurelia.

“Why do we fight?” she asked again, desperately trying to block every swing. Blood covered her arms, and another swing cut through her dress, slicing into the beautiful flesh of her leg. “Why, Harruq? Why!”

“I don’t know!” he cried. Strength surged into him, dark and unholy. In the blink of an eye, he twirled both swords, knocked Aurelia’s staff from her hand, and then looped his right arm all the way around to bury Condemnation deep into her stomach.

Everything, all fighting, all arguing, all bleeding, living and dying halted at that moment. For Harruq, there was only the sight of Aurelia doubled over, her eyes filled with sadness. His arm yanked the blade out of her, without any thought on his part.

“Harruq?” she gasped. She fell on her back, still clutching her bleeding abdomen.

That look of sadness tore through his rage. What should have been the exhilaration of the kill was instead the cold, biting emotion of guilt. His eyes lingered on the blood on his blade before something changed inside. He looked back to the elf, and again the words of his brother echoed in his head.

Do you love her?

No, he’d said.

Then kill her.

“Aurelia?” he asked, as if seeing her for the first time. “I didn’t mean to, I, Aurry, please…”

He knelt down, his blades falling from his limp hands. He pulled away Aurelia’s hand to see the blood, to see the wound.

“No,” he said. He rocked backward, the color draining from his face. “No, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…I didn’t…”

Aurelia tried to say something, tried to comfort him, but no noise came from her throat. She was dying.

“No!” Harruq shouted. He pulled out one of his healing potions, yanked off the cork, and forced the contents down Aurelia’s throat. The elf gagged, retching up half of it onto her neck and chest. Harruq got out his last potion but could not open it for the shaking of his hands. Desperate, he put it down, picked up one of his swords, and shattered the top of the vial. He flung the potion back to Aurelia’s mouth, nearly shredding her lower lip on the broken glass. More of the silvery-blue liquid poured down her throat.

Harruq sat there, clutching her hands in his and waiting. The seconds crawled slower than the longest of years. He didn’t care if anyone came and saw him, not even his brother. His tears fell onto her bloodstained dress. For far too long, she did not move. His heart cried out in agony. It was too late. He had killed her.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her. “Forgive me, please, if you can…”

“What are you babbling about?” the elf asked, her eyes cracking open. Harruq tried to smile, but a sob came out instead. He hugged her, his forehead pressed against hers.

“Help me up,” she said. Harruq did as commanded. When she was standing, he grabbed his blades and sheathed them. She leaned all her weight against him, and such close contact only deepened his guilt and anger. He knew she watched him, and he wiped away his tears as quickly and subtly as he could.

“Why, Harruq?” she asked him. The half-orc shrugged.

“We…Qurrah…I don’t know.”

“No,” she said, leaning on her staff. “Why did you save me?”

He kicked his toes into the dirt, unable to piece together the chaotic mess inside his head and heart. All he could think of was what his brother had told him to do.

“Qurrah said to kill you if I didn’t love you…”

“Yet you didn’t,” she said. Harruq nodded, but said nothing else.

“Hana fael!” a voice cried from far down the alley. Both turned to see an elf raise his bow and fire.

“Look out,” Aurelia said, shoving Harruq aside. The arrow hit her breast and reflected off as if hitting stone. She glanced at Harruq, her face a mixture of anger and fear.

“Others have seen you kill, haven’t they?” she asked.

Harruq could only shrug. More shouts came as two other elves turned the corner. Aurelia swore as she heard what they said.

“They call me traitor,” she said. “I protected you, and now I am a traitor.”

The half-orc stepped before her, preparing his swords. “They won’t touch you.”

“I know,” Aurelia said, summoning the last bit of magic inside her. A tear in the fabric of reality ripped open, swirling with white and blue magic.

“Get in,” she yelled.

“What about Qurrah?” he shouted.

“Go inside, you dumb fool!”

She cracked her staff across his back. Harruq stumbled into the portal and vanished. Aurelia stepped in after, arrows landing all around her.

Qurrah watched the blue portal close, leaving him alone and hunted in a town full of enemies.

“Brother, how could you?” he asked, dread clutching his throat. Elves were running down the alley, yelling in their language. Qurrah ducked back around, cursed his brother, and then darted to the nearest home. The first one had locks, as did the second, but the third was unbarred. He hid inside as the shouts of search parties went rushing past.

Qurrah climbed the stairs to the second floor, sat down beside a bed, and then in silence pondered his fate now that he was alone.

Chapter XVI

FAR FROM TOWN, A BLUE portal tore open above empty grass. The big half-orc tumbled out, followed by a flustered Aurelia. Upon her exit, the portal closed, swirling away as if it had never existed. Harruq groaned, spitting out dirt that had made its way into his mouth.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“About two miles east of Woodhaven,” she told him. Harruq glanced around, unable to see the town in the distance.

“So that’s how you always showed up behind me,” he said as he got to his feet. “That magic…blue thingie?”

“That magic blue thingie is a portal,” Aurelia said, her arms crossed over her chest as she held her elbows. “And yes, that is how I did it.”

Harruq shrugged, glancing about as he tried to get his bearings. A thought hit him, harder than any whacks of Aurelia’s staff.

“Qurrah!” he gasped. “You’ve got to send me back.”

“I can’t,” Aurelia said, her eyes fixed west.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He stormed over and grabbed her arms. “Send me back, I’m telling you to! Qurrah’s all alone, and they’ll kill him if I don’t help him!”

“I can’t, Harruq, I can’t!” she shouted, pulling back from his hands. “I have no strength left to open another portal. You, and he, will have to wait until I get some rest.”

“How long will that be?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said.

He raged and sputtered but could think of nothing to say or do. Finally, he started walking.

“Where are you going?” she asked him.

“To get my brother,” he said without turning around.

“They will kill you,” she shouted. “They will see you and kill you. You do your brother nothing by running off to die.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he screamed. He whirled around, his helplessness showing on every feature of his face.

“Have faith in him,” she said. She pulled a strand of hair from her face as the wind blew against her. “I have given up everything for you, Harruq. Don’t you see that? My friends, my family, my home; they are all gone from me. Because of you. Don’t make it all for nothing.”

Harruq’s anger and frustration simmered and swirled in a dying fire. He could not argue with her, not about that. Even he could see what she had sacrificed to save his life.

“Where do we go?” he asked, his voice revealing his defeat.

“We’ll figure it out in the morning. For now, we travel north. Your brother will be fine, I promise.”

He nodded but said nothing. The two traveled in between the hills, exhausted but unwilling to stop their movement.

“Why did you fight the elves?” she asked when their silence had stretched for more than half an hour.

“It’ll be a long story,” he said.

“We have time.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I guess we do.”

He told her of Velixar and his plans. He told her of the strength, weapons, and armor granted to him. Hesitantly, he recounted killing Ahrqur and the people of Cornrows, a fresh wave of shame filling him as he thought of both.

“What part did Ahrqur play in this?” Aurelia asked. “Was he enlisted by Velixar?”

Harruq shook his head. “Me and Qurrah killed him, then Velixar brought him back and sent him off to the king. It was very much unwilling on his part. That guy was me and Qurrah’s dad, you know that? We killed our own dad, and never even knew it while we did.”

She frowned, and deep lines of exhaustion marred her beauty.

“Tonight we need to have a serious talk,” she said. “For now, I’d prefer we speak of lighter things.”

“Sure thing,” he said. They spoke no word of Woodhaven, Velixar, or the battle that morning for the rest of the day.

The sound of an opening door stirred him from his slumber. Qurrah glanced around, furious that he had fallen asleep. How much time had passed? An hour? Five?

“I cannot be so weak,” he muttered to himself. Footsteps echoed from the first floor. One person, he guessed, most likely an elf judging by the design of the building. Qurrah stood and readied his whip. He would not cower in hiding. This was his home now. He would defend it.

“You are not safe here,” Qurrah whispered. “For if you are safe, then I am not.”

He crept down the stairs, the whip coiled and ready to burst into flame. Before the circular front window stood an elf, one hand on the glass, the other holding a bow. Qurrah reached into his pocket, clutching a few pieces of bone. Before he could draw them out the elf spoke, his voice soft and sad.

“Too much death this day,” he said. “For hundreds of years my brother and I lived here, and for hundreds of years more we would have remained. He is dead now, and for what reason?”

“Death has no reason,” Qurrah said, his whole body tensing.

“No,” the elf said, turning around so he could stare at Qurrah eye to eye. “But murderers do.”

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Qurrah felt his nerves fray, and in his gut a sudden confusion swelled. He felt as if he hung over the side of a cliff, and the bones he held were the rope. The elf let go of his bow and held his hands out to either side.

“No more have to die,” the elf said. The flesh around his eyes sagged wearily, and he leaned against the window to aid in standing. It was as if grief had rendered him lifeless.

Let go, Qurrah thought. He could let go. Fall down the cliff, and find what awaited him at the bottom. All he had to do was let go of the bones. The confusion burned hotter in his gut.

“You’re right,” Qurrah said, standing to his full height. “No more have to die. But what we do doesn’t matter, for more always will.”

He opened his hands. Fueled by dark magic, the bones shot forth, piercing the elf’s throat and eyes. Against the window his dying body fell, his arms still held wide as if offering an embrace that would never be returned. Qurrah stared at the corpse, and as the blood pooled on the floor he felt himself standing once more on solid ground. The elves were his enemy. His brother was his only friend. Velixar was his master. Solid ground.

Qurrah slipped over to the window and glanced out. The sun hung low, its top edge barely visible above the rooftops. He had hoped the streets would be empty, but instead he saw a patrol of elves turn the corner, their swords drawn. He stepped back and hid as they passed by. The half-orc chewed on his fingers. Harruq had abandoned him, true, but perhaps he remained nearby, waiting for him. Then there was Velixar, no doubt furious at the elves’ victory. Where did Karak’s prophet linger now that the battle had ended?

There was only one way to find out. He would have to escape the town, regardless of the patrols that swarmed the area.

He waited until nightfall. Even in the dark the elves still patrolled, carrying no torches for their keen eyes had no trouble seeing in the starlight. The longer he hid and watched, the more Qurrah was convinced they searched for him. The Neldaren troops were long gone, Harruq with them. He knew he was being paranoid, but the only other person they could be searching for was Velixar, and the elves were deluding themselves if they thought they could handle him.

When a smaller patrol turned a corner and vanished, he opened the door, winked at the bloody corpse near the window, and then slipped into the night. The scent of mourning floated throughout the town, and he paused to enjoy the bittersweet strands of death that tugged on his heart. So many souls lost in battle, and even in the quiet aftermath, it was intoxicating.

“No sleep tonight,” he said, turning back to the building that had been his shelter. Fire swarmed around his fingers. Like streams of water, it flowed from his hands, splashing across the roof and setting it ablaze. Finished, he ran for an alley to hide as the fire gained the attention of the many patrols. He heard footsteps and shouts further down the road so he ducked left, running in between homes as all around the shouts grew louder.

The houses ended, and like a fleeing thief he burst out into the streets only to slam into a drunken man holding a small bottle. The two rolled, a tangle of legs and arms. The small bottle shattered.

“What the abyss are you…” the man started to say, but Qurrah’s hand pressed against his lips.

“Your voice or your life,” Qurrah said, danger flaring in his eyes. The half-orc pushed him away and got to his feet. He glanced around, trying to orientate himself, when he felt a sharp pain stab into his back. He spun, his whip lashing out as it burst into flame. It wrapped around the man’s neck, choking out death cries as his flesh seared and smoke filled his lungs. The only noise Qurrah heard was the sound of skin blistering and popping in the fire. At last the man crumpled, the bloodied shard of glass from the bottle still in his hand.

“Damn it,” Qurrah said, wincing as he touched the cut on his back. It was wide but not deep. Painful too, he noticed as he took a few steps. Furious, he turned back to the corpse of the drunken man and smashed a fist against its chest. The body shriveled into dust, only the bones remaining.

“Halt!” shouted a voice from far down the street. Qurrah glimpsed an elf carrying a bow. Just one, the half-orc noticed, but that would quickly change.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use after all,” Qurrah said to the bones. He whispered words of magic as the elf took a few steps closer and notched an arrow. A purple fire surrounded the bones, pulled them into the air, and then hurled them in a giant wave. The elf released his own arrow, but Qurrah was faster. He dove to the side as the arrow clacked against the stone. The elf tried batting the bones away, but he was a fool, unaware of the strength guiding them. They shattered his bow, crashed into his slender form, and tore flesh and armor.

“Kill him,” Qurrah said to the bones. They swirled in the air above the elf like a tornado, and all at once they plunged downward, deep into his flesh.

More shouts. He turned north and ran deeper into Singhelm. He doubted any humans patrolled the area, not after the defeat of their army. If he was to find safety, it would be there. In each ragged breath, he gasped, tasting copper on his tongue. His back ached, and his whole body revolted against his constant motion. Still, he had no choice. He passed by home after home, each one dark and quiet. It seemed the occupants of Singhelm were terrified the elves might seek vengeance for the king’s edict. Qurrah chuckled though it felt like hammers pummeled his chest.

He spread his hands to either side and bathed a few houses with fire. The city’s fear was deep enough he could sense it like a cold breeze, and he wanted it to deepen.

An arrow whistled by, clipping his ear. Qurrah dropped to his knees as a second thudded into the side of a home, inches from his neck. A spell on his lips, he spun, grabbing chunks of dirt in his hands to use as components for a spell. From two windows, a pair of elves held bows, and together they pulled back the strings and released their arrows. The ground beneath Qurrah cracked and tore as his spell completed, so that he fell into a deep pit. The landing jarred his back, and he gasped for air, but for the moment he was safe from the arrows that went flying above.

The fire continued to spread. Qurrah could see its flickers of light, and even in his little pit he felt the heat. His whole body ached, and he wished nothing more than to lay there like a corpse in a grave, but he had no time. He needed to take care of the meddlesome elves that had him pinned.

“Like shadows in the night,” he whispered, remembering how Velixar had described a certain spell to him. “Shadows that vanish and reappear at will.”

He spoke the words and poured his power into them. He felt his body shift, and his sight twisted so that he saw many things. A spider, he thought. Velixar should have told him it was like becoming a spider. A mere thought of moving sent him spiraling, reappearing place to place. Ending the spell left him totally disoriented. His sight returned to normal, and it felt a little like falling from a very tall tree. As he retched on his knees, he looked about, discerning his location. He was beside the building the two elves were in, directly underneath their windows. He could see the tips of their arrows sticking out, glinting in torchlight.

Two adjacent homes were already ablaze, their occupants still inside. Qurrah turned and grabbed the frame of the door.

“Burn!” he shouted, loud enough for the elves to hear. The wood blackened, smoke billowed from his hands, and then the entire building erupted as if bathed in oil. Qurrah laughed, untouched by the heat. He could not say the same for the elves, and as their pained screams reached his ears he only laughed louder.

The half-orc ran as people flooded the streets, calling out for buckets and water. Too many homes were aflame. They could no longer cower within them and hope to be spared. In the commotion, Qurrah vanished, unseen and uncared for. He had spent his whole life disappearing in crowds, and in the dark of night, surrounded by fear and worry, he was just a shadow.

Qurrah was in no hurry as he left the city behind. The grass was soft and tall, and it felt good under his feet after so much sprinting down stone roads. Stars filled the sky, and he smiled to them often. In the distance, he spotted a small fire, and he knew to whom it belonged.

“Where is your brother?” Velixar asked as Qurrah approached.

“He has abandoned me,” Qurrah said, pulling at his robes. He glanced back to the town, hoping to change the topic. Velixar’s gaze followed his, and together they noticed the smell floating in the breeze.

“There are bodies nearby,” Qurrah said. “Hundreds. I can feel them.”

“Elves do not bury their kin,” Velixar whispered. “The few tombs they do build house nothing but ash. Instead, they pile the bodies of the dead to burn, but not tonight. Tonight they mourn.” He stood erect, stretching out his arms as if relishing the warmth of sunshine. “Such wonderful dead. To die in combat is a glorious fate, Qurrah. Never forget it. The blessings of gods linger in those who fight and fall valiantly.”

Qurrah nodded. He could feel power creeping out of his master, cold and fierce. Soft purple dust flew from his pale hands.

“The trust between man and elf is broken,” Velixar said. “Let the harvest of their distrust begin.”

Arcane words of power flowed from Velixar. Qurrah knew them, knew their purpose. They were the exact same words he had used to raise the eight undead at Cornrows. The only difference, however, was in the power Velixar gave them. Each word rolled forth like some unstoppable wave, deep and resonating. He relished the feel, knowing that one day he would speak the words in such a manner.

Velixar lifted his hands to the sky, shouting out the last of the spell. The final command came shrieking forth from his lips.

“Rise!”

In the distance, dark shapes rose from the grass. Four hundred bodies of men and elves marched silently away from town, back toward their master. Qurrah smiled. The macabre sight was beautiful.

“What shall you do with them?” he asked.

“They will join my army. Two thousand I now have. We are close. So close. Soon we will have enough to crush Veldaren.”

“Where is this army?”

Velixar flashed an ugly smile. “They are with me always.”

As if this very comment brought forth their existence, thousands of decaying, mindless beings surrounded them.

“How can you command so many?” Qurrah gasped.

“You will learn. Come. We must put as much distance as we can between us and Woodhaven.”

The hundreds from Woodhaven joined the thousands. Flanked in an army of undead, the necromancers trekked north.

“Clever,” Dieredon whispered from atop Sonowin, watching the undead army’s departure. They circled back, returning to the Erze forest nestled around Woodhaven. Dieredon had returned too late to find and assault Velixar, so instead he had kept his troops hidden and waiting. The battle ended as he had hoped, and even Antonil had survived, Celestia be praised. The elf glanced back, memorizing the exact direction the undead marched. “Clever, and disgusting,” he added. “Death is nothing but a recruitment tool for you.”

Half an hour later, he and a hundred other elves riding atop pegasi followed the necromancer north. As they flew, they passed over a small campfire dotting the empty field below. Their passage above went unheard and unseen, for the two lone souls sitting on opposite sides of that campfire were deep in conversation.

“Harruq, I want you to make me a promise.”

“And what is that?”

Aurelia leaned back and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear as high above the stars sparkled sadly.

“Promise you will never strike at me, or those close to me, ever again.”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably in the grass. “You know I’d never do that.”

“No, Harruq, I don’t know. I think I know, I desperately want to believe I know, but I don’t. So promise me.”

“Aurry…”

“Promise me now, or I will drag you back to the elves and let them deal the justice you deserve.”

Harruq glared into the fire. It was such an easy promise, but could he keep it? What if Velixar ordered otherwise, or someone close to Aurelia struck against Qurrah?

He sighed. In his heart, he knew he could never again strike at Aurelia, regardless of what anyone else wanted of him. The look on her face when he had stabbed her, that combination of sadness and shock, would haunt him forever.

“Fine,” he said. “I promise. Happy?”

“Far from it.”

Aurelia crossed her legs, tossed back her hair, and then leaned her head on her hands as she stared into the fire.

“I want you to listen to me, alright Harruq?”

“Sure.”

He glanced down, uncomfortable and saddened that Aurelia refused to look him in the eye.

“Velixar is not who you think he is. He isn’t what you think he is. He tried to kill me, Harruq. He enjoyed every second we fought. I saw many of my friends die at his hand. Do you know why he helps you? Why he claims to train you?”

She gave no pause, no chance for him to answer. This was good, for he didn’t want to. Too much was on his mind for argument. He remained quiet and listened.

“He wants to change you, turn you into what you know he is. A murderer without guilt. Without conscience. A living weapon to be used however he wants you to be used.”

Harruq’s heart sped up a few paces as Aurelia rose and walked over to where he sat. She knelt down and rubbed a soft hand against his face. She finally looked into his eyes.

“You are not a weapon, Harruq. You are a kind, intelligent half-elf. You always have a choice. Never forget that.”

She kissed his cheek. His heart skipped. When she sat back down, he looked down at his brutish hands and muscles. She noticed and crossed her arms.

“Velixar’s gift,” she said. “Do you still desire it?”

Harruq closed his eyes, his fingers shaking. Deep within his chest, he felt a rage steadily growing. When Velixar had first given the strength to him, he’d felt an overwhelming desire to use it. Anger swelled inside, and when he looked to Aurelia he felt an enormous desire to attack. She was questioning his master, his brother, questioning what it meant to be him.

When he opened his eyes, Aurelia stood, shocked by the red light wafting like smoke from Harruq’s eyes.

“You could never know what I am,” he said.

“I’ve seen what you can be,” she said. “Is that not enough?”

The words stung him. His vision swam crimson. He felt his hands close upon his swords. Perhaps he shouldn’t have saved her. Perhaps he should have left her bleeding upon the ground to die alone and…

“No!” he screamed, flinging himself to his knees. He drew his swords and flung them aside, not daring to have their touch near him just then. Velixar’s voice throbbed in his ears, a chant of promises and loyalty.

“Deny the gift,” Aurelia said, the faintest hint of magic on her fingertips. “Give me some shred of hope.”

He closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his face. He felt the anger growing inside him, but he forced it down. In his mind’s eye, he saw Velixar. The old prophet warned of death, retribution, and pain, but Harruq silenced him. Let the gift be gone. He denied the darkness within him. If this was betrayal, then so be it. He would pay the cost.

Great spasms racked his body. All the power Velixar had granted him fled. His muscles shrank inward, tightening in great, painful shudders. Several minutes passed as the horrendous pain tore through his arms, chest, and legs. Aurelia held him as he lay sobbing in pain. She did her best to comfort him, stroking his hair until all his dark strength drained away. Exhaustion came soon after, and for an agonizing time Harruq lay there, mumbling incoherently and waiting for the pain to fade.

At last, he looked up to Aurelia, his eyes a calm brown, the whites bloodshot.

“I love you,” he said.

Sleep took him, and relieved, Aurelia let her own eyes close and her hair drape across his face.

“Wake up, Qurrah.”

The half-orc lifted his eyelids to see the thoroughly unwelcoming sight of Velixar frowning down at him.

“Yes, master?” he asked, puzzled, for it was still before dawn. He had slept no more than a few hours, he figured.

“Who is it your brother travels with now?” Velixar asked. “You say he has abandoned you, but to whom?”

“An elf named Aurelia,” Qurrah said as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes, still feeling groggy. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he has rejected us, my disciple,” Velixar said. “His strength has left him. My heart burns with this betrayal, and I must know who to punish.”

Qurrah felt ill at ease. All around him, the sea of undead swayed and moaned as if they shared their master’s anger.

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” he said. “Or he has done so only to keep himself safe. Let me talk to him. He will listen to me; he always has.”

Velixar shook his head and pointed toward Woodhaven in the far distance.

“Back there he left you, and I must punish him for such…Qurrah, look to the sky.”

Qurrah followed Velixar’s gaze, and there in the distance he saw many white objects faintly illuminated by the stars.

“About a hundred,” Qurrah said. “But what are they?”

“Elves,” the man in black said. “And I know who leads them. Prepare yourself, my disciple. I have erred, and now we pay the price.”

Qurrah nodded, then closed his eyes and rehearsed the spells he knew. They were weak compared to his master’s but they would claim a few lives. His whip curled around his arm, ready for more bloodshed. The white dots in the distance grew at a frightening rate.

“Such speed,” Qurrah said. “How?”

“They are the Ekreissar,” Velixar answered. “The Quellan elite are the only ones capable of raising and flying the winged horses. When they fly in, stay low, and aim your spells for their horses. The rider will die from the fall.”

The man in black closed his eyes and spoke to the undead surrounding them.

“Hide our presence,” he ordered. “Spread about, and do not halt your movement for all eternity.”

The two thousand obeyed, scattering in a constantly moving jumble of arms and legs.

“That should help keep our presence hidden for a time,” Qurrah said.

“They are but distractions. The darkness will hide us from their arrows.”

Before Qurrah could ask what Velixar meant, his master was already in the midst of another spell. Inky darkness rose all about his feet, swirling like black floodwaters. Chills crept up his ankles as the liquid darkness grew. Velixar cried out the final words of the spell, spreading the darkness for a mile in all directions, so high it covered up to their necks.

“It is cold,” Qurrah said, his teeth chattering.

“You will not be harmed by it,” Velixar said, watching the approaching army. “With so much hidden, they will be hard pressed to target us among my undead. Hold nothing back. They are here.”

“What should we do?” one elf shouted above the wind roaring past their ears.

“Unleash our arrows,” Dieredon shouted back. “Watch for the necromancer. Ignore the undead once you locate him.”

The blasphemous blanket of darkness stretched out below them like a great fog, filled with bobbing heads of Velixar’s army. In that chaotic mass, Dieredon knew the man in black would remain well hidden. Not until enough of the undead had been massacred.

He readied his bow, his strong legs the only thing holding him to Sonowin. Three arrows pressed against the string of the bow, their tips dipped in holy water. His quiver, as was the quiver of every elf flying alongside him, contained water given to them by their clerics of Celestia. When their arrows bit into dead flesh, it would be like fire on a dry leaf.

“Let no life lost this night be in vain!” Dieredon cried as they descended like a white river, raining arrows into the darkness. More than two hundred moving forms halted after that one pass, but a thousand more swayed in their sick, distracting dance.

“One free pass,” Velixar said, observing the flight of elves as they swarmed overhead. They banked around, still in perfect formation, and then dove again.

“Kill them now!” he ordered, his fingers crooking into strange shapes.

“Hemorrhage!” Qurrah hissed, pointing at the nearest horse. Blood ruptured from the beautiful creature’s neck. The rider steadied her best he could, knowing his doom approached. They crashed into the inky blackness, crushing bodies underneath before the swarming dead tore them to pieces.

Velixar’s first attack was far more impressive. Bits of bone ripped out from his undead army; femurs, fingers, ribs, and teeth flew into the sky in a deadly assault. The elves broke formation as the barrage approached. The first ten, however, were too close to have hope. Bone shredded wings and scattered feathers. The elves that were alive when their horses landed died by the clawing hands of rotted flesh.

Dieredon looped in the sky, his confidence shaken at the sight of so many of his dying friends. He fired arrows three at a time, his quiver never approaching empty. He ordered Sonowin lower, shouting out the command as another barrage of bone pelted four more elves to their deaths. Skimming above the darkness, Dieredon fired volley after volley behind him. When they were past the undead, he pulled Sonowin high into the air to observe the battlefield.

The ranks of the undead were half of what they had been, yet still he could not see the lowered black hood he so badly needed to see.

“Come, Sonowin, we will find him, even if it means killing every last one of his puppets.”

The horse neighed and dove, spurred on by the sight of its own kind falling in death.

“Behind you, master,” Qurrah said. He hurried the words of a spell as Velixar turned. An incorporeal hand shot from Qurrah’s own, flying across the battlefield to where an elf dove toward them, arrows flashing two at a time in the starlight. The hand struck the elf in the chest, freezing flesh and eviscerating his insides with ice. The flying horse banked upward as its master fell limp into the fog.

“Beautiful, Qurrah,” Velixar said, bloodlust burning in his red eyes. His precious undead were being massacred. He could feel their numbers dwindling in his mind, now but a third of what his glorious army had been.

“This has gone on long enough,” he seethed. He outstretched his hands and shrieked words of magic. Qurrah staggered back, in awe of the power that came rolling forth. The fog of darkness swirled and recoiled at each word Velixar spoke. The cold on his flesh grew sharper as the blackness grew thicker.

“Be gone from me!” Velixar cried, yanking down his arms. Six fingered hands ripped up from the black, some smaller than a child’s, some as large as houses. Each one lunged to the sky, clutching and grabbing at the elves that circled above.

“Retreat!” one elf shouted, banking as black fingers tore through the air just before his mount. Another screamed as a hundred tiny hands enveloped him, crushing the life from his body. Dieredon clutched Sonowin’s neck as a hand the size of a tree swung open-palmed at him. Sonowin spun, diving closer to the darkness and underneath the giant hand.

Cries of pain filled the night as more and more elves fell to the reaching black magic.

Dieredon held on tight, trusting his life to Sonowin. He scanned the battlefield while they whirled up and down, over one hand and then dancing away from another. Just as Sonowin pulled higher and higher into the air, outracing more than seven growing hands reaching up for them, the elf spotted two lone figures amid the sea of dead.

“Sonowin,” he shouted to his steed. “There, you must get to them!”

The horse snorted, banked around, and dove straight for the approaching hands. A quick spiral avoided the first wave. Dieredon clutched his bow and held on for dear life, his eyes locking on the man in black who stood perfectly still, his arms at downward angles from his body. The rest of the elves were in full retreat. He was the only one left.

Qurrah watched Dieredon’s approach with a gnawing fear in his chest. It seemed no hand could touch this one, the horse possessing dexterity beyond what any creature that size should have. Velixar showed no sign of being aware of their approach. His eyes had rolled back into his head as he controlled the multitude of magical hands.

“Be gone,” Qurrah said, firing several pieces of bone. All pieces missed. He tried to cast another hemorrhage spell but the words felt heavy and drunk on his tongue. His mind ached, his chest heaved, and when the spell finished it created nothing but a wound the size of an arrowhead in the side of Sonowin.

“Master, defend yourself!” Qurrah shouted as loud as he could. Still nothing. More and more hands curled in, surrounding Dieredon and Sonowin in a magical maelstrom, yet still they came.

“Fly, Sonowin,” the elf shouted. “Fly safe!”

Dieredon leapt from Sonowin’s back, the blades on his bow gleaming. He fell through the air, the long spike on the bottom aimed directly for Velixar’s head.

“Master!” Qurrah shouted again, shoving his body against Velixar’s. His concentration broken, Velixar lost his control of the black fog. The darkness swirled inward as if Velixar were the center of a giant drain. The blackness filled him, surrounded him, and consumed him. When all returned, and Dieredon was about to land, a wave of pure sound and energy rippled outward. Velixar was waking, and he was angry.

The wave sent Qurrah crashing against a giant undead man still wearing rusted platemail. The collision blasted the air from his lungs. When he hit the ground, stars filled his vision. Dieredon fought but could not resist that same wave of power. The point of his blade halted a foot from the top of the black hood before he flew back. In the distance, Qurrah watched his master glaring at the damned elf who had fallen like a mad man.

“Scoutmaster,” Velixar growled, his voice deep and dark like an ancient daemon of old. “Twice you have looked upon me and lived. No more.”

Dieredon twirled his bow, his face calm and emotionless.

“Too many have died at your hand. What life you have ends tonight.”

Velixar roared, a sound that made Qurrah shiver and avert his eyes. His master’s back was to him, so he could not see the face that Dieredon saw, which was full of rotted skin and crawling, feasting things.

Suddenly Dieredon pulled back. The blades in his bow snapped inward.

“Arrows cannot hurt me,” Velixar mocked. “They did not the first time. Why do you hope so now?”

“Because these arrows are different.”

He fired three at once, all burying deep into Velixar’s chest. The man in black screamed as the sacred water burned his skin. He fell to one knee and vomited a pile of white flesh and maggots.

“You will suffer,” he gasped. “For ages, I will make you suffer.”

“Try it,” said Dieredon.

Two more arrows flew, but they halted in mid-air. Velixar stood, his hand outstretched, gripping the projectiles with his mind. The elf fired two more volleys but all the arrows froze beside the others.

“Fool,” Velixar hissed. At once, the arrows turned and resumed their flight, straight at Dieredon. The elf dove, rolling underneath the barrage. Not an arrow had hit earth before the elf tucked his feet and kicked. The blades sprang from his bow. He crossed the distance between the two in a heartbeat.

Velixar accepted a stab deep into his chest. A pale hand grabbed Dieredon’s throat, its grip iron and its flesh ice.

“It will be painful,” Velixar said. Vile magic swirled about his hand, pouring into Dieredon’s neck. The blood in his veins clotted and thickened.

A toss of his hand and the elf flew through the air. He rolled across the ground without the usual grace he had shown in combat.

Qurrah glanced about, paralyzed with fear. The remaining elves were returning, deadly and furious, and the darkness that had protected them was gone.

“Do you feel it?” Velixar said, stalking over to the dying elf. “The blood in your throat is clotting. Your mind will starve and your heart will burst trying to force blood through.”

He knew he should speak. He had to warn master. But he could not open his mouth. He could not move. The pegasi were closer. They were readying their bows. He had to speak!

“Can you feel it?” the man in black asked. “Can you feel your heart shudder and throb? Here, let me help your pain.”

Dieredon lay on his back, staring up at him. His chest was a mess of pain, his mind light and dizzy. As Velixar reached down, his maggoty face smiling and his hand dripping unholy magic, a wave of arrows rained upon him. Five buried into Velixar’s back. Six more found his legs and arms. He arched and shrieked as the blessed water seared his wretched body.

Dieredon staggered to his feet, his bow still in his hands. The man in black reached around and tore out the arrows from his body. Still no blood flowed.

“My name is Dieredon,” the elf gasped. “Know it before I send you to the abyss.”

He fired two arrows, one for each eye. They shattered into fire, and finally blood did flow. It ran down the dead flesh and bone that was his face, over his black robes, and pooled in the grass below. He fell prone, still screaming his anger and fury. For five hundred years he had walked the land of Dezrel. All that time, all those killings, and this was how he would fail.

“Karak!” he shouted, all his power fleeing him. His undead minions collapsed, their souls released. The gates to the abyss opened before his eyes, and he felt the pull on his soul. The dark fire already burned. He saw the face of his master, and the sick grin there horrified him.

“I will not die!” he shrieked. “I will not die!”

His flesh burned in fire, his bones blew away as dust on the wind, and only an empty robe remained of the being that was Velixar. Yet, still haunting the wind, was his final cry, a promise to the world of Dezrel.

“I will not die!”

Chapter XVII

MILES AWAY, HARRUQ AWOKE SCREAMING. Aurelia rushed to his side as he curled into a ball, shuddering frantically.

“He’s dead,” he said. Cold sweat covered his body. Remnants of his nightmare floated before his eyes, the icy voice of Velixar rolling over him in his vengeful fury. All he’d known, all he’d ever loved, was dead and gone. Only Karak had remained, furious at the loss. Through it all, one single fact pulsed as an undeniable truth.

“Velixar,” Harruq said, clutching Aurelia’s hands and sighing with a mixture of relief and terror. “He’s dead. I’m free.”

Aurelia kissed his forehead as the half-orc drifted back to sleep, still overcome with his exhaustion. To her eyes, it seemed he slept far better than he had before.

Qurrah did not know what to say or do as he watched his master die. His entire world had just come crashing down in the darkness. Above him were more than fifty elves, each one eager to bury an arrow in his back.

“Harruq,” he said, crawling amid the bodies. He desperately hoped none would spot him. He reached a large stinking corpse lying on its back with a golden arrow in its forehead. Qurrah shoved the cadaver onto its side, curled underneath, and then let it fall atop him. The weight crushed his fragile body and the smell was awful, but it was his only cover. Miserable, he hid there, quietly whispering.

“Where are you, Harruq?” he said, his face buried into the dirt. His tears fell to the grass. “Harruq, I need you. Where are you?”

Then he heard talking and shut his mouth.

“Are you alright, Dieredon?” an elf asked. The scoutmaster nodded, leaning heavily on his bow.

“I will be fine. His magic left my body upon his death.”

A neigh brought his attention upward. Sonowin landed next to him, her white hair stained red in places. She nuzzled the elf and snorted something.

“You worry too much, old girl,” Dieredon said, his voice cracking several times. He patted her once and then turned to the elf standing nearby. “How many did we lose?”

“Half. We paid dearly to kill this man.”

“A heavy price,” Dieredon said, gingerly climbing atop Sonowin. “Heavy, but well worth its weight in blood. A great evil has left this land. Let us return to Woodhaven, for this place of death turns my mouth sour.”

The two took to the air and joined the other survivors. They did not try to locate their dead among the hundreds of other rotting bodies. Instead, a few elves flew low and scattered firestones, small pebbles that burst into flame upon landing. Grass and bodies ignited, and the battlefield rapidly swelled into a giant funeral pyre.

Qurrah crawled out from underneath the body as flames erupted all around him. Everywhere he looked, he saw embers and corpses. He spotted the robes of Velixar and ran to them. He picked them up and shook them, furious that no body remained.

“You lied to me, Velixar,” Qurrah said. “You said you were eternal. You said you held the power of a god. But you lied. You are nothing but dust.”

Surrounded by fire and death, the half-orc stripped naked of his rags and donned the robes of his former master. Despite all the arrows and heat, they seemed in perfect condition. Even the stain of blood was already fading. Qurrah held the side of the hood to his mouth and coughed as the smoke grew ever thicker.

“Goodbye, Velixar,” he said. Then he chose a direction and staggered away. Slowly, and with a few wide curves through the carnage, he found a way out. He huddled the black robes tighter about his thin body, relishing the soft feel and perfect fit. Smoke clogged his lungs, but the stinking waves of it were lessening the farther he walked.

“Where are you, brother?” Qurrah asked once he could breathe freely. In the dark before the dawn, it seemed he would receive no answer.

At last, he could travel no more. He had no food, no destination, and no company. His limbs were weak and his head throbbed. To his knees he slumped, and he let time pass and his strength return, while his mind rummaged for ideas of how to proceed.

While the sun was still a sliver peeking over the horizon, Aurelia shook Harruq’s shoulders to wake him. She then sat back and put her hands to her forehead while the half-orc tried to remember where he was.

“Can you find him?” Harruq asked her, realizing what she was doing. He sat on his rear and began readjusting his armor to his more slender frame.

“In time,” she said. “I have met him only once, but I doubt there are any like him. Stay quiet and be patient.”

Her mind was a net, and she cast it further and further out, scanning the rolling hills and the plains beyond.

“Found him,” she whispered.

A blue portal ripped through the air before Qurrah, beckoning him. He looked through but saw only mists and distorted landscape. Seeing nothing to lose, he got to his feet and stepped inside. He felt the sensation of traveling a great distance yet his mind insisted he had taken only a single step. He could see the orange glow of the great pyre several miles away.

“Brother!” Harruq cried, wrapping him in a hug. Qurrah endured it, keeping his hands at his sides. “I was so worried about you!”

“Velixar is dead,” Qurrah said, eyeing Aurelia warily.

“We know,” the elf said. “It is well to meet you again, Qurrah.”

Qurrah stepped back from his brother, and Aurelia noticed his robes and frowned.

“You should have left them. He was an evil man. Following in his footsteps will lead to a similar fate.”

The half-orc said nothing. For a moment all three glanced about, the atmosphere akin to air before a thunderstorm. Qurrah broke the silence.

“Woodhaven is behind us,” he said. “I have made mistakes, as has my brother. I saw you leave with him, and I know you sacrificed much to protect him. For this, I thank you. All I ask is that we speak naught of this again. If we are to travel together, it is my only wish.”

“A wish gladly granted,” Aurelia said, a tiny smile finally cracking free. “So where is it we should go?”

Qurrah glanced at his brother and shrugged.

“The only homes we have known are Woodhaven and Veldaren. I doubt either will gladly accept us.”

“I have never been to Veldaren,” Aurelia said. “Although I have heard it is beautiful, in its own way. I can get us inside, if all you fear are the gate guards. The edict to banish elves is foolish, anyway. After the casualties he took in Woodhaven, the king should be forced to revoke it lest any human villages be attacked.”

“I wouldn’t mind going back home,” Harruq said. “Sound good to you, Qurrah?”

“Wherever you two go, I will follow,” he answered.

“Settled then,” Aurelia said. “You two are going to have to play along when we get there, though.” She glanced at the sky, which was still speckled with stars even though dawn fast approached. “We’ll wait until morning. I could use a bit more sleep.”

She walked away, cast a levitation spell upon herself, and then settled in for sleep hovering an inch above the grass.

“Odd girl,” Qurrah whispered. Harruq forced a laugh. To Qurrah’s eyes, he looked exhausted, and the shrinking of his muscles was glaring.

“I’m sorry I left you there at Woodhaven,” Harruq said. “And I’m sorry you were alone when Velixar died. How did it happen?”

“Elves came and attacked. No apologies are necessary, Harruq. All is forgiven.”

“No, it’s not all forgiven,” he said, grabbing his brother’s shoulders. “I can see it in your eyes. Please understand. I would have given anything to be there with you.”

Qurrah’s bloodshot eyes lost their rage and sorrow.

“But you weren’t.” His voice lowered, as if he were afraid Aurelia would hear. “You abandoned me for her. You left me, still wounded and alone. And I know what you did, brother. You turned against Velixar. You denied the gifts he gave you.”

“He’s gone,” Harruq said. “And I want that strength no more. We are not his slaves.”

“We were his disciples.”

“We were his weapons!” Harruq shouted. He glanced back at Aurelia and held back a curse.

“Weapons,” he said again, his voice an angry whisper. “Nothing more.”

“If that is your belief,” Qurrah said, settling down upon the grass. “But don’t forget the blood on your hands. You killed more than I, brother. Now leave me be. The night has been long, and I need to rest.”

Harruq let Qurrah sleep in the flattened grass by the fireside. As for him, he sat between Aurelia and Qurrah, glancing back and forth between the two.

“I can love them both,” he repeated, though seeing the robes Qurrah wore, he wondered how long before that love split to one or the other.

Epilogue

FAR AWAY, ASH FLOATED ON a cold breeze, sucked into a forgotten cavern within a chasm feared by orcs and goblins. On the damp floor it fell, coalescing into a black muck, which stirred by unseen and unfelt winds. Here a bone poked up from the filth, there a fingernail. Floating above, transfixed in patient stasis, a soul awaiting a host, shone two crimson eyes.

The Story Continues In… Book 2: The Cost of Betrayal

Afterword

DAVID DALGLISH GRADUATED FROM MISSOURI Southern State University in 2006 with a degree in Mathematics. When trying to be productive, and stave off returning to working fast food, he writes and self-publishes various fantasy novels, of which he’s sold hundreds of thousands of copies.

He also has a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters, with all three being far better than he deserves.

If you want to check out more by him, his fan page is at: https://www.facebook.com/DavidDalglish

Web page: http://ddalglish.com

The Half-Orcs

Book 1: The Weight of Blood

Book 2: The Cost of Betrayal

Book 3: The Death of Promises

Book 4: The Shadows of Grace

Book 5: A Sliver of Redemption

Book 6: The Prison of Angels

Book 7: The King of the Vile

To hear about future bundles from Novel Bundles Services sign up to: smarturl.it/novelbundle

BEAR HEART

K. J. Colt

Chapter I

THE SMELL OF BURNING FLESH lingered in my nostrils and stuck to the back of my throat. My stomach churned, and I squeezed my eyes closed, focusing on breathing through my mouth. Father kept pushing the scorching steel against my arm. I growled like a bear to fight the pain, and onlookers returned my call. Beads of sweat trickled down my temples and cooled my skin. Father removed the glowing iron that bubbled with the remnants of my flesh. I braved a glance at my shoulder, eyeing the raw wound. Soon, it would scab and turn into a bear claw scar to match Father’s.

But before then, I would take part in the Bestial Passage tomorrow, competing against the firstborns of four other tribe leaders. The people of my tribe were called Bears, and the competition required that each contender kill their tribal animal under precise and dangerous conditions. I prayed to the Mother of Nature that I would be given a blade, or a spear.

Father hauled me to my feet. I met the eyes of warriors, mentors, counsellors; all Bears who served my father directly. Wolves howled a prideful song for their young champion, Skelkra, in the southernmost section of the city encampment of Vilseek. More cries germinated a seed of fear within me. I focused on the swirling flames of a bonfire licking at the first stars penetrating the afternoon sky.

‘They believe in you, Klawdia,’ Father said, then stroked my arm lovingly.

I stiffened. His nearness put me on my guard. Mother had died giving birth to me, and so had never borne sons. Behind closed doors, Father condemned me for her death through beatings and harsh words, but tonight, for the sake of presenting a united front to my people, he acted like a loving father.

The western Dividing Mountains that stood between my home and the ocean were silhouetted in the warm reds and oranges of the setting sun. To the south, the Death Peaks sat stark and breathtaking. Swollen clouds swallowed the tallest of the mountains. People often said that by climbing them you could pluck the stars from the sky. That was where I would be tomorrow.

A reveller jumped through the fire, and one of his feathers caught alight. He landed clumsily on the ground while his friends stomped at his pants, laughing and pointing. Father’s upper lip curled at the spectacle. The city overflowed with tribes from across Ruxdor. They had journeyed for weeks through the snow to witness this momentous event, but Father grew tired of the incessant merriment and scraps that lasted from dawn ’til dusk.

Though the city’s typically harmonious flow had been interrupted, the Bestial Passage was a vital part of the nation’s future. The Bear tribe had ruled all others for centuries, but Father’s silver hair, deeply lined face, and worsening skill with a blade provoked discussion about who would take his place upon his death. Traditionally, the role of Chieftain would pass to the firstborn son. Father had no sons, only me, and so the elders demanded that I compete for my right to rule and prove my worth.

‘You’re deep in thought, my daughter,’ said Father. ‘Even though you are the youngest of the challengers, you are the best with a dagger. Your tenacity and agility make you deadly, but still the Wolf will be crafty and the Lion silent and swift.’

Praise from Father was rare. Following my first steps as a child, Father put a dagger in my hand and had continued to scold and criticise me since. I’d learned from the best warriors, listened to the wisest men, and hunted many animals. I was strong now, determined, swift, and deadly. I couldn’t lose.

Daylight loitered while the slush on the ground froze in the icy winds. With added wood, the bonfire grew. Dancers jumped and kicked and twirled. The moon rose behind the Death Peaks, bathing them in a soft, white light. The greentimes were ending, the snowtimes would soon smother the land, and the people of Ruxdor would struggle and fight over the limited resources.

‘I do not fear the others,’ I said to Father. I knew these lands as well as I knew the swirls and lines etched into the hilt of my dagger. I’d spent years studying the snow bears. I knew how they fed, slept, and played. They were like us in many ways. They preferred to live peacefully, but under threat, would fight to the death. And soon, I would face and kill a bear.

Father moved away to greet the tribes gathering around the fire. They filled the gaps between the huts and tents. The other competitors stepped forward: Skelkra of the Wolves, Jeykal of the Hawgrald Birds, Ketnal of the Lions, and Lild of the Snakes. Skelkra was dressed in a cape with wolf headdress and tail. He wore a hardened expression. Tribal girls gathered about him, fetching him wine and feeding him meat. I watched them with envy until Father returned to my side.

‘Tell me your plan again.’ Father wanted me to reassure him I was truly ready. However, I was insulted that he would even ask. Fighting was as natural to me as breathing and blinking. From the age of two, I had spent thirteen years of my life mastering every skill. To say I was ready was an understatement.

I lifted my face to the sky. ‘I will follow the sun and moon until I find the bears’ feeding grounds in the valley of the Death Peaks. I will lure one into a trap, kill it, then return home.’

Father clasped his hands and looked down at the snow made yellow by firelight. I studied his worn features; the harsh weather of our lands had taken its toll on his once-smooth skin.

‘Find a sow without young. Her fight will be weaker.’

I took an arrow from a nearby quiver and twisted its wooden shaft in my hands, the hard lines of the steel head resembling mountain ridges. Both led to a deadly tip. ‘I could rule now. I would see us through the winter fed and safe. Why should I prove anything?’ I clenched my teeth. I rarely lost a fight, and I’d been with Father to every diplomatic meeting. I knew how to govern my people.

Father stared at me. His twilight eyes had paled with age, and his once-fiery hair had greyed to the colour of the moon. Tonight, he wore a cape made from the white pelt of a snow bear. A circlet of bear teeth decorated his forehead, and his hands were painted white, like bear paws. The leaders of each respective tribe also wore animal parts. A necklace of wolf teeth for Skelkra’s father, snake fangs for the snake leader, a white fur vest for the head Lion, and metre-long jade feathers for the Hawgrald tribe.

‘Women serve men, and you must prove that you can be a man before you may lead,’ said Father.

‘I know,’ I spat. Bitterness tightened my throat.

Near the bonfire, the four other challengers lined up in front of Gevilka, Ruxdor’s oldest medicine woman. She wore a tattered black dress. Her frizzy white hair whipped across her face in the strong breeze. Her hips had hardened with age, and she walked as though she were crossing a rocky stream. Thousands of onlookers fell silent.

With two slender arms, Gevilka raised her hands to the sky. ‘And so it begins! The challenge of the five strongest tribes: Snake, Lion, Hawgrald, Bear and Wolf. All come forth.’

Placing the arrow back in its container, I joined the others. Every eye fell on me. I squared my shoulders, took lengthy strides, and kept my chin high. It felt degrading to act like a strutting man, but there was no other way to win the respect of my people. We grasped each other’s hands. Gevilka shuffled closer. Five plates of blood were placed before her. She picked up Lild’s first; I knew it contained snake blood. She marked his forehead. Next, she marked Ketnal, Jeykal and me. Lild and Ketnal were seventeen, and Jeykal sixteen. Gevilka moved to the oldest challenger, Skelkra, the next leader of the Wolf tribe. Skelkra and I had hunted many times together. We’d grown up having snow wars and hunting rabbits in the greentimes.

He caught my eye. I swallowed. My body tingled as he continued to stare at me. My attention fixed on his large fingers brushing against mine, and pleasure rippled through me, making the unexplored areas of my body throb. I thought about rubbing my fingers across his, but decided against it. We’d flirted, and we’d wrestled, but he’d given no certain indication he felt as deeply as I did.

His chest rose and fell in the firelight. His bare chest revealed nipples hardened by the icy breeze, and my notice of it flooded my body with a strange sort of energy. I turned away for a moment, collecting my thoughts. His hand flexed over mine. Memories of our play fights flooded my mind, both of us grappling for the advantage in a scrap. On occasion, I’d pinned him to the snow, only to have him pin me back again. One day he’d hovered over me, ice in his hair, mud on his face, and I had been sure he would kiss me. He hadn’t.

We were destined to bond one day, bringing the Bears and the Wolves together. Everyone expected it, and over the past few weeks, we’d grown closer; my heart swelled with the memories of our hunts. I tried to steal a glance at his face, but he caught me and smirked. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment. I turned back in time to see Gevilka leaning toward me. I flinched a little.

She whispered in my ear, ‘Beware the wolf that shows you his fangs.’ She lowered her head, and a cautioning look replaced her sombre expression.

A wolf? I glanced to my right. Surely she didn’t mean Skelkra? He had worked with my father and his father to negotiate an alliance between our country and the country of North Senya, just south of our borders. When we were bonded, we would rule together.

To my left, Jeykal, my closest of friends, squeezed my hand to get my attention. He was small, but Lild, the Snake boy, was smaller. Jeykal was an expert marksman, which made sense given that the most effective way to kill a bird was to shoot it down. His bow hung diagonally across his torso. He’d spent the majority of last year crafting the beautiful weapon himself.

Intricately carved vines wound around the bow’s top and bottom. Two golden wings stretched from the grip. The silk bowstring gleamed under the firelight. Someone had started the rumour that Jeykal had been born with a bow in his hand. I’d later joked that he’d probably been born clutching his nether regions. Well…at least I’d found it funny. I owed everything I knew of archery to him.

He leaned over to me. ‘Nervous?’

I shook my head and whispered, ‘No, you?’

He snorted, but quickly composed himself. ‘Wonder where I’ll wake up.’

‘Base of the cliff face. No doubt they’ll make you hunt a hawgrald. The imeks have flown south, and the pekats are too far north. I’m sure of this. You’ll be scaling the cliffs, so be careful.’ I worried about him. While he had the lean figure needed to climb the Death Peaks, the hawgralds were aggressive and strong. They could easily carry him off.

Jeykal rubbed his hands together, and his decorative feathers swished. ‘Haven’t been to the nesting grounds since my father took me last year. Do you know what you have to bring back?’

I shook my head. ‘A claw, I bet, or a head maybe.’

Jeykal bit his lip. ‘For your sake, I hope it’s a claw.’

I agreed with him. A bear head would be heavy, maybe weighing a quarter of my own body weight.

Gevilka glared at us before raising her hands again and uttering a prayer to the surrounding world. ‘Let these cubs, pups, chicks, and snakes return home whether they bring their prizes or not.’

‘Here comes the bad part,’ Jeykal whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Gevilka held a tree-shaped goblet. The Cup of Sleep. Apparently, it hadn’t been used since the last Bestial Passage. People gasped and whispered as she gripped it with two bony hands.

Tomorrow we would wake, cold and alone, our heads pounding with headaches, and we’d be constantly stalked by Watchers, select elders from other tribes who would watch to make sure we didn’t cheat. Watchers wouldn’t intervene—not even to save our lives. I wondered who’d follow Jeykal, though. Someone plagued with the stiffness of age would never be able to climb the cliffs with him.

‘Who’s your Watcher?’ I asked him.

‘Don’t know. You?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know either.’

‘Been many years since the last Bestial Passage. At least two hundred.’

‘Yes.’ I thought of Mother. I had never known her, but I was sure I would have liked her. She’d favoured the arts over fighting, and had worked for peace and cooperation between the tribes. Father had said she’d brought many of them together. In the north, tribes such as the Fox and the Boar clung to ancient grudges. They kept their distance, but we knew that the ice valleys in which they dwelt brought them suffering. Mother had wanted them to move south to live in Vilseek, but the idea had only angered them.

I looked around at the other challengers. Ketnal, the Lion boy, seemed confident; Lild, the Snake boy, appeared focused. Lild stared at the ground, and I knew he was considering his plan. Tomorrow, I might be forced to kill one of these challengers. I didn’t want to, of course, but if they threatened me, I would fight back.

Ruxdor’s armies consisted mainly of Bears, Wolves, and some Lions. The rest of the Lions focused on hunting and trading. The Snakes and Hawgralds ran Vilseek’s farms, organising produce and wares and managing the workers. Those workers consisted of people from the Frog and Goat tribes that served the rest of us, not by choice but by force.

I felt Skelkra’s sea-blue eyes tugging at the back of my head, and I turned around. He was smirking at me again, and I was distracted by the curves of his strong body. Did he want me? I closed my eyes. Love. I’d been tossing that word about in my mind for the past week. Did I love him? A Wolf and a Bear, once bonded, would be a strong alliance for my people.

We moved into a circle and passed the Cup of Sleep around, taking large gulps of the liquid called Devsod. The concoction tasted of salt and sap, the smell of it was overwhelming. Devsod’s effects were commonly used in feat of strength games among the tribes where two men would ingest the tonic, and the winner was the man who stayed awake the longest.

Gevilka took the cup away, and we formed a circle to stare each other down as the effects took hold. My thoughts grew sluggish, and I noticed other challengers’ limbs buckle, then straighten, and then bend again. Amusement sprouted within. Heads sagged, eyes rolled, and I fought the drug. A smile touched my lips as I looked at Jeykal, whose legs trembled.

Skelkra stumbled, making me chuckle, but then my own body began to buckle. I fought my heavy eyelids, my numb fingertips, and my weakening legs. My knee bent for a moment, but I straightened it. Lild and Jeykal were on the ground trying to sit back up. Ketnal, Skelkra, and I remained upright, although Skelkra fell to his knees. Slowly, I did the same. I decided to play dirty and make the others laugh.

‘Floppy and wobbly,’ I said, knowing my tongue was slack, which made the words sound like child speak.

Ketnal laughed the hardest, and his legs gave way. Once on the ground, his body went limp. Skelkra gave a small chuckle but stayed kneeling.

And then everything went dark; I couldn’t see. The feeling of my eyelids being open, but being confined to complete darkness, made me panic. Devsod’s effects worsened and when Skelkra fell against me, I knew I’d won this challenge. From behind, someone pulled me to the ground. For a moment, my vision returned, and Father’s face stared down at me.

‘Win,’ he said, and I sank into blackness.

Chapter II

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. PAIN THROBBED in my temples. Something moved beside me. I sat upright, and the world rushed by as if someone were spinning me about. I shut my eyes and grasped at my aching jaw. My ears ached, too, and my nose. I peered to the side. A woman sat nearby, her gaze steady. It was Thixal from the Lion tribe, my Watcher. When I was young, Thixal had told me stories of my mother to help me sleep. I hadn’t seen her in months, and now I knew why.

‘Greetings, Watcher,’ I said through gritted teeth. The ache in my head overwhelmed me.

She moved closer and handed me a square of something fibrous. ‘For the pain. Eat.’

The dry herbs stuck to my mouth, and I swirled my tongue around, trying to dislodge them. She threw a knapsack at me. I searched for water and found a half-filled skin. I slurped at the contents and rinsed my mouth. I gauged my location, recognising the mountains in the distance, the summits nearby, and the trees in the valley. I resumed digging through the bag, hoping to find boots or cloth, anything to wrap around my feet.

Impatiently, I dumped the contents into the snow. I glanced at Thixal hovering over the fire. She ate bread, and her face glowed as she faced the rising sun. I looked down at my body. My shirt and pants had been taken, leaving me with undergarments that did little to cover my skin. I fumbled with the knot of a smaller bag and accidentally ripped its sides. I cursed, took a breath, and slowed my movements. Mistakes were often made in haste.

I lined up my items: dagger, skinning knife, bow, salt, water pouch, small pot, and a piece of parchment with a drawing on it. It showed a bear’s head severed from its body and an image of the knife that lay on the snow before me. I picked up the weapon and touched the tip with my thumb. A droplet of blood welled and trickled down my finger. I wiped it on my undergarments, grabbed the cord of the main bag, and slid the blade along it. It split apart in one stroke. A bear’s skin was tough to penetrate, but once it was pierced, only a soft insulating layer remained.

I stared up at Thixal. ‘Anything else?’

‘You must kill the bear with the knife. Other than that, no.’ She placed a finger over her lips, signalling the end of any further communication.

I looked up at the blue sky. With the sun peeking over the eastern mountains, long morning shadows stretched across the lands. Clouds were scarce, and the fog had mostly lifted. I was amongst the Death Peaks, close to Death Valley. The bear they’d drawn was specifically a snow bear; other bears could not survive in our harsh climate anyway. Most of the snow bears would be hibernating in caves. The rest would be at the river. Their bodies would be slowing for the long sleep through snowtime. They’d be sluggish, making them slightly easier to fight.

I put the items back in my bag and headed for the frozen streams. I passed through crevices and scaled mountainsides, supporting myself with pine trees and boulders. Snow shook loose as I swung on the limbs of trees. I’d been here many times before. I knew the quickest way in and out of the valley. I stared up at the incredible mountains, each one higher than the one before it, until the tips disappeared into the mountain mists.

To my right, gently sloping hills created a bowl shape where water collected and turned into a half-frozen river. I placed each foot carefully as I descended. My ankles and toes already ached from the cold. I had spent many years exposing my body to frozen lands, but the desire for warmth could never be completely overcome.

At the bottom, fluffy pillows of snow sat on the frozen crust. I took my dagger and stabbed the ice. Crack. Broken fragments parted, revealing the coursing liquid underneath. I scooped some into my mouth. No unusual flavours registered. After boiling, the water would be drinkable.

I stepped around the thinnest parts of the ice and made my way back to the embankment. Snow bears lived on rabbits, fish, and other small creatures; they also ate snowberries and roots. Because the snowtime was so close, the bears favoured fish. The Death Valley River travelled south through the mountains. In order to follow it to the ocean, one had to stick to the peaks, a dangerous feat accomplished by few. Fish relocated downstream to the ocean before the river completely froze. At this time of year, the bears had to fight over the dwindling sections of unfrozen river.

Ahead, trees covered the lower parts of the mountainsides. As the sun moved across the sky, it bathed the smaller peaks in a yellow light, and water droplets glistened on branches. I’d always loved morning time. A fresh day felt clean and new.

I walked along the river until the sun moved overhead and the river’s icy fringes were melted. Brown dirt peeked from between patches of snowy mush. Crack. A section of the river broke off and floated downstream. I snapped a straight branch from a spruce, sat, and carved until the wood became a spear. On the ice, I moved to the water holes and watched the fish swimming by. My stomach growled. I took the spear, aimed and stabbed at the water, missed the fish, then stabbed again.

A freshwater spotter, enough meat for two meals, lodged on the end of my spear. I took my catch to the river bank and sat. The fish flexed and flapped its tail until I knocked it over the head with my dagger. With a heavy heart, I ate none, deciding to tuck it away for later in case I found no other food that day.

I kept moving.

A wolf howled in the distance, and I crouched and cocked my head. Holding my breath I listened for any further sounds. Thixal watched me from afar. I thought about Skelkra. Contestants could only kill each other after they’d claimed their prizes, but the point of the challenge was to get back to Vilseek first. Of course, the others could always make the challenge more difficult. They didn’t need to kill for that, and I, being the biggest threat, would be a likely target.

I looked east towards the hawgrald nesting grounds approximately a quarter-day walk away. The clouds were low, and I couldn’t see the cliffs, let alone the birds. I knew Jeykal was there. The others would be near, too. Lild, the Snake boy, would be after a hard-to-catch water snake. I wondered if he was already downstream where the river ran stronger. He’d probably have to swim in the frigid waters.

I’d rather kill a bear, I thought.

Then, I heard the familiar roar that rippled through my body like lightning, heightening my senses. A bear! My heart raced, my muscles flexed, and goose bumps covered my skin. Further downstream, the river curved around a bend. There the treeline almost touched the river. I made my way to the trees, and kept to the shadows. On the steeper sections, roots and shrubs made sturdy footholds. Then came a more subdued growl. Definitely a snow bear. I stepped carefully through the brush, keeping my footing light and my mind calm. After a hundred or so paces, I crossed a ridge and through the trees, saw a white figure playing in the distance.

As I neared, five more appeared. Two cubs sat in the shallows, swatting at the water and biting each other. When they grew more boisterous, a bear pawed and growled at them for scaring the fish away. I chuckled, and for a moment, I felt sad at the idea of killing one. Ruxdorians respected all animals and never hunted for pleasure, only for survival. Although some men took pleasure in the hunt, they paid their respects by saying a prayer and trying to make use of every part of their kill.

A sow appeared, her fertile stomach swollen. Sows gave birth during the snowtimes, and the cubs suckled safely in a cave until snowmelt, when their mother took them on their first hunt.

I moved closer. If I had arrows now, I could easily hit one, but an arrow would only hurt the bear. If it were tipped with poison, then the bear might collapse, but I wasn’t allowed poison. Regardless, my bow was for hunting food for myself, like rabbits and deer. Somehow, I had to kill a bear with my dagger. That meant getting dangerously close. The thought put my stomach into knots. Snow bears were large, with feet the size of my head and claws sharper than my dagger.

‘Pssst,’ someone said.

I turned to see Skelkra looming in the shadow of a pine farther up the incline. Like me, he wore no shoes, and his only clothing was a loincloth. I found myself staring and quickly looked away. Lust stirred within—the same desire from last night—and distracted me. I frowned. If I wanted to win, I had to keep focused on the hunt.

Snow crunched as he stepped closer.

‘What is your prize?’ I asked, noticing he had a hunting knife lodged in his cloth. Where were his other belongings?

‘Wolf head.’

‘Me too. A bear.’

He frowned. ‘They expect you to carry that all the way back to Vilseek?’

I shrugged.

He took another step towards me, and I tensed. A twig snapped to my left, and I narrowed my eyes to see Abel, an elder from the Snake tribe, making his way down the mountain behind Skelkra.

Skelkra smirked at me. Thixal moved up to join Abel. They whispered to each other.

‘I’ve been walking all day,’ Skelkra said.

‘Me too.’ I guessed that meant he hadn’t killed a wolf yet. For the moment, I relaxed and refixed my gaze on the fishing bears. Skelkra wouldn’t try to sabotage my efforts, knowing how challenging my quest was already. We’d trained many hours together, and I was fairly sure he liked me.

‘How are you to hunt your beast?’ I asked, nodding at the knife lodged in his loincloth.

‘I must strangle it.’

I threw him an incredulous look and scanned his body. His upper torso bulged with muscle. His shoulders were broad, the muscles in his neck tight.

‘How are you to kill yours?’ he asked.

‘With a dagger.’

He inhaled sharply. ‘You’ll die.’

‘No, I won’t.’ How could he insult me this way after witnessing my battle skills?

‘Of course you will. Look at you. A bear is three times taller, two times wider, and a hundred times stronger than you. You will have to kill it in one blow. That’s impossible, even for me.’

‘Well, I’m not you.’

While his gaze slid to the river’s edge, I focused on our nearness, which both exhilarated and worried me. My hand slid to the knife at my hip, sitting out of his view.

‘Why did they give you a bow, then?’ He nodded at the weapon strung across my body.

‘To hunt food, I suppose. I don’t know.’

‘Do you have a plan yet?’

I scowled at him. ‘Of course I do!’ My irritation faded as I gazed into his eyes. My lips relaxed into a small smile. ‘A cub won’t do. A sow would be too ferocious. Like you, I will set a trap. For a male, maybe two or three years of age.’

He flashed his teeth. ‘Good.’

Then he sidestepped behind me and pressed his chest lightly against my back, his warm breath caressing the hairs on my neck. Over my left shoulder, his face came into view. Ecstasy held my body captive. I couldn’t move. My legs trembled…my skin tightened.

‘I could help,’ he whispered, slipping his right hand over mine. Stroking each of my fingers, he uncurled them from the hilt of my dagger. His breathing quickened. It was warm and sweet, and I fought the urge to lean back into his arms.

I took a deep breath, turned around, and pushed him away. ‘I don’t want your help.’ I swept my eyes to the Watchers, who’d stopped talking to observe our closeness. While their expressions were unreadable, I was sure they disapproved of what was blooming between Skelkra and me.

‘It’s not against the rules to work together,’ he said.

‘I must do this alone and prove I am strong.’

‘I worry that you’ll be killed.’ The light in his eyes dimmed as his head drooped.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said angrily. ‘I’m agile and fast. I don’t need your concern.’ But I did want him close.

Frustrated by the conversation, I moved closer to my target, considering the different traps I could set. A traphole would give me the advantage from above. But digging the trench would take too much time. A simple meat trap would be quicker. With food being scarce, the bears would be desperate for anything they could get their paws on. Distracted by the food, the bear wouldn’t expect my attack.

I removed my bow and plucked the string. I needed arrows, so I scanned the hillside for saplings.

Skelkra caught on. ‘Let me make the arrows, and you hunt down bait that we can both use. Agreed?’

I considered him for a moment, acknowledging the time it would save and the possibility of increasing our bond. After we had our kills, we would go our separate ways then. ‘Fine,’ I said.

We started scaling the massif. The forest grew denser, until I had a fine selection of straight saplings. Rabbits ducked under brush, and I heard a wolf cry in the distance. Skelkra angled his head to listen, and hunger bloomed in his eyes. I gave him a knowing smirk, and he smiled back. We found some flat ground and scraped away the snow. A cliff hung overhead, providing us a temporary shelter.

‘Why are you helping me?’ I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’re not enemies. The true test is in surviving the elements. Snowstorms are coming. I’ve nothing to eat. No shoes. My feet will freeze off, eventually. I don’t want to die before I’ve even attempted the task. Pooling our possessions will help us live.’

I disagreed with him. The elements worried me less than the damage our tribal animals would do to us in a fight. Looking at Skelkra’s exposed flesh, I imagined how easy it would be for a wolf to claw away the layers. ‘Have you ever killed one with your bare hands?’

‘No,’ he said, and pulled out a flat, dry piece of pine. ‘Found this before. Good for a fire plank.’

‘They didn’t give you flint?’

‘No. You?’

I shook my head.

My mind processed our previous conversation. Something niggled at me. Did he genuinely care about me, or were his intentions just about survival? I knew he was attracted to me, but he played with the hearts of many girls. Maybe it was both. Maybe he liked me, and he needed my help.

‘What else did they give you?’ I asked.

‘Not much. I am stronger than you and the other competitors. So they have punished me for it.’

Hidden in that statement was the arrogance he was known for. But arrogance was expected in the future leader of any tribe. Confidence inspired confidence, and in terms of raw strength, yes, he was the strongest. But his size slowed him down and made him less flexible. When we’d wrestled, he could pin me, but I always managed to slip out of his grasp.

I snapped my spear in half, took the fire board from him, and carved out a groove. I picked up the broken stick and rubbed wood against wood. Minutes later, I touched the fireboard and found the wood warmed. I took the small sack from my bag and wrapped it around my hands to protect them from friction. The wood finally blackened, so I frayed the edges of my knapsack, cut away the fibres, and scrunched them into a soft ball. I pushed them into the hollow of the pine. Skelkra took over for me, and I watched the muscles in his back tighten and relax as he worked the wood. I found some leaves and twigs to start the fire.

He observed the kindling. ‘We’ll need something bigger than that.’ The wood smoked, and he stopped to blow on it.

‘Everything’s wet.’

‘Go farther up the mountain, then.’

I stood, took two steps up the incline and hesitated. I turned my head slightly, my eyes fixating on Skelkra, and then my knapsack. Would he take my things? I decided I would risk it, and continued up the mountain. I found a dead tree sticking out over a ridge. I kicked at it until it snapped and dragged the log back to the fire, which had grown to a hand-sized blaze.

‘We need more sticks,’ he said.

I sighed and went downhill this time. A splash in the distance caught my attention. For a moment, I thought a bear had jumped in the water, but then I saw Lild, the Snake boy, pulling himself from the river. He clutched at his half-naked body and marched on the spot, trying to get warm. Water snakes were difficult to catch if you didn’t have a net. For a moment, I felt sorry for him, but my pity faded when I spotted his blazing fire. They must have given him flint.

Something flicked my back, and I spun around to find Skelkra inches from my face. ‘You’re not focusing. Don’t worry about him or the others.’ His eyes settled on the boy.

‘Or you?’ I mused.

‘Well, that’s different.’

Splash. I turned back to watch Lild. ‘He has it hardest.’

‘You have a knack for underestimating your own danger.’ He touched my arm. ‘When you fight the bear, I want to watch. I can intervene if you need me to. Could be the difference between life and death. Death is worse than shame.’

‘And what about your shame? If your tribe learns that you helped me, they won’t trust you to lead. You’ll never bond to anyone.’

He grinned playfully. ‘Perhaps.’

His smile made my heart do little flips. He stepped forward, reaching both hands to my waist, his cold fingers making me shudder. At the same time, heat enveloped me, and my chest tingled. I traced his collarbone with a fingertip, not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

I glanced at Thixal and Abel, who were staring at us, and blushed. ‘They see.’

Skelkra’s eyes opened wide, his mouth parting slightly. ‘You’re ashamed of me. Of course you are.’ He stared at his feet. ‘You are the Bear. You could have anyone.’

’It’s not that,’ I said reassuringly. I touched his face, gently raising his chin so our eyes could meet. ‘My victory must be flawless.’

He stroked my hair and cupped his hand around the side of my head. I nuzzled it.

‘We are the strongest. It doesn’t matter which one of us wins, for eventually we’ll both rule together, won’t we?’

My soul blazed with excitement. ‘You mean that?’ I held my breath.

His fingers traced around my waist and moved up my spine. He bent his elbows, and eased himself against me. My heart jumped uncontrollably.

Taking my shoulders firmly, he whispered, ‘Yes.’

Finally, I was his, and he was mine. I pointed back up the mountain. ‘Before the fire burns out.’

He inclined his head, took my hand, and pulled me up the mountainside. We grabbed more firewood on the way back to our camp and I found myself glowing on the inside. Everything I’d wanted had come true, and together, we would win the challenge.

Back on the ridge, the fire grew. I placed a log on the hot coals, making them crackle and hiss. I took one of the saplings Skelkra had collected, skinned the main stem, placed it over the fire, and heated it. When the stick had heated, I removed it from the fire, worked out the bends and curves of one section, and placed another section over the heat. I repeated this until the stem was dead straight.

‘Here.’ Skelkra took it from me. ‘I’ll do the rest. You find deer, goat, anything.’

I left him to track game. Thixal followed far behind. I stepped along the mountainside, carefully inspecting trees, mud, and snow. Eventually, the slope levelled, and I could walk in a straight line. The next peak ascended beside me. The trees thinned, and I spotted rabbits ducking under the brush. Horn-shaped prints showed me the direction a deer had walked. On the ground beside them were half-chewed leaves. I touched the crumpled, slimy foliage: still moist.

I ran back to Skelkra. ‘Deer prints to the south, up the mountain,’ I said.

He passed me the first bare-shaft arrow.

‘Don’t you want to hunt?’ I asked him.

He frowned. ‘They gave the bow to you. Only you can use it.’

I groaned, snatched the arrow from him, and ran back to the hoof prints. The sun had moved down towards the western horizon, so the forest animals would be on the move. I stood for a moment, listening. The wind wailed around the cliffs and trees. Tiny birds chirped. In the distance, I heard Lild’s splashing and the growls of the bears. Closer, a twig snapped. Pine needles rustled, and a tree rat jumped from one branch to another. A thump sounded to my left, followed by a whoosh. I crept toward it.

The forest opened to a clearing surrounded by rock. At the other side, the stag I’d been tracking nibbled on shoots. I carefully grasped my bow, and the piercing screech of a hawgrald made me drop the weapon.

There was a flash of jade through the tree tops, then the bird swooped down and clamped its deadly, dagger-length claws around the stag’s antlers. The animal made a mournful sound while it writhed, trying to free itself. Trees swayed under the force of the winds produced by the hawgrald’s flapping wings. Sparrows darted, and rodents scampered. The predator continued rising until it spotted me and screeched. It dropped the stag, tilted its wings, and dived at me with claws spread.

Chapter III

PAIN SURGED DOWN MY SPINE as the hawgrald’s talons pierced my shoulder. I swung my fist, knocking the bird across the head. My knuckles throbbed, but a rush of energy allowed me to pick up my bow and arrow before springing away. While darting between trees, I took out my arrow. The bird hovered above, following me as I ran beneath the shelter of the branches. Cover was sparse, and the hawgrald beat its wings faster and faster. I braced myself to be carried off into the sky.

I made it to a clearing, took my bow and nocked an arrow. I turned, aimed, and let go. The arrow lodged under the hawgrald’s wing. It shrieked, making my ears ring. It continued towards me, but the wing trembled and eventually drooped. The bird hit the ground, spraying snow against my face.

Skelkra ran up behind me and lunged at the bird’s neck, slicing it with a knife. The beast gargled for a moment and then thrashed its wings about, knocking Skelkra against a tree. Its eyes wide and panicked, the bird gasped for air. With each gulp, its eyelids closed a little more until it collapsed to the ground. Blood trickled from its beak.

Skelkra stood and wiped his knife on his loincloth. ‘It’s no deer, but it will do.’

My legs still trembling, I leaned against a tree. And to think, Jeykal had to kill one of those beasts.

‘Did you hear its cry?’ I said, realising that every time I left the camp, Skelkra seemed to follow me.

‘Of course I did.’ Skelkra touched my shoulder where the hawgrald had scratched me. ‘The wound is shallow, but you should wash it anyway.’

Blood from my shoulder dripped onto the snow. If the other challengers knew I was injured, they might be tempted to take advantage of my weakness. Skelkra slid his arm around mine and for a heartbeat I forgot my injury.

‘You’re a good shot,’ he said.

‘Jeykal taught me.’

He ran a finger along my jawline. ‘That boy has a thing for you.’

I shivered. ‘And you don’t?’

The corner of his lip tugged upwards, causing a dimple in his cheek. I snorted, shaking my head. We walked back to our encampment. Skelkra dragged the hawgrald’s carcass.

We cooked the parts of the bird not being used as bait. Once my appetite was satisfied, I noticed my blue feet and warmed them by the fire. I massaged my feet, squeezing and pushing until they reddened and tingled with blood flow. Skelkra went to the river to fetch water. Upon returning, he cut his knapsack in two and used one half to store his belongings and the other to dab water onto my wounds. He washed hawgrald blood from his muscular torso.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ I asked.

‘No more than you would be.’ His gaze lingered on my stomach and moved up to my breasts.

The back of my neck tingled, and I ached for his fingers to stroke my skin. Distracted again. I shook my head and met his eyes. ‘The day is closing. I must set the trap now.’

His fingers took hold of my wrist. ‘You are injured. Rest tonight and hunt tomorrow.’

I leaped to my feet. ‘Now is the time for me to strike. Put this fire out, in case the others see.’ I packed my things, grabbed a portion of the bloody hawgrald carcass, and didn’t even look at Skelkra as I slipped deeper into the forest. Thixal walked behind me, stopping when I stopped, climbing when I climbed. I aimed for a ravine ahead, where I would lure the outermost bear to the meat.

The crunch of nearby leaves made me twirl around. ‘Why are you following me?’ I hissed at Skelkra.

‘You’re going to die out there,’ he replied.

I made a growling noise. ‘Leave me! Make your own way!’

He leapt forward and seized my arm. ‘Listen—’

I shoved him back, but my efforts were wasted on someone his size. Annoyed by my weakness, I stomped away. My heavy steps turned soft as I neared the bears’ fishing grounds. I checked behind me. Only Thixal followed. Thank the stars. I held her gaze for a moment. A smile touched her lips, and I knew she approved that I had left Skelkra behind.

As the sun plunged behind the mountains, the clouds lowered, their bellies full of snow. Most of the bears had moved downstream. A young male stayed behind, determined to catch the last of the fish. He panted and snorted, batting the water with his claws. His youth had no effect on his size, and my heart pounded with fear. On all fours, he stood taller than Skelkra. On two feet, he would tower above the younger pines.

The greying clouds blocked the sunlight and darkened the valley. Light pulsed in the distance where a storm brewed. Above, the clouds spilled their contents, and icy winds whipped the falling snowflakes into a frenzy. I smiled at the skies to thank them for helping my plight. As tree branches groaned, gathered snow fell to the ground with a thump. I timed my steps with the sound.

The bear was tired from the day’s activities. As he swiped at the water, his gaze flickered here and there with wavering focus. He sniffed the air, finally noticing the change in weather.

Now was the time to act.

I slid down the mountainside and into a ravine, placed the bloody hawgrald flesh on the ground, and climbed back up the icy cliff. My fingers dug into the snow in search of a stone. I found one, aimed, and threw it at the bear, hitting him on the backside. I ducked down low and held my breath as the beast growled with irritation, his narrowed eyes sweeping the landscape.

He lifted his snout, twitched his nose, and rose onto his hind legs. His body elongated as he stretched towards the sky, searching the landscape around me. Suddenly, he grunted, went down to all fours, and cantered towards the ravine. I slithered through the snow and carefully peered over the side of the cliff. I reached back, took the hilt of my dagger, and waited. The bear lifted its eyes in my direction and I ducked, tightening my grip on the dagger’s handle and taking a steadying breath. I heard the sounds of ripping and tearing. Perfect.

My veins swelled with blood, my senses heightened, and the world crawled to a stop around me as I contemplated my advance. I had to flank the bear, or I’d be trapped against the mountain base. After silently edging around the beast, I waited. Succumbed by the blood and flesh of his meal, he made no more checks for rivals.

I counted the beats of my heart, knowing each one brought me closer to my fate. I focused on my weapon, ensuring the grip on the handle was faultless. I licked salty sweat from my upper lip, closed my eyes, and pictured exactly what I had to do. When I opened them again, I rose into a low crouch. The bear raised his blood-covered face, taking a break and sniffing the air. Feathers stuck to his neck.

I inched even closer. A bird whistled in a tree to my right. A fish splashed in the river. Thunder clapped in the distance. A breeze cooled my forehead.

Now? I asked myself. My muscles twitched, but my mind remained still. I had to trust my intuition. It would tell me when the time was right. I steadied my breathing, managing my heart rate. Too much excitement would make my movements jerky; too little, and I would miss my mark. The bear collapsed onto the snow, continuing its meal on its belly. It emitted satisfied grunts. I allowed him a few more moments of pleasure.

Now! I leapt from the ridge, flew through the air, and landed on the bear’s back. He reared, tossing his head towards the sky. The bear’s shoulders shuddered, almost throwing me off. I brought my arm down and stabbed his neck as hard as I could. The blade went in, but I’d missed the artery.

The bear thrashed, claws fully extended, each talon the length of my hand. I gripped the animal’s neck and squeezed with my thighs. I brought my hand back and stabbed again; blood sprayed my face and neck. I let go and fell to the ground. The beast turned to face me, his ivory fur stained crimson.

The bear rose onto his hind legs, growled at me, and then struck out. I rolled backwards—wind brush against my back—got to my feet and sprinted away from the ravine. Paws pounded on the ground behind me. I knew I couldn’t outrun him, so I dodged and jumped, but the soft snow slowed me down. Ripping pain ran the length of my back as the bear struck me down. I fell to the snow, but rolled onto my back to meet the beast’s wild, ferocious eyes. I scrambled back as he swiped again; this time his claw caught my thigh, exposing red flesh.

When he leaned down to bite me, I kicked him hard in the jaw and thrust my dagger into his neck. The bear groaned as warm blood drenched my bare skin. He shook his head while the blood leaked out in rhythmic spurts, and I knew I’d hit the artery.

I clutched at my leg. Unsteadily, I moved across the snow, pressing down hard on my wound. The bear staggered away, grunting and moaning. I lay on my side, keeping my back and leg from touching the snow. Unable to move, I lay there panting.

I was going to die.

‘Klawdia!’

Skelkra slid down a nearby hill. He pulled off his loincloth and ripped it into shreds to soak up the blood on my back. I turned away, hiding my pain.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ripping my breast cloth from my body and tying it around my leg. Then he ran to the river, skidding on the slippery surface and almost falling in. He broke off a chunk of ice and came back to press it on my leg.

I flinched in agony, groaning through gritted teeth.

‘Keep still,’ he said.

‘Did you get your wolf?’ I asked in my fragile state.

‘No. Stop talking.’ Putting his hands under my arms, he lifted me and dragged me across the snow, deep into a gully. I stared up at a cliff edge and saw the grey clouds above it. ‘We’ll be out of the wind here,’ he said. ‘Squeeze the skin together to stop the flow of blood.’

I did as he said and cried out at the pain.

‘I’ll be back, I promise,’ he said, and ran off.

For a long time, I lay there alone and in agony. Snow fell, and the flakes were small and light, but soon they grew larger. I pressed hard on the ice on my leg, and it began to melt; pink water trickled down my leg.

When Skelkra returned, he had both our knapsacks and the wood from the fire we’d lit earlier. He made a fresh blaze, took my bow and arrow, and left again. I curled my body into a crescent shape alongside the hot logs. A while later, he returned with three dead rabbits and a fox.

He took my knife and skinned them. I hoped the Watchers wouldn’t penalise him for using my weapons, but given that I had made the attack all on my own and was severely injured, I wagered they’d forgive me. The smell of cooking meat made my mouth water with anticipation.

Skelkra checked my wounds. ‘The bleeding has slowed.’ He sighed with relief. ‘The cuts on your back aren’t deep, but your leg is bad. You’ll need to keep it wrapped. Tomorrow you must go home.’

‘No!’ I said, sitting up and then grimaced at the pain. ‘I have to find the bear. I have to cut off its head.’

He tried to push me back down, but I fought him off. Grabbing a jutting stone I pulled myself onto my feet. Blood leaked from my wound again. I ignored it, grabbed the knife from my bag, and hobbled forward.

Skelkra muttered something and swept me up into his arms, holding me close. He laid me gently on the ground. ‘Stay here, and I’ll track it down.’

He hesitated for a moment, ensuring I wouldn’t try and stand again, and then left. I stared at the browning meat on the fire, its edges starting to blacken. I rescued the tasty morsels by shoving them into my mouth. Dust and rocks tumbled down the cliff side, and I glanced up to meet Thixal’s eyes.

‘I’m alive,’ I said, waving at her before shoving more of the food into my mouth. I grabbed my water skin and slurped.

Skelkra reappeared. ‘The tracks lead this way.’

He picked me up and carried me until we found the bear corpse. I collapsed to the ground and said a silent prayer out of respect for the animal. Thixal and Abel came up beside us.

‘We have decided not to disqualify you, Skelkra of the Wolves, for using the weapons of another challenger to hunt game before you’ve obtained your own prize,’ said Abel.

Then Thixal said to me, ‘You fought bravely, so we will overlook that Skelkra carried you here to complete your task. However, you must cut the bear’s head from the body.’ Thixal presented me with a cleaver.

I sat beside the bear, keeping my injured leg straight, and swung the cleaver. Every movement made my back twinge and my wounded thigh leak blood. The landscape was almost dark when I finally reached the bone. I looked back at the gully, worrying about the fire.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Skelkra said and left.

I bashed the blade through the bone and used the last of my energy to twist the head and snap the remaining ligaments. I rolled the head into a bag and lay down on the snow, letting the cold numb my body. Too exhausted to stay awake, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I lay on a bed of leaves, leather, and canvas. A naked Skelkra crouched near a flickering fire. The bear’s head sat nearby, its eyes lifeless, its open jaw revealing sharp canines. I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth and safety. Even the pain had lessened.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered to Skelkra.

As he turned to meet my gaze, his hair shimmered in the firelight. He crawled across the ground towards me, like a lion meeting his mate. His muscles flexed and swelled, and I glimpsed at what swung between his legs. His thighs were thick from training, and his lips spread into a smile as he neared. He lay parallel to me and brushed a strand of hair from my face.

My breath caught in my throat. I closed my eyes, basking in his touch. To my surprise, soft skin touched my lips, and I opened my eyes to see Skelkra kissing me. As if they were possessed, my hands rushed to his body, desperate to touch what I had always admired. My fingers found the edges of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine, and finally his firm backside.

He pressed against me, his warmth pushing away the frigid air. Leaves rustled underneath us as his hands found their way to my breasts and my left leg pulled at him, urging him to climb over me. His own leg rested between my thighs and pushed against my throbbing ache, hiking up my loincloth. It did little to satisfy me, and I ground myself against it. His tongue explored my mouth, and my own pushed back. I felt his length twitching against my leg and I moved for him to lie on top. He carefully lowered himself between my legs, being careful to avoid my injury, and his hardness flicked against my wetness, making me moan.

I thrust my tongue into his mouth, but he moved southward to flick his tongue over my breasts and circle my nipples. Returning to my neck, he nipped at skin and then pulled back to smile at me. The next time he kissed me, he inserted his tongue, and his length, at the same time. I gasped, arching my back to accommodate him. Heat spread throughout my body, and pleasure erupted below. I cried out, digging my nails into his back. His own body tensed, and he gasped and moaned over and over. I felt him swelling within me until his release.

He collapsed onto his back, panting, and then propped himself up on one arm and traced my stomach muscles with his fingertips. His lips brushed my shoulder and kissed my ear. We lay there nuzzling for a while, revelling in our bliss. Soon the pain returned, and I felt how much we had disrupted my injury. I adjusted the soaked bandages, and Skelkra fetched more ice.

After the ice stopped the bleeding, I said, ‘You must hunt your prize tomorrow.’

He swatted at a rogue snowflake that managed to make it under the cliff.

‘Yes. I cannot return empty-handed. Although…’ he trailed off to stare at me. ‘My hands have already claimed the superior prize.’ My cheeks flushed with heat, and he smiled back, cupped my chin with gentle fingers and kissed me. ‘Now, you need sleep before I damage you again.’ Skelkra extinguished the fire before tending to our camp.

I had the bear head. I had Skelkra. Tomorrow, I would start the journey home.

Chapter IV

A CHORUS OF BIRDS WOKE me from a dreamy sleep. Blurry white shapes formed as my eyelids parted. Above, mist drifted and curled along invisible puffs of wind. The slow beat of my heart, and the caress of an icy breeze, made me lucid. I moved my right foot, the accompanying pain about my upper thigh reminding me of the previous day’s injuries. Then, the memories of my entanglement with Skelkra came to mind. I smiled, basking in the leftover sensations of our embrace.

I touched my lips and thought of his kiss and his hands running along my body. I rubbed my face and lifted myself up to my elbows. My eyes found nothing. No weapons, arrows, or bear’s head, and most noticeably, no Skelkra.

In the distance, Thixal had set up camp by the icy river; she’d dragged a log to the fire and perched on the edge. Her eyes flicked to me and then back to the flames.

‘Where is he?’ I shouted, feeling the depth of the Wolf’s betrayal.

She pursed her lips and I froze. Pity. She pitied me!

I winced as I got to my feet. The ache in my leg had worsened. I checked my hip for my knife, finding it there, I sighed with relief.

I hobbled over to Thixal. ‘He pretended.’

‘A good ruler leads with her head as well as her heart.’

How dare she imply I hadn’t been using my head! Skelkra had never given me any indication of insincerity. He’d worried that I’d be killed by the bear. He’d stopped my leg from bleeding and had given up his own clothes to do so.

I kicked at the snow, and it sprayed over Thixal’s fire. Not waiting around to see her disapproval, I stormed back to the gully. On the way, I glanced down at my toes to check the frostbite, but saw my bare chest first. Taking the canvas Skelkra had covered me with, I concealed my nakedness. My toes were a grey-blue. Giving in to necessity, I plonked beside Thixal on her log to warm my freezing feet.

I cradled my head in my hands and considered killing another bear, but my injuries were serious, and another attack would see me dead. Especially given that my skinning knife was nowhere near as effective as my piercing dagger. My eyes watered, and I swatted at them angrily. The sun had not yet risen over the mountains. Clouds drifted through the valley like ghosts.

‘He planned this the whole time, didn’t he?’ I asked.

Thixal regarded me for a moment and put her finger to her lips, signalling she could no longer discuss the matter.

‘He’ll pay for this.’ I hobbled weakly to the gully, checking for footprints. Many sets led in and out, but his were the largest. One set sunk deeper than the others; they were fresh. They led downriver, and as I followed them, I spotted drops of blood on the recently laid snow. Skelkra wasn’t injured, so it must have been blood from the severed bear head. The only reason he would travel in the opposite direction of Vilseek was if he hadn’t yet killed a wolf.

The droplets of blood led up the mountain. As I followed, I bent my knees, trying to stay low, but the pressure on my wound became too great, and I was forced to hobble upright. Perspiration formed on my brow, and I checked the skin under my bandage to see the edges of the pink flesh turning yellow. The wound festered, but I didn’t care. I would gladly lose my leg if it guaranteed my winning the challenge.

The spots of blood ended, but the footprints continued horizontally around the mountain side. Around the bend I heard a splash, and squinted to see Lild breaking sections of river ice. His fire blazed and I envied the warmth. The boy dived into the water before pulling himself from the river and huddling by the flames. I heard the faint cry of a hawgrald in the distance.

Jeykal! Then I wondered if it was possible that he’d venture so far away from the hawgralds’ nesting grounds to hunt here where the birds were scarcer. Screech. I headed in the direction of the sound to find Skelkra instead of Jeykal. His boots, which he wasn’t wearing before, were holding down the hawgrald’s right wing while he slashed the beast’s throat with my dagger. One of its talons caught him across the chest and pushed him to the snow. Feathers and blood scattered. The predator’s wings fell back, its eyes half closed. Skelkra seemed unaffected by the gash on his torso and crouched low to the ground, ready to strike again.

While he was distracted, I searched for his belongings. I slinked to the right, keeping my eyes on the battle. I found boot prints that led over the side of a nearby cliff, but no supplies. I took cover behind dense bushes and waited for the fight to finish. When finally the hawgrald went limp, Skelkra dragged the bird into the open and slashed until flesh and feathers were a mangled mess. With its entrails, he made a ring around the corpse. He’s setting a trap.

Skelkra searched the surrounding forest and then moved away. I followed, skirting around to the side to make sure he wouldn’t see me. I clutched my hunting knife, noting briefly that Abel, Skelkra’s Watcher, was nowhere to be seen. We soon arrived at his new camp. Judging by how well-established it was, I knew it had been there for some time. When I saw my bow, I trembled with rage, and I almost lost control at seeing the bear head.

After several calming breaths, I scanned the trees to see if Thixal observed. She did, and I marvelled at how adept she was at keeping to the shadows.

Skelkra struck at his own chest, legs, and face. He slapped and punched and growled at the trees; he jumped and flung his arms around. The Wolves often maddened themselves in preparation for battle. A wolf howled in the distance, and Skelkra’s gaze snapped to the woods. At the second howl, he flexed his shoulders and biceps.

Knife still in hand, I crept to the bushes behind him. My heart thumped in my chest; the sounds of the forest crisped. I focused on my blade, the snow underfoot, the smell of the leaves, anything to ignore the pain in my body. I crouched and felt pressure on my thigh wound. It didn’t matter that I was injured; I had to win. I took one step forward, carefully placing my foot and silencing my breath. I took another. The wolf howled again, closer.

Yes, I thought to the animal. Distract him.

Skelkra moved to my stolen items, and the bear, my tribal animal, reminded me of my strength. If I could defeat a bear, then I could defeat Skelkra. I lowered myself and then sprang from the ground, raised my hand, and smacked the knife handle on the back of his skull with a crack. He slumped to the ground.

Yes!

A sob escaped my lips, and I dropped to my knees with relief. I heard the snarls of a wolf pack as they ripped apart the hawgrald flesh. Taking my ex-lover’s wrists, I dragged him to a tree and removed his pants so I could wear them, I tied him to a tree using my loincloth. Let’s hope the wolves don’t find you.

I strung my bow across my body and took his four arrows. ‘Thank you,’ I said to the unconscious Wolf. He had a diverse range of tools, including an axe, flint, another set of boots that were roughly my size, and a tunic. How did he get all these supplies? I put on the tunic and shoes. When I couldn’t feel the leather of the boots around my toes, I worried about losing my toes. The bear head fit easily into a bag, and I lifted it. The strain forced blood from the wound on my leg. I needed Gevilka, the medicine woman.

After gathering the items, I climbed down the mountainside, keeping to the tree line that ended several paces before the river. As I continued north, I heard Lild splashing about. When he got out, he crept along the fragile ice. There were dark circles around his eyes, and his lips were blue. After diving into the river again, he came up empty-handed.

I narrowed my eyes as he ventured to the most dangerous parts of the ice. There was an almighty crack, and Lild disappeared beneath the hardened crust. I gasped and scanned the stretch of river. His hands appeared in a small gap downstream. He struggled against the current, spluttering and coughing. I dropped my bag and half ran, half limped towards him. I searched for his Watcher and saw that Sankat, the Wolf elder, observed him from the north. He was on the same side of the river as Lild.

I waved him down. ‘Save your challenger!’

The Wolf elder regarded me, but made no move to help.

I yelled to Lild, ‘Pull yourself up!’ I searched for a place to cross, but the ice was weak, and I feared falling in as well.

‘Help!’ Lild cried. Panicked blue eyes fixed on me. His nails scraped against ice as he struggled to maintain his grip.

‘Sankat, save him!’ I screamed again, but the elder refused to interfere. The Wolves had always been merciless. They accepted death in whatever way the Mother of Nature chose to deliver it.

‘Move across!’ I shouted at Lild, gesturing wildly.

If he could move more to the right, he could avoid the most forceful rushing waters. He managed to shuffle closer to the bank, but his grip failed and again he disappeared under the surface. Two beige hands pressed against inch-thick ice from underneath. I searched farther downstream, but there were no more breaks in the ice.

I covered my mouth with my hand and looked to Sankat for help. The old man lowered his head and moved away. Lild’s belongings were across the river upstream. I picked up my bags and hobbled to them. Thixal appeared, making her way across to Sankat who’d just reached the treeline. I glared at them both as I crossed the river carefully. Halfway across, I saw one of the lightning-fast azure snakes Lild had been trying to capture.

A tear slid down my face. If not for me, Lild wouldn’t have even been in this competition. I tried to pick up the snake boy’s bag, but as I hoisted it over my shoulder, pain shot through my body. I dropped it and discarded what I didn’t need. Eventually, all that remained were clothes, flint, and of course, Lild’s instructions. The image showed a snake being captured by bare hands. Why hadn’t they set him an easier task? The snakes were poisonous, the water deathly cold. Lild was a skilled snake-catcher. The Bestial Passage shouldn’t bring death.

Lild’s clothes were smaller and made of lined leather. After changing my pants and pulling on the leather vest, I shrugged on a wool-lined coat and almost cried at the feeling of warmth and comfort. I hugged myself, feeling my extremities—except for my toes—finally heating up. I rolled up the extra knapsack, stored it away, and made my way back upstream with the intention of confronting Lild’s Watcher. Thixal and Sankat were in a heated discussion as I approached.

I drew my dagger, pointing the tip at Sankat. ‘Why didn’t you intervene?’

The scarred elder watched me, his expression indifferent.

I nicked the first layer of flesh on his neck, the point just above his artery, and then screamed, ‘Why?’ The desire to murder him increased with heart beat. Heartless Wolf.

‘Do you want to forfeit your chance to win?’ The man kept his tone even as he spoke. ‘Jeykal scales the cliffs, and Ketnal has found a lion’s lair. You must get back if you wish to win.’

I spat in his face, trembling harder. Thixal placed a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off, glared at her, and stalked away. The rules of the Bestial Passage disgusted me. The confrontation had brought me only one pleasure.

Jeykal was still alive.

The Death Valley winds swept the falling snow in an almost horizontal direction. Gusts snapped twigs from trees. My red hair tangled and caught on my cracked lips. I stopped to drink from my water skin; only a half portion remained. The walk back proved difficult while my wound rotted, and felt the temperature of my face to check for fever.

After several hours of walking, I emerged from the valley to see snowy plains stretching out to the woodlands on the horizon. The sun lingered in the sky, but darkness drew near. My stomach growled, so I set out for the trees and promised myself food and fire once I was within their safety. That night, I would rest and then rise early in the morning to travel by the stars.

By the time I reached the trees, my exhaustion prevented me from lifting the bear head sack, so I dragged it behind me. Eventually I collapsed to the ground and closed my eyes. The snowfall increased, making me shiver. With jerky movements, I scraped my blade against the flint from my bag. A fire. That’s all I needed to survive the night.

Sparks flew from the rock, and I unwound thread from one of the knapsacks and rolled it into a ball. With the last of my energy, I chopped down a dead tree with the axe and collected twigs and branches off the ground. The right leg of my pants was stained crimson. My wound was bleeding again. Slowly, I pushed the material aside, tearing the skin that clung to it. The cold air stung the raw flesh.

‘That’s festered,’ someone said.

I flicked my head to see Jeykal emerge from the woods carrying a small knapsack, and I was overcome with a mixture of relief and joy. His slim body was bare except for a small loincloth.

‘Did you…?’ I asked him, staring at his bag.

All happiness faded from his expression.

I clucked my tongue sympathetically and hugged him. He stiffened in my arms, and when I pulled away, his cheeks were red. ‘Sorry,’ I said, remembering that his feelings for me than mine were for him.

‘I’ll live.’ He grinned, but then his eyebrows dipped as he looked at my wound. ‘Besides, I can hunt again tomorrow.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was at the top of a mountain and saw you stumbling across the snow plains.’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’ I stared at my failed attempt to start a fire and straightened my injured leg, cringing as I lost my balance.

Jeykal caught my arm, but still I landed on my behind. My friend’s expression darkened as he kneeled down to take a closer look at my wound. ‘It needs maggots now.’

‘I know.’

He indicated to the bear head. ‘That looks heavy.’

I shrugged.

‘I’ll help you get home.’

If he arrived empty-handed, he would shame his people, and they would not respect him as a leader. He needed to prove his worth.

‘No, you won’t. I’ll wait for you to be done,’ I countered.

He picked up the axe and split a large log. ‘You deserve to rule. This whole thing is unfair on you.’ His eyes narrowed, and his upper lip twitched.

‘Look how weak I am. I can hardly walk.’ I didn’t want to tell Jeykal how I’d stupidly fallen for Skelkra’s act, how Skelkra and Thixal had helped me to survive, and how I’d been too slow to save Lild. ‘Do I really deserve to become the next chieftain?’

‘Of course you do.’ He snorted with astonishment. ‘You’ve the heart of a bear. And you succeeded in your task so far despite your leg. How did you survive?’

I frowned. ‘I met Skelkra.’

‘The Wolf heir? He helped you? But that’s a disqualification. How could—?’

‘I killed the bear without him. He stopped the bleeding.’

Jeykal hesitated. ‘I’m glad he was there. And now? Where is he?’

‘Tied up.’ I closed my eyes for a moment. ‘Lild drowned.’

Jeykal’s eyes widened. ‘How can a Snake drown? They’re practically raised in water. What happened?’

‘Fell beneath the ice. I tried to save him, but as you can see…’ I looked down at my leg.

‘Wait, you said Skelkra is tied up. Did you tie him up?’

I knew what he was hinting at. He wanted to know if I’d betrayed Skelkra because I had my prize.

‘Yes. But this morning, I awoke to find he’d taken all my possessions. He tricked me. I hunted him down and knocked him unconscious.’

Jeykal beamed at me. ‘Then he got what he deserved. I never liked him.’

I had never felt more naive or ashamed. Skelkra was the first man I’d ever allowed to touch me. I’d trusted him and given him my body, only to have him betray me. I decided then that I never wanted to bond to another. If I had been fooled once, I could be fooled again.

‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ Jeykal dragged half the log beside me, and we both moved up to sit.

‘Not anymore.’ I scraped my skinning knife against the flint, trying to make a spark. A small fire caught alight, and I loaded on kindling. We piled on more sticks, leaves, and branches, and I burned the bandage on my leg. I checked the bear’s head for hatched maggots, and finding none, I allowed flies to swarm on my spoiled flesh.

I removed my boots, and massaged my toes until they burned with feeling. The fire grew, our stomachs rumbled, and we made plans to hunt.

We jumped as an arrow thwacked against a nearby tree.

‘Good evening,’ said Ketnal, the Lion boy.

Chapter V

SWIFTLY NOCKING ANOTHER ARROW, KETNAL aimed at Jeykal, who’d already begun equipping his own bow. I eyed my knife lying a few feet away on the snow and cursed myself for putting it down in the first place.

‘What do you want?’ I asked the Lion boy.

Jeykal didn’t move except to ask, ‘Have you…?’

‘Nah.’ Ketnal said, ‘Give me all your possessions. Now!’

Jeykal swallowed fearfully, and then Ketnal’s shoulders began jiggling. He lowered his bow and laughed so hard he could hardly stand.

I snatched my knife and pretended to throw it.

Ketnal ducked and then laughed some more. ‘You won’t kill me. I know you, Klawdia.’ He snorted.

My heart thrummed. ‘That wasn’t funny.’

‘Maybe not to you.’ He sat down and warmed his hands near the flames, stealing a glance at my bear’s head. ‘Well done. Although I see it came with a price.’ He nodded towards my leg.

‘So, you two travelling back together, then?’

Jeykal and I exchanged glances. Without his prize, Ketnal couldn’t kill us, but he could devise other methods to sabotage our efforts. I noticed the four Watchers convening in the distance. Thixal, Sankat, Tasz of the Birds, and Emarkasa of the Bears.

I smiled at Emarkasa, and she waved while beaming at me. Some time ago, Emarkasa had instructed me and Father in herbalism. Thixal scowled at Sankat from a distance. She definitely didn’t like him. I glared at him until his eyes met mine.

‘Did Skelkra or Lild die?’ Ketnal asked, nodding towards the group of Watchers, noticing the number imbalance between Watchers and competitors.

‘Lild fell into the river. He’s dead,’ I admitted.

‘And I suppose you pushed him,’ Ketnal said. ‘Now that you have the bear head, you could kill me, too. And Jeykal.’

‘She wouldn’t,’ Jeykal said passionately. ‘Why don’t have your prize yet?’

The Lion boy grimaced. ‘I’m to kill it with an axe, but someone stole mine. In fact, that axe there looks familiar.’

I’d taken the axe from Skelkra, but I was too embarrassed to admit to his deceiving me. ‘This was given to me.’

Ketnal narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet it has the mark of a Lion metal worker.’

I eyed the markings at the base of the axe’s handle and hid my surprise. Instead, I acknowledged Tasz, Ketnal’s watcher. The other elders exchanged pensive, silent glances which I tried to decipher.

Ketnal tapped the edge of his bow against my right knee. ‘When did it happen?’

‘When I captured my prize.’

‘Surprised you survived that one. Have you seen Skelkra?’

I changed the subject. ‘When did you lose your supplies?’

‘This morning. Early, too. Seems I may as well give up. I’ve no chance of winning.’

Skelkra must have taken his things when I was asleep.

‘You will disgrace your parents if you do not bring back your lion…’ I realised I didn’t know what part of the lion Ketnal was supposed to bring back.

‘Tail,’ he finished for me. ‘This is all your fault by the way. If you were a boy I wouldn’t have to be here.’

‘But now you have a chance to be chieftain,’ I said.

‘Why would I want that?’

I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Ketnal snorted. ‘You Bears. So power hungry.’

I stared into the flames, trying to push away the guilt. He was right; my birth had initiated the Bestial Passage. ‘You will find another place to camp tonight,’ I stated.

‘I have nothing but my bow. Not a knife to create arrows with. Nothing to eat. I won’t be trouble.’

‘I can’t trust you.’

‘You can’t trust me. Really? A bear can’t trust a lion. Makes sense. Your own father doesn’t even trust you.’

I wanted to cut him as deeply as his words had cut me. ‘While I sleep, you might steal my prize.’

‘A good plan! I wish I’d thought of it,’ he teased.

‘Go,’ I shouted, and stood. My injury complained, but I hid the pain from my face.

Ketnal froze and regarded me for a moment, his smile turning to a smirk. ‘Fine.’ He turned and slipped into the darkness. Tasz sighed and followed.

My mood continued a downward spiral into anger and I plonked myself back down. ‘Filthy savage, now we can’t sleep tonight.’ I stabbed my blade into the ground.

Jeykal nodded. ‘The Lions are crafty.’

‘I took some arrows from Skelkra,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll go hunt.’

As I rose, Jeykal pushed down on my shoulder. ‘I’ll do it.’

While I was willing to hunt, we both knew my fatigue and pain would ruin any attempted stealth. Jeykal took the bow and moved away, and Emarkasa followed him. I heard a snap as Jeykal stepped on a twig in the forest. I angled my head to see if I heard anything else. Many heartbeats later, I smiled at Jeykal’s stealth.

While my friend hunted, I offered the Watchers Ketnal’s axe, and asked them to construct their camp away from ours. I didn’t want Sankat nearby.

Soon after, feet squeaked in the snow, and Jeykal appeared, lugging a deer. Emarkasa settled back beside Thixal and Sankat. I skinned the beast, carved off the steaks for the fire, and placed them on the coals. The meat bubbled, and a delicious aroma filled the air. My mouth watered as I watched the food cook.

‘I’m wearing two shirts,’ I said. ‘Let me give you one.’

Jeykal nodded and eagerly took the clothing.

I glanced at his feet and noticed that his left black toe. ‘Is it…?’ I pointed.

‘I think so.’

‘Here.’ I unrolled one of my sacks and cut it up into two strips. ‘Use these for your feet.’ I regretted not having taken the other pair of boots from Skelkra.

‘Please. Let me share in your meal,’ Ketnal cried from the surrounding trees.

I snatched up my dagger, searching the woods. Jeykal’s bow groaned as he nocked an arrow.

‘Go!’ I yelled.

‘But I’m starving,’ Ketnal complained . Tasz joined the other Watchers.

‘Starve, or die right now? It’s your choice.’

Ketnal stepped out of the trees, hands spread, mouth turned down.

‘Are you mad?’ Jeykal shouted.

‘A shank. Just one. That’s all I want.’

At that moment, a spear flew through the air and imbedded itself in Ketnal’s chest with a thunk. Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth, his eyes like plates. He glanced down at the shaft, and clutched it weakly. I spun and sunk to the ground, facing the source of the spear. From the corner of my eye I saw the Watchers stand. Emarkasa looked scared. I glanced back to kick snow over our fire. The embers hissed and glowed, and smoke drifted over me.

‘Murderer!’ I cried into the dark. ‘Show yourself.’

Jeykal crouched, bow aimed at the trees.

Skelkra appeared, shadowy and tall. My eyes snapped to the bag he lugged, and then to his clothes. Where did he keep getting these supplies? I guessed that he had an entire wolf’s body in the dirty, bloody sack he carried. I wondered if the kill was fresh.

He smiled at me. ‘I am following the rules. I can kill you now if I wish.’

‘Why not this morning?’ I barked.

‘Ah, but I didn’t have my prize then.’ Skelkra tipped his head in the direction of the Watchers. ‘Evening.’

Thixal and Emarkasa frowned. Sankat, the Wolf elder, widened his stance and smirked.

‘I should kill you,’ I said.

‘Oh, but you won’t. You gave yourself to me. Remember?’

Jeykal sniffed. I couldn’t see my friend’s eyes in the dark, but I felt his disapproval at my intimacy with Skelkra. I understood Skelkra wanting to kill me. If the people knew we’d bonded, they would expect us to share power and lead together, but why kill Ketnal?

Jeykal shook, his arrow drawn far back. If he let go, Skelkra would die, but Jeykal’s heart was pure. He would only kill in defence, and Skelkra hadn’t threatened us directly…yet.

‘Leave us alone. Go back to Vilseek and claim your prize, dog.’

‘Hmm, no. I think I’ll stay here for now.’

Once again, I couldn’t see Skelkra’s Watcher. ‘Where is Abel?’

‘Oh, he fell down a cliff after it collapsed beneath him. I was too late in saving him.’

Liar. My eyes darted to the bloodied bag on his back and tried to figure out what his next move would be.

Thixal and Emarkasa stepped forward. ‘We must question you on this, Skelkra of the Wolves.’

He made a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Of course.’

‘Did you kill Abel, the Snake elder?’

He pointed at his chest. ‘I would never do that. I desire only to win this competition. I would never kill an elder.’

‘Can you prove that you did not kill him?’

Skelkra hardened his smile. ‘Is this how it’s going to work? Guilty until proven innocent?’

‘It looks bad, Skelkra,’ Thixal said.

‘I know, but I honestly didn’t.’ He took three steps towards the elders.

Two wooden stakes were lodged in the back of his pants. As the fire illuminated his long tunic, I realised who his clothes belonged to. Abel!

‘Watch out!’ I cried.

Skelkra pounced, embedding the two stakes into Thixal and Emarkasa. Faces in shock, they fell to their knees. Their crimson blood stained the snow before them.

I grabbed at Jeykal’s bow with the intention of putting an arrow through Skelkra’s heart, but the Wolf jumped on my wounded leg. I screamed at the pain. Jeykal took my knife and cut Skelkra’s arm. He groaned and drove his fist into Jeykal’s cheek. Jeykal dropped his knife to cradle his bloodied face. I stretched my fingertips towards the dagger. Then, Skelkra raised his leg, and stomped on my right arm.

Crack! I screamed as the bones broke. Skelkra sprinted away. I couldn’t move. Jeykal came to my side; his face hovered above mine and blood dripped from his chin onto me. I pushed him away with my unbroken arm.

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jeykal said. He fetched a straight stick and then ripped the side of Emarkasa’s tunic with the intention of making me a sling.

He touched my Watcher’s face. ‘Thixal’s alive,’ he shouted to me. ‘She won’t last long.’ Sankat rose from his seat, looked over at the two dead elders, stole one last glance at Jeykal and me, and started moving away.

‘Again, you do nothing!’ I screamed at him so loudly my throat went hoarse. If not for my inoperable arm, I would have lodged my dagger in his kidney, giving him a painful and slow death.

Barely visible in the light of the fire, he turned to me. ‘All is fair once the prize has been captured. I cannot intervene.’

Jeykal surprised me by coming to my side and then shoving the elder to the ground. Sankat glared at up at him with disdain. A cry echoed from the woods. Tasz! Skelkra had killed Ketnal’s Watcher. I closed my eyes and felt fear take hold. ‘Go for help or something,’ I told Sankat shakily. ‘Challengers aren’t meant to kill elders!’

Sankat got back onto his feet. ‘There are no specific rules that prohibit the killing of elders.’

With my left arm, I punched his weathered, wrinkled face.

Sankat’s lip split. He licked the blood away, bowed, and slunk away into the night.

‘He might come back,’ Jeykal said. He went to splinting my arm. As I replayed the recent events in my mind, I noticed one of our daggers was missing. ‘No he won’t. He only needed our knife to cut the head off the wolf’s body!’

‘And kill the elders? You’re not thinking clearly,’ Jeykal said, gripping his bow and pointing towards the forest.

‘Let him come.’ I grit my teeth together with determination. ‘We should make our way back anyway.’

Jeykal regarded me for a moment. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Imagine what he’ll say when he gets back to Vilseek?’

Jeykal nodded. ‘Let’s eat our food on the way.’

We set off home with sorrow in our hearts, and the feel of death snapping at our heels.

After several hours of walking, snow fell hard, blocking out the stars and making it almost impossible to see where we were going. My father had taught me to navigate our lands from a young age, but the storm prohibited me from knowing which direction we walked.

The fear that Skelkra lurked in the forest was unshakeable. Every noise had me spinning around and peering into the dark. I waited for a spear to fly through the air and kill me. The wind howled, yet we pressed on through the blistering breeze.

My leg ached with every step. Thanks to my broken arm, I struggled to carry the bear head and lagged behind Jeykal. He stopped and tried to take the sack from me, but I flinched away defiantly.

‘The Watchers are dead, Klawdia. There’s no one here to impress.’

‘You’re here,’ I said.

‘But I already think you’re strong.’ He snatched the bag from my hands anyway and the ache in my shoulder immediately ceased.

‘But you’re already carrying so much,’ I added.

‘I can handle it.’

The storm subsided and the clouds cleared. I sighed with relief; someone was on our side.

My eyes found the guiding stars. ‘We’re off course.’

Jeykal pointed diagonally. ‘That way.’

The moon moved across the sky, and a soft light turned the black sky grey. Sunrise neared.

‘Let’s camp for a while,’ Jeykal suggested.

‘No. We need to keep going. We have to get to Vilseek today. We have to keep—’ I stumbled and fell hard against a rock.

Jeykal dropped the bags and clutched my arm, but I pushed him away.

‘I’m fine, really.’

The side of his mouth pulled upwards. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

His hand lingered just a little too long on my arm.

We trekked until daybreak. Flies swarmed my leg. The wound itched a little, and I struggled not to scratch. Rays of sunlight trickled down through spindly treetops. Snow reflected the crisp morning light.

‘Stop. I have to relieve myself,’ I said, focusing on the fullness of my abdomen.

Jeykal simply nodded.

I found a log behind some thick brushes, removed my pants, and sat. When I looked down, I noticed blood on the crotch. I thought back to when my last womb bleeding had occurred. It had only been a week and a half ago. Odd, I thought. I wasn’t due for two weeks, although I knew that exertion could change the cycle. I returned to Jeykal, and we took a break to eat. While he left to hunt, I slurped at my water skin and noticed its emptiness. I took out a pot, collected snow, and started a fire with my knife and flint to boil water. About half an hour after refilling my water skin, Jeykal returned.

‘Only this,’ he said, showing me a single scrawny rabbit. ‘Last night’s snow covered all the tracks.’

‘We’ll be at the plains tonight. Should be better hunting there.’ Between the Death Peaks and Vilseek were large stretches of grass where deer fed. ‘Any sign of Skelkra?’

Jeykal shook his head.

‘I’m slowing us down,’ I said, knowing Skelkra and Sankat would get back to Vilseek before us. Jeykal sat close, and I leaned my head on his shoulder. My eyes felt heavy, like a branch stacked with snow. Sleep pulled at me. I jerked awake when Jeykal moved.

‘Here.’ He passed me some meat.

After eating, we extinguished the fire and packed. It felt strange without the Watchers observing our every move.

Even with Jeykal, I felt less safe without Thixal. The forest felt larger, deeper, as if it would go on forever. I thought about the Watchers’ bodies just lying there on the ground—how we’d left Thixal alone while her life slipped away. Their passing deserved more respect, a ceremony with sacred words guiding them to the spirits of their ancestors. I hoped Father would believe our account of the events taken place.

Tiny white grubs moved around in my wound. I couldn’t feel them yet, but knew in two days’ time the wound would hurt and itch, indicating it was healing. The yellowing had deepened, and if not for the maggots, a fever would have set in, and I would have died.

Late afternoon, we came upon the grass plains, which, because of the heavy snows, had turned into an endless stretch of white. On the horizon were grey, moving blobs that swayed from side to side. I stopped walking and watched them; they seemed to be getting closer. They didn’t look like animals. Jeykal saw them too, and both of us stared. Eventually, we heard the thumping of hooves. Horses. Jeykal took out his bow and loaded an arrow. I took the bear head sack from Jeykal, clutched a knife, and waited. My people were coming, and it wouldn’t be a friendly reunion.

Chapter VI

‘MY DAUGHTER,’ FATHER SAID AS his horse sidestepped towards me.

Accompanying him were the leaders from every tribe and about half the tribal council. My eyes settled on my father and then Jeykal’s. The air grew tense.

‘Great leader,’ I replied, bowing my head low. I placed the bag containing the bear head at the feet of the chieftain’s horse. ‘Here is my prize.’

Father stared at where the blood from my wound had soaked through my pants; next, his gaze fixed on my damaged arm. I glanced between the leaders of the tribes. Some smirked, and others frowned. Skelkra’s father, the Wolf leader, glared at me.

‘Skelkra has already returned,’ the chieftain said, and I could see the brewing questions behind his steely gaze.

‘Cheaters often win the battle but lose the war,’ I replied, flickering my gaze to the Wolf leader.

Skelkra’s father spat at the ground. ‘She lies. My son is no cheater. She offered herself to him, and he rejected her. Unrequited love stings her Bear pride.’

‘Where is Abel, Skelkra’s Watcher?’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Did Skelkra tell you he fell off a cliff? I wager you believed him as well.’

‘This is a conversation for the council hall!’ Father said. He threw me and the Wolf leader an intimidating scowl and kicked his horse to a gallop. The other leaders followed him, though the leader of the Snakes, Lild’s father, paused to give me a withering glare.

A warrior rode up, leading two horses. Jeykal helped me onto mine and fastened our supplies to the saddles. He swung his leg up and settled into the seat.

I smiled at him encouragingly; dark circles had formed like rain clouds around his blue eyes. He whipped his reins, sending his horse into a canter. I kicked my own mare with my left foot, and the animal jolted, causing pain to shoot through my weakened body.

We galloped across the plains and slowed when we reached the woods that would eventually break way to Vilseek farmlands. I was happy that I did not have to walk, or limp, the entire way. Sleet fell from the sky, the cool flakes catching in my horse’s mane. Field workers watched us approach the stockade. Sitting atop the wooden were the skulls of our enemies. Interspaced towers holding archers and scouts broke up the mountainous background. Looking at the skulls again, I wondered what Skelkra had told the elders.

As we entered the city, the warriors accompanying father disbanded and leaders of the various tribes went their separate ways. ‘We will wait for you in the council hall,’ said the Wolf leader to Father, and he stalked away. Ketnal’s father gave me a murderous stare before following the Snake leader.

Jeykal was claimed by his father.

‘See the trouble you’ve caused?’ Father growled as he took my wrist and dragged me to his hut. We stepped inside and he yelled, ‘Get out!’ at Delsa, his personal slave.

She dropped the cup she’d been cleaning and fled the room in panic.

Father rounded on me with a stern expression. ‘There’ll be a meeting. Tell me what happened, now.’

‘Betrayal,’ I said, testing the explosiveness of Father’s rage.

‘Did you throw yourself at the Wolf boy?’

Fatigue had taken my will to lie, to deceive; only truth was left. ‘No. It was different than he says. He followed me. Pursued me. I told him to go away, but he seemed genuinely worried that the bear would kill me. I faced it alone and I killed it, Father.’ I smiled at him, showing my pride.

The chieftain glanced down at my leg. ‘Your wound is from a bear claw. Did the bear break your arm as well?’

I shook my head. ‘Skelkra broke it. After my fight with the bear, I passed out. He took care of my wounds, made a fire, and then later I awoke and we lay together.’

Father clenched his fists and I took a step back. In the past, he had beaten me many times. The memories of those times surfaced, making me wary of our proximity.

‘I’ve always liked him. We’ve been destined for each other since we were born.’

‘He took advantage of you. You were injured.’

I shook my head. ‘I wanted it.’

Father cringed and turned his head. ‘So you did throw yourself at him.’

‘It was sweet and gentle. No anger or rejection. But the next day, when I woke up, he was gone. He’d taken my belongings. He’d taken everything except my knife. I tracked him back to his real camp, knocked him out and tied him to a tree. I took most of his supplies and left.’

‘What then?’

‘I started the journey home, back through Death Valley. I went via the river and witnessed Lild’s death. He fell through the ice, becoming trapped. Sankat, the Wolf elder, was his Watcher. Skelkra killed all the other Watchers, and he left Sankat alive. I saw it.’

‘Skelkra said that you killed the other Watchers and Ketnal. Sankat supports his claim.’

I wiped my face with my hands. ‘It’s not true.’

Father grabbed my neck and pushed me up against the wall, squashing my windpipe. ‘Do not lie to me, daughter.’

‘I promise you on Mother’s grave, I am not lying. Skelkra put a spear through Ketnal, and then he killed Thixal and Emarkasa.’

Father loosened his grip at the mention of the Bear elder’s name.

‘And Tasz, the Bird elder,’ I continued. ‘Skelkra cheated. I bet he found a dead wolf and chopped off its head. He knew I had the bear head, so he had to find a way to beat me.’

Father punched the wall beside my head. ‘If he killed the elders, then why not kill you if he wants to rule alone?’

‘Because he’s putting the deaths on me so I cannot rule. He wants everything for himself.’

‘It’s your word against his.’

‘Wrong. It’s Jeykal’s word and mine against his.’

Father stepped towards the middle of the room, his movement aimless and lost. ‘Jeykal is popular. Many believe him to be honest and true. At least we have that on our side, for the elders will believe his words over Skelkra’s.’

Several warriors burst into Father’s hut, interrupting our heated exchange. ‘We’ve been assigned to guard your daughter,’ the first man said.

‘You mean make me a prisoner,’ I spat.

‘In case you are found guilty.’

Father nodded at the men. ‘Very well.’

‘And is Skelkra under watch too?’ I raised my eyebrows at Father.

He growled in frustration. ‘I will tell the other leaders of your story and insist he also be placed under watch.’

‘Give him to the Lion tribe. When they hear how Skelkra speared their next leader, they’ll make sure he behaves.’

‘Take her back to her hut,’ the chieftain ordered his warriors. With one last look of disgust, Father left.

Later that day, my own servant, Corilksa, washed the blood from my body and dressed me in new clothes. The medicine woman, Gevilka, came to treat my wounds. She brought a large case of remedies.

‘Not broken. But very bad. Rest for six weeks.’ She presented me with a proper sling. ‘I will visit in several days to remove the maggots.’

I watched the tiny grubs crawling about my flesh. She made me remove my shirt. Then she wiped my back where the bear had scratched me. She also cleaned the wound where the hawgrald had clawed my shoulder.

‘You need food. Water. Now.’ She ordered Corilksa to bring me a meal. Before Gevilka left, she turned to me. ‘See? You can never trust a Wolf.’

After a meal of pork and vegetables, I bathed, pulled on clean clothes, and readied myself to face the tribal council, the elders, and the humiliating accusations Skelkra would reveal to my people. My stomach did a little flip at the idea of seeing Jeykal, the only other person who knew the truth.

I made my way outside, where the sun sat low behind the Dividing Mountains, casting long shadows over the muddy street. The warriors who’d been guarding my hut followed close behind me. People stopped to stare, gossip, and scowl as I made my way to the council hall. One of them, a Wolf, sneered at me, and his Lion partner seemed equally prepared to slit my throat.

Inside the large hall were thirty men and two women—the mothers of the dead. Both glowered at me. I gulped.

My father whispered softly to the Lion leader, and both regarded me with sombre expressions. I moved to Jeykal. His eyes were red, his face was puffy, and his arm swollen with bruises. I clenched my teeth and made a silent promise to punish whoever had roughed him up.

‘It will be well,’ I said, trying to reassure him, but my voice lacked conviction.

Jeykal didn’t look at me.

The room filled with people—a sea of red hair and blue eyes. Some shoved and pushed, while others ducked and weaved to get a clearer view of Skelkra and me. The more passive onlookers settled around the doorway; behind them, heads bobbed up and down, and necks stretched. There were only the five main tribes there; the lesser tribes were not permitted to witness or to be involved in diplomatic decisions.

Father addressed the room. ‘Welcome, my fellow tribesmen. Elders, leaders, mothers, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters. The last Bestial Passage occurred three hundred years ago, and for the last two days, sons from the Wolf, Lion, Hawgrald, and Snake have competed against my daughter for the right to rule. Unfortunately, cheating has occurred, and laws have been broken. For the first time in our history, Watchers, our wise elders, were killed.’ Father paused to let the information sink in.

Murmurs and whispers rose from the crowd. Bodies shuffled, and heads twisted this way and that.

‘My greatest sympathy to the families of Thixal, Abel, Tasz, and Emarkasa. Those wise men and women were our guides. Without them, we will find ourselves lost.’

Father rubbed his hands together while his eyes scanned the room. I followed his gaze, finding all manner of grave expression. The Watchers were often peaceful, knowledgeable, spiritual, and wise. Their deaths were a great loss. My eyes fell on Sankat, observing his long beard curled about his arm. The hand of that arm feebly gripped a walking stick. His pretending sad eyes and turned-down lips disgusted me. Skelkra stood to his right, his arm around the elder’s shoulders in a sympathetic embrace. I couldn’t wait to speak and expose their lies!

The chieftain continued. ‘What is not uncommon in the Bestial Passage are challenger deaths, but even so, the loss of Lild and Ketnal is great.’ Father straightened, raised his chin and hardened his tone. ‘Now, we must discover the truth of what happened in the Death Peak Valley.’ He glanced at me, and my stomach rippled with fear. ‘My daughter, Klawdia of the Bears, has been accused of cheating by Skelkra, son of the Wolf leader. And she in kind has relayed her own version of the events. We will now hear them speak in their defence. Jeykal’—Father looked at my friend—‘you will speak your recollection as well.’

Jeykal nodded.

Father gestured for Skelkra and me to stand on either side of him. I caught the eye of a Lion warrior, and his hand tightened around his spear as if I might kill Skelkra right there in front of everyone. And how I wanted to.

I joined Father at the centre of the room. All disappointed and angry faces stared back at me. Some shook their heads, others curled their lips, and one man bared his rotten teeth. Nausea and light-headedness accompanied the knots in my stomach.

‘Skelkra, so far the winner of the challenge, will speak first.’ Father stepped aside, and Skelkra took Father’s place and raised his hands to silence rising murmurs.

‘My fellow tribesmen, today you will hear only truth from my lips. There is a reason women shouldn’t rule: they do not understand leadership. A true leader does not betray, manipulate, cheat, or lie.’ He pointed at me. ‘And Klawdia has done all of these things.’

I gripped the sides of my pants. Heat blazed on the back of my neck.

‘I met with Klawdia soon after waking at the Death Peaks. She seemed uneasy, and I knew her weak female bones would snap in a bear attack. I wanted to help. Together, we hunted prey to tempt one bear away from its pack. After she attacked the beast alone, I saved her from her injuries.’

I could feel the maggots crawling inside my leg wound. They were growing.

‘During our pre-passage training, Klawdia showed signs of her growing affection for me. I did not feel the same. When I tended to her wounds in the valley, she allowed her immature passions to become aroused. Her injuries scrambled her mind, and she forgot her own sense. Wearing little already, she began to undress, tempting me with her body. I refused. I do not care for her that way, and I never will.’

My heart felt as if it would burst. He had flirted with me, embraced me, taken care of me, and then made love to me. I was a fool. I gritted my teeth, keeping composure in the face of such humiliating words.

‘Not wanting to lead her heart astray, I left Klawdia by a warm fire. I covered her with cloth that I needed for myself. I wanted her to live and return home safely.’

Some of the girls in the audience batted their eyelashes at him. They could have him—if I didn’t kill him first.

‘And then, the next day, she attacked me, tied me up, and stole everything I had. My Watcher disappeared. After hours of pulling and tugging at my restraints, I finally managed to get free.’ Skelkra held his wrists up to the crowd, showing the bruises.

The audience murmured, and I wanted to roll my eyes. I thought about my near-broken arm. No one had shown me sympathy for that.

‘Afterwards, I tracked my Watcher’s footprints and found him dead at the bottom of a steep mountain cliff. Part of it had collapsed. I climbed down to the body and buried it in the wild snowlands by the river where the snakes lived. He was a Snake, after all.’

I looked over at the members of the Snake tribe; instead of anger, their eyes glistened with tears. How could Skelkra tell such lies? Where was his heart? Skelkra hung his head, joining in the Snake tribe’s mourning, I screamed inside my head and bit down on my tongue. I glanced at Jeykal expecting to see equal outrage, but found only fear.

Skelkra finally lifted his head and threw a meaningful look across the crowd. ‘I found a sharp rock, used it to carve a spear, found a deer, killed it, and set my trap. Soon, a wolf came along, and like I’d been instructed, I killed it with my bare hands. This was my quest. I cut the flesh with a sharp rock and headed home. On the way, I met with Sankat, who told me of Lild’s death. We decided to return together. That night, we travelled by the stars and saw a wood fire. Assuming it was one of my fellow challengers, we spied on their conversation. Ketnal was there.’

People shuffled forward upon Skelkra’s mention of the Lion boy.

‘He asked Klawdia and Jeykal for food, shelter, and the warmth of their fire. Ketnal admitted to having lost his supplies. He had nothing, and they had everything. But Klawdia and Jeykal turned the Lion boy away.’

Angry mutters rose from the Lion tribe. They stared me down. My eyes swept to Ketnal’s family, and the mother’s eyes turned dark as she started whispering a curse. In public! People stepped away from her and claustrophobia tightened my throat, threatening me with death.

‘Then,’ Skelkra said, swishing his hand, ‘Klawdia threw a spear at Ketnal. It killed him instantly. But we must remember she had already captured her prize, the bear’s head. It was her right to kill another challenger. But her next action is unforgivable. She killed every Watcher within her reach, slashing at them with a dagger in each hand. Tasz managed to get away, but soon after, she took a bow and arrow and hunted the old man down. Later, I found him dead.’

The holes in his story gave me hope. First, I was too injured to run and slash at anything. Second, anyone who visited the scene would know that the Watchers died from stakes, not knives. I itched for my turn to talk.

Skelkra lowered his head, and in a sad voice, said, ‘I…I wanted to stop her. But I couldn’t. I was afraid she might kill Jeykal. He was terrified, too. She’s bullied him into being her friend. I wouldn’t trust his word.’

‘This is unfair!’ I shouted. ‘He’s telling everyone not to believe us. How will the council hear our story fairly if he poisons their minds?’

My father raised an eyebrow at me and turned back to Skelkra. ‘Stick to the story, boy.’

Skelkra bowed slightly. ‘Yes, Chief.’ He turned back to the room. ‘Afraid for the life of Sankat of the Wolves, I made him return home with me immediately.’

‘Is that everything?’ Father asked him.

Skelkra paused for a moment and then nodded.

‘Then it is Klawdia’s turn to talk.’ Father gestured at me.

I took a deep breath and moved to stand on the spot Skelkra had previously occupied. I stole a glance at him as he returned to his mother and father. They patted him on the back, and his mother kissed his cheek. Skelkra caught me looking, and his eyes lightened. He was enjoying this! How could I have ever let him touch me? My hands shook, and my knees wobbled. I took a deep breath and met the hateful gazes of my people. They’d already condemned me—I had nothing to lose.

Chapter VII

MY MIND WENT BLANK, AND my words caught in my throat.

‘Go ahead,’ Father urged.

I could see the panic in his eyes. I worried that these people didn’t want the truth. Maybe what they wanted was a male chieftain. Maybe they wanted to be led by the Wolf tribe.

‘She’s guilty! See how she stalls,’ someone shouted from the crowd. ‘She’s thinking up lies.’

The crowd broke into angry mutters, but Father silenced them.

I closed my eyes for a moment and centred myself. When I opened them, I spoke. ‘Skelkra has lied to you today. My family has ruled over Ruxdor for generations. I have my mother’s blood. My father’s blood. They are honest people, and so am I. Clear your minds of Skelkra’s words and hear mine as fresh and real. Listen to me, for if you judge me wrongly, your next leader will be a murderer and a liar. In opening your hearts to me, you will discern the truth.’

I rubbed my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants and met the many dubious faces. Some of them had softened, and others nodded. That gave me hope—confidence reignited in my gut.

‘I followed the Death Peaks river. On my travels, I saw Lild hunting for his prize. I did not interfere, and he did not see me. I tracked the bears only. On the mountain, Skelkra found me, flirted with me, and followed me. I asked him to leave me alone, he didn’t, and continued to play on my fears and convince me that I needed him. I let him stay close. I had been given a bow, so Skelkra and I made arrows, and I killed a hawgrald for us. We cut it in half so he could trap a wolf and I could lure a bear.’

I paused. Soon, I would tell them of my shame, of how I’d given myself to Skelkra. I inhaled sharply.

‘At sunset, I lured him a young bear into a ravine with the fresh meat. I lay above him, waiting. When he ate, I leaped onto his back and stabbed him twice, hitting a blood vessel. The bear threw me to the ground, and when I tried to get away he chased me down and clawed my body. Skelkra stopped the bleeding, and even though I was weak and dizzy from loss of blood, I cut off the bear’s head. I woke up that same night by a fire. Skelkra had already cooked and hunted for us. We ate together, and later, we were close. We kissed, and we bonded.’

The crowd whispered. Some people shook their heads, and a couple argued over the details. I had cast some doubt on Skelkra’s story, and that made me more determined to reveal every single fact.

‘While I slept, Skelkra took everything. He’d planned it from the beginning.’ Heat spread through my body as the humiliation of that truth wrung true. Skelkra outsmarted me. ‘Later, I found him. I knocked him unconscious and tied him up. I could not see his Watcher. I believe Skelkra had already killed him. So I took Skelkra’s belongings as he had taken mine. But I had my prize. He did not have his.’

I glanced at Skelkra’s parents, whose arms were tightly linked. His mother’s hand grasped the hilt of a knife.

‘I decided to return home. I made my way up the river, limping and staggering from the pain in my leg. Thixal was close by, and I saw Sankat, Lild’s Watcher. Lild had grown frustrated. He hadn’t yet caught a water snake. He edged onto the thinnest part of the ice and fell in. He became trapped in the current. I tried to help, but I couldn’t run, and he was dragged under the ice, where he drowned.’ The memory sat heavy in my heart. ‘Sankat didn’t even try to help him.’ I took a moment to glare at the Wolf elder. ‘I took some of Lild’s things.’ I reached into my pocket and retrieved the drawing I’d taken from Lild’s knapsack, the instructions to catch his prize.

Father took the paper from my hand and presented it to Lild’s mother and father. Tears brimmed in their eyes.

‘I wanted to kill Sankat for dismissing Lild’s death. Instead, I made my way home. That night, I built a fire, and Jeykal found me. He had not yet caught his prize, and after telling him about Skelkra, he decided to help me get home. Ketnal came to our camp. He’d been hunting in the woods. He was desperate, asking us for help. Having been betrayed once by Skelkra, I did not trust Ketnal’s intentions. I could only trusted Jeykal.’ I spared a brief glance at my dearest friend.

‘In the meantime, Skelkra freed himself. He tracked me with a freshly made spear and killed Ketnal at our camp.’ I met Ketnal’s father’s eyes and said, ‘He died quickly.’

I sighed before continuing. ‘Then Skelkra killed Emarkasa and Thixal with stakes hidden in his belt. After that, stomped on my arm, and stole my dagger. Soon after, I heard Tasz scream. Skelkra had killed Ketnal’s Watcher. He has no honour. He is a cheat.’

Skelkra’s mouth hung open as he pretended to be flabbergasted by my words.

‘You can step back,’ Father said and I obeyed. He gestured for Jeykal to step forward.

Hesitantly, he moved to the stand before the crowd and relayed a story identical to mine, except his started the night we’d met up.

Afterwards, the leaders and other elders whispered to each other.

Father joined them briefly in hushed discussion before turning back to the room. ‘Everyone will leave the room and wait for our verdict.’

Eyes darted between me, Skelkra, Jeykal, and Sankat. People threw up their hands, shook their heads, and shuffled out of the hall. Their confusion was obvious. No one seemed certain who was responsible for the deaths of the Watchers.

‘Take them,’ Father said to the guards, and Skelkra and I were pushed to the doorway.

Once outside, I sat down on the stairs of the great hall to rest my leg. Warriors kept the more aggressive people away.

‘Tainted,’ an old man said and shook a fist in my direction, his old skin jiggling with his accusation. Tainted meant I had bonded without a ceremony. As the chieftain’s daughter, people expected me to act appropriately. I hadn’t, and would now face life as a social pariah.

Skelkra gave a low chuckle beside me; he leaned casually against a pole.

‘Did you ever care for me at all?’ I hissed at him.

He joined me on the stairs. The women in the crowd looked appalled at our closeness, although their glares were all aimed at me. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

I shuffled away from him, but he moved with me. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘You Bears will do anything to keep control of our country.’ He threw a charming smile at the girls adoring him from afar. They swayed under his influence.

I made a choked noise, and Skelkra looked hurt.

‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘Haven’t we always done what’s in the best interest of our people? Built houses, traded with the southerners, ensured a constant supply of food in the snowtimes?’

‘Yet here we are, Klawdia. Our borders unexpanded, our people still grappling over farmable land. Your family are the old ways. The Wolves are the future.’

I huffed and focused on the mists that swirled around the distant mountain peaks. The sun had almost set completely, the stars twinkled, and the wolves howled in the distance, signalling the evening hunt.

Moments later, Father emerged. ‘We have decided.’

He gave Skelkra a sideways glance and gestured for us to follow. We entered, escorted by our guards. The doors to the hall closed behind us, and I heard the disappointed moans from the crowd outside.

When we reached the back of the hall, Father pointed to the front row of seats. ‘Sit down.’

I looked at Jeykal, who’d been allowed to stay inside while the leaders deliberated. Jeykal pursed his lips, and I feared the worst.

Father rubbed his clothes with his hands and lowered his head. His shoulders slumped. ‘You will face each other in a fight.’

I looked over at Skelkra. He was larger and older, and at nineteen he was practically a man, naturally stronger. I’d always been built like my mother, petite and trim, but quick. In hand-to-hand combat, he would defeat me.

I stood and spread my hands. ‘Weapons?’

Father raised his eyes to mine. ‘One dagger each.’

My mouth dried, and I sat. With a dagger, I had a chance.

Skelkra crossed his arms like an impatient child. ‘I want a sword.’

‘No. You must be equally matched. In size, you already have the advantage, Skelkra. The dagger is Klawdia’s preferred weapon.’

The elders and leaders nodded their heads. I gave silent thanks to them all with my eyes. Thixal’s bonded mate, now one half of a whole, smiled at me, and I knew what that smile meant—he believed I hadn’t killed Thixal. I returned his smile and placed a hand over my heart out of respect.

Skelkra stood, his hand brushing mine as he did, and my body betrayed my head by reacting with interest. I cursed myself internally.

‘When do we fight?’ Skelkra asked.

‘Five days’ time. Long enough for Klawdia’s injuries to improve.’ Father shifted his eyes to the side, keeping something unspoken.

‘Why wait so long, Father?’

A confused expression formed on his face before glancing at the other leaders. A silent exchange passed between them, and they nodded.

‘We’ve sent out scouts to look for the bodies of those murdered. They will return in three days. If they cannot ascertain the elders’ cause of death, you’ll fight each other. If they discover evidence that one of you has lied, the other will be banished. Forever.’

I swallowed. They would find the Watchers’ bodies and see the embedded stakes. They would know Skelkra had lied. Skelkra would leave Ruxdor; that part I was happy about. My heart raced, and I grinned at my Wolf enemy. When concern replaced his smug, arrogant smirk, I almost cheered. They were going to catch him out.

That night, lying on my bed in my hut, I stared up at the roof. My leg itched wildly. I tossed and turned, trying to ignore the sensation. When pain joined the itching, I wanted the maggots out. Eventually they quietened, and the lessened discomfort distracted me from my thoughts, but also allowed me to sleep. I drifted off into nightmares.

Father stayed away for the next three days. Jeykal didn’t visit, either, but I was certain his family kept him from me. The only company I had was Corilksa and the two guards. The men were Bear warriors and far less hostile than the Lions or Wolves. I was happy to see Gevilka when she visited me that afternoon.

‘Good, good. Dead flesh is gone. No more pungent smell. Any pain?’ she asked with withered lips.

‘A little. Can you take them out?’

She pulled down my pants and inspected my leg. ‘Uhuh, yes, they are ready.’ She scrubbed her hands with soap and water, and dug the maggots out with her long fingernails. She placed the fat grubs in a container. My gaze went to the crotch of my pants as I checked for more blood since a few days ago, while Jeykal and I journeyed back to Vilseek, I’d bled a little. My pants were clean and I was satisfied. The last thing I needed was for my body to show weakness. It had to be strong. I had to be strong.

‘There is much on your mind.’ She pinched my skin between her fingernails, and I breathed in sharply. She paused to appraise my level of discomfort before continuing to remove the maggots.

Something about her glance made me want to speak. ‘I wish I could see the future. So I would know how to act.’

She chuckled. ‘The future is made, not discovered. Consider your choices carefully, and you will know what happens.’

I mused over that before continuing. ‘Will I be able to fight?’ I lifted my arm, indicating I was most worried about the bone.

Gevilka scrunched her face. ‘No. But if you do, I will give you something for the pain.’ She stood and handed me a vial of dragonclaw. ‘Two drops at most. It’ll slow the mind, and the heart, so measure it first!’

She handed me two other concoctions. The lids were loose, and I could smell the sour brews. One of them was a greenish-yellow colour, sort of like cow cud mixed with urine. My stomach churned, and I put the vial down. But my stomach continued fret, and I hobbled over to a nearby bucket and vomited. I wiped my mouth and peered up at the old lady as she tipped her head to regard me.

‘Are you sick?’

‘Weak stomach,’ I said, collapsing on the ground.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you telling me a falsehood?’

I frowned. ‘What do you—’

‘About killing the Watchers,’ she corrected.

I stared at her in astonishment, but I supposed it was a fair question. I screwed my nose up at the rancid liquid in the bucket. Everything I’d eaten that day was in there. I clutched my irritable stomach. ‘No. What I’ve said is the truth. It is Skelkra who lies.’

‘Sad. Pathetic.’ She shook her head. ‘He deserves to win. Look at you, there’s no fight in you. You’ve never had to fight for anything. In snowtimes, you’re fed before others, and you’re the warmest, most comfortable, and best dressed. In greentimes, you get first choice of lambs. Skelkra is a warrior. You are a dog panting at its master’s feet.’

Forgetting my stomach, I stood, clenching my fists. I loomed over the small woman, feeling powerful. She stared up at me defiantly.

‘You know nothing,’ I spat.

‘Oh great future leader of the Bears, did you plunge into the river to save Lild? Did you spare food for Ketnal? Help Jeykal hunt for his bird claw? As soon as Skelkra, the master of your heart, showed you interest, your pride swelled, and you let your feelings control your mind. You are weak.’

She scooped her things into a bag and turned back to face me. My mind tripped every time I tried to invent a witty response. All that came out of my mouth was a strange blubbering noise.

‘In a fight, you must take risks. You must be ruthless.’ And with that, she left.

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, I returned to the bucket, and my knees buckled. Corilksa tried to comfort me, but I sent her away. I held the edges of the pail and threw up over and over again. There was a peaceful relief in the stillness that followed. With no fever, sore throat or chest, I couldn’t pinpoint the origin of my illness.

Father entered the hut, and I jumped to my feet, causing pain to shoot down my leg. ‘The scouts are back,’ he said, giving no sympathy to my weakened state. ‘They bring news.’

Chapter VIII

A CROWD GATHERED AROUND THE council hall. Upon entering, I noticed that the tribal leaders and elders had moved the chairs into a horseshoe shape. The doors were closed behind Father and me. Skelkra and Jeykal were already there. Father sat in a large chair at the head of the group, and I stood beside him.

The scouts moved forward to address the chieftain. ‘Sir, animals had been at the bodies. Ketnal’s form remained intact. There was a spear through his chest. The other bodies had been dragged through the snow, their limbs removed and spread around the campsite. It was difficult to tell what had killed them.’

‘You’re sure?’ Father asked.

The scouts nodded curtly. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘There is nothing left to be done!’ said Lild’s father. ‘The Wolf and the Bear will battle for leadership.’

Father’s face darkened. For a moment, his eyes met mine, and they flickered like fire reflecting off a blade. He moved his gaze to the other side of the hall and beyond. He shook his head, and I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder—he knocked it away. ‘Don’t,’ he said before rising and stalking from the room.

Skelkra must have sent someone back to further dismember the bodies of the Watchers. How did this happen? He must have been planning this all along.

After everyone had left, Jeykal slung his bow across and picked up his quiver, then said to me, ‘Are you prepared?’

‘To fight Skelkra? There is no preparation. I can hardly walk. I can’t even wield a blade.’

‘That’s your attitude? Come with me.’ Jeykal grasped my left wrist and dragged me outside. Guards were waiting for us. ‘You can come too, I suppose,’ he said to them, and took me beyond the city to the woodlands. ‘You have to cheat. Think, Klawdia. You must win.’

Catching an opponent off guard was a key tactic in hand-to-hand combat. My right arm, my strong arm, was useless. While my training always entailed the use of both arms, I only found accuracy with my right. I was renowned for my deadly knife throw, but in the fight against Skelkra I would only be given one knife. To throw it would be to give it up.

‘I could kick snow into his face,’ I said.

Jeykal nodded approvingly. ‘Don’t use the knife unless you can really do some damage.’

‘Jeykal, I’ve been using knives since I was a child.’

‘You are still a child,’ he said.

I threw a stick at him. He ducked and lunged at me, grabbing my arms in his hands.

He held me still. ‘You’ve always been a fair fighter. This time, you must take advantage any way you.’

‘I could ask them to postpone the fight until my right arm is better.’

Jeykal cocked his head. ‘They might, but I doubt it. Are you going to take dragonclaw for the pain?’

I nodded. ‘Gevilka already gave me some. As well as other unhelpful advice.’

‘Oh yeah? What did she say?’

‘That I was weak and pathetic. That I’m not a true warrior because I’ve never struggled. Do you think that’s true?’

The pitch of Jeykal’s tone heightened. ‘Of course not. Look how you handled yourself in the Bestial Passage. You beat a bear!’

Many men had died trying to kill a bear, yet I’d done it alone. Surely that counted for something.

‘What did she say about your arm?’

‘It’s not broken, but the bone is a little split. I’m not wearing the sling when I fight.’

Jeykal frowned. ‘Yes you will. Keep it tied up, or he’ll use it as a weak point.’

‘Weak point? That reminds me...’ I allowed a grin to spread across my face.

‘Oh, no. What have you done?’

‘No, I mean, Skelkra is tall, right? And he’s a man. I’ll have access to some of his weak points, if you take my meaning.’

Jeykal cringed. ‘Just don’t try that trick on me.’

‘I promise,’ I said.

When Jeykal glanced at our guards, I stuck one of my legs between his, hooked my boot on his shoe, and stepped into him, knocking him off balance. He reached for my injured arm but stopped when he realised what he was doing, and fell to the ground.

‘Seems you can’t fight dirty, either,’ I noted.

His face lightened. ‘If I thought you were serious, I’d let my inner hawgrald out to play.’

‘You mean your inner sparrow?’ I teased.

He jumped to his feet, leaped, and knocked me into the snow. I laughed hard as his limbs entangled me. I fought back, trying to get the upper hand. Eventually, I had him on his back, his legs held down by my legs, and my free hand held both of his wrists.

‘Gotcha!’ I said.

Jeykal stared up at me, his smile slowly disappearing. A hunger replaced his jesting, and his breathing stilled. His pupils expanded as his eyes softened.

I quickly fell to the ground beside him. ‘I need to train,’ I announced, eager to escape the awkward moment.

Jeykal just lay there, watching the forest canopy. His long neck drew my attention down to protruding collarbones that stopped at a taut chest. A vein pulsed under his jawline, and for the first time, I saw Jeykal the man, not Jeykal the boy. I considered my feelings for Skelkra. They were confused and ugly, contorted by his deceit yet persistent because of the moment we’d shared. I knew what it felt like to be used, and I wouldn’t do that to Jeykal.

I caught him staring at me and he crossed his arms underneath his head. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Mind what?’ I replied.

‘That you were with him. You know.’

I tilted my head. ‘And?’

‘I just wanted you to know. I don’t care that you were with him.’

‘I wouldn’t care if you minded anyway. It’s my life, and it’s my decision.’ Feeling foolish, I got up and stormed off through the woods. Our guards chuckled softly at my expense.

Jeykal didn’t follow.

I spent the afternoon throwing a knife with my left hand. Most times the blade would tip too far forward or backwards. Averaging out my throws, I concluded that only three out of five would hit its mark. Pathetic! Those odds would see me dead in a fight against Skelkra. I kept practising, but my aim only grew worse.

Each missed throw was just another reminder of my injuries. I cursed myself, I threw the blade harder and faster. Panting, I leaned over to catch my breath. Staring down at the knife, I imagined slicing my neck open and ending all my pain.

Then I shook my head at my absurdity and reckless emotions. The medicine woman had been right. I was no warrior. I collapsed to the snow, dropped the blade, and buried my face into my hand.

I was going to lose.

Then, I passed the knife into my right hand, slowly closed my hand around the handle and increased my grip until my arm ached. The pain was tolerable, so I removed my sling and straightened my elbow with a creak. The flexing movement smoothed with repetition. Holding the knife, I raised my right arm and agonising pain shot down my forearm. I flung the knife with a jerk, and the pain knocked the air from my lungs. I clutched at the splint, doubling over in the snow.

Tears streamed down my face, and I regretted the effort. When I looked up, I saw the knife embedded in the target and let out a sarcastic laugh. I rocked onto my feet and hobbled over to the tree to remove the knife.

I took five steps away from the tree, and turned to face my target. I raised my arm and cried out as I released the knife with a crack. White spots formed in my vision and I swayed to the side and landed in the snow. My brow drenched in sweat, I carefully put the sling back on and clutched at my arm, shaking. Nausea rose in my stomach and I heaved. I’d eaten nothing since Father had found me crouched over a bucket earlier. A film of wetness had gathered on my brow. Standing, I checked the target and smiled. A perfect throw.

I had a plan.

Back in the city encampment, when I entered my hut, I found Father sitting on my bed, head resting in his hands.

‘You look tired,’ I said.

He straightened. ‘If I look tired, then you look like death. Rest now, or we will lose, and your father will be ridiculed for losing the Bears’ leadership.’

‘You’d still be a leader though,’ I said.

He punched a nearby wall. ‘The Wolves will ruin Ruxdor! They don’t know how to run this country.’

‘Neither did you until someone taught you.’ I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I wasn’t trying to provoke Father; I just didn’t care if I did.

He moved towards me slowly and stopped with his face inches from mine. ‘Are you trying to anger me? You want me to injure you so you don’t have to fight. Don’t you?’

I knew any answer I gave would result in violence, so I said nothing.

He scoffed. ‘Women are not meant to lead. Your injuries are proof of your weakness.’

I brought my eyes to his and clutched the hilt of my knife in my left hand. Father or not, his words called for an argument. If I were a man, we would already be in a scrap, jabbing with elbows and fists. I repressed the desire to punch him. ‘Leave. Me. Alone,’ I said through gritted teeth.

Father grabbed my damaged arm and squeezed. I swallowed the scream that welled within me. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and my legs turned to mud, but I kept my eyes locked with his. I am not weak! When his grip loosened, my glare returned. I would not let him intimidate me. How I longed to sleep, and I considered taking too much of the dragonclaw herb. The sleep would be endless, all my worries gone. When Father let go, he showed no hint of remorse.

I sat on my bed, my right arm throbbing and aching, and my vision blurred.

Father sighed and took a seat beside me. ‘I am afraid,’ he admitted.

Not surprisingly, I produced no sympathy for him. A virtuous leader does not control by hurting the people who love him. I stared at a sketch of Mother on my wall and wondered if he’d ever hurt her. ‘I will fight the best I can,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘No. I mean, I am afraid he will kill you. You are a disappointment, but I do not want you to die. You’re all I have left of her.’ I followed his gaze to the wall and thanked the stars he’d loved Mother so much. For if he hadn’t, I might be dead. Then again, if he hadn’t, maybe he wouldn’t continue to blame me for his grief.

‘I know why you hurt me, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re a coward.’ I stood up. The room moved, and I swayed a little. My stomach swelled and churned like an animal had nested inside of me and was now trying to get out.

Father took my bruised arm again, and I waited for him to squeeze. The muscles in his forehead twitched and he trembled. I raised my chin, daring him to hurt me again. Come on, do it!

‘I will fetch the medicine woman,’ he said, turned on his heel and left.

I blinked a couple of times and collapsed onto the bed again. The pain kept me awake. I looked over at the black vial of dragonclaw. One drop soothed most aches, four drops for severe pain.

I tipped a quarter of the bottle into my mouth.

Skelkra faced me across the Fighter’s Circle, a place used mostly for training and sparring. Vilseek citizens crowded around the outside and leaned against sturdy railings, shouting out our names in support. Thirsty, excited eyes flicked between the Wolf boy and me. They wanted blood; they wanted to know who their next chieftain would be.

My right arm hung at my side, throbbing. I gripped my dagger in my left hand. I felt a little foggy from the dragonclaw I had taken the night before, but the aches in my body were faint and bearable.

Father stepped towards us through the snowy mush. The clouds had darkened overhead. No snow fell, yet the dry wind howled. Snowfall was coming.

The chieftain shouted, ‘You must cut your opponent three times! Only cuts from a blade count as points. No deadly strikes. If one dies, neither wins, and Jeykal of the Hawgralds becomes the next ruler.’

No deadly strikes? I seethed with anger, glaring at father. Skelkra deserved to die.

My eyes slid to my friend, who watched anxiously from the side. He made a fist with his right hand and pummelled his left. He was telling me to fight strongly. To fight dirty. One part of me knew Jeykal would make a great leader, but he was also passive. If it ever came to war, he’d falter under pressure. Even so, I could help him lead, but Father had worked hard to keep his place as leader, and while we disagreed, I respected the realm he’d built.

Our country bordered Senya, and ever since the civil war that split it in two, the Queens of the north had grown strong. No one knew what they wanted, other than having the biggest army they could muster. This was a time that demanded a leader with fire in their belly. My father had that, but sometimes the flames consumed his better sense, and those around him, like me, got burnt.

‘The referee will raise a flag with each point. Score however you must. Begin!’ Father strode to the side and climbed over the fencing. The referee sidestepped and moved as Skelkra and I circled each other.

Red body paint and ash covered his torso in the shapes of paw prints, moons, and wolves. For a moment, I admired his physique. A necklace of wolf fangs sat perfectly aligned with his shoulders. He wore shorts and blunt-spiked boots.

I wore loose cloth that stretched with my movements, including long sleeves and pants to add another layer of protection to my skin. The sun emerged from behind dark clouds.

Skelkra sprinted at me, swiping his hand from left to right. I skipped to the side, feeling the blade whoosh past my ear, and then I rolled further out of the way. Cold mud stuck to my arms, and Skelkra lunged again, aiming for my throat. I leaned back and sent my foot up into his groin. It connected.

He groaned and hunched his body. I swiped my blade across his arm, and the crowd cheered as the Wolf’s blood stained the snow. I wiped the blood from my blade on my right arm so he could see. He growled, and my heart raced with my success. My veins, skin, mind—everything was consumed by the buzz of the fight.

‘Cheat,’ he hissed.

‘Yes, you are,’ I replied, enflaming his fury so he’d make more mistakes.

‘Halt!’ shouted the referee, who then raised one of my flags. Back in our fighting positions, the referee raised a hand. ‘Begin!’

Skelkra attacked again, holding nothing back. I shuffled backwards as he raised his arm to strike, my eyes on his knife held high in the air. He kicked, and the spikes on his boots hit the wound on my right leg.

I cried out and clutched my thigh. Something bit my left shoulder. My sleeve fell from my arm, and the referee raised a flag. I turned my head to see fresh blood staining my shirt. Skelkra smiled at me, and we moved back to the middle of the Fighter’s Circle. His leg dragged slightly, and I knew my kick to his groin continued to affect him.

As I stood, I tried to straighten, but my cramped thigh kept me hunched. My clothes stuck to my clammy back and chest. I signalled that I needed a moment, and the referee raised his flags, granting me the time.

Catching my breath, breath. The crowd indicated their impatience with me by shouting and cursing at me. A single fight broke out between a Bear and a Wolf outside the ring, which distracted the others for a while. From my bent position, I looked up to meet Skelkra’s eyes.

The Wolf snickered at me, crossed his arms, and looked around to the Wolves in the crowd. A few people chuckled and cheered. Annoyed by his disrespect, I threw snow at him. The crowd roared with laughter as he did a stupid dance dodging each one of my throws. A lump splattered on his face, more mud than snow. He wiped at it, the smile gone from his lips.

The referee raised his hand, signalling the fight had resumed. I hurled more and more, and he began to throw some back.

When he bent to pick up a handful, I tossed the knife into my other hand, pulled back my injured arm—snapping the sling in the process—and threw the knife at him. Crack! Excruciating pain in my wrist broke through the dragonclaw’s effects. The arm dangled at my side like a hanged man. I heard a thwack, and Skelkra groaned as my knife lodged in his upper thigh. He groaned and tried yanking out the blade, but it was in too deep. I ran forward and jumped at him, planting two feet against his chest. He fell over backwards, dropping his knife. I landed beside him. I tried to grab his knife but he snatched it up and sliced my left armpit, right where the fold stretched.

The referee raised two flags. The crowd went wild. Dammit, still tied. Bears and Wolves taunted and mocked one another. The rest hooted, booed, or clapped. They’d wanted blood, and we’d given it to them. The cut stung, but nothing compared to the consuming agony of my now-broken right arm.

People climbed onto the fence, punching their fists into the air. A few men who’d made wagers, exchanged coins.

I squeezed my left arm to my ribs and noticed Skelkra held possessed both daggers, although he struggled to stand. I ran, putting distance between us. The pain in my thigh made my steps awkward, and spots formed in my eyes with each beat of my heart. The sky had darkened, and thunder clapped in the distance.

Skelkra rose to his feet, blood gushing down his leg, and I noted our matching thigh wounds. It’s only fair, I thought, smugly. He bent forward at the waist. I crouched, my body screaming for rest.

Skelkra stepped shakily towards me. I stood and backed away before stepping around the edges of the circle. He darted at me. I moved to the side, and as he swerved, I dropped down into a backwards roll, bringing my feet up when he lunged. My feet caught his chest, and I pushed him over me into the fencing. I scrambled to my feet, completely covered in mud. Skelkra stood, roared, and came at me again. I ran.

The crowd laughed as he chased me around. Whenever he got close, I switched directions, and my thigh seized, bringing tears to my eyes. He swiped at me and missed, exposing the side of his body, so I kicked him in the ribs. He fell. I kicked him in the head. Then his thigh. Then his ribs, over and over until he coughed and rolled away, still clutching the two knives. I was afraid to get close. One misstep would see him cut me again, and I’d lose.

I went to kick him again, but he rolled onto his backside and jumped to his feet, clumsily throwing a dagger at me. It wobbled through the air, and the handle banged against my shoulder. The knife thumped to the mud, and again the crowd laughed. Skelkra ran at me, trying to stop me from picking up the dagger. He swiped, and I veered back. Once, twice, three times—I was too quick.

He leaned over to catch his breath while I tried to keep standing. His breath crackled, and he clutched his side. One of his ribs must have been broken. In his distraction, I saw my opportunity. I hooked the toe of my boot under the dagger and flicked it into the air. As I reached out to grab it, I felt a tickle across my nose. Skelkra had managed to clip me again. Anxiously, I brought my hand to my face and checked my fingers for blood.

Chapter IX

THE REFEREE STOPPED THE FIGHT, and the chieftain and another elder jogged towards me. They bent my head back, twisting it this way and that. My legs wobbled, and I clutched at Father for support. They shook their heads at each other.

Father hissed in my ear, ‘If you don’t win, I will make your life a misery!’ He glared at me before turning away.

When he let me go, I stumbled a bit. The crowd cheered as the referee signalled for the fight to resume. Skelkra breathed out, frustration covering his face.

I decided to wait for him to come to me. He’d always been the aggressive type. That was why Jeykal had lectured me to fight dirty. I had no genuine taste for killing and felt more at home defending than attacking. Skelkra straightened, crossed his arms, and flexed them to make himself look bigger and stronger.

‘Come on, then!’ I yelled. ‘What’s wrong? Is a Wolf afraid of a big, bad Bear?’ It was easy to feel confident with a blade in my hand.

The crowd booed. Skelkra howled to the sky. Not surprisingly, the other Wolves from his tribe joined in. The Bears growled to compete with the noise, and soon the air was saturated with the calls of every tribe. Father shouted for silence, and the racket stopped.

I splayed my fingers and placed my hand over the top of my head, imitating the shape of a cock’s comb. ‘Cluck, cluck,’ I said and then poked my tongue out at the Wolf boy. I wanted him to attack me. The Wolf tribe snarled and howled. I poked my tongue out at them, too. Skelkra lowered his head and bared his teeth. I thought of Gevilka and the night we had drunk from the Cup of Sleep.

‘Beware the wolf that shows you his fangs,’ she’d said.

Sensing his coming attack, I tried to move my right arm, but it wouldn’t budge. I glanced at Skelkra. He lowered his head and shuffled his feet, and his right biceps bulged as he gripped the dagger. Here it comes.

His chest flexed, and he stepped towards me. We danced for a moment, our footsteps moving and changing in response to one another. He came from the right, and I couldn’t block him with my arm, so I leaned back, and the blade swished past me. As his arm swung around, I kicked it, and his body twisted, revealing his back. I swept his legs out from underneath him, and he fell to the ground.

I jumped at him, and he rolled once, twice, keeping his dagger between us. I couldn’t get close, and seeing the opportunity, I lifted my left arm and flung my dagger at his shoulder, willing it to hit the target. When he saw it coming, he sat up, and I gasped as the blade embedded in his left lung. His eyes moved to his chest, and a gurgling noise escaped his lips.

‘No!’ Father roared.

Angry shouts rose from the crowd, and people surged into the fighting ring. Wolves beat me to the ground and I collapsed, leaning on my left arm. He’d moved into my throw. I stared up at the sky while the Bears fought the Wolves off me.

Skelkra’s father and his warriors broke through the crowd with a stretcher. They lifted the Wolf boy onto the leather and rushed him away. I tried to get up so I could stagger after them.

‘No! You do not follow my son. Harlot!’ Skelkra’s mother slapped me across the face, and a Bear woman restrained her. Heat rushed to the imprint of her hand on my face.

‘I didn’t mean…’ I started, but my throat was dry and hoarse. Hardly a whisper came out. Still, I managed to stand before tipping over. Jeykal appeared, catching me mid-fall, and helped me limp to Skelkra’s family residence.

At the hut, I could hear sobbing and wailing coming from inside. When we entered, I saw blood on the bed beside Skelkra’s body. His breath came in laboured bursts, and as I feared, I’d punctured his lung. Another part of me felt relief that his death might come as an accident. Well, almost an accident. Weak or not, at least Jeykal would be a benevolent ruler.

Father entered and stood beside us. Outside, the town had gathered, and snow fell heavily. I wondered what everyone thought. Was I Klawdia the killer, or Klawdia the really bad throw? They probably thought I’d planned the whole thing. I knew that Jeykal should detach himself from me. We should no longer be friends, as my presence in his life would bring distrust to his position as chieftain. They probably suspected us of being lovers.

Father touched my shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re alive.’

Surprised by his words, I couldn’t even form a reply in my head. Father moved to Skelkra’s bed. I’d disappointed him. I’d disappointed everyone. The thrill of the fight swiftly left my body and the pain grew unbearable.

‘Dragonclaw,’ I whispered to Jeykal.

He nodded and left. Minutes later, he returned and put the vial into my hands. I looked at the small bottle. I’d killed a man. I’d let the Watchers die. I uncorked the vial and put the glass to my lips, then groaned as I changed my mind. I deserved to be in pain. I threw the bottle aside and it clinked against the hardwood floor.

Jeykal grabbed me. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’

I stared at him blankly, no fight left in me. He fetched the discarded vial and forced what little was left between my lips.

‘Swallow,’ he said in a stern voice.

I scowled, but obeyed.

‘Traitor,’ Skelkra’s mother hissed at Jeykal.

‘Do not speak of what you don’t know!’ he spat back.

‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth it, Jeykal.’

Feeling the animosity of Skelkra’s mother, Jeykal and I went outside. We stood at the base of a surrounding veranda. Angry voices rose within the hut. Father emerged with a hard expression. Feeling tired, I sat on the hut’s stairs. Every now and again, Jeykal went inside to inquire to the medicine woman on Skelkra’s condition.

Gevilka’s answer was always the same: ‘I don’t know.’

Jeykal tried to take me back to my own hut. He insisted that I had to rest. I had to eat. However, I merely shook my head. He left me there, and as I watched the sun crawl down the western sky, three riders on stunning white geldings trotted up to the stairs.

The two male riders wore black robes. The woman wore shimmering gold, and she pushed the hood back, revealing the red hair of a Ruxdorian. With the sun behind her, her body remained a silhouette. As she neared, I gasped. Her eyes were as golden as the sun.

With my hand I rubbed my face, trying to clear my head. Had I taken too much dragonclaw? Then I remembered the tales. She was a healer. When I was four, Ruxdor had been pulled into a war between North and South Senya. We had sent warriors to fight for the legendary Queens of North Senya. They occupied the city of Meligna. For some reason, the plague that had affected Senya had not affected the Ruxdorians in the same way. Father didn’t trust healers. He said they’d betrayed their own people, leaving their king to die. So what was she doing here?

‘Well met,’ she said with a slight accent. ‘You should get seen to.’ She nodded at my arms.

My mouth hung open as I stared into eyes the colour of flames. Her golden cloak draped over the plain wooden steps as she stepped into the hut. The conversations inside slowed upon her entrance, and then the dragonclaw took hold of my senses and my body hummed with elation. I lost track of time for a while. Someone shook me.

‘He lives,’ Father said, smiling.

‘So that means…?’

‘You got the last blow. You won the fight.’

‘But without the healer, he would have died.’

‘The rules are clear. ’ He gave me a forced smile and walked away.

Gevilka emerged from Skelkra’s hut. She glared back at the building, muttering under her breath. Then she noticed me. ‘Oh, child, come on, let’s get you fixed.’ She practically picked me up, and I was surprised at her strength. ‘You fought well. Forgive my angry words the other day. I always thought you a good fighter.’

I stared down at her. ‘I didn’t try to kill him, you know. He moved at the last moment. Not that anyone will believe me.’

‘I will.’ Jeykal appeared beside me, took my other arm, and helped Gevilka carry me home.

Inside my hut, the corners and sides blended into a hazy blur. For a moment, I wondered if the beautiful golden-eyed healer had fixed me too.

‘Is my mistress well?’ Corilksa asked.

‘She’s drugged. It’s none of your concern, though’ Gevilka said. She shook her head at me. ‘Too much dragonclaw in too little time.’

She treated the on my shoulder. My skin was numb except for the sensations of cold and hot, and everything seemed slow, as if I were underwater. When stitched the skin of my armpit I felt pain again. I clenched my jaw. Each suture reminded me of the time a prickle rat had embedded its spines in me.

Gevilka grabbed my face and turned it toward her. ‘Pay attention, dream girl. If you get a cut in the corner of your mouth, and you speak, the cut will reopen. Won’t it?’

I nodded slowly.

‘It’s the same with your arm. You must keep it still.’

‘She refused dragonclaw earlier. I had to make her take some,’ Jeykal said.

The medicine woman gave me a disapproving look. ‘Self-pity will not serve you well as our ruler. For that is who you will be.’

Then I realised I was upset that Skelkra had lived. Not because I had wanted him to die, but because I was to become chieftain. ‘I don’t want to lead. I wish Skelkra had died so Jeykal could lead.’

She laughed and regarded my friend. ‘She has a point, boy, you are skilled in nothing but archery.’ She turned to me again. ‘Klawdia, it has to be you. Accept your destiny.’

She opened a container, and a warm, putrid smell wafted out. My nausea returned. My mouth filled with saliva, and my stomach swirled.

I put a hand to my mouth and leaned away. ‘Close that.’

Gevilka frowned. ‘Why?’

‘It stinks. Take it away.’

‘I can’t smell anything,’ Jeykal said.

‘Smells like rotten meat. Take it outside!’

Jeykal and Gevilka looked at each other and then back to me. Gevilka passed Jeykal the container, and he took it away. I closed my eyes, trying to make the feeling of motion go away.

‘Did Skelkra hit your head?’ she asked me.

I thought back to the fight. ‘I don’t think so.’

Gevilka eyed Corilksa suspiciously. ‘Leave.’

The servant obeyed, and when she was gone, Gevilka grabbed one of my breasts.

‘Ouch,’ I said, pushing her hands away.

She yanked up my shirt and inspected my nipples.

Of course, Jeykal came back in at that very awkward moment. ‘Oh, er…’ He made a choking noise and started to leave again.

‘Come back here, boy. I’m done.’ Gevilka pulled down my shirt. ‘A child grows inside of you.’

Suddenly, the fog in my head cleared, and my thoughts raced. It’s Skelkra’s. The bleeding. The bleeding was from our bonding. The nausea is from the conception.

‘It’s only been seven days,’ I said.

‘When did you last bleed?’

‘Two weeks ago. I bled a little the next day…you know, after...’ I stopped and looked at Jeykal.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Klawdia, it’s all right. The two of you bonded, I get it. Stop worrying about my feelings.’

Gevilka grunted in agreement. ‘I’ll fetch an herb to make you miscarry. No one can know. You’—she pointed at Jeykal—‘don’t you utter this to a single soul.’

Jeykal’s expression hardened. ‘I won’t.’

Gevilka patted my hand, stood, and rushed from the hut. Skelkra’s child grew within me. I put a hand to my stomach, and it was as if the child inside knew I was planning to kill it, because I felt sick again and vomited on the floor in front of me.

Jeykal stifled a groan. ‘Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.’

I threw him a thankful look. He was pale again, and his shoulders were hunched and his movements lethargic. Jeykal fetched the bucket sitting next to a rack of weapons. He sprinkled lavender oil to mask the smell.

I lay down on my side and watched him work. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Jeykal fixed me a cup of water.

‘I have to end this, don’t I?’ I asked him.

Sad eyes regarded me. ‘If anyone knew…’ He trailed off and froze, looking into some potential, horrible future.

He closed his eyes, and I tried to consider what he thought. Killing a child, whether born or in the womb, was considered taboo. My people harboured strong feelings about life and death. Not to mention that conceiving without being bonded to a man rendered you a social outcast. I had won the right to rule, but the child who grew inside me would never be accepted. I’d be banished.

My hands shook, and I reached out to Jeykal, desperate for him to solve the problem. He stepped towards me, pulled me into a hug, and held me while I trembled.

‘It’s a child. Inside of me. It has hands and feet and—’

‘It’s too early in the conception. It hasn’t grown to have knowledge or to have arms and legs.’

I put my hand over my stomach, and suddenly I was flooded with a warmth and conviction so strong I could scarcely draw breath. My mind could only think one thing. Save your child. Had Skelkra put the child inside me on purpose? I snorted. That would be giving him too much credit. One thing seemed certain: I would have to leave Vilseek, and Skelkra would become the next chieftain.

‘Jeykal, I—’

Gevilka returned. She handed me four black pits. ‘Seeds to kill Skelkra’s seed. Take them only when you are ready.’ She brushed a tear from my face with wrinkled fingers. ‘You must take them.’

I hardly noticed her leave as my thoughts wrapped me up in possibilities, futures, and hardships. I grabbed Jeykal’s hand, and he squeezed back.

‘If you decide…’ He ran a hand through his hair and looked away. ‘Ugh.’ He struggled to continue. ‘I mean… if you give birth, I’ll help you. You know? Take care of it.’ He bit his lip.

My fingers intertwined with his. ‘I can’t ask you to do that. You’d be giving up your life. Who would rule your tribe?’

‘The child is innocent. It has no father. I would take that role… if you let me.’

I froze. Jeykal wanted to be a father. But that would mean… ‘I can’t bond with you, Jeykal.’

‘No, no. I mean… not yet, but… maybe in time.’

I shook my head. ‘I just don’t feel that way about you.’

His cheeks reddened, and he inhaled deeply. ‘Yet you felt that way about the monster who almost killed you.’

Why was he trying to make me feel ashamed? I knew my feelings were unreasonable, stupid, and untrustworthy. I would never trust them again. The love I’d felt had been a lie.

Jeykal put his hands to his face. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my place to judge you.’

I played with the black seeds in my palm. I only had to swallow them, and it would be done.

Skelkra would answer to me and only me. Once it came time for me to take Father’s place as chieftain, I would strip Skelkra of his title as leader of the Wolves. Father would die a happy man, knowing the Bears were still in power.

Then I considered the unborn child, full of love and purity, a life ready to be lived. A person still unnamed. A girl like me, like Mother, or a boy like Father—or Skelkra. No, I wouldn’t let him be like either of them. From a young age, I’d teach him right from wrong. He’d be kind, loyal, and compassionate. I could make sure of that.

‘I want to be alone,’ I said.

Jeykal sighed and said, ‘Seek me out if you need me.’ His movements were slow as he rose and moved away.

I leaned forward and hooked a finger in the top of his pants. He turned around.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

He threw me an awkward smile. ‘Anytime. You’d do the same for me if I was with child. I know it.’

I smiled and later realised that Jeykal was the sort of person I’d want my daughter to bond to, and for my son to become.

Chapter X

EVERY PASSING MOMENT SAW MY mind curl in on itself as I became more and more torn between my child’s life and my position as chieftain of Ruxdor. With Skelkra as leader, Ruxdor would be taken in new directions—harmful and cruel directions that would put us in the line of war. Should we invade Senya and take hold of their lands? The leaders had argued over that question for a century. Since the Death Plague, there had never been a better time to strike.

Father had never liked the idea. Despite his volatile nature, his views on war were unwavering. We should not attack those whom we could align with. The Bears had always wanted peace, while the Wolves wanted land and war. Invading Senya seemed logical. Senya had five months when snow did not fall. Ruxdor had only three. Their pastures were fertile and their mountains filled with useful rock and stone. The Queens of North Senya had finally agreed to trade with us last year, allowing us to flourish. Already we struggled to feed the masses, and one day we’d be forced to give the Queens everything they wanted.

The Queens had never been shy about desiring our warriors, our fighters, our men. Thousands of years had seen our people perfect their use of the sword, bow, and dagger. The Queens had taken one city, and now they wanted more—not Vilseek, but Juxon City in South Senya. Obviously, Skelkra would try to form a strong alliance with the Queens, and we would lose our traditions, our rituals, and saddest of all, our identity.

However, if I ruled, I would form an alliance with the South Senyans. I would bypass the Queens, visit King Erageo, and help him take back Meligna, for the city rightfully belonged to him. The Queens had stolen it from him, and we, at the time, had helped them.

If I allowed my love for my unborn child to flourish I would have to leave Vilseek. He or she would germinate, grow, and thrive within my warm belly and worship the beating of my heart, and my people would be disgusted at its presence. Thinking about it brought back feelings towards Skelkra. Whispers of attachment plagued me, and my adoration for Skelkra grew with ridiculous intensity. We’d created a life together.

I shook my head.

Stupid, sentimental girl.

I shifted my legs to the side of my bed and cringed at the pain; my entire body ached from the fight. In the scuffle, I had cut my hands and bruised my knees and elbows. I wanted more dragonclaw, but knew the substance would pollute my mind. I needed my wits. My child needed me to be alert. A haunting feeling spread through my mind and ran the length of my body, causing my skin to tighten. My wounds pulsed. Thoughts taunted me. I was losing my mind.

I punched a wall.

My knuckles reddened and tiny cuts leaked blood. The black seeds that sat upon my bedside table called to me. I moved towards them with small steps. I crouched, took one in my hand, and considered its power. In one swallow, all further torment would slip away. I shook my head and paced to the entranceway.

The morning illuminated patches of snow that had settled on rooftops. People went about their business as usual, as if they’d completely forgotten the fight, the Bestial Passage, and the loss of Vilseek’s wisest men and women. How I envied them; they never had to carry the weight I did. A cool breeze caressed my skin as I headed for Skelkra’s hut. People smiled and clapped at me while passing by—some even bowed their heads, confirming their acceptance that I would rule after Father died. Their lack of contempt made me reconsider taking the seeds in my hut. Finally, they had accepted me, and I could rule without further question.

As I neared the stairs to Skelkra’s dwelling, my father came up beside me and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave him alone.’ Bags formed under Father’s wrinkled eyes. His hair was a mess and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘Is he well?’ I asked.

Father pursed his lips. ‘Too well.’

‘Then I will see him.’

The chieftain let me go and I shuffled up the ramp awkwardly, for my knees would not bend. I pushed aside the leathers etched with the marks of his tribe and entered. Sitting at his bedside was his mother. She jumped to her feet and clenched her fists.

‘You are not welcome here.’ She looked at Skelkra’s sword leaning against his bed.

I wanted her to take it and thrust it into me. Come on, end my pain. Instead, she came to me and raised her hand to my face—I didn’t move—and then stopped. In that moment, I saw the wolf inside of her, snarling, claws grasping at the floor, ready to rip me apart.

‘Let her in, Mother,’ Skelkra said with a stern tone.

When my eyes went to his, I couldn’t hide my shock. He sat shirtless on his bed, legs crossed, not a scratch or bruise on him. In fact, he’d never looked healthier, and he even seemed… I shook my head. No, it couldn’t be possible. He looked younger.

‘It’s true.’ I gaped at the improvement.

‘Indeed. The healers are gifted with magic… as you can see.’ He brought his arms up, and for a moment, I saw innocent joy in his eyes, and it reminded me of when we’d hunted together. Then I remembered how he’d stomped on my arm and killed the Watchers. I hardened my expression.

‘Make this heartless Bear leave,’ his mother said to him, and then I understood her perfectly. A good mother protected her child and would never give up on him, even when he chose to do evil. I traced a fingernail across my stomach.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded her.

She obeyed, her eyes ice-cold as she passed me.

‘Here to finish the job, then?’ He smiled as if we’d never fought, as if he’d never broken my heart. He didn’t care. ‘I doubt you’d even get a punch in. I’ve never felt better or stronger. You, on the other hand, look terrible.’ He chuckled.

My clothes were filthy, and I’d tracked mud into the hut. Feet shuffled behind me, and I peered over my shoulder to see Wolf guards enter. Skelkra raised his hands, and they stopped and leaned against a wall.

‘I never cheated.’ My tone was shrill and bitter, like a disgruntled lover. Shame prickled at my neck when I realised that was exactly what I was.

‘Your one weakness. And strength.’ He got out of bed, picked up a flask from a shelf, and drank from it. He came closer and offered the refreshments to me, but I declined. He furrowed his brow. Social convention declared it an insult to refuse a drink from a host.

‘So, you’re here to check up on my health. How sweet. I’m lucky you have such depth of feeling for my well-being. Even after everything we’ve been through. That’s the mark of a good couple, you know. We could be together for life. Oh, but wait, we already bonded. I’m not interested any more. My apologies.’

My teeth ground together. I considered re-inflicting his injuries. Then it occurred to me that I’d won. Skelkra was using my feelings against me, but in truth, he felt shame over losing the fight to a girl. Laughter burst from my mouth, and I muffled the noise with my hand.

He took a step back, clearly caught off guard by my laughter. He tapped his foot, waiting for me to speak, but I couldn’t stop chuckling until I forced the amusement from my mind. I’d beaten him, and nothing he could say or do would change that.

‘Did you ever care for me?’ I asked.

He sniffed. ‘Sure I did. You’re a good fighter, a sturdy girl and, most importantly, the heir of the Bears. How could I not want you?’

For the first time since Gevilka had told me I was with child, I considered telling him about his offspring. ‘That isn’t caring. That’s hunting. I am not prey.’

He put down his wine flask and took two steps towards me, slowly and cautiously, like a predator. My body urged me to move into a fighting stance, but I suppressed the feeling and waited patiently.

He took another step forward, closing the gap between us. ‘I have failed in my hunt. I did not kill you. So I will let you go, for now.’

I could feel his breath on my face, and I stared up at him defiantly, but my body tingled with excitement because I thought he might touch me or try to kiss me. Would I let him? In all ways except for ritual, we were bonded from a moment of ecstasy and passion and purity that we would never experience again, at least not with each other. I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent, the warmth emanating from his skin. I remembered his lips on mine.

I snapped open my eyes, and he had stretched out his fingers to the point of almost touching my face. With my left hand, I grabbed his wrist and twisted, the stiches in my arm tearing a little.

‘You will never touch me again.’ Turning on my heel, I exited the hut, but outside I stopped, turned back around and stormed back inside. ‘And if I were you, I’d start focusing on my farming skills.’

His lip curled, and he smacked the wine glass across the room. ‘Get out!’

I left, feeling more powerful than ever.

Corilksa insisted on keeping me company when I returned to my hut, but as usual, I sent the timid woman away. She constantly fidgeted with her long, spider-like fingers, and her fussing irritated me. Besides, I didn’t agree with keeping slaves. Once in power, Father had introduced that law, and I’d always resented him for it. Strangely, Corilksa often seemed insulted or fearful when I didn’t need or want her help. I believed she thought I was displeased with her service, that she’d failed me, or that I would sell her to someone else.

Alone in my hut, I placed the seeds in my hand with the intention of consuming them. Tears rolled down my cheeks at the thought of my child dying inside of me, but I had to take them.

I have to!

I brought my hand to my mouth and pulled it away again, then stamped the floor with my foot.

‘Do it!’ I screamed. I picked them up again and put them in my mouth. They tasted bitter and burned my tongue. I spat them across the room, and they disappeared in the cracks of the floor and under furniture. I rushed to a hand basin with fresh water and scooped the liquid into my mouth, rinsing out the taste.

Trembling from head to toe, hurried thoughts flooded my head. Then I knew what I had to do. I went to my doorway. I saw a warrior and made him bring me Jeykal. I went back inside and waited.

Jeykal flew through my entryway and scooped my hands up in his. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Calm down,’ I said, and glanced over his shoulder to check that no one listened. ‘I’m going to tell Father.’

His features twisted. ‘About…?’ He looked at my stomach, and I nodded. ‘Madness. He’ll kill it. He’ll kill you!’ He reached out and slid his fingertips under my shirt and over my abdomen. The sensation made me shudder, but it wasn’t lust or desire; it was reassurance. Soon, a bump would form where he touched, and a month from now, maybe two, my secret joy would be impossible to hide.

‘I have to. I can’t let Skelkra rule. And I want this child.’

‘It’s impossible, Klawdia.’ He put a hand to my face, but I pushed it away.

‘Don’t try to talk me out of this. I have to do the right thing. Will you fetch him for me?’

Jeykal rubbed his face and hair and paced the room. ‘If you’re sure about this, then we must prepare for his response.’

‘You can’t know what he’ll say.’

Jeykal bit his lip. ‘If you’re going to continue being rebellious, then you need to prepare for the consequences. Pack a bag full of anything you need to survive. And I mean survive in the mountains, for if your father desires you dead, then the only refuge you’ll find is in the Death Peaks.’

‘Jeykal—’

He held up his hand. ‘Just do it for me.’

I regarded him for a moment. He’d never spoken to me with any sort of authority before.

‘Now!’ he urged.

I found a knapsack and stuffed it with clothes, medicines, thread, a mallet, a chisel, a flint, a water sack, and other items I might need.

Jeykal tapped his finger on his temple. ‘Your father will respond one of four ways. One, he’ll accept your baby and hide it from the city somehow. It will live, and you’ll rule. Two, he’ll force the other leaders to accept the child as legitimate, and you’ll still become leader. Three, you’ll be able to keep the baby but not lead, not even your own tribe, you’ll have to leave the city. Four—which seems the most likely—he’ll force you to kill it. Or he’ll kill you.’

I stopped packing to stare at him. Would Father really try to kill my child? He could be cruel, I knew that, but murder? Or even murder me? It disturbed me more that I couldn’t even answer that question. ‘That’s five,’ I said.

Jeykal frowned at me. ‘The last two count as one. For I believe that if he kills your child, a part of you will die with it. Either way, it’s a bad outcome.’

He was right. Losing my child would be like losing my soul, and I would never forgive Father. In fact, I might even want vengeance.

I unhooked my dagger from the back of my pants and stared at the clean blade. ‘What if I killed Father?’

‘Even if I thought you could, no one would follow you after that.’

‘Never in cold blood, but sometimes Father can be…’

‘I know.’ Jeykal looked at the floor. ‘I’ve known you a long time. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s hurt you.’

We both jumped when the chieftain of Ruxdor threw open my door. He stared at me, and my heart drummed in my chest. I felt exposed, as though he could hear my thoughts. Jeykal looked like a startled deer; he’d never been very good at hiding his feelings. At that moment, I wanted to punch him for it.

Father loomed over me. ‘You will tell me what I’ve interrupted here.’ He looked back at the trembling Jeykal. The chieftain of Ruxdor’s face grew red and dark, and his eyes flicked back to the knife clutched in my hand.

Chapter XI

I BOWED MY HEAD. ‘FATHER, you’ve not interrupted—’

‘I came to tell you of the initiation ceremony that will happen under the light of the next full moon.’ Father took the dagger from my hand and placed it on the table. He stared hard at Jeykal, and then at me, a question on his face. The fierce storm of rage brewed inside of him; he didn’t like to be trifled with.

I swallowed. ‘Father…’

‘Yes?’ He crossed his arms. Somehow he knew what I was going to say would displease him.

Jeykal moved towards my weapons rack. What was he thinking? I glared at him and then quickly put on a fake smile for Father.

‘I…’ I struggled to get the words out. I feared his anger, but not for my own sake. I feared for my child’s life. ‘I’m with seed and I won’t give it up and—’ I halted the flow of words, waiting for their impact.

Realisation hardened Father’s features. ‘Then I will fetch Gevilka, and she will end the conception.’ His movements were stiff as he uncrossed his arms and turned to leave.

I glanced at Jeykal. He’d moved even closer to the weapons rack, obviously knowing as well as I did that this would end badly.

‘No, Father. This baby will live.’ I put my hand to my stomach. ‘If you force me, Jeykal will tell the tribal leaders that you ordered me to abandon it.

The greatest man in Ruxdor froze, straightened, and turned around. ‘How can you expect to lead with Skelkra’s child? You must bond with him.’

‘Never.’

Father stepped towards me, fingers curling into a fist. A warning spread through my body at the coming violence. ‘Why have you done this to me? Why?’ he shouted.

From the corner of my eye, Jeykal move his hand to an axe.

Father’s question required no answer. He saw my child as a personal attack on him. ‘I would never hurt you,’ I said, a tear sliding down my cheek.

‘Yet here we are again.’ He talked of the pain of losing my mother. His life mate. His everything. I had destroyed his every happiness and brought him no joy through my existence. My birth had ended her life, and blackened his soul.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my face soaked with tears now.

Father grabbed my shoulders. ‘No son or daughter will be born out of bondage to another. Understand?’

I pushed his hands away, shaking my head.

Father breathed out, his face flushed. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. ‘You disobey me?’

‘Yes,’ I said defying him openly for the first time in my life. The words that came next felt true and honest. ‘I renounce you as my chieftain.’

Father lunged at me, grabbed me by my hair, and pushed my face to the floor. He squeezed my broken arm. Instead of crying out, I focused on the smell of the dry dust and oak that irritated my nostrils. When I didn’t cry out, he hauled me back to my feet, squeezed my neck, and pushed me towards the door.

‘People will see us,’ I cried.

But Father was in a rage so fierce he could produce no words, let alone hear. He slammed me against the wall beside the entranceway. My cheek hit the wall, and then he pulled me back again.

Then, Jeykal’s arms were around his neck from behind. Father staggered backwards, ripping a clump of hair from my head, but I was free. Father snatched a broom handle and swung it at my friend’s head.

‘Jeykal! No! Father!’ I cried at them both, but they ignored me.

Jeykal ducked and darted.

‘Go, Klawdia!’ Jeykal yelled, nodding towards the knapsack I’d packed.

I shook my head, terrified that Father would kill him.

‘Go!’ he cried again, and he snatched an axe from my rack, facing the chieftain.

‘Don’t kill him,’ I said to them both. I picked up my knapsack, strung a bow across my body, and fled my home with no hope of return.

The Story Continues In… Refuge (Book #2 of the Klawdia Series)

Afterword

Bestselling author Kylie J. Colt writes epic fantasy with a psychological twist. By threading common psychological pathologies such as depression into her story lines, she creates deeper, more realistic characters.

Located on the sunny Gold Coast of Australia, she has been writing for three years. Her favourite writers are Kristin Cashore, Robin Hobb, Trudi Canavan and Maria V. Snyder. She has an honours degree in psychology and counselling, enjoys road trips, gaming (Skyrim / Civilisation / Assassin's Creed / Bioshock / Banished), music festivals (electronica), playing pool, meditation, yoga, bushwalking, and gobbles up anything fantasy-related. Her favourite shows include Game of Thrones, Homeland, Dark Mirror, Downton Abbey, X-Files, House of Cards, Hannibal, Trueblood, IT Crowd and anything created by Hayao Miyazaki.

You can sign up for her newsletter to receive news about new releases and giveaways. KJ Colt Newsletter Sign-Up

Or, alternatively, visit her website at: KJ Colt Fantasy Fiction Website

Or Join her Guild on Facebook: The Guild

K. J. Colt Books

The Klawdia Series

Bear Heart, Book #1 (Released)

Refuge, Book #2 (Released)

Savage, Book #3 (Coming 2015)

Book #4 (Coming 2015)

There will be 8 books in this series.

The Healers of Meligna Series.

Concealed Power (The Healers of Meligna, Book #1) Released. (FREE EVERYWHERE)

Blood Healing (The Healers of Meligna, Book #2) Released.

Blood Sacrifice (The Healers of Meligna, Book #3) Released.

Forsaken Power (The Healers of Meligna, Book #4) Coming this month!

Unnamed (The Healers of Meligna, Book #5) Coming November, 2016! Concluding Book.

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POISON - A FATE’S FORSAKEN PREQUEL

Shae Ford

Chapter I

Olivia

A BLACK VEIL CLOAKED THE Grandforest. It hung from the under edges of the trees and draped thickly over the bare earthen bottom of the woods.

Swears hissed through the undergrowth as the pines creaked furiously overhead. A company of soldiers stood back-to-back in a blackened grove. There were delicate blue shields embroidered upon the tops of their sleeves; their blue eyes flicked worriedly through the slits in their iron helmets.

The darkness warred fiercely with the light cast from soldiers’ torches. It pressed firmly against the outskirts of the glow, snapped into the gaps left by the sputtering flames — the night taunted them with whispered moans.

Moments ago, the whole forest had been rife with screams and the clang of steel. The blood that clung to the soldiers’ tunics had been warm — it’d glistened in the torchlight. But now the gore was dried. The bright red that’d once stained their swords had wilted into the deepest black.

The battle was over.

A thick man marched into the middle of the huddled clump of soldiers, startling them to attention. “We’ve fought them off, lads — but there’s work to be done!” he bellowed in a rumbling voice. “Bury the dead, heal the wounded. Move anyone who’s been numbed out of harm’s way. Step to it!”

“Yes, Lord Basset!”

His command seemed to jolt the soldiers from their fear: they sheathed their bloodied swords and began to move through the bodies that were scattered across the grove.

Most of them were the mangled corpses of small, dark-skinned people with bones adorning their flesh. They wore animal hides for clothing. Some had human skulls hanging from cords around their necks. Their makeshift camp had been so carefully woven into the undergrowth that it was hardly visible: the soldiers had to venture deep into the shelters in order to cast the shadows from their maws.

They piled the dark-skinned corpses in the middle of camp, tossing them away as they found them. Some of the bodies were those of the soldiers’ companions — and they were set aside to be buried.

But a good number of the soldiers who appeared to be dead actually weren’t. They lay still as corpses, their chests and throats peppered with tiny, colored darts. Their eyes twitched to follow their companions, but they seemed unable to move or speak.

Basset crouched before one of the younger men and smiled hard at the panic in his eyes. “It’s just a bit of bandit poison, lad — nothing to worry about. You’ll be back on your feet by midday tomorrow.”

A wild laugh drew Basset’s eyes away from the young soldier and to the edge of the grove, where the mouth of a large lake glittered in the starlight.

The shadowed figure of a man stood out against the water. He was tall and slender; the light from the torch in his hand revealed the sides of his hair to be tinged with gray. Though his head was turned half away, a hardened corner of his mouth was just visible as he stared at the thing clutched in his other hand.

It was a bandit woman. She dangled from the man’s hand by her throat. Her legs kicked uselessly; her fingernails scraped across his wrist in a panic. But though a dark stream oozed from his gashes, he didn’t let go.

Basset winced at the sound of crunching bone and frowned as the woman’s body went still. The man tossed her corpse into the undergrowth as if she weighed no more than an empty sack. Then he turned to hold his torch over the bushes, revealing a full half of his smile.

“I think I’ve found something that might interest you, Basset,” he called.

“What is it, Chancellor Tristan?” Basset said as he approached.

Tristan didn’t reply. He nodded into the bushes, the full power of his wicked grin fixed very firmly upon something that crouched inside.

It was a little girl.

She was perhaps no older than eight, with skin that was sun-scored but not nearly as dark as the bandits’. There were leaves tangled amongst her curls — curls that flowed in messy waves of gold and brown. Her dress was made of animal skins and delicate bone hooks adorned her ears.

Basset leaned closer, but she kept her face buried very deeply in her arms. Her knees were pulled tight against her chest. There was a small bunch of flowers clutched in one of her tiny hands.

Though she stayed remarkably still, faint gasps emanated from the crooks of her arms. Lines creased Basset’s face at the noise of her sobbing; his thick hands balled into fists. “What is she, chancellor?”

“I got a good look at her eyes a moment ago. I think she may be one of ours,” Tristan said smoothly. He thrust his torch in a sputtering arc over the bushes, but the little girl never flinched. “And I thought, as Lady Basset was so distraught over not being able to have children, you might want to take her in. If not, we’ll simply burn her alongside the others — nobody would be able to tell the difference once they’re all charred. It’s not as if the seas needs another orphan —”

“I’ll take her,” Basset said firmly.

Tristan shrugged. “Very well. See to it that she stays out of trouble, will you?”

“Yes, chancellor.”

It was only after Tristan strode out of earshot that Basset turned back to the little girl. He dropped on his knees before her, tried to bring his face in close. After a moment, he reached out and rested one of his thick hands atop her head.

Her crying stopped immediately.

“What’s your name, child?” he whispered.

Slowly, her head came up. Her face was filthy, coated with grime from the woods. The tracks left by her tears showed clearly through the dirt. Her eyes were bloodshot and still wet from her sorrow. But though the whites burned red, the blues at their middle were as cold and furious as ice.

“Olivia,” she said, in a voice that held no trace of her tears. “My name is Olivia.”

Chapter II

The Poison

“GAH! FATE, IT’S HEAVY,” CARLTON swore.

Olivia watched as the old stablehand struggled to lift the man-sized sack across his shoulders, her fists clenched tightly. Carlton’s bumbling annoyed her to no end. She would’ve liked nothing better than to knock him aside and do it herself, but she shouldn’t have to. This work should’ve been simple enough for a stablehand.

Then again, perhaps that was giving Carlton too much credit.

“Quit trying to lift with your arms. Put your legs under it,” she hissed.

Carlton shifted beneath the sack. A fresh string of curses slid from between his teeth as he struggled to heft it over the cart’s lip. Just when it looked as if he might actually get the top half inside, the sack’s contents shifted.

The whole thing tipped over his shoulder and landed with a fleshy thud upon the ground.

“Of all the confounded, tidal — ow!” Carlton leapt back when Olivia slapped him hard across the stubble. His dim blue eyes widened at her glare. “I’m — I’m trying, m’lady. Honest, I am!”

“Try harder,” Olivia hissed, “or I’ll tell His Lordship what happened to the old stables.”

A red mark bloomed where she’d struck him, but the rest of Carlton’s skin turned a ghostly pale. He stumbled under the force of her gaze, muttering something that was a mix of apologies and curses as he went.

It was a secret she’d been holding rather closely over Carlton’s head for several long years. The old stablehand was a drunkard. He hid it well — guzzling a few bottles here or there on nights when he knew his services wouldn’t be needed. But on one particularly stormy evening, and after a couple of rounds of Lord Basset’s finest liquors, Carlton had accidentally knocked one of the stable’s lanterns off its hook.

The flames had spread quickly across the hay and devoured the weatherworn doors. They’d climbed to the straw roof and ate until the beams collapsed — crushing all of Lord Basset’s prized steeds beneath a mound of blazing rubble.

Carlton had managed to escape, of course. The reek of burnt flesh had cloaked the stench of liquor; the fumes from the smoke had been the perfect explanation for his bloodshot eyes. When he claimed that a bolt of lightning had caused the fire, Lord Basset believed him … but Olivia had known the truth.

She’d seen the whole thing. And rather than try to staunch the flames, she’d seized the opportunity to gain a loyal servant. She would never tell Lord Basset the truth about what had become of the old stables — provided Carlton shut his mouth and did exactly as she said.

Years had passed since the stables burned. Olivia was no longer a child, but a young woman of eighteen. Now as she paced inside the new stables, she met the rolling eyes of Lord Basset’s replacement beasts.

Their hot breath blasted from their nostrils; their manes whipped across their muscled necks as they backed into the depths of their stalls. Carlton might not have known what was inside the sack … but the horses certainly did.

“Hurry up,” she snapped.

Carlton was stooped beneath the sack once more. He seemed to be pushing with everything — even his neck. His grunts became muffled as he shoved his face against it, no doubt trying to add the strength of his squashed nose to the effort.

If Olivia had to watch him struggle for another moment, she would shove him aside. Instead, she paced to the stable door and glared up the road.

Lord Basset ruled over Greenblood — a large island to the south and west of the chancellor’s castle, ringed by a number of smaller island villages. His ports were a useful waypoint between Whitebone Desert and the High Seas: the narrow, dangerous tracks of ocean that ran between the islands made for the perfect defense against pirates. The chancellor’s gold-laden vessels would often rest in the safety of Greenblood while Lord Basset scattered their wealth among a few smaller, less-assuming ships.

Basset Manor lay perhaps half a mile beyond the stables, perched upon a slight hill. Each of its three stories was lit up, every window glowing yellow. Their guests weren’t allowed in half of the rooms, but Lord Basset still insisted that the hearths be lit.

Black outlines of a crowd of people moved all along the lower level, their bodies twirling to the song of a violin. Lord Basset had once told her that the people of the High Seas loved to dance nearly as much as they loved to bargain — though as Olivia grew, she came to understand that it was actually the deception they enjoyed.

A bargain and a dance were alike in their lies: both made promises that neither had the power to fulfill. No two people ever walked away completely satisfied by a bargain anymore than they did a dance. Instead, they left hungry and sore — ravished by their losses as much as un-sated desire.

Though sometimes a dance ended in something far worse than a compromise. Sometimes, what little shred of satisfaction there was to be gained was entirely one-sided.

Olivia shifted her weight and winced as her muscles pulled against a sore place on her rump. Why did men have to be such grasping, fumbling idiots? Did they truly think it was a clever thing, using the dance to distract from where their hands traveled?

Her last partner had actually the audacity to ask her to wed him — all while keeping a very firm grip on her backside. But instead of ordering him to stop, she’d donned her mask: the cool smile she forced herself to wear as men made their clumsy advances, the arch of her neck that encouraged their eyes to rove.

She’d found that men were much easier to deal with when they were … distracted.

“It’s — it’s too heavy, m’lady!” Carlton grunted, his knobby legs trembling beneath the sack. “My back’s all but given out —”

“Lift it in there, or I swear by Fate that I’ll see you hanged,” Olivia snarled. “When the last of the life’s been squeezed out of you, I’ll have Lord Basset string your carcass up for the crows to feast on, you worthless …”

The crunch of footsteps behind her sent Olivia whirling back to the door. She strode out as if she had her mind on other things and walked straight into the shadowy figure that’d been heading for the stables.

“Lord Basset! Oh, you startled me,” she gasped as he caught her by the elbows.

Lord Basset kept his beard combed and curled on either side of his nose, bent like a tabby’s whiskers. He also had hands like a bear — and he propped her up easily. “Steady on, my darling,” he chortled as he righted her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you — but you’ve begun to be missed. The other lords keep asking where my ward’s run off to. I’m not sure I can hold them back much longer.”

She’d known she would only have a few minutes to herself before Lord Basset came after her. He hardly ever let her out of his sight, and had only grown more protective since she’d come of age. Now he followed her like a blasted shadow everywhere she went, doting upon her to the point of near-suffocation.

But though she wanted nothing more than to scream at him to leave her be, Olivia forced herself to be calm. She wound a hand carefully through her curls, smiling to keep her nerves from showing through.

She could hear Carlton grunting faintly from inside the stables.

“You know how the heat gets to me, my lord — especially in these heavy dresses. I just stepped out for a bit of air. One more turn,” she pleaded, when Lord Basset raised his thick brows, “and I’ll come straight back.”

He smiled helplessly under her look. “Oh, very w —”

Thunk.

Olivia swore under her breath as Lord Basset darted by to glare into the stables.

“Carlton? What in Kingdom’s name have you got in that sack?”

“Ah … uh … oh, it’s just a batch of that leather you wanted sent down to the village, m’lord. I thought it’d be easier to haul it in a sack than to have it bouncing loose, what with the wind picking up and all. But having it bunched in one place makes it awfully heavy.”

“Get one of the lads to help you with the lifting, then,” Lord Basset said with a frown.

“Aye, m’lord.”

Lord Basset spun from the stall, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. He’d gone a few steps past Olivia before he suddenly turned back. “You haven’t seen Horton anywhere around here, have you?”

“Lord Horton? No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, I only ask because one of the ladies mentioned seeing you leave together after your dance.”

Olivia inclined her head. “He escorted me out, my lord — he was eager to return to his ship, I think. Once I’d shown him the way, he left me to my walk.”

Lord Basset nodded slowly. “Yes, I imagine it was all quite a shock for him, being ashore after so many years of hiding out at sea. I’ll let Tristan know. He’s asked for your next dance, by the way. You ought to be honored,” Lord Basset added with a smile. “Tristan doesn’t dance often.”

And when he does, it’s because he means to torture me, Olivia thought as she watched Lord Basset stride away. The moment he was out of earshot, she charged back into the stables. “What could you have possibly been thinking, you stupid, worthless —?”

“It moved, m’lady!” Carlton gasped, stumbling backwards. “I wouldn’t have dropped it — honest, I wouldn’t! But it … it moved …”

All the skin beneath his stubble went white as the crest of a wave as Olivia stomped over to the sack. It had indeed begun to move … and groan. She muttered a string of curses under her breath as she untied the sack’s top.

A man’s paralyzed face stared up at her. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung slack. His chest rose slowly as his lungs filled with air. There were little white blisters all across his tongue and along the inside edges of his ears. His pleas slid past his swollen, too-red lips in an unintelligible moan.

But he was still in far better shape than the fellow before him.

That last time, she’d mixed her numbing compound with the spores of gnarl roots: a mold that grew in the damp caves of Greenblood. She’d tested it on some merchant in Harborville — Edwards, if she remembered correctly. The real challenge had been in convincing him to have a drink of the tainted liquor. After that, she’d thought the rest would be a simple matter of observing how the spores affected his lungs.

Unfortunately, they never made it down that far. The spores swelled inside his throat until they burst from his skin. And before Olivia had been able to get a decent look, his corpse had toppled out an opened window and into the churning waves below.

By the time Edwards washed ashore, there was very little left of him — otherwise, somebody might’ve questioned the colony of mushrooms that sprouted from his gullet.

This time, Olivia had mixed her compound with the sap of a poisonous ivy, and it seemed to be working rather well. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw the many little festering bumps that dotted her latest victim’s face. The blisters seemed to have risen only across the most sensitive areas of his skin, but it was a start.

“Lord Horton?” Carlton whispered, gaping down at the paralyzed man. The skin beneath his stubble went even paler. “But m — m’lady, you can’t start nabbing the lords. Someone’s bound to notice —”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do, stablehand,” Olivia snapped. Then she crouched to study her work.

It hadn’t been easy to convince Horton to come ashore. He rather famously kept to his ship, and hadn’t set foot on land for as long as anybody could remember. But Olivia’s powers were far greater than the resolve of any man.

A smile, touch, a few carefully-worded hints, and Horton had followed her helplessly to the ball. In a matter of a few dances, he was already begging her to wed him. She’d offered him a drink while she considered his proposal, watched impatiently as he’d downed the goblet’s brew …

Then she’d asked him if he’d be interested in seeing the new stables.

“Give me your coat, Carlton.”

“Are you cold, m’lady?” he said as he stripped the garment off his back.

She draped it over her shoulders and did the buttons up tightly. “No, I’m not cold — I simply don’t want to stain my dress. Now hold his mouth shut.”

Horton’s eyes widened as she knelt beside him. He moaned against Carlton’s fingers, pleading for his life. But Olivia couldn’t hear him.

Something terrible and powerful rushed through her veins. It made all of the little vessels pull away from her skin and hang, trembling like their own creature beneath her flesh. Blood hissed inside her ears as she drew a small dagger from beneath the collar of her gown.

It was a wonder beyond excitement, more intoxicating than drink — a savagery she couldn’t control. There was a part of her spirit that would not be bound, a woman who loved the taste of blood … and who turned even the most monstrous of things into a dark, anguished thrill.

She called it The Poison.

“Try not to fret, Lord Horton. I promise I’ll make this quick.” Olivia braced her dagger against the ridges of his throat, bared her teeth against The Poison’s groan. “Oh, and about your proposal … I’m afraid my answer is no.”

Chapter III

Punishment

“YOU DID IT YOURSELF, DIDN’T you?” Tristan muttered as they spun about the room. He braced Olivia against his chest and turned slowly, moving along the patient strokes of the violin. “You know how I hate it when you use your dagger.”

“I had no choice. He was waking,” Olivia muttered.

Tristan’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “I’m severely disappointed in you … and you know how I hate feeling disappointed.”

She tried to keep her face smooth as he pinched the flesh on her waist. He ground it between his thumb and forefinger and twisted, drawing fire from her skin. Each time the pain climbed to the point of numbing, Tristan twisted again. The cold depths of his eyes warmed with dark amusement as he watched her mask give way to a grimace; he smiled as she grit her teeth.

But though he pushed her nearly to fainting, she never shed a tear. The first time he’d made her cry would be the last — and her determination burned more fiercely than her pain.

Tristan stopped a fingernail’s breadth of making her bleed. He was always careful not to leave a mark, and it wouldn’t do to have a bright red spot show up along the hem of her gown. “You take your punishments so well, Olivia.”

She glared over his shoulder as he pulled her in for a quick turn.

Tristan had been only twenty years of age when the free people’s council elected him to the position of chancellor — which made him the youngest in the history of the High Seas. He’d spent his years of office wading through the politics and grinding out the votes, putting as much of the seas under council control as possible. Now at nearly thrice Olivia’s age, Tristan was also the longest-ruling chancellor in the seas’ history — and he’d had precious little to show for it.

That is, until he discovered Olivia’s secret.

The Poison had lapped viciously at her memories over the years. It drove out all of the little things until she could only recall one: a single moment, a furious burst of tears that’d washed a little girl away — leaving a cold shell in her place.

She’d waited so long to have a chance at Tristan. She spent years trying to recreate the numbing poison using the plants she found in Greenblood, months testing it on a few unsuspecting servants. When it was finally ready, she’d begged Lord Basset to take her to his next council meeting at the chancellor’s fortress.

Then the moment she’d gotten him alone, she’d charged Tristan with a tainted dagger.

But it hadn’t worked. He was far too powerful — she remembered how he’d laughed, how his eyes had brightened, how he’d flexed his hands as he felt only the slightest twinge of numbness. He’d drove her to the ground with his heel. He’d pressed down viciously until her ribs nearly cracked beneath his boot. And he’d sworn that if she didn’t do exactly as he said, he would turn her over to the council to be hanged.

So Olivia had been forced to follow his instructions ever since: she convinced merchants who couldn’t be bought, killed lords no one else could reach. The council had swelled in its power over the last year … and all the while, Tristan was very careful to keep her trapped beneath his thumb.

Olivia lost track of her stomach as Tristan dipped her down. She felt weightless in his arms, as if her body was no more significant a burden than feathers. And perhaps to him, it wasn’t.

“Did you at least clean it up?”

She glared into his eyes. “Carlton dropped the body off the cliffs. I led the dogs to the stains — they’ll have it all licked clean by now.”

“Messy,” Tristan murmured as he pulled her up. “You ought to find yourself a more capable manservant.”

“If you don’t like the way I do things, then perhaps you ought to do them yourself. Or are you too worried about getting a little blood on your cuffs to try?”

Tristan smirked. They both knew very well what he was capable of. Though his hair might’ve grayed a bit at the edges, he still could’ve fought any man in Greenblood that night and won. For Tristan wasn’t at all what he seemed.

He was a whisperer: part of a race of men gifted with extraordinary powers of the mind. Olivia had seen whisperers called craftsmen who could build anything they imagined. There was a clan of craftsmen in Copperdock that made the finest ships in the seas — ships that didn’t bow to tempests or split against the rocks, vessels every bit as swift as the creatures that glided beneath the waves.

She’d heard of whisperers who could mend wounds using nothing more than their hands, but theirs was such a rare gift that King Banagher kept all the healing whisperers locked up inside the fortress of Midlan.

Tristan was the third sort of whisperer — the sort gifted in war … the sort that was nearly impossible to kill.

“We’re getting closer, Olivia — closer each day,” he said, clasping her hand above her shoulder. He pulled her through the crowd, cutting between the clumps of twirling people with such force and ease that at one point, Olivia’s feet left the ground. “Horton’s son is an idiot. It won’t be long before the council either owns his fleet, or it’s sunk to the bottom of the seas. Either way, we win.”

You win, Olivia thought.

Tristan wanted more power. He wanted to strip all of the fleets and trades out of the lords’ hands and place them in the council’s, to leave a larger mark on history — or whatever other nonsense men of a certain age began to worry over.

All Olivia wanted was the opportunity to test her formulas … and perhaps one day discover something that would drop Tristan to his knees.

At last, the dance ended and the ballroom broke into applause. When the musicians had bowed and resumed their seats, Lord Basset rose from his place at the head table — holding a rather frail woman against his arm.

The woman’s eyes trailed softly around the room, her lips bent in a smile that was every bit as frail as her limbs. She had a heavy fur shawl draped across her shoulders. Her thin fingers clutched it tightly to her chest as she nodded to the lords and merchants scattered about the room.

“I want to thank you all for joining our celebration this evening,” Lord Basset said, his voice rumbling over the crowd. “I know Greenblood Island is a far jog for some of you, but we do so appreciate the company of our dear friends. And as Lady Basset has been unable to travel these last few months,” he smiled down at the frail woman beside him, “she was ever so pleased when you all agreed to come to us. My wife and I have enjoyed twenty-five happy years together — here’s to twenty-five more.”

“To twenty-five more!” the revelers agreed. Those who had drinks in hand raised them high. The rest applauded heartily.

Olivia tried to use the distraction to slip away from Tristan.

He caught her around the arm without even glancing back. “I have another task for you, my pet.”

He drew a roll of parchment from his coat pocket, one no larger than Olivia’s smallest finger. She wanted to rip it out of his hand and tear it into pieces — not for what it said, but for how it was bound. Tristan had tied the parchment up with a bit of string, and wound that string into a rather tight bow.

The bow was a jest, a delicate thing bound against a deadly summons — a silent reminder that he owned her.

“I’ve spent the past few months in negotiations with a merchant from the Grandforest. He has a rather large caravan, and I’d very much like him to use the council’s ships to transport his goods — for a small fee, of course. But things aren’t going well,” Tristan said as he tucked the roll of parchment beneath the collar of her gown. He slid it past the dagger they both knew was there and securely between her breasts. “His name is Garron. Other merchants who’ve dealt with him call him the Shrewd — for good reason, unfortunately.”

“You can skip the details, chancellor,” Olivia said, keeping her voice steady even though Tristan’s hand lingered. “Since you haven’t been able to bully this Garron into one of your contracts, you want me to kill him so that his doddering wife or spoiled children can take over —”

“It’s his rather fat cook, actually.”

Olivia wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “His cook would inherit his business? That can’t be right.”

“I thought the same thing, so I had my informants check it twice. But I’m afraid it’s true. His mother and father have both perished, he has no siblings, no wife or children. Garron the Shrewd is one of the few people in the Kingdom who is truly, completely alone.” Tristan’s fingers trailed quickly from her collar to her chin. He smirked as he whispered: “Why don’t you go put him out of his misery, my pet? It would be the kinder thing.”

“Thank you, Olivia darling. I don’t think I could’ve made it up without your help.”

Lady Basset’s thin fingers dug uncomfortably into her arm, but Olivia hardly noticed: her mind was on darker things.

She helped Lady Basset up the steps and onto the second floor landing. Below them, the ball went on. Most of the revelers would keep dancing through the dawn, guzzling as much of Lord Basset’s rum as possible.

His liquors were the real reason the other lords and merchants had accepted his invitation to Greenblood: though he tried desperately to keep it hidden, it was no great secret that Lord Basset’s brews were among the finest in the seas.

They were bottled perfection — a sweet mix of Greenblood’s many colorful fruits made deadly through pressure and dark rest. Despite Tristan’s best attempts to buy them, Lord Basset refused to sell his rums, insisting he was merely a dabbler. So the only way the people of the seas could enjoy their flavors was as his guests.

Olivia had asked once to see how it was all done, and Lord Basset had been eager to show her … though she’d used the brewing methods she’d learned to an entirely different end.

Lady Basset leaned heavily against Olivia as they paused on the landing. Her chest heaved weakly. The breath that rattled from her lungs sounded like boot steps across a pebbly road. “Thank you … my … dear. Thank …”

“Save your breath, my lady. We’ve got another story to go.”

Lady Basset nodded, still gasping for air. After several long moments, she finally seemed to catch her breath. “Our chancellor has taken a liking to you. A mother notices these things,” she added with a slight smile.

You aren’t my mother, Olivia thought. But she forced herself to smile back. “Do you really think so?”

“Oh, yes. He dances with you the way Lord Basset used to dance with me. You’re a smart girl, Olivia. I know you see it,” she said, smiling again. Then she sighed up at the stairs. “Let’s climb this last bit, shall we?”

They were nearly at the chamber door when Lady Basset broke into a fit of coughs. Her hand shook as she hurriedly pressed her handkerchief over her lips. When she took it away, little dots of red stained its folds. She tried to hide the blood, but Olivia still saw.

A few months ago, Lady Basset had been sweeping down the halls and up the stairs with ease. She’d tended to Greenblood Manor’s affairs with a sharp eye and an iron fist. Olivia had hardly been able to step outside her door without Lady Basset clucking behind her at every step: telling her to wear a cloak for the rain, scolding her for getting dirt on her hems, or ordering her to put on nicer dress because the chancellor was coming to visit.

But though she was grateful that Lady Basset no longer had the breath to scold her, Olivia didn’t wish her any ill. Oh, she’d often hoped that one day Lady Basset would wake and not be able to speak, or Lord Basset would age so swiftly that he wouldn’t be able to follow her around everywhere, or that they would both simply perish in their sleep and finally, at long last, leave her be.

But as she saw the blood that stained Lady Basset’s handkerchief, she couldn’t help but feel a bit … sorry, for them. She hoped she wouldn’t live long enough to grow frail.

“Go put your feet up,” Olivia muttered as she opened the chamber door. “I’ll send one of the girls to help you out of your dress. Then I’ll bring you some tea —”

“No need. I’ve got it all right here,” Lord Basset called from behind her. He climbed the last few steps, hefting a tray loaded with a steaming pot, a cup and saucer, and a plate absolutely packed with biscuits.

Of course, Olivia thought. That was the problem with Lord Basset: he was always meddling in things, always in his own way. Ever since his wife had fallen ill, he’d insisted on being the one to care for her — and more often than not, he arranged her nightly tea himself. But he did more harm than good.

Had he allowed Olivia to get the tea, she could’ve slipped some tonic into the brew that would’ve made Lady Basset’s night a bit more comfortable. But now because of her husband’s insistence on doing something that was completely beneath his station, she would spend the night in needless misery.

Olivia tried not to snarl. “You shouldn’t have, my lord. I would’ve been happy to fetch a pot myself.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Basset scoffed, eyes sparkling merrily above his beard. “I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own wife.”

“Thank you, dear,” Lady Basset said with a smile. Then she turned to Olivia. “And you ought to be getting back to the ball.”

“As you wish, my lady. Oh,” Olivia raised her chin to meet Lord Basset’s gaze, “Chancellor Tristan is sending me on an errand to the Grandforest. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

The merry glint left his eyes immediately; his brows cast a shadow as they snapped down low. “Another errand? You’ve only just returned from the last! I must say, Olivia — I don’t like the idea of my ward sailing all across the realm, haggling with merchants over bits of copper. It isn’t becoming of a young lady.”

“Nevertheless, it must be done. Chancellor Tristan says I’ve got a talent for negotiation, and I can hardly refuse him … not when he’s always been so gracious in his dealings with Greenblood,” Olivia added with a shrug.

Red tinged the flesh at the edges of Lord Basset’s beard. He hated her going off on her own. Each time she told him she was leaving, he would storm and stomp for days — and normally she would’ve spared him until the last possible moment. But after how he’d meddled that evening, she felt he deserved it.

“We can’t refuse the chancellor, my love. So you might as well make your peace with it,” Lady Basset called as she shuffled through the door.

Lord Basset glared for another moment before he finally relented. “Just travel safely, will you? I couldn’t stand it if you were hurt.”

Olivia waited until he’d disappeared inside Lady Basset’s chambers before she made her way to her own. She had no intention of going back to the ball — the revelers could entertain themselves. Now that everybody was, at long last, occupied with something else, she could finally have a few hours to herself.

She could lay still and enjoy The Poison’s lingering ache …

And perhaps begin to plan out how she would deal with this Garron the Shrewd.

Chapter IV

Simply Another Victim

OLIVIA KEPT HER FISTS CLENCHED as the carriage bounced across the road.

Sailing was a much more civilized way to travel, and she’d rather enjoyed the first half of her journey: waking to a boundless, pale blue sky above and lapping waves below, falling asleep to the gentle rocking of the swells. Once, they’d passed a squall — and the helmsman had brought them as close to the crashing waters as he dared.

He knew how well Olivia enjoyed watching the storms. He even let her climb to the crow’s nest so she could see the whole fearsome, blue-black monster roiling above the waves. She could feel the power in its howling breath, hear the lung-trembling bellow of its roar. And for a moment, she’d been free.

But her fortunes had changed as swiftly as the clouds above the seas. Now Olivia clattered across a hard-packed road in what she was certain was the Kingdom’s most uncomfortable carriage, trapped beneath the great leafy canopy of the Grandforest.

Monstrous trees dragged by her window. Their great limbs strangled the sun and covered the land below in shadow. Though she missed the openness of the seas, Olivia couldn’t help but be entranced by the deadly silence of the woods.

It was an old thing, a patient thing. The forest held so many secrets that she doubted she could’ve counted them all. As the days passed and the carriage rolled on, she began to remember it: the muffled air felt natural, voices drifted down from the canopy’s top. The trees no longer glared at her like faceless giants, but their knots and bark began to twist into the smiles of old friends.

She’d told herself it wouldn’t matter — that though the Grandforest was a part of her past, the seas were her future.

But for some reason, her heart didn’t quite believe it.

On one particularly dreary afternoon, the carriage finally rolled into the village of Pinewatch. It was Garron the Shrewd’s domain: a neat cluster of tiny houses situated beneath the wide reach of gangly trees. Though Pinewatch looked about the same as every other little village they’d passed, the people here all seemed to be in a hurry.

Not a one of them sat idly or loped to do his chores. Instead, the villagers moved quickly from shop to shop, hefting their work between their arms — grinning widely through the sweat that stained their dark faces. Olivia was certain she’d never seen a blacksmith thrash so vigorously at his forge, or a tavern porch being swept so clean.

Though she supposed it wasn’t all that surprising: Garron had obviously gotten news of her visit, and now he was trying to make this crude little village look as tidy as possible. It was probably the highest honor Pinewatch had ever received, having a chancellor’s envoy come for a visit.

At last, the carriage bumped to a halt. “Here we are, m’lady.”

The driver opened the door and sprang quickly aside. Olivia gathered her skirts and eased out of the carriage, careful not to scuff her slippers. She looked up to thank the welcome party …

Odd. There wasn’t one.

The carriage was halted in front of a large, two-story house. It was a great deal plainer than Olivia had been expecting. In fact, she didn’t think the walls could’ve been more perfectly square, or the windows more identically cut — or the whole thing a more boring shade of brown. Except for its size, she might’ve easily mistaken it for a peasant’s hovel.

“Are you certain you’ve brought me to the right village?” Olivia said, glaring at the house’s remarkably plain front door.

“Oh yes, m’lady. This is Garron’s place, no mistaking it.”

“Then why hasn’t he come out to greet me?”

“Well,” the driver grunted as he hauled her traveling chest onto his shoulders, “he’s a … a strange one, if you don’t mind me saying. Ole Garron don’t care too much for manners. You’ll see.” He shuffled towards the front door, grunting under the weight of the chest. “I’ll just take this in for you, m’lady.”

No sooner had he limped away than the thundering of hooves reached Olivia’s ears. She stepped around the carriage and saw three horsemen galloping up the road — heading directly towards her.

Two of them were forest men: she recognized the deep brown of their skin, their dark eyes and dark crops of hair immediately. But the man at their lead was decidedly paler — a seas man near the middle of his twenties, with sharp blue eyes and hair cut so closely to his scalp that she had to wonder why he hadn’t simply taken a razor to it and been done.

Olivia had expected the men to dismount at the sight of her or at the very least, slow down. Instead, she had to throw an arm over her face to keep from being lashed by the dirt flying up from the horses’ hooves as they tore past on either side.

“Head back to town and let the blacksmith know what we’ll need to get the mill running again. This would’ve been a blasted lot easier if he’d simply come to me first — and make sure he knows that, will you?” the seas man barked as one of the horsemen turned. “Tell him I’d much rather cut a problem off at its head than allow it the opportunity to grow back.”

“Yes, sir!” the horseman cried. And he took off at such a speed that Olivia had to duck behind the carriage in order to avoid another stinging wave of dirt.

The seas man gave a second order — and Olivia leaned out just in time to catch a mouthful of the chalky cloud that whooshed out from behind the last horseman’s gallop.

When the dust finally settled, Olivia’s dress was ruined. Waves of dirt coated it from the hems and upwards; grit clung to the delicate knot of her hair and caked against the thin layer of sweat that’d formed across her brow.

Never, in all her life, had she been so pointedly ignored. Thus far she’d been treated like a commoner — no, worse than that. Any decent man would’ve slowed his charge rather than tear by a woman in such a manner. She’d been treated as if she was something to be trampled, no better than the dirt beneath her heels.

And she wasn’t going to stand for it any longer.

She stepped out from behind the carriage and stomped purposefully towards the seas man — her chin raised and her tongue coated with venom. “Are you Garron the Shrewd?”

“I am,” he grunted without turning. He worked on loosening something tied to the back of his horse, flicking the knots out of the ropes with deft tilts of his hands.

Olivia fixed her glare directly on the too-cut back of his head. “Well, it might interest you to know that Chancellor Tristan’s envoy has arrived.”

“Why would that interest me? I knew you were coming. And interest, madam, is something that can only be attained by introducing a certain amount of surprise to a declaration. Otherwise I’m afraid it’s merely information.”

Madam? Olivia’s nails dug so deeply into her palms that she could feel the blood raging just beneath the surface. “I’m not some common wench, merchant. I’m a lady. So when you speak to me, you will address me by my title. Is that clear?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged the last knot free and the large, bristled carcass of a boar tumbled out into his arms. He hoisted the great beast across his shoulders and turned slowly, fixing her with a glare.

There was no pattern or bursts in the color of his eyes. Rather, they were a single shade of the purest blue. His gaze cut from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. By the time his eyes came to rest on hers, she felt as if she’d been summed up — as if he’d taken every line of her body and measured it against the contours of her soul …

And she’d come up short.

“No, I’m afraid you aren’t a lady,” he said, his voice cutting every bit as sharply as his gaze. “You’re the ward of a lord and lady — a commoner who has been taken in and offered a life full of privilege you have neither inherited nor earned. Had the Bassets been any less generous with their time, you could’ve easily been a tavern girl or maid. I haven’t addressed you beneath your station, but exactly as you deserve, madam.”

Olivia’s eyes left Garron and lighted upon the lifeless gaze of the boar. A single drop of bright red blood pooled at the end of its snout before it dripped stickily onto the bleached top of Garron’s sleeve. She liked that: she liked the contrast of the gore set against the clean. She liked the fact that Garron’s face seemed almost frozen in its severity while just at his ear, the boar’s was twisted in the humiliation of death — its nose drooping between its tusks and its tongue lolling out.

She liked the thought that, in just a few short hours, Garron’s face would be as limp and lifeless as the boar’s. The vision calmed her. And so she unclenched her fists and slid her mask carefully into place.

“Very well. I suppose that’s fair.”

“It’s exactly fair. Now if you’ll go upstairs, I think you’ll find your room has been arranged and your bath drawn warmly. You will bathe, madam,” he added, frowning at the lines of grit upon her throat. Then his eyes flicked down to her hems. “And you’ll don a fresh change of clothes. I expect that garment will have to be hung and beaten out before it can be worn again.”

He must’ve been joking. He had to be joking. “Hung and … beaten? It isn’t a rug, sir — it’s a dress!”

Garron cleared his throat roughly and shifted his weight to the side. “Yes, well, with all the filth coating it, one can hardly tell the difference.”

He spun and strode through the door, and Olivia followed closely. She watched as the boar’s head flopped against Garron’s shoulder, coating his sleeve with a fresh spatter of red. “What are you planning to do with that beast?”

“I’m going to turn him over to my cook, madam. What on earth did you think I planned to do with him?”

Olivia slowed, appalled. “You’re going to eat it?”

“Well, I can’t very well keep him for a pet, can I? Of course we’re going to eat him.”

We’re …? Olivia ground to a stop. “You’re going to serve the chancellor’s envoy some bristly pig you shot in a field?”

“It’s called a boar, mad —”

“I know what it’s called! I’m not a fool — and I know when a man is dressing his table cheaply.”

Garron stopped — so abruptly that Olivia had to come up on her toes to keep from brushing his bloodstained sleeve. His chin jutted towards her, but his eyes roved to the ceiling. “Cheaply? You believe that because I didn’t spend coin on this meal, it cost me nothing?”

“That’s the very definition of something costing nothing,” Olivia said through her teeth. She’d begun to think that perhaps Tristan had been wrong about Garron: she couldn’t see how such a fool of a merchant could’ve ever come by the name Shrewd.

Garron’s eyes moved further along the ceiling. “I see. And did it ever occur to you, madam, that coin is the least of our currencies? I’ve always found it curious that men should put such value in something that can be easily replenished — that they should choose to spend their time amassing these various metals when everything worth a copper simply can’t be bought. I assure you the hour I spent tracking this beast was worth far more to me than any amount of gold.

“And beyond that, he’s a lean fellow,” Garron said, nodding to the boar. “Pigs have far too much fat in them. I think you’ll find game meats to be rather more forgiving when they inevitably settle upon your figure.”

He strode away, then — and it was only the knowing that she had a far greater pain in store for him that kept Olivia from reaching for her dagger.

Garron had done nothing but scoff at her since the moment she arrived. Her dress was filthy, she’d been pointedly ignored, had her figure insulted, and now faced the prospect of having to suffer through an atrocious dinner.

Had she not been certain he would suffer far more by her poisons than her blade, Olivia would’ve killed him then.

The narrow stairway to her chambers was tidy enough, but rather coarse. Her room was dismally bare. There were very few ornaments on the walls, and what little there was to look at seemed to be purely practical in nature: there was a basin for washing, a bath for scrubbing, a hearth for warmth — but absolutely no mirror to speak of. How could she possibly be expected to look presentable if she couldn’t see how she looked?

When she saw there was nothing more than a lump of soap to wash with, Olivia could no longer hold her fury in. She tore open her trunk and cast her garments aside until she came across her little box of poisons.

There were whole dried plants, powders stuffed into vials — bottles with liquids of various sickly hues. She ran her fingers across the rough of the dried things, the smooth of the bottles and slowly, The Poison crept into her veins. It drove her anger back and made her blood hum with excitement.

She wanted to mix something special for Garron, and her hands trailed immediately to where she kept her gnarl roots …

Strange. She held up the little glass bottle and frowned at the paltry inch of tiny, curled roots that remained. She was certain she’d refilled her stock before she left Greenblood … but perhaps she’d been mistaken.

It was of little matter — there were plenty of other choices.

She was helpless against the smile that bent her lips as she reached for her ingredients, knew it would be pointless to try to reason with her limbs. For once The Poison gripped her, she could only watch while her hands moved to sate its roar.

Olivia was simply another victim.

Chapter V

A Bandit’s Venom

A FEW HOURS LATER, A sharp knock on the door summoned her to dinner. After the less-than-civil welcome she’d received, Olivia wasn’t at all surprised to find that her summoner was a rather plain-looking maid. She’d obviously been sent in the middle of her duties: her dress was rumpled, and there was a mop and a bucket of filthy water clutched in her hands.

“Right this way, Miss Olivia,” she called as she skipped down the stairs. She halted at the landing and pointed towards the front door. “You’ll find Mr. Garron in the last room on your left. If you wind up out of doors, you’ve gone too far.”

Olivia didn’t return her smile. She wasn’t surprised that Garron hadn’t taught his servants not to speak to his guests. But just because Pinewatch seemed to be about as civilized as a pack of barbarians didn’t mean she had to drop down on all fours and join them.

So she swept past the maid and went straight down the hall.

When she first stepped in, she thought perhaps the maid had been mistaken. This cramped little room with its single window, a desk against one wall and a hearth against the other couldn’t possibly be where Garron intended them to have their dinner. Then she saw the small table that’d been settled atop a clean but slightly worn rug, and realized this was precisely where he meant for them to eat.

The table itself looked as if it’d been dragged out of a tavern: polish had been applied liberally to its top, but could do nothing to hide its many stains and chips. One of its legs had been broken off and patched with a mismatched knob of pine — a knob that made the whole thing tilt slightly to the left. A few squat candles sat inside iron bowls along its length, lending their feeble light to a room that was nearly too dismal to take seriously.

It was so plain and dark a space that Olivia would’ve been less surprised to find a company of trolls trading tales before the hearth — bracing their festering, hairless arms against the crude mantle, leaking their foul breath between their fangs.

But as it was, there was only one troll in Pinewatch — and he stepped in directly behind her.

“I hope you don’t mind if we have our dinner in the study. I’m afraid I don’t keep a dining room,” Garron said as he strode by.

Of course he didn’t. That would’ve been far too simple for a man who seemed insistent upon making nearly everything needlessly difficult. “And why’s that, exactly?”

“Because having a room dedicated entirely to eating is a waste of space, madam — especially when food can be eaten nearly anywhere.”

“I see. And where do you normally eat?”

He turned, brows raised over his sharp blue eyes. “In the kitchens.”

Olivia had been about to say that she found that to be rather fitting. But at the last moment, she thought better of it: he’d probably only gaze off and say in a completely ridiculous number of words that she was being foolish. So instead, she put her mind to planning her … negotiations.

Garron had a stout bottle of wine and two earthen cups clutched in his hands. His hair was still damp from his bath, but at least he’d changed into a tunic that wasn’t stained with gore. “Is that wine for us, or do you intend to put it in a bowl for the mice?”

He frowned at her. “If that’s your way of telling me it’s no longer fashionable in the seas to serve wine at dinner, then I’m afraid you’re —”

“No, that isn’t at all what I was saying.” Olivia gazed up at him, forcing herself to smile even though she would’ve liked nothing better than to carve a line across his throat. “Here … allow me.”

She plucked the bottle and cups from his hands and set them upon the table. “Is this where you do all of your business, Mr. Shrewd?”

“Yes. And please don’t refer to me as Mr. Shrewd,” he added as he paced behind her. “I know that’s likely the proper thing to call me, but it makes my ears ring every time I hear it.”

“My apologies.” Olivia had to clutch the bottle very tightly to keep her hand from shaking as she poured. “I noticed some papers on that desk over there. Is that where you keep your ledger?”

She had no idea what those papers were or if they were even important. Had she sat down and read each line, she doubted if she would’ve come away understanding a single word. But Garron didn’t know that. And if she’d learned anything from the time she’d spent negotiating with seas men, it was that they were completely desperate to protect their ledgers.

So she waited until Garron had tromped over to the desk to stash his papers away before she drew a vial from beneath her collar. After a considerable amount of thought, she’d decided this would be the best way to deal with Garron. She wanted him to suffer … but she also wanted to use her dagger. She wanted to feel him wriggling at its end.

This formula would give her the opportunity to do both.

The powder hissed dryly as it slid from the vial; it struck the dark red of the wine and dissolved. There was a small chip in the mouth of Garron’s cup — a wedge that looked as if a dagger had nicked its lip. She was careful to keep it in her left hand as she turned towards the desk …

Garron was right behind her.

She lurched backwards as he thrust some object under her nose, convinced he’d seen her slip the poison in — convinced he meant to bludgeon her for it. But instead, his brows arched in surprise.

“I certainly hope you haven’t been treated badly, madam,” he said after a moment. “It’s a sad comment on the state of men when our ladies feel the need to jump back each time we approach them.”

Those were words Olivia was certain she’d never heard uttered before. There was a sincerity in Garron’s voice and in his stare that almost made her hesitant to pass his cup along …

Almost.

“Here,” he said, holding the object at a less intrusive length.

It appeared to be some sort of crudely-forged tool — one with a set of sharp hooks at its end. “What is it?”

“A device to help our carpenters harvest branches a little more easily. It’s a clever thing. I’d be honored for you to take a closer look.”

Garron thrust the hooked object at her again, insisting she take it, and Olivia had no choice but to set the cups on the table behind her — though she was careful to keep Garron’s at the front. The hooked object was so heavy that she nearly dropped it when he plunked it into her hands. “How is this supposed to help your carpenters, exactly?”

“Well …”

Garron prattled for several minutes about the virtues of the tool, and how he was certain it would forever change the way trees were cut — or something of that nature. Olivia wasn’t exactly listening to the details.

When he leaned in to point at some mechanism near the hooks’ base, she gaped in disbelief at how rough his hands were: tiny scars crisscrossed over his knuckles, and his nails looked as if they’d been chewed to the quick. One of his fingers was so badly bruised at its middle that she wondered if it might be broken.

Yet for all the roughness of his hands appalled her, his voice moved easily through his words. He used words she’d never heard before — spouted them off like anybody else might’ve breathed the common tongue. His sentences were firm and clipped at their ends, thrust out with confidence. In fact, he spoke more passionately about this carpenter’s tool than he’d spoken all day.

If only he’d put an ounce of that passion into learning his manners, he might’ve made for a decent lord. But as it was, Garron the Shrewd was little more than a commoner who happened to know some rather large words.

“There would be a harness attached here, of course.” He leaned closer — bracing one rough hand against the table while he traced an iron loop with the other. “Made of a sturdy leather, I think, as chains tend to … well, pinch.”

His chest was less than an inch from Olivia’s shoulder. She leaned against it, arching her neck away so that Garron could have a clear view down the plunging collar of her dress. “I see … and what’s this bit for?”

She turned her chin to face him, all but certain she would have him snared. But to her annoyance, he hadn’t even glanced down her collar: he was scowling directly at where her finger pointed.

“That’s the portion that attaches to the tree, madam. I’ve already said it.” He snatched the tool out of her hands and went tromping back to the desk. “When you asked what my papers were all about, I thought for a moment you might actually be interested. I didn’t have you figured for a woman who asks pointless questions. But apparently I was mistaken.”

Olivia fought the urge to snarl back and instead, grabbed the cups off the table. “My apologies Mr. Shr — ah, Garron. I’m not normally so … distracted. Perhaps it’s just the hunger getting to me. Let’s have a drink and forget it, shall we?”

He took the cup she offered him and had nearly brought it to his lips when a pair of  heavy steps approached the door. “Ah, Horatio — good. I believe our guest was just about to perish from hunger.”

Olivia had said no such thing. She glared at Garron’s back as he swept by to help the man edging his way into the study.

He was a rather large forest man. A tuft of dark hair sat atop his head and he wore a filthy, brown-spattered apron over his tunic. His belly was so large that he likely could’ve balanced both plates across it without any trouble at all.

“Perish, eh? Well, I’m not one of those tavern hounds who churn out pies — a meal of this magnitude takes time,” Horatio huffed. “I warned you before I began that if you want a delicate plate, then you’ve got to cook it delicately.”

“Yes, well, I’m certain it’ll be fine,” Garron said roughly. For some reason, he seemed to walk rather more stiffly than usual as he took one of the plates from Horatio and set it upon the table.

“I’m not used to this sort of thing, I tell you,” Horatio went on as he arranged the second plate. When he saw Garron’s scowl, he dropped his voice to a whisper: “Well — I’m not. All of these creams and sauces, the vegetables sliced just so. It’s a enough to make a man’s heart seize up, being told he suddenly has to learn to cook for a noble lady —”

“It’ll be fine.”

For some reason, Garron seemed angry — or at the very least, he looked strangely ruffled for a man who wore his collar buttoned to its top. Horatio met his glare for a moment before he threw up his hands and bumbled out, cursing about sauces as he went.

Garron set his cup before his plate and stepped around to Olivia’s. “Here,” he muttered, tugging out her chair.

He’d obviously never drawn a chair for a lady. Instead of the swift motion of pushing forward as she sat, he simply stood behind her. When he realized that she sat too far from the table, he bent and tugged the chair forward by its legs, one half at a time — dragging her into place like a child.

By the time Garron sat across from her, he looked furious. The skin around his beard turned red, and his sharp eyes had all but disappeared beneath the furrow of his brows. “To your health, madam,” he said, raising his cup.

Olivia sipped her wine carefully, watching as Garron took a long drink. She would only have to endure his prattling a few minutes longer — then the true negotiations would begin.

Their dinner consisted of a large slab of boar, charred and buried in a too-sweet sauce, crowned on either side by roasted potatoes and an odd arrangement of thinly-sliced vegetables. Though it certainly wasn’t the finest meal she’d ever eaten, it was better than she expected.

“Is this how you always serve your guests? By the plate?”

Garron raised his brows. “Yes. I know it isn’t how the noblemen dine, but I see no point in toting out a whole dressed boar when there isn’t any chance of us finishing it. This way the servants can have their portion while we have ours.”

Olivia’s tongue curled at the thought of eating out of the servants’ pot. Her next bite slid down slowly — and her throat itched behind it. She took another sip of wine to help force it into her stomach.

“Now I know it’s probably rude to begin this sort of thing at dinner, but I’d much rather have it done. I’m not convinced that Tristan’s being entirely fair with his prices,” Garron said, leaning back. His eyes roved across the wall behind her while he chewed. “It’s the language of his contract that I find disturbing — he speaks as if he believes himself entitled to a portion of my profits. Normally, I would mark this off as a matter of poorly-chosen words, but in this case … are you all right?”

His eyes flicked back to Olivia, and she realized she’d been scratching rather vigorously at her arm. It was only nerves: she’d begun to wonder why Garron hadn’t fallen out of his chair. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m listening,” she added when he raised his brows.

“Very well. As I was saying, I would normally ignore the language — but in this case, I’m afraid the numbers echo my concern. When I studied them closely, I found them to be rather severely inflated. I might not traverse the seas as often as other merchants, but I’m still vaguely familiar with shipping price —”

Olivia’s fork clattered onto the table, spilling the bite she’d been about to bring to her lips across its polished top. “Sor — ahem, sorry,” she said, coughing against another itch in the walls of her throat. What had that beastly cook put in his sauce?

“Quite all right,” Garron insisted. “It’ll wipe clean. So while I might’ve been willing to forgive the language, I’m afraid the numbers don’t lie …”

Olivia wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared down at her fork.

She wasn’t sure how it’d happened: the fork had simply become too heavy. The whole bite had toppled out from between her fingers as her wrist had struggled to bear the weight …

No, that wasn’t it. Even with nothing between her fingers, she could barely move them. The motions were delayed, as if she dragged herself through water. When she did finally reach the fork … she couldn’t feel it.

Dread sank to the bottom of her stomach and for a breath, her terror chased the numbness back. She grasped for her cup. Her fingers fumbled against its lip until with one final heave, she managed to tip it over.

Wine slapped in an arc across the tabletop. The cup came rolling towards her, moving down the uneven line of the table … and with every pass, she saw that tiny, wedged chip go rolling by.

No. No, it wasn’t possible! She’d been so careful — she’d kept such a close watch. The poisoned cup was at the front. She remembered offering it to Garron. There was no way she could’ve possibly been mistake …

All at once, a sudden realization froze the dread to her stomach. She forced her neck to crane upwards, forced her chin to rise against the numbing waves — and found herself caught directly against the sharp edge of Garron’s eyes.

He watched her calmly, fingers twined and settled beneath his chin. When he spoke, his voice was at a whisper: “I’ve heard all manner of rumors about you, Olivia of Greenblood. I’ve heard that Lord Basset found you as a child, living among bandits. They raised you, didn’t they? That’s where you learned to mix your poisons.”

Something horrible stung her eyes as Olivia fought against his words. She wanted to scream at him, to spit in his face. He knew nothing about her! How dare he even speak to her! She wanted to tear that arrogant smirk from beneath his nose. She wanted to rip his mouth away and leave a bloody, dripping hole behind —

“I must admit that I had my doubts. But after having heard of several disturbing incidents in the High Seas, I’m beginning to understand how it was all possible. Edwards was a dear friend of mine,” he said quietly, while Olivia’s body went numb. “I was rather shocked when I heard that he’d fallen to his death in a drunken stupor — mostly because I’d never known him to take a drink in his life. And Lord Horton had been my shipping contact for years. I’d invited him to my house on numerous occasions, but as I’m sure you probably know, he rather famously refused to come ashore.”

Little red patches sprouted up across Olivia’s arms. She watched in horror as they swelled into blisters, stinging and itching with such fury that she could hardly hear what Garron said. The blisters spread quickly. She felt as if a dagger’s tip ran down the length of her back — taunting her, making every inch of her body scream for death or relief.

But neither would come to her. No, she knew full well that she’d be trapped inside this burning prison for hours to come … and with the numbness taking hold, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.

“Strange that two such staunchly habitual men would die in the very act of breaking their habits,” Garron mused, his eyes tightening on hers. “There are several talented negotiators in Tristan’s employ. But they must’ve found it difficult to deal subtly with a man who refused drink and another who refused to step off his ship. No, I knew at once that only a very great power could’ve convinced them to change so suddenly — and what greater power is there than that of a beautiful woman who knows how to wield a bandit’s venom?”

Garron’s eyes flicked away as Olivia’s head sagged helplessly onto the tabletop. She could no longer feel to hold herself up. Her lungs carried on breathing, her heart carried on beating. Her eyes stayed open, but she couldn’t see anything through the waves of hair that fell across them.

“Woman,” Garron spat, “is a term I use rather loosely, madam. By age, I suppose you’re well into your womanhood. But after having spoken to you myself, I can see you lack the understanding that comes with experience. I felt you needed to taste the bite of your own venoms. That’s why when I was explaining my carpentry device to you, I took the opportunity to switch our cups.”

He grunted as he stood. She heard the scrape of his chair and the quick thud of his boots. Then the world spun as her body tilted. For a breath, she was falling — the ceiling whooshed overhead and her stomach leapt up her throat as she toppled backwards.

But fortunately, she stopped well short of the floor. All of her skin was numb. She felt only the slightest fluid pressure as Garron lifted her into his arms — no more present a thing than the caress of waves.

“I hope this poison isn’t fatal,” he muttered as he carried her through the door. “There’s still much you could learn, madam … there’s much I intend to teach you.”

Teach her? What did he mean by that?

Don’t be a fool, Olivia — you know full well what he means, her conscience snapped. He means to do what every man you’ve slighted swore they’d do. He means to ruin you.

Cold crusted over her middle as Garron carried her down the hall, up the stairs. She knew he meant to torture her. She’d murdered his friends, after all. So she supposed he was well within his rights to hurt her.

But this was going to be far worse than one of Tristan’s beatings. He carried her into her chambers now because he meant to break her. He intended to hurt her in a way she could never forget. He planned to humiliate her for all the hours the poison had her bound … to force her to taste the full bitterness of her defeat.

As he laid her upon the bed, she swore she wouldn’t be broken. Something burned beneath her skin that drove the maddening sting of her blisters away — the other woman inside of her screamed for Garron to try his best. She bared her teeth in a wild grin and convinced Olivia that she was looking forward to the pain.

For pain, after all, was just another poison.

Garron’s hands looked especially rough against the smooth pale of her skin as he lifted her arm and turned it to the side — careful not to touch her blisters. “It occurs to me, madam, that a pretty young woman with such a great skill for alchemy and such noble protectors could be far more than a political tool. Tristan’s forced you into serving him, hasn’t he?”

Even if she’d been able to nod, she never would’ve admitted it. Garron was trying to dig up all the little painful things he could hold against her — probably so he’d have something to whisper in her ear while he tortured her.

But Olivia didn’t blink. She met his eyes and hoped he could read the warning carved into them: that he’d better kill her while he had the chance.

“You’re braver than I expected you to be,” Garron murmured, laying her arm down beside her. “I’m very much looking forward to our lessons.”

Then he turned and marched through the door in such a swift, cutting motion that Olivia hardly a chance to be surprised. She was still in shock when two maids bustled into her chambers.

She recognized the first maid as the talkative one who’d led her down to dinner. She  stopped in the doorway and clutched a hand to her chest, gasping at the blisters. “Oh, Miss Olivia! Garron said you’d gotten into the ivy — that’s some nasty stuff, that is.”

The second maid hefted a large earthen jar onto the table beside the bed. Then both women turned to Olivia. They rolled her this way and that, stripping her down to the skin. Once they had her completely bare, they went to work on the blisters.

The jar was filled with a clear, gooey salve, which the maids dabbed in thick portions across her wounds. It dulled the sting and soothed the itch. Even after it’d dried, the salve stayed cool — making relieved little bumps rise across Olivia’s skin. But she was still wary.

Was this part of Garron’s torture? Would he let her think she’d escaped punishment, only to bring it down upon her at the last?

Once the maids had slathered nearly every inch of her in salve, they left her laying naked atop the bed. “I’ve had an ivy rash before, miss — it’ll heal a great deal faster if you let it breathe,” the talkative maid said as she slipped out the door.

Olivia lay awake for half the night, convinced that Garron had something horrible planned for her. Perhaps he intended to hold her prisoner until Tristan agreed to more reasonable terms. Had she been able to move her lips, she would’ve laughed at the thought.

Tristan wouldn’t trade so much as a copper for her freedom … in fact, he’d probably send along a detailed list of ways Garron could make sure he got the most out of her torture.

Chapter VI

A Cowl and Mask

“GENTLY NOW, MISS. I KNOW it’s the last thing you want, but Mr. Garron’s asked to see you — and he insists you be decent.”

Olivia groaned as the maid draped a thin sheet across her body. Half of her was thrilled that she could groan, because it meant the numbness was wearing off. But the other half bared its teeth as the blanket fell heavily over her body and trapped the heat rising off her skin.

The warmth stirred the itch and the sting from the blisters. She would’ve rather been naked before Garron than have to endure the maddening pain. Had she been able to move, she would’ve ripped the covers off.

The maid left — promising she would return to add a fresh layer of salve to her rash — and Garron marched in behind her.

His breeches were severely rumpled, his shirt un-tucked and opened a full three buttons past his collar. Upon closer inspection, Olivia realized they were the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before.

Garron had his eyes fixed upon the parchment in his hands as he approached her bed. “I’m sorry, I tried — but there’s just no way around …” He paused mid-sentence to glare at the page.

Olivia’s throat strained against the crust that’d formed across its walls. She coughed, and finally managed to croak: “What?”

Garron raised his brows. “I’ve been at it all night, madam. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to release you from your contract with Tristan. But as you are — however unwillingly — in his employ, I’m afraid that any attempt to steal you away would be seen by the council as a breach of contract, and Tristan would be well within his rights to send his army to Pinewatch to retrieve you.

“My men aren’t warriors. They can protect our village from wolves and the occasional bear, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t be able to stand for long against the council’s soldiers.” Garron perched on the edge of her bed, mumbling. “No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to continue serving him in your venomous way — but you should be more careful.”

For once, Olivia was interested. “How?”

“Well, from the top of my head I’d suggest you quit riding around the Kingdom in a horse and carriage. Nothing announces the coming of somebody important like the rattle of carriage wheels. Learn to ride a horse. Learn to blend. In fact, I think you ought to consider …”

He bolted to his feet and strode out the door — leaving Olivia more confused than ever.

It took her several days to recover from the numbing and the blisters. At dawn on the second day, she was able to sit up on her own and even managed to eat a whole portion of broth.

“There you are, miss. The more you’re able to get down, the faster you’ll heal.”

“Thank you, Alice,” Olivia said. It turned out that was the talkative maid’s name — Alice. She thought it was a fitting name for a servant. Now that she was doing better, Olivia was able to take care of most of her blisters by herself. She dipped her hands into the earthen jar, coating the tips of her fingers with the clear, gooey liquid. “Where does this ointment come from?”

“We call them cloak vines, miss — on account of how wide their leaves get,” Alice said as she spread a cooling line of salve down the middle of Olivia’s back. “They’re pests, mostly. They grow up high in trees and strangle the life out of the branches if they’re not dealt with quickly. But the sap in their leaves makes for a useful salve.”

Olivia pressed her fingers together and pulled them apart, watching carefully as the ointment trailed little hairline strings between them. “I’d like to see where they grow.”

“Well, I’m not much for climbing trees, miss. But when you’ve got your feet under you again, I’m sure I can get one of the lads to show you.”

The cloak vines weren’t the only interesting plants around Pinewatch. Garron brought her a large cluster of wildflowers each morning — insisting that their various perfumes would aid in her healing — and Olivia was always taken aback by the variety of their colors.

There was one in particular that she liked the look of: it had spiraling, blood-red petals and a starburst of black at its middle. Its stem was black, as well — but the tips of its thorns were red.

“You really ought to be more careful,” Garron muttered as he pressed his kerchief against the little dots of blood that welled upon the tips of Olivia’s fingers.

The prick marks stung a bit, and some of the stem’s dark juices stained her palm. But though the flower had bitten her, she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “Is it poisonous?”

“No, fortunately. Though it does have a rather ghastly name — corpseweed, because of how the petals bear the resemblance of a mortal wound,” he said before she could ask. “It’s nothing more than a garden pest. But my blasted cook’s been attempting to turn corpseweed into some sort of tea. He swears it has the ability to soothe worries and I must admit, it is rather relaxing … if one can manage to get it down.” He pursed his lips as his sharp eyes roved over a memory. “Dreadfully bitter stuff — honestly the most ghastly cup of tea I’ve ever tasted.”

Tea? Olivia was slightly disappointed to learn that corpseweed wasn’t as deadly as it looked. But she liked the name. And she loved its frightful colors. “Can I try some of the tea?”

Garron frowned and his eyes went to the ceiling. He’d made it a point to be very careful about which flowers he gave her, and he’d even put her box of poisons away. Though he’d been surprisingly kind to her thus far, it was clear he didn’t trust her.

And that was probably for the best.

“Very well. I don’t see why not. I’ll have Alice bring you a cup this evening,” he said as he marched out the door.

After a while, Olivia began to get used to Garron striding in at all hours of the day and night — usually squarely in the middle of one of his thoughts. Perhaps it was because being bedridden left her with little else to do, but he actually began to sound rather clever. In any case, he seemed eager to help her improve upon her negotiations. And he did have a few decent ideas about how to avoid getting caught.

Once, he asked her how she would feel about wearing a mask. Before she had a chance to answer, he’d spun around and left. He returned several minutes later, positively spitting about how a mask would do her no good because her eyes would give her dead away.

Another moment and he’d marched back in, claiming he’d solved her problem. “Here.”

Olivia held still as Garron bound a strip of material around the lower half of her face. When his rough fingers brushed the back of her neck, a strange feeling arced down her spine. It made her head light, made her face burn — made the flesh just beneath her skin tighten across her bones.

This was a brand of poison she hadn’t tasted in a long while … but one she remembered well.

She watched the sharpness in the bed of Garron’s eyes as he tied the cloth into place, reveling in the wonder of this poison. It always revealed itself in the most … exciting, of places. It always took her by surprise.

Garron pulled away. There was a patch of skin just visible at the mouth of his collar. Little hairs curled in a thin mat beneath the bone. She’d reached out to touch them when Garron crammed something rather forcefully over the top of her head.

“This is called a cowl, madam. My men often use it on their hunts — it keeps the rain out of their eyes, but doesn’t restrict their arms.” He nodded to himself as he tugged the cowl’s hood over her forehead. “Yes, that’ll do rather nicely.”

She tilted her chin up to him and said, in her sweetest voice: “Oh? And what do you plan to do with the rest of me?”

“I shouldn’t have to do anything — just so long as you’re careful to keep those eyes covered,” he said, tugging the lip of the cowl past her nose.

By the time she’d fought her way out from under the hood, Garron had already marched from the room.

After that, The Poison seemed to swell each time Garron entered her chambers — Olivia could do nothing to stop it. A burning thrill traveled the route of her veins until she had to bare her teeth to keep it from bursting free. But no matter how she tried to get his attention, Garron seemed oblivious to her advances.

He made no notice of the tone of her voice, nor the movements of her eyes. When he asked if she knew anything about combat positions, she replied with something no man could’ve possibly misunderstood — unless that man’s name happened to be Garron the Shrewd. Then he would frown and say that he’d never heard of that style of combat before, accuse her of inventing it, and lecture her for several long minutes about how every lady should at least have some knowledge of how to defend herself.

So Olivia decided to try something a little less subtle.

Each time he approached her room, Garron would knock loudly and ask if she was decent. One night, she wasn’t. And when she called him in and he saw her severe state of undress, he scowled and slammed the door.

He didn’t come to see her again, after that.

“He says you weren’t behaving very well, Miss Olivia,” Alice informed her when she asked. “He says you can come to him when you’ve got your legs back. But he won’t be coming up here again.”

Olivia should’ve found that to be rather frustrating. But instead, The Poison burned hot. She’d never had to work so hard before to get a man’s attention, and she was determined to get it. Garron could huff and roll his eyes as much as he wanted, but he would be hers.

The Poison wouldn’t stop its biting until she had him.

“Good. You’ve finally recovered,” Garron mumbled as Olivia entered the study. He was hunched over his desk, scribbling away. He’d never even glanced up.

For some reason, the maids had hidden all of her dresses while she was ill. The only things Olivia had been able to find to put on were a pair of breeches and a man’s tunic.

The tunic was rather comfortable: she liked the way the soft material draped loosely over her skin. But the breeches were an entirely different matter. “I want my skirts back. I can’t breathe in these foolish things.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, madam. If you’re going to learn how to fight, then you’ll need to wear a garment that allows for freedom of movement — and that isn’t likely to be snagged.”

Olivia wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “Fight?”

“Of course. As I’ve said on numerous occasions, I can’t allow you trot off to do the chancellor’s bidding without at least some notion of how to defend —”

“I didn’t know you wore spectacles.”

Garron scowled over the top of the small, half spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “I don’t. I only need them for numbers.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because numbers require a great deal more scrutiny than other written things,” he said testily. He folded the top page and set it aside. Then drew an unsealed letter from one of the compartments in his desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting an explanation to Tristan on your behalf — he’ll be anxious to know why you’ve been absent for so long.”

No, he’ll be anxious to know whether or not I’ve killed you, Olivia thought.

Her eyes fixed involuntarily on Garron’s throat as he went on: “In this letter, you’ve explained that you were able to convince me to accept the council’s terms — it’s not as large a profit as I would’ve liked, but it’ll be more than enough to feed my village,” he explained when he saw her surprise. “You’ve also said that you realized I could be a very valuable ally, as I’m so well-connected to other Grandforest merchants. But though you certainly believe in my ability to bring the two regions closer together, you don’t entirely trust me. So you’ve requested to stay in the forest for the time being — to offer your services as both scout and spy.” He dipped his quill in a bit of ink and held it out to her. “All I need is your mark, madam, and I’ll pass this along to the next courier.”

Olivia smiled as she took the quill. Somehow, Garron had managed to weave a strand of nonsense so gilded that she was certain Tristan would fall straight into the middle of it. She didn’t care about the forest or the seas, or anybody’s profits: she would’ve signed her right arm away for a chance to stay in the forest for a while longer — clear of Lord Basset’s smothering gaze and out from beneath Tristan’s thumb.

“There,” she said, scrawling the last letter with a flourish. “Now what?”

Garron traveled to the hearth, where he sealed the parchment tightly. “Now I’m going to teach you about mercy, madam. You’re going to learn how to carry out your duties without leaving a trail of blood in your wake. I’m going to turn you over to the village healers, where you will learn to make antidotes for your poisons. And you are to always offer your victims an antidote — understood?”

For some reason, the way he scowled drew her smile out. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. And you’re not to lace your poisons with boils or fevers any longer. As I’m sure you’ve come to understand, the inability to defend oneself is punishment enough.”

“Yes … sir.”

He frowned when his eyes flicked from the walls and he saw she’d crept in closer. He took a step back. “Lastly, I’m … that is, I intend to teach you to fight. If anything ever goes badly, you’re going to need some understanding of how t — would you kindly stop smiling at me like that, madam?”

She couldn’t stop — the rush and swells of The Poison snaked mercilessly through her blood. She watched as the color spread down Garron’s throat and murmured through her grin:

“I’m very much looking forward to our lessons.”

Chapter VII

The Fishmonger’s Son

OLIVIA GASPED — AN INVOLUNTARY GROAN slid out from between her teeth as the floor bit her middle. Pain stabbed the side of her head. She felt the sharp edges of its teeth, but didn’t dare pause to sooth them.

Instead, she rolled just in time to spare herself from the fall of Mason’s boot.

“Try to stab me, will you? I’ll kill you, you little scab!”

Olivia dove for where her dagger lay upon the floor, but Mason’s hand clamped around her wrist, jerking her back. She remembered what Garron had said about keeping her enemies at a distance. He’d wrestled her easily to the ground each time he managed to grab her. She knew she could do nothing against a man’s superior weight.

So she lashed out. She drove her heel forward with all the spirit of Garron’s stallion and laughed when she struck true.

Mason lost his grip immediately. His face went the color of snow as he stumbled backwards, hands clenched around his important bits. He collapsed upon his chamber floors and lay, curled up and moaning, as Olivia advanced.

Her hand trembled when she retrieved her dagger. The Poison rose as she drew the blade across his arm — relishing in the slight resistance of his flesh, the slow crimson that welled inside the rift. It rose to the banks and spilled over, weeping a single, tiny drop down Mason’s wrist.

“There. That wasn’t so horrible, now was it?” Olivia said as she paced back to the window, cleaning the dagger on the top of her trousers as she went. She was careful to speak in a deeper voice — the one Garron had made her practice for hours. “This is a very gentle poison. You could simply close your eyes and let it take you, if you wish … let Death carry you softly into the under-realm.”

Mason didn’t reply. Air hissed raggedly through his lungs as the numbing set in.

Olivia’s smile pulled against the swollen lump around her left eye — the single lucky blow Mason had managed to get in. Garron was right: it was much better to allow her victims to live, to let them bargain for their lives. In fact, she found the defeat in Mason’s eyes to be rather … satisfying.

“What are you going to do with me?”

The hand that clutched his wound was already going limp. She listened to the soft tips of his fingers as they scraped down his sleeve … as his arm went numb and the venom tightened its hold.

“Well, I suppose we could talk for a bit. It seems a shame for you to pass in silence.”

A shining film covered Mason’s eyes; his shoulders sagged at their sockets. His tongue lolled helplessly between his teeth for a moment before he managed to whisper: “Don’t want … to … die …”

Olivia smiled as she crouched beside him. She ran a hand through his dampened curls and cupped him gently under the chin. “Then why don’t we talk about your deal with the chancellor? If you’d be willing to lower your price … I might be willing to give you an antidote.”

Chapter VIII

A Name Lost

THEY RODE THROUGH THE AFTERNOON and well into the evening. Garron’s stallion thundered ahead of her, the rain darkening his shanks. His long stride was every bit as practiced and powerful as his master’s. Olivia’s gelding had a difficult time keeping up.

They wove their way through the forest path, cutting beneath the trees and around the bends at Garron’s purposeful pace, until they came to a small village marked simply as Lakeshore.

“Evening, Mr. Shrewd!” one of the guards called as they entered.

Garron nodded absently in his direction — lips pursed against a name Olivia knew he loathed. They slowed to a trot as they navigated Lakeshore’s narrow streets. The tiny houses sat in a clearing, their walls lined with grayed wood and rusted nails. Behind them yawned the opened mouth of a rather large lake.

The rain had finally ceased and the clouds had relinquished their hold on the evening sky. They parted above the lake and the sun’s dying light scored it red. The waves that slapped against its sandy shores were much smaller than those from the seas, but Olivia still found comfort in their rhythm.

As they left the village and picked their way through the woods that hemmed the waters’ edge, Olivia found herself glancing often at the dancing of those gentler waves. The lake lay contentedly in the forest’s embrace. Its skin glistened as it rolled, shifting in its bed. The scent wafting from it was denser than that of the seas. If the seas were refined in their scent, the lake was surely muted. It filled her lungs with the breath of the earth, its fumes as simple as pies and ales.

Still, she rather liked it. There was something about discovering so large and tame a beast hidden inside the forest’s maw that made her smile. It should’ve been a blemish, a scar — a creature that broke the forest’s pace. But for some reason, she liked the idea that the woods held such a secret. It was surprising.

And Olivia rather liked surprises.

“What is it you wanted to show me?” she called, after their horses had plodded for several long moments in silence.

Garron half-turned and replied: “Patience, madam. We’re nearly there.”

He led them a little ways from the shore and up a sloping hill. The hill’s jutting edge was bald, its view unfettered by the trees. There was a small stream running along its back edge and a thick carpet of grass surrounding it. Garron leapt off his stallion and the great beast plodded over for a drink. When Olivia dismounted, her gelding followed.

“This way,” Garron said as he strode to the hill’s edge.

Olivia had to trot to keep his pace, trying desperately to hold her excitement at bay. What was it about him that made even the simplest things so … intriguing? Perhaps it was his unbothered stare, or the way he could treat even the most astonishing things with a cool disregard. Consequently, she never knew what to expect from Garron.

He was quite a surprise, himself.

When he stopped at the hill’s end, Olivia stood by his side. She followed the line of his finger to the land beneath them, where the ruins of an old house lay at the water’s edge.

It’d been taxed by the sun, split by the rain — nearly overtaken by weeds, but its stout walls still rose above them. The house was probably as large as Garron’s, and there were smaller servants’ houses scattered around it, each more ruined than the last.

A set of docks, sagged and drooping into the waves, branched from the rocky shore at the house’s front. The skeletons of fishing boats lay half-risen out of a stretch of murky water. Their sides were ragged, chewed by the waves as much as by the thick moss that grew across their skin.

It was strange … but for some reason, Olivia felt as if she stood before a grave’s marker — as if the bones of this small village now lay in monument at the lake’s edge. It made her fingers curl into fists … made their tips go cold.

“What is this place?” she whispered.

Garron clasped his hands behind his back and leveled his gaze at the ruins. “The man who lived here was our neighbor, many years ago. He was a man of the seas who found considerable success in supplying the forest taverns with fish for their tables. He was especially successful in the winter season, when most of our meat digs a hole and hides.”

“A fishmonger?”

“Yes.”

Olivia stared at the ruins, trying to understand what it was that Garron wanted her to see. She was certain he wanted her to learn something — nothing he did was without purpose. But though this lake and those distant shores clawed at the frayed edges of her memories, she couldn’t recall anything about the house.

“What happened to the fishmonger?”

“The bandits got him, supposedly,” Garron said around pursed lips.

“Supposedly? You aren’t convinced?”

“No. There was a tribe of bandits living over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite shore. “But this fishmonger had a rather exceptional talent for words. And instead of driving the bandits out, he would often trade with them. I heard he even gifted them a portion of his catch each week, so that their children wouldn’t go hungry. My father said this fishmonger loved the wild things — said he was never interested in a trade that didn’t have a heavy edge of danger sewn in, said he preferred the savagery of the earth to the lies of men. I wish I would’ve gotten the opportunity to know him better.

“But I was only a child the night this fishmonger’s village burned,” Garron said heavily, tightening his hands behind his back. “A few of his guards managed to reach Pinewatch, begging for our aid. And my father rode out immediately. I stayed at the house and helped the servants tend to the villagers. I remember the fishmonger’s wife was among them … she was gravely wounded. I’m afraid by the time she reached us, she’d already slipped beyond our help.

“She wailed all through the night. I’ll never forget it.” Garron’s chin jutted out fiercely; his eyes sharpened. “She cried for an infant daughter — a child she was certain hadn’t escaped the blaze. She cried until she finally passed in the cold watches of the night. When my father returned, he said there was nothing left of the fishmonger’s village. I told him about the child … but though his men searched for days, they never found her — neither among the living nor the dead.”

It was only when Garron stopped speaking that Olivia realized just how loudly the forest screamed. The little creatures that watched over the night came alive, shrilling excitedly as the sun died, reveling in the slow trickle of its blood.

Olivia focused on the screams. She kept her gaze fixed on the sun’s smear across the lake — and away from that ruined little village.

“When I first heard the story of how you became Lord Basset’s ward, I’ll admit that I wondered. There’s no way to ever know for certain, of course,” Garron allowed. “And in truth, I meant never to tell you. I thought it would only upset you. But when you told me the story of your fishmonger, I thought you might —”

“Who owns the lake, now?” Olivia said. She tried to ignore how sharply the words came out, but their ends still rang inside her ears.

Garron’s brows rose as he considered her question. “Well, as the fishmonger was a child of the seas and had no heir to succeed him, the law required his lands be turned over to the free people’s council — though they had a difficult time getting rid of the bandits. Spent years hunting them down …”

Tristan.

Olivia smiled as The Poison rushed in — numbing her body, thrilling her veins …

“I don’t like that look, madam,” Garron said severely.

“There’s nothing to worry over. I assure you I’m completely under control.” She rolled her shoulders back, forced the mask into place. “See? Just a brief moment of weakness … surely you won’t hold that against me.”

When Garron grumbled that he wouldn’t, Olivia turned back to the village. “I’ve decided to marry Lord Basset.”

Garron sighed heavily. “That would be the most advantageous arrangement, to be sure. I’m certain you won’t regret it. And it’ll be a pleasant thing to longer have to worry about your blasted boots scuffing up my floors.”

“I’ll miss you, as well,” Olivia said, smirking at his frown. Then she sauntered closer. “Perhaps you ought to give me something to remember you by.”

“No. Out of the question.”

“Please? You wouldn’t send me off to be married without allowing me one final … adventure, would you?”

He frowned. “Yes, I would. And speaking of that sort of thing — I suggest you make certain Lord Basset’s goblet is filled throughout the wedding party. We both know you to be a rather tarnished flower, madam. The less your husband remembers, the better.”

He was probably right. He was always right.

Olivia sighed, resigned to the fact that she would have to give up on Garron … for now. Well, at least until she’d taken care of Tristan. It would be a much slower game than the ones she liked to play. But if she married Lord Basset, she could convince him to ship ingredients in from nearly anywhere: the desert, the plains, perhaps even the Unforgivable Mountains.

Somewhere across the Kingdom, there would be a plant or root that weakened his powers, some formula that Tristan couldn’t withstand. She would gladly spend all the years it took to discover it — The Poison wouldn’t let her rest until he was dead.

Even now, its groans filled her chest. She stared down at the ruins of the village, and one final question came boldly out: “What was the fishmonger’s name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall his first name, only the family name.”

“What was it?”

Garron squinted up at the shadowed clouds. “I believe it was D’Mere.”

By the time she made it into Pinewatch, Olivia felt as if she’s smiled the whole way.

A light rain washed down her oilskin and mud spattered across her leggings as her mare thundered through the woods. The creature’s deep, panting breaths matched the swells that crashed inside Olivia’s chest — the thrill that numbed her toes and shook her grip on the reins.

Oh, there was no feeling quite like this, no excitement possibly greater. It was a freedom that made the blood rush hot through her veins.

Once she’d returned her horse to the stables, Olivia sprinted up the road. She was certain she would never get used to the feeling of being able to move as fast as her legs could carry her. The soreness that’d once invaded her limbs at even the lightest jog was gone, driven out by practice and refined through trial — hardened until the muscles that coiled beneath her skin could bear her up hills and over streams with ease.

Garron had taught her well.

When she arrived at the house, she pushed through the doors and charged straight down the hall. She didn’t stop until she reached the study. “I did it,” she gasped as she entered.

Garron was hunched over at his desk, as always — his half spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “By it, I assume you mean you brushed and cared for your horse before you charged up here?”

“Well, yes. But —”

“And that when you burst into my home, you thought to close the door behind you? Because you know how I loathe letting the rain come in.”

Olivia stomped into the hallway, slammed the door shut, and stomped back into the study. “There. Are you happy?”

“Not quite.” Garron folded the letter he’d been reading and cast it aside. The spectacles came off. His sharp blue eyes cut from her feet to the top of her head, then out the door behind her. “I don’t see how a man who’s just had his hallway used for a boot-scrape could possibly be happy.”

There were perhaps a half-dozen prints behind her, with a few mud flecks in between. “That isn’t anything the servants can’t handle. Besides, it’ll give them something to do.”

Garron’s eyes narrowed. “Give them something to do?”

“Yes. If your hallways weren’t so insufferably clean, they might have more to keep them occupied.”

Garron leaned back. “I see. And did it ever occur to you, madam, that my hallways are insufferably clean because my servants do spend so much time on them? That the last thing they need at the end of a long day’s work is to have some nobleman’s ward come tromping across their efforts in her mud-soaked boots? No,” he murmured, watching her brows as they climbed. “I don’t believe it ever occurred to you. Not even for a moment. Well … we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?”

At his summons, one of the maids brought a rag and bucket to the study. She set them upon the floor and swept away.

“Mop it up,” Garron commanded. “When you’re finished, I’ll come inspect it. And if I don’t see my face shining back, you’ll be made to mop the study, as well. Oh, and you’ll want to remove those boots before you start,” he added, glaring down. “Otherwise it’ll all be about as useful as trying to shovel during a snow.”

Olivia removed far more than her boots. She stripped her muddy garments away and cast them before the hearth until she wore nothing but her underthings. She turned, quite certain that she would finally see Garron’s stern mouth hanging out the bottom of his skull, and instead found him hunched over his letters once more — mumbling to himself as he tallied the week’s profits.

She took a half-step towards him. “You aren’t even going to look at me?”

“There’s much to be gained in my work — far more than I could ever gain by looking at you,” he said back, eyes roving across the page. “So I hope you’ll forgive me, but I do believe my attention is better served in studying these figures rather than admiring yours. Get to mopping, madam — and while you’re at it, you can tell me about Mason.”

Olivia had never been made to do a servant’s work before. The wood floor pressed uncomfortably against her knees and the water in the bucket was scalding hot. But as she dragged the cloth across the muddy bits and watched the shine come back, her body began to relax.

This rough sort of work was healing — a simplicity that drew The Poison from her veins. She’d felt it come over her the first time Garron made her unsaddle and brush her own horse: her heart stopped racing and her hands stopped shaking. Slowly, she’d calmed.

Now she found the easy rhythm of the scrubbing to be just as soothing as the brush.

Garron listened intently as she told him of what she’d done to Mason. Occasionally he would mumble something, or his quill would flick across his page. But for most of her tale, he stayed quiet. “You didn’t kill him, then? You controlled yourself?”

Olivia thought controlled wasn’t exactly the right word for it. Had she not found Mason’s pleas to be so exciting, she might well have killed him anyways. But as it was, she liked the thought of being able to stare across the room at somebody who’d nearly died at her hands, being able to watch him as he straightened his collar and tried to carry on — completely unaware that his Death kept him in her gaze.

But she knew Garron would only scold her if she admitted this. He liked to think that she was changing for the better. And so she said: “Yes, I was able to control it.”

“Good. Very good. And I assume you were able to … convince him to sign over to the chancellor’s wishes?”

“I gave the document to a courier at the next village. Tristan will have it in a few weeks’ time.”

Garron nodded absently. When he looked up, his eyes didn’t even flick below her chin but stayed fixed upon the purplish bruise that arced across her brow. “And I assume you’ve come to me today because you plan to hide in Pinewatch until you’ve healed?”

“Yes — if that’s all right with you,” she added when his chin jutted out expectantly.

“It is. Thank you for asking.”

He went back to his papers, and she went back to her scrubbing. They worked in silence while the minutes dragged by, each consumed by their tasks. The moment Olivia had wiped up the last bit of mud, she called Garron over to inspect it.

She watched the sharp movements of his eyes as they scraped across the floor, listened to the rough of his hands as they dragged against her work. There was a tiny smudge at the end of the hallway.

Olivia had left it there on purpose.

“A nearly perfect effort ruined by a careless mistake,” Garron growled when he saw it. “You’ll mop that up at once, madam.”

“No, I won’t.”

Garron’s eyes snapped up her length — as they always did when he was cross. Only this time, he seemed to have forgotten she was only in her underthings.

Red burned his face. His gaze slipped into hers and she held it, trying to pull him apart. She searched for the hunger. It was in there somewhere: she thought she could see it just flickering inside his pupils. In a moment his desire would burst free. Those eyes would scrape across her body, those hands would drag against her flesh …

“Careless,” Garron said. He snatched the cloth away and cleaned the smudge himself, muttering as he went. Then called the maid back, returned the rag and bucket, and strode purposefully to his desk.

Olivia followed — more annoyed than ever. “What about my punishment?”

“What punishment?”

“You said if I didn’t have the hallway cleaned properly, you’d make me mop the study.”

“That would be an exercise in futility, madam. My study’s already mopped — and you would only smudge it.”

He sat roughly at his desk; Olivia stood cross-armed and glaring at the fire.

After a moment, Garron sighed. “I was sorry to hear about Lady Basset. You have my condolences.”

Olivia sighed. She’d tried desperately to heal her, towards the end. She’d slipped Lady Basset every herb and tonic she could think of in an attempt to cure her cough. But nothing had worked.

Now it’d been almost a month since Lady Basset perished and in all that time, Lord Basset had been completely inconsolable. He’d requested Olivia’s presence at nearly every waking moment, begged her to stay by his side and never let her off the manor grounds. It took a visit from Tristan to convince him to finally let her out of his sight.

And Olivia wasn’t at all eager to go back.

“I wish she hadn’t died … now there’s nobody to keep his lordship out of my shadow.”

When she turned, Garron’s mouth was half-opened and his brows arched high. “Forgive me. For a moment, I thought you might actually say something sentimental,” he said dryly. “But the fact of the matter remains that the woman who voluntarily played your mother all these years has passed on. And she deserves far more than your annoyance.”

“I am sorry to have her gone,” Olivia said, trying to sound sincere. She inched towards Garron as she spoke: “I mean, the woman raised me as her own child when she certainly didn’t have to. If I sound harsh, it’s only because I care so very deeply for her. I miss her so very much. And you know me, Garron …” she dropped her voice to a whisper as she came to his side, “you know I’m not very good at … expressing, things. Perhaps …” her hand brushed his shoulder, dragged slowly to his neck, “perhaps if you’d hold me for a moment, I might find the courage to face it.”

His chin lifted from his papers and jutted up to her face — where his eyes narrowed into points. “Do you see the word fool embroidered upon my tunic, madam?”

“Well, no …”

“Then don’t treat me like one,” he snipped, pulling her hand away from his collar buttons. “Now, you say Lord Basset has become rather more protective of you since his Lady’s passing?”

“If by protective you mean he’s all but bloody locked me up inside his bloody manor, then yes,” Olivia grumbled as she slumped back to the hearth.

“Interesting.” There was a creak and a scrape as Garron pulled his chair around to face her. “Do a turn for me, will you?”

Olivia glanced over her shoulder to ask what he’d meant and saw his eyes running very boldly down the length of her. Finally.

She spread her arms and turned, reveling in the pressure of his gaze. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I’m eager to hear what you think.”

Garron’s lips pursed against his finger as his eyes made one final pass. “I think he means to wed you.”

Olivia’s arms fell back to her sides. “Who means to wed me?”

“Lord Basset. That’s why he’s been so particularly interested in you, of late.”

She sighed to mask her disappointment. “Oh, I’m sure he does. Every man in the whole seas means to wed me. But I won’t be wed.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to find someplace else to call home. Do you honestly think Lord Basset will allow you to stay in Greenblood if you refuse him?” Garron said when he saw her surprise. “He won’t, madam. In fact, I believe he means to use your home as part of the arrangement. You’ll be offered the choice of wedding him and keeping your island, or you’ll have to live elsewhere.”

Something uncomfortable twisted inside her middle. “But where would I go?”

Garron shrugged. “That depends. If you choose to wed, you’ll have your pick of holds across the forest and seas. But if you insist on living freely, I think you’ll find your options rather severely limited. Very few men would allow such a desirable creature to live under his protection unwedded,” he added with a wry smile. “Though I think Chancellor Tristan would gladly offer you a place in his castle.”

I’m sure he would, Olivia thought, her tongue curling inside her mouth. He’d like to be able to press me under his thumb whenever he wished.

“No, I can’t stay with Tristan.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

Olivia dragged her bare feet across the floor as she paced, trying to think. If she married, she would have to give up her freedom — and she couldn’t give that up. She was certain she wouldn’t survive without the rush and swells of the poison, the elation of battle, the thrill of drawing her victims’ blood.

No, she couldn’t abandon the one thing in the Kingdom that made her heart truly pound. But if she didn’t marry, where would she go? Every copper in her pocket belonged to Lord Basset — Tristan paid her only by not revealing her secret. She didn’t have the means to live on her own.

She didn’t know what to do, but Garron would. He always had an answer. So she took a deep breath and said: “What would you do, if you were me?”

“I would wed. And I wouldn’t wed cheaply,” he added, eyes sweeping over her body once more. “You’re a beautiful woman with a figure made for childbearing — an asset to any man looking to spread his name. Though when you do have children, I would suggest you employ a kindhearted woman to look after them in your stead.” His lips pursed as his gaze traveled to her face. “You wouldn’t make a very good mother.”

Olivia smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“It’s your eyes, madam. You have a serpent’s eyes — charming … and cruel.”

“Well if you find them so charming, why don’t you let me come a little closer?”

His frown held her at bay. “Most men find charm to be an entrancing quality. But I’m afraid it has rather the opposite effect on me. I find charm to be highly suspicious, in a person. I don’t like charming people, and I don’t trust them.”

“I see. And what would I have to do to make you … trust, me?”

“I would no sooner tell you what you would have to do to gain my trust than I would tell my vendors what I could afford to pay them. Because you would swindle me, madam,” he said, when he saw the question forming upon her lips. “You would charge me precisely what I could afford until you bled me dry. Then you’d leave me shriveling in some roadside ditch along with all of your other conquests.”

He spat that last word — spat with more force and fury than he’d ever spat before. Then he spun his chair back around, leaving a shallow, half-moon scrape across his polished floor.

Olivia stared at the unusual red that spread down the back of his neck, trying to sort it out. This wasn’t a scolding. It wasn’t a punishment. She wasn’t sure why Garron had snapped at her. But for some reason, the air felt colder now that he’d turned his back. And she didn’t like it.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t make a very good mother.” She said quietly.

He snorted over the top of his scribbling.

“I was almost a mother, once … but it turns out there’s a poison for that, as well.”

Garron’s quill slowed until it stopped. “Do you mean …?”

“Yes.”

His ear turned towards her, though he kept his eyes on the doorway. “Olivia, this sort of thing … it happens. The people of the seas aren’t nearly as unblemished as you might think — you wouldn’t have been the first noblewoman to have gotten herself into such an unfortunate situation. You could’ve simply married the father, and there would’ve been no shame in it.”

“The father wasn’t a noble.”

“Ah, well, even a merchant wouldn’t have been too —”

“He was a fishmonger’s son.”

Garron’s words died upon his lips. He stayed facing the wall while Olivia turned towards the flames.

“Years ago, Lord Basset was overseeing the building of a new port on one of the small islands to our east. He was going to be gone all season, and so he brought Lady Basset and I along for company. I met the boy that very first evening … and I saw him nearly every evening after. He knew nothing of my world, and I knew nothing of his. He was rather the coarsest boy I’d ever met. I remember being shocked when I learned he couldn’t read. He was what the nobles would’ve called a simpleton. But I didn’t mind it. There are far worse things than being a bit simple.”

Olivia spoke quietly: forcing the words out … shielding her eyes against the memories. “We were young, far too young. Love was an exciting thing — we thought we had no reason to fear it. I knew him a month, then Lord Basset gave the order to sail home. A month later, I discovered that Fate punishes the fearless. So I took my poison and went on. That was the end of it.”

She crossed her arms tightly, digging into their fleshy parts with her nails. The pain drove everything else away: the care in his touch, his scent — the softness of a light that hadn’t been hunger, but awe. She dug in until all she could feel was the pain …

Then she stopped, relieved.

When Olivia turned, she fully expected to see Garron staring at her with his mouth wide open, all manner of shock and disgust upon his face. He had turned his chair around — though his eyes were on the hearth fire, not on her face. His fist was balled beneath his chin, his brows bent low, but not quite in a scowl. His sharp eyes moved back and forth as if he read the lines on one of his letters.

“What happened to the boy?” he murmured after a breath.

Olivia shrugged. “He was the youngest son of a fishmonger. I’m sure he’s been tithed to Midlan by now, and they’ve driven all the goodness out of him. Even if I were to meet him again, he wouldn’t be able to love me as he did before. So I don’t think about it. There’s no point in it.”

Garron nodded slowly, his eyes locked onto the flames. Then quite suddenly, he stood. “I’ll have the one of the girls bring you a fresh change of clothes. You ought to have something to eat. It’s half a day’s ride from here, and I don’t want to have to stop for vittles.”

He’d started talking in the middle of things, again — speaking as if Olivia had an ear tuned to his thoughts. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“To the lake, madam,” he said as he strode through the door. “There’s something there I wish you to see.”

One short month later, Olivia was back in Greenblood — pacing anxiously inside Lord Basset’s chambers.

Perhaps it was because she’d gotten so used to wearing a tunic and breeches that her wedding dress seemed to be cinched far too tightly. She’d spent most of the ceremony trying to breathe, most of the dinner hoping her ribs wouldn’t crack under the strangling of her corset. Now she was being forced to wait while Lord Basset bid his guests farewell.

In a few short moments, he would come charging in and likely rip it down the middle with his bearish hands. At least then she’d finally be able to breathe.

Olivia walked slowly past the dresser table, smiling at the large decanter perched upon its top. Garron had presented it to her at the ceremony — along with a weighty look and the suggestion that she begin her wedding night with a toast. Her smile stretched into a grin as she remembered how she’d struggled not to laugh at the earnest line of his frown.

Had he not be so insistently noble, Garron could’ve easily made one beast of a villain.

At her next pass, Olivia scooped up one of the little ornate cups that’d come along with the decanter. It was silver inlaid with delicate, golden pines. She ran a finger down one of their slender trunks and was surprised at how quickly the scents and sounds of Pinewatch invaded her memory. And perhaps it was because she was so lost in unexpected thoughts that the tiny cup slipped out of her hands.

She swore as she watched it roll just under the bed — swore again when the strangling grip of her corset prevented her from easing down and instead, dropped her directly onto her knees.

The cup was about an arm’s reach beneath the bed. She leaned and dug blindly, feeling for the cool, smooth texture of the silver. But instead, her fingers brushed across something that crinkled.

It was an envelope. Olivia drew it out and studied it carefully. The envelope wasn’t sealed, but instead merely had its tongue tucked into its mouth. There was nothing written across its front … but there was something inside of it.

She lifted the envelope’s tongue quickly, not at all certain about what she would find. The moment she saw what lay at the envelope’s bottom, she knew it would’ve done her no good to guess … because it was something she’d never expected.

A small number of tiny, curled roots — far less than a handful, but just enough to be deadly. They were brownish black and slender. She knew what they were even before the spiced tang of their venom struck her nose: gnarl roots. Her gnarl roots, the ones that’d gone missing nearly a year ago.

What in Kingdom’s name were they doing under Lord Basset’s bed? How could they have possibly turned up …?

All at once, her hands froze to the envelope. An involuntarily smile pulled at her lips — one with edges so sharp that they tested the corners of her mouth. She’d thought it odd that Lady Basset had fallen so suddenly ill. She’d wondered why her tonics hadn’t cured her. They would have cured just about any cough or cold. But Lady Basset hadn’t been ill …

She’d been poisoned.

Gnarl roots thrived in the damp and the dark, kept their spores trapped inside the fibers of their skin. Too much at once, and the spores would burst and swell, filling up their space before they traveled far enough down. That was what had happened to Edwards, after all.

But if someone were to be fed a little at a time … well, she supposed most of the spores wouldn’t be able to survive for too long. They’d probably perish quickly, strangled for a lack of air. But if any managed to survive long enough to reach the lungs … they’d find air aplenty.

They’d grow slowly, though — fragile and restricted. They would need a supply of fresh spores to help tighten their hold on the meshy insides of the lungs … one small dosage at a time. The body would try to expel them, of course. It would fight back with sneezes and coughs, with fevers …

But in the end, it would lose.

Olivia laughed. Now she understood why Lord Basset had been so attentive — and why he’d always insisted on delivering Lady Basset’s tea himself.

The Poison rose, frightening and igniting her soul. Olivia grabbed the silver cup out from under the bed and brought it back to the decanter. The gnarl roots crumbled easily beneath the cup’s bottom, ground against the dresser top. Her hands shook as The Poison reached the middle of her chest and made her head go light.

When they’d been crushed into a powder as fine as dust, she scraped the gnarl roots into the decanter’s open mouth. Her breathing quickened as she corked it, as she watched the dark liquor swirl and devour the roots. Sweat lathered her neck by the time she’d poured two cupfuls.

And no sooner did she have them poured than Lord Basset’s steps echoed down the hall.

He pushed through the door and slammed it closed. His eyes were bloodshot from drink: Garron had made it a point to offer a new toast nearly every few minutes of the dinner, and Olivia had made it a point to keep Lord Basset’s goblet full.

But even through the swells of red that arced along the veins, his hunger shone clearly. It scraped down her body, already tearing at her corset. His bearish hands curled into claws at his sides as he stumbled towards her.

“Finally,” he gasped. He swayed back when he reached her, grasping clumsily for her throat. She leaned forward and he growled again as his fingers pressed against her neck. “So long … I’ve waited so long. Now you’ll never leave me.”

“I’m pleased to stay,” she said, struggling to keep her mask in place — struggling to keep the thrill from shaking her arm as she held out one of the silver cups. “I was hoping we might begin our night with a toast.”

“Anything,” he groaned, snatching the cup from her hand. “Anything for you, my love.”

Olivia watched as he swallowed the liquor. Little streams ran from the corners of his mouth and stained his collar red, but he drank enough. More than enough.

She set her cup on the dresser and turned her head away while Lord Basset grabbed her around the waist. His breath stank of drink. His lips moved clumsily against her throat. Oh, but how her heart railed, how it screamed inside her chest — throbbing at his every breath … as his breathing grew shallow.

“So long,” he moaned, pulling her close. “So … I’ve waited … so …”

His hands fell from around her waist; his knees struck the floor. His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as those bearish hands clawed helplessly at his throat. He reached for her, but Olivia stepped away.

She leaned against a poster of the bed and watched as his face turned purple, as his eyes bulged to nearly popping free. “I should’ve killed you slowly,” she mused while the veins swelled along his neck. “I should’ve killed you the same way you killed her … you should’ve been made to suffer. But my excitement got the better of me. I rushed things — I’m always rushing things. In years to come, I’ll probably wish that I’d savored your death. But for now, I’m content.

“You got into my poisons. How long have you known?” She pursed her lips when the purple turned to blue and his limbs started to twitch. “I suppose it’s too late to ask you, now … see? This is precisely why I ought to have done it slowly.” She sighed as his limbs grew still. “You’ve only got a few moments left, so I’ll say what I mean to: I never much cared for you, Basset. But I thought you were a decent man. In some ways, I believed you to be above most other men — at least as far as love was concerned.

“But you were willing to murder your wife for me …” She took her eyes away from Lord Basset and fixed them upon the decanter, a sharp smile pulling at her lips. “So it turns out that I was wrong … love is far deadlier a poison than I ever imagined it to be.”

Chapter IX

Too Kind a Fate

“ONE NIGHT — YOU COULDN’T EVEN make it one bloody night!” Garron hissed from beside her.

Olivia was grateful that the black veil she wore hid her smile: Garron’s fury would’ve risen to an inconsolable height, had he seen it.

Though there hadn’t been enough of the gnarl roots to burst Lord Basset’s throat, they’d certainly kept him from breathing. The healers had just assumed that with his age and girth, his heart had simply given out. Now the wedding decorations were gone and Greenblood Manor’s grand dining room was draped entirely in black. The chairs and tables had been shoved aside to make room for the near-endless procession of seas people that tromped by to pay their respects to Lord Basset.

“I thought it would be more convenient to do it while everybody was already here —  now we won’t have to wait for all the lords and ladies to trek back to Greenblood,” Olivia murmured.

A merchant stopped to offer his condolences, and Olivia dipped her head in a grateful nod. Garron held onto her arm. To the people around them, it probably looked as if he was merely supporting her — but his fingers were clenched very tightly.

“I still don’t believe you,” he hissed the moment they were alone.

The accusation in his voice annoyed her far more than the pressure of his hand. “Garron, I am many things. You’d be well within your rights to call me a murderer, a commoner, or seductress. But one thing I won’t be accused of is lying. The council moves too slowly,” she whispered, placing a hand on Garron’s. “Had I not acted when I did, Basset might never have been brought to justice.”

She ran her thumb along his scarred knuckles, and his grip loosened slowly. “Well … I still don’t approve.”

“I never expected you to.”

He fell silent as another line of mourners shuffled by. She watched his brows furrow tightly over his eyes. “Perhaps it was the kinder thing,” he whispered when they’d gone. “As long as Basset’s people believe he died of a trauma of the heart, he can go to rest with his good name firmly intact.”

Olivia hadn’t thought of that. She could’ve kicked herself. Why hadn’t she bloody well been patient? “That’s far more than he deserves,” she snarled.

“Yes … that’s why it’s called mercy,” Garron said.

And his mouth twitched in the tiniest of smiles.

When all of the mourners had gone, Garron insisted he could afford to remain in Greenblood no longer: “A ship without a rudder will always stray — and I’m afraid that’s true of my men, as well,” he added with a sigh. Then he drew a small tin from his coat pocket. “Here. Horatio insisted that I bring this along. He’s quite given up on his corpseweed tea — moving on to the next in a long list of atrocious recipes. And as you’re the only one who seemed to enjoy it, he felt you ought to have the last tin.”

Olivia cracked it open, smiling when she saw the dried, blood-red contents of the little pouches stuffed inside. “I’ve missed having corpseweed.”

“I know you have, madam,” Garron muttered, shaking his head. “And I’ve rather given up trying to understand why.”

“Perhaps I could explain it to you sometime.”

He plucked her hand away from his collar buttons and said with a frown: “Just try to behave, will you?”

Olivia waited until he’d marched out the door before she plodded upstairs — her teeth already bared against her fate.

Now that the Bassets were gone, the whole running of Greenblood would be dropped directly into her hands. Tristan would see to that: he’d want someone he could control running the island. And unless Olivia wanted to be hanged before the council, she’d do as he said.

No fewer than three servants stopped her on the way up, each armed with a whole list of questions about what should be put where, or who should oversee which operations. There were so many tiny little concerns spewing off each one of their tongues that Olivia had to wonder if Greenblood could continue to float without her there to command it not to sink.

“Ask Carlton — he’ll be able to tell you everything you want to know,” Olivia snapped.

The hurried steps paused behind her. One of the servants gasped. “The — the stablehand, my lady?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, smirking as she felt the air freeze behind her. “Yes, Carlton’s been around long enough to know what I expect from everybody. You’ll take all of your questions straight to him. Let him know he’s in charge, will you?” she called over her shoulder as she neared the third floor landing. “And tell him I’ll be deeply upset if he fails me.”

She left the servants to their indignant tittering, a smile upon her lips. Putting a stablehand in charge of an island? Now that was precisely the sort of thing Garron would’ve done. Carlton might’ve been a bit simple — but it was one of his better qualities.

With the closing of her chamber door came instant relief: a slight rain pattered against the sill of an opened window, the flames snapped furiously in the hearth. And for the first moment since she’d accepted Lord Basset’s proposal, Olivia was blissfully alone.

The maids had wrinkled their noses when Olivia requested a pot for tea be hung above her fire, but did as they were told. The boiling water strained through the tea leaves, turning it as black as a corpseweed’s stem. A faint aroma drifted from the cup — one so subtle it was almost more feeling than smell. The fumes drifted straight to Olivia’s head and plunged down into the streams of her blood, calming them.

Memories of her evenings in Pinewatch came back to her: the scratching of Garron’s quill, the creak of trees just outside the door, the hours spent sprawled before the hearth after her sparring lessons — trying to coax the ache from her limbs.

When she added a bit of milk to the cup, the brew turned lavender. She liked that very much: the fact that something that appeared to be so deep and black actually hid a surprising color. All it needed was a bit of white to coax it out, a bit of something mild and soft …

Perhaps that was what Garron had been hoping for all this time. Perhaps he’d been certain that she had a bit of color in her, and he was going to be the thing that drew it out. Had she been her own creature, she might’ve had her own color. But Olivia wasn’t her own creature.

She belonged to The Poison.

When her cup was full, she turned to the hearth. It took half a moment to hang the pot back into place — no more than three breaths’ worth. But by the time she turned around, Olivia was no longer alone.

Tristan sat at her table.

He must’ve come in through the window: his hair was damp and dripping, his black coat darkened by the rain. He lounged, one leg crossed over the other, in her high-backed chair. “I thought that was going to be the difficult bit, convincing you to get Basset out of the way … but you did it yourself.”

“And for my own reasons,” Olivia snarled. She slid one foot carefully behind her. The iron hearth poker leaned against the wall, just out of her reach. If he so much as shifted towards her, she would give him the fight of his life.

She would no longer be beaten.

But Tristan didn’t move. His eyes were fixed upon her cup of tea — alive with dark amusement. “I must admit, I think I’ve rather fallen in love with this little island. Its lagoons are teeming with fish, its trees heavy with fruit, and the liquors Basset has managed to tease from its flesh are as sickly sweet as they are intoxicating. I always thought it a shame that he only brewed them for himself. Now the whole Kingdom will get to taste them.

“You played the grieving bride most convincingly, I might add.” Tristan’s long fingers wrapped around the tiny silver spoon that had been settled beside the cup, engulfing it. “I was nearly driven to tears myself, just watching.”

They both knew full well that Tristan had never once shed a tear. She doubted if he was even able to. “Well, now Basset’s dead. You’ve gotten want you want. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a day’s peace before you send me off on another murder.”

“There will be no more murders.” Tristan clinked the spoon obnoxiously against the cup’s mouth as he stirred the lavender brew. “You’ll stay here and run Greenblood for me. You’ll make certain my ships are stocked with liquors. There’s war brewing in the Kingdom … I imagine people will be more eager than ever to forget their troubles. We’re going to turn spirits into the Kingdom’s currency, you see. We’re going to turn its sorrows into gold.

“And you’re going to be my chief miner, Olivia. Oh, I might ask you to slip something into a few bottles here or there, but you needn’t know anymore than that,” he said quietly, his eyes finally dragging up to hers. “I’m going to use Greenblood and your charming little poisons to control the war. I’m going to make certain the most deserving side wins out.”

Olivia knew nothing of a war in the Kingdom and frankly, she didn’t care to. Her fists clenched and her mouth twisted into a snarl for an entirely different reason: “You’re going to keep me here? You’re going to trap me forever on this bloody island?”

Tristan stopped stirring. “Yes. You’ve become a liability, I’m afraid.”

“How so?”

“I saw you with the Shrewd today … saw how you allowed him to stay so near when you keep every other man at a distance. And you’ve certainly spent a rather unhealthy amount of time in the forest. You’ve gone soft, as women often do. It isn’t your fault, understand — softness is merely a flaw of your gender. I was a fool to think you’d be any different.”

He took the tea in one of his large hands and brought it delicately to his lips. He drank, watching over the cup while Olivia fumed. “I won’t do it. I won’t be trapped. You can’t —”

“I can,” he murmured. He took another sip of tea and winced at the flavor, but kept it stubbornly in his hands. “I can — ahem, ah — I can do whatever I please.”

Something like blood coated Olivia’s tongue. She spun back to the hearth; she locked her eyes onto the flames and dug her nails in deep. They bit through her flesh and a thin, warm line began trailing its way down her arm. But not even the pain was enough, this time.

She felt something horrible pressing against the backs of her eyes, beneath her skin. It was the thing that drowned The Poison. It would leave her vulnerable and helpless, as it had the last time she’d dared to cry … as it had the day Tristan murdered her mother.

The tears would wash her away and force her to start all over again. She would meet the crashing of the tide with a body made of sand. She didn’t know what new creature would rise from the depths …

But she feared it would be even more terrible and monstrous than the last.

“Or I suppose there’s a third choice,” Tristan murmured, rising to his feet. “I could grab you by the hair and hurl you out this chamber window. Everyone would assume you’d jumped, of course — and after the many convincing tears you shed today, there’d be no reason to doubt that you’d simply been overcome by sorrow. Perhaps that would be …”

Olivia had spun around at the mention of being hurled out the chamber window. She grabbed the iron poker and was prepared to battle for her life. But for some reason, Tristan hadn’t advanced.

He stood frozen before the chair, staring past her — his mouth half-open. The pits around his eyes suddenly seemed darker. Perhaps it was because his skin had gone pale.

His tongue dragged across his lips before he straightened. “But as I’m feeling particularly generous today, I’ll allow you to live — provided you never cross me.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Tristan’s chin might’ve trembled a bit as he turned towards the open window. He glowered at it for a moment, teeth bared. Then quite suddenly, marched for the door.

“Out of my way, girl,” he barked. He shoved past her and was nearly there when his boot caught on an uneven patch of stone. He stumbled …

And that was something Tristan never did.

“Please! Don — ah!”

But Olivia didn’t stop. She lashed him mercilessly — slamming the poker against his upraised arm, against his wrist and finally, to the side of his head. He dropped to the ground and could do little more than moan as the iron cracked his ribs. She stubbed a toe breaking his nose.

But it was worth it.

“Please … please!” he said thickly.

Olivia’s breaths tore against her lungs. They wailed inside their cage and nearly ripped from her chest as she braced the poker’s tip against the pulsing vein in Tristan’s throat …

No.

No, death was far too kind a fate for Tristan. He’d taken everything from her, tormented her all these years — held her so forcefully beneath his thumb. If she killed him now, the thrill that rushed through her veins would hiss and die out. But if she let him live, let him suffer … oh, The Poison might thrill and ache for years to come. She could press him under her thumb. She could make certain he was paid back.

It took every ounce of her will to draw that point away, to deny herself the pleasure of feeling him wriggle against Death. Her legs shook as she paced back to the chair. A smile bent her lips as she sat.

Tristan lay in a puddle upon the floor. An arc of blood ringed his head; he whimpered as he tried to lift his bruised hand. She swore she could see the agony in his eyes as his lungs expanded against his cracked ribs.

She watched him for a moment, reveling in the ebb and flow of The Poison’s embrace — grinning against the revelation that Garron had been wrong:

Corpseweed was poisonous.

The properties of the tea seemed to have had a peculiar affect on Tristan. She’d found the sharp brew to be rather relaxing: it didn’t allow her to worry, it loosened the tightness in her limbs. But though she supposed a human would’ve enjoyed the calming of his mind, a whisperer who was rather dependent upon its powers might find it … crippling.

“What will you … do with … me?” Tristan moaned between shallow breaths.

One thought came to her — plunging in among The Poison, softening the deep black of her desires: if she truly wanted Tristan to suffer, she would have to think like Garron.

“I’m going to let you live,” she said quietly. “I’m even going to let you keep your office. But there’s one thing I need you to understand, and it’s very important: you work for me now, chancellor. You do as I say.”

His mouth twisted into a snarl. “If I … refuse?”

“Then I’ll kill you. If you try to go to the council, then I’ll expose you for the murderous rat you are — and they’ll kill you. Garron’s been keeping track of things for me, and I think you’ll find his accounts to be very, very detailed.”

“Garron …?”

“Yes. Garron and I have been working together for a long while, now. And I’m afraid he made me a better offer. He knows the formula, as well,” she added, when she saw the plan forming beneath the pained film over Tristan’s eyes. “So if you kill me, he’ll end you. And if you try to kill him … well, you’d better hope Death finds you before I do.”

It was all a monstrous lie: she was fairly certain Garron knew nothing about the corpseweed’s true powers, and she didn’t think he’d actually been keeping track of her murders — though as he seemed to keep track of nearly everything else, she supposed it was possible.

But Tristan knew nothing of this. All he knew was his pain, the taste of his own blood, and the smile upon Olivia’s lips. He didn’t need to know any more than that.

“Do we have an understanding, chancellor?”

He moaned unintelligibly through the blood that coated his face.

Olivia made to stand.

“Yes!” he gasped, eyes growing wide at the sight of the poker. “Yes, we have a bloody understanding!”

“Good.”

Olivia stood and headed for the door — laughing when Tristan broke into sobs. Without his whisperer’s strength to mask it, he’d been stripped down to the sniveling coward she always knew he was.

There was a guardsman pacing at the end of the hallway. Olivia waved him down. “Send for Carlton. Tell him to ready his wagon and bring along one of his largest feed sacks. I have something I need shipped back to the chancellor’s castle immediately.”

She listened to the clink of the guardsman’s armor as he hurried down the stairs, her heart pounding in the thrill of what she’d just done. Then she drew a dagger from beneath her collar — one already tainted with a numbing poison.

She was eager to see if Tristan would be so resistant without the powers of his mind.

“Oliv … Olivia,” Tristan moaned from behind her. His face paled to the color of snow as he managed to roll over onto his back; he choked against his blood. “What was in — gah! In that … tea?”

“I’ll never tell,” she murmured as she stepped in beside him. She crouched so she could reach him, grabbed a fistful of his hair so she could wrench his head back — so she could force him to look into her eyes as she whispered: “And from now on, you’ll call me by another name — the name you stole from me. You will call me D’Mere.”

Chapter X

A Name Reclaimed

IT WAS NEARING THE MIDDLE of the night. Olivia leaned against the belly of a wide oak, listening to the ghostly whisper of the canopy above her. The snow had only just melted from this stretch of the Grandforest, but the air was still sharp — it stung the noises and scents of the woods, brought them to life with a yelp. She breathed them in, using their simple tones to calm The Poison.

A light bobbed up the path. It cast across the leaves and limbs in a yellow-orange glow. The orb at the center of the light wove unsteadily as it made its way towards her. A shadow of a man swerved beneath it, gurgling a mess of a tavern song.

Olivia didn’t move as the light drew closer. She didn’t have to. For when the man’s bloodshot eyes finally fell upon her, he dropped straight to his knees.

“All right, I’m sorry — I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“It’s too late for sorry, Foster. I’m afraid the chancellor is greatly offended.”

“But I wasn’t in my right mind when I called him daft! I swear it! I’d — I’d been drinking! Please,” Foster whimpered, dropping the lantern upon the ground so he could clutch his hands before him. “Please, you wouldn’t hold the words of an old drunkard against him, would you?”

“What I would or wouldn’t do is of no consequence. I’ve been sent here to punish you.”

“No,” he moaned. “You have to understand I didn’t know — I didn’t believe him when he said he’d send a ghost after me. How could I have possibly been expected to —? No, wait!”

But Olivia didn’t stop. She took three paces into the light, grinning beneath her mask as Foster whimpered.

“Thirty! I’ll give him thirty blasted percent!”

She drew the dagger from her belt, let the flat of the blade scrape against the mouth of the scabbard —

“Forty, by Fate! Forty, and he’ll practically own me!”

Olivia put the dagger away and instead, drew a roll of parchment from the folds of her coat. “You’ll sign this agreement and deliver it to Harborville by weeks’ end. They’ll carry it on to the chancellor.”

“But it’s at least a week’s ride to Harborville —”

“Then you’d better ride fast. If it’s not there on time, I’ll come back for a visit … and I won’t be happy.” Olivia threw the parchment at his feet and watched as Foster scrambled to stuff it into his pocket. Then she stepped out of the light and into the dark mouth of the woods.

Foster called after her. He wanted to know her name, wanted to know how she knew he’d be at the tavern. But she didn’t reply. She never replied. She wanted people to know as little as possible about the council’s newest agent.

Olivia would much rather be a wraith than be given a name — and so her victims’ fear would keep them silent.

Tristan had been right: war was brewing in the Kingdom. She’d heard nothing but talk all season about how Banagher had been at odds with his whisperers. He’d cast many of them from Midlan. A few wanted to rebel — and that number seemed to be growing steadily each day. But though the men of the seas were loath to rise and fight, Olivia would make certain they were prepared.

Foster’s village was responsible for supplying a large portion of the council’s army with its bows and arrows. Now that they would be able to purchase them so cheaply, they could amass a stock for the coming war. She’d spent much of her time away from Greenblood, traveling from hold to hold across the forest and the seas, tightening the council’s grip on everything from armorers to fishmongers.

If the Kingdom did indeed fall to war with the whisperers, they would need every blade and every crumb they could possibly gather.

And even then, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Now that her business with Foster was settled, there was just one other merchant Olivia wished to see. A ship waited in Oakloft to carry her back to Greenblood — but instead, she turned north.

Her mare trotted for miles down a familiar path, weaving her way beneath the enormous trees as the bleak of night gave way to a pale dawn. Pinewatch had only just begun to stir: the first sputtering tendrils of smoke rose from its chimneys, the first line of sleepy villagers stumbled from their homes to go about their chores. A few of them nodded to her as she passed — smiling in familiarity at the masked rider who often stayed with Garron.

She stabled her mare; the lads filled her trough with water and oats. Then she made her way to the house.

Olivia was still several yards from the door when it suddenly swung open. After all she’d learned about him, she wasn’t surprised that Garron had answered it himself. He must’ve seen her coming from the study window.

“I’ve heard rumors that D’Mere’s ghost is haunting the forest, terrorizing lord and merchant alike. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Please, Garron — you know I have no patience for rumors,” Olivia said with a smirk.

His shirt was un-tucked, rumpled at its tail. His feet were bare and he’d let several notches out of his belt. She knew this likely meant he’d been up all night at his ledger — though as he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, she knew it wasn’t numbers that’d been troubling him.

“I assume you’ve just returned from one of the chancellor’s errands?” he called as she approached.

“Yes. It was Foster, this time,” Olivia replied.

She’d decided not to tell Garron about her freedom. The whole seas believed that Tristan was still in charge, and it would be best if it stayed that way. Besides, had Garron known the truth, he only would’ve scolded her for continuing on with her … negotiations.

His sharp eyes snapped up her length. “And I assume you’ve come here today because you mean to hide while your wounds are healed?”

“No. I haven’t got any wounds.” She pulled her hood away, dropped her mask below her chin. “See?”

Garron’s mouth parted slightly — and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked considerably surprised. “Then you must be in some manner of trouble? Danger? Are you being followed?”

“No … everything’s quite all right.”

“Then why exactly have you come here, madam?”

She wasn’t sure. “I suppose there isn’t a reason. I just hoped we might be able to talk.” Olivia stopped an arm’s reach from him and couldn’t help but smile at the uncharacteristic confusion in his sharp blue eyes. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

For a moment, it looked as if he might refuse: his brows snapped low, and he frowned. Then quite unexpectedly, he pulled her into his arms.

It was odd, but the lips that pressed against hers weren’t nearly as stern as she’d expected them to be. They moved gently, patiently. The Poison should’ve risen up, should’ve arced through her veins and forced her to move more roughly — to drive Garron to the very edge of his limits and revel in his anguished moans.

But instead of burning, her blood turned … warm. It numbed her, softened her. She moved patiently with Garron, soothed to the very tips of her fingers.

The world passed in a blur around her. She barely heard the creak of the stairs — she was focused far too intently on the pressure of Garron’s arms as he carried her up. The rough of his tunic gave way to the smooth of his skin … his hands drew warmth from her flesh, carried it straight to her middle …

And at what seemed like the very next moment, Olivia was lying with her head pressed against Garron’s chest — her ears filled with the steady rhythm of his heart, her fingers at last tangled among those little hairs.

Sweat clung to her neck. She closed her eyes against the tickling as a drop rolled down her back. Her breaths were ragged and deep — they kept pace with Garron’s. His arm was wrapped tightly about her shoulders, holding her against him. And had it not been for the insistence of his strength, she felt as if she might very well have melted from the bed and sloshed out onto the floor.

Weakness … that was the feeling that’d made her arms go limp. But it was strange, this brand of weakness. It wasn’t the sort she was used to feeling — the helplessness she’d once felt when Tristan had her pinned beneath his heels. It wasn’t the frustration of Garron being able to knock her to the ground in sparring lessons, or the jolt of being struck by someone stronger.

No, this was different. This feeling that covered her now didn’t remind her of how weak she was, but convinced her that she didn’t have to be so strong … that for once in her life, she could lay still and rest in the knowing that she was safe.

“I would ask you to marry me, but I don’t think it would do me any good.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed. “Even if I didn’t belong to Tristan, I’d still refuse you.”

He laughed; his lips brushed against her forehead. “Very well. Then I suppose I’ll have to be content to be your lover … ah, you aren’t in the habit of killing your lovers, I hope?”

Olivia snorted. “Don’t be silly. What if I wanted one of them again, but couldn’t have him because I’d already slit his throat?”

Garron’s chin jutted out and his eyes roved to the ceiling. “That’s a remarkably good point, madam.”

“Thank you.”

They said nothing for a long while. Olivia lay as still as she could — enjoying the gentle flow of Garron’s blood, the soothing calm of her weakness. “What changed your mind?” she whispered after a moment, closing her eyes once again. She smiled against the rumble in his chest as he replied:

“Time. The knowing that you’d ridden a good many miles out of your way not because you needed anything, but because you simply wished to speak with me. You wished to spend your time with me. And time, my dear, is our most valuable possession.” His thumb trailed softly against her arm. “It was an offering every bit worthy of my attention.”

He was quiet for a breath. Then he sighed heavily. “No, it was more than that — far more than I could’ve ever afforded. In fact, I believe as I lay here I find myself rather severely in your debt.”

For once, Garron was wrong.

Olivia would always belong to The Poison. But for the moment, it was buried deeply. These few breaths she’d had to lay in Garron’s arms had given way to a rather surprising gift.

Love was a poison — but with Garron, it felt more like a salve. In fact, she felt more at home in this moment than she’d felt in a long while … than she thought she would ever feel again.

She raised her head so that she could look into his eyes, braced her thumb against his chin and very firmly said: “You don’t owe me anything, Garron. Continue to heal me … and you’ll never be in my debt.”

The Story Continues In… Book 1: Harbinger

Afterword

SHAE FORD IS A WRITER of YA fantasy who was born and raised in a not-so-small town outside of Fort Worth, Texas. She thinks the real world is pretty decent, but prefers to spend most of her time in the Kingdom: a land filled with warriors, mages, and a new race called whisperers. Her debut series, Fate’s Forsaken, follows the coming-of-age story of a young man gifted with extraordinary powers … but plagued by rotten bad luck. Shae published her first book in 2012, and she’s been on an adventure of her own ever since.

The Fate’s Forsaken quartet:

Book 1: Harbinger

Book 2: Slight and Shadow

Book 3: Dragonsbane

Book 4: Daybreak (Summer 2015)

Sign up for Shae’s newsletter: www.ShaeFord.com/newsletter/

Facebook: www.facebook.com/harbingerthebook

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THE MASKMAKER’S APPRENTICE

Endi Webb

Chapter I

The Wanderer

HE HAD WORN HIS MASK since he could walk.

Babies, being innocent, need no masks, and most small children will not abide one. But Elu, being of the adventurous sort, toddled over to his father’s lectern, grabbed the jeweled adventurer’s mask stored underneath and pressed it to his face. Fate smiles on those who tempt her, so the ancients say, but Elu’s mother, previously distracted with seven other busy children now gasped in horror at her newly masked son. Imagining all manner of curses and maledictions certain to now plague the family for her son’s impropriety she snatched it from the child’s grip and scolded him.

Elu’s father, apparently not so convinced of the gods’ ire, laughed merrily at his son and teased his wife for her superstition. Had her own homeweaver mask not obscured her flash of annoyance he might have stopped sooner than he did, but now Elu, squirming in his mother’s arms grabbed at her mask as well, in spite of her shouted threats of whippings and punishment.

Still laughing, the father announced, “Then perhaps it is time for his masking. It will not do for him to steal your woman’s mask when you are not looking.”

“A child should not be masked until he understands the mask and the role he is given,” she replied in defiance.

“True, wife. But our child has reached for his own mask, of his own will and accord. It portends great things for him. I foresee that he will make his own destiny and not be given his role by man.”

And though he spoke with his wooden householder’s mask and not the green painted teacher’s mask of his daily wear, the prophetic speech stilled her words, but not her heart, which feared now for her youngest child. For people do not simply choose their own masks.

Your first masks are given to you by the ones who also give you life. Later, with wisdom only a stern and unforgiving world can teach, you accept other masks given you by your masters, be it the king, the presbyter, or the teacher: on rare occasion the mask may be given by fate itself. One may choose his own mask, yes, but the gods frown upon such insolence. Such presumption.

And so the following morning, next to the icy cold waters of the creek that ran through the village of Gheb, Elu was masked by his father. The child’s mask—a basic curved wooden frame with goat leather stretched across, punctuated by large eye holes and a small opening for the mouth, suggesting to the child that they should see much and say little—was every man’s first mask. The father, still young himself, slowly, ceremoniously, dipped the simple wooden frame three times into the swift, black water. Thus cleansed of the wood spirits that previously called it home, he strapped it proudly to his son’s face, who proceeded to rip it off and run for the brisk water’s edge, only to be yanked back by his frantic mother.

Never had a child been given a mask at such a young age in the village of Gheb, and the neighbors, who early in the morning had merely scoffed, now openly derided the teacher for his folly. ’Tis an evil thing, they said, for one so young to be masked, but the father stoically ignored them, firmly holding his son and reattaching the mask to his face. This time the child relented.

Through his youth Elu kept his mask on. But he wandered. The small village could not contain him and he escaped early and often to the edges of the hills from which flowed the creek that fed the village below. Several of his older brothers, and later, his younger ones, often accompanied him but he did not abide more than one or two at a time.

When the gullies and meanderings of the creek had yielded their secrets, he looked further up the hills and spied the beginning of the forest. Vast elmore trees with their bushy, prickly arms fluttered in the wind, or swayed with the whisperings of the wood spirits that called to his mask, seeking to reclaim their lost home.

Elu ventured only short distances into the trees at first, not wishing to dishonor his mother who had commanded him not to wander too far, but the spirits called him, and he followed. Deep into the woods he went one day with his smaller brother, Lo. Higher and higher they followed the creek—a pathway of water encased by a low roof of dense foliage as if the stream had carved a tunnel through the green itself. Lush moss clothed the sharp rocks, and the muted water seemed to linger over its plush softness, but here and there the green had been torn or rubbed away by beast or man, revealing the black angled stones that made up the water’s bed.

Elu and Lo paused at a large rock over which flowed a trickling waterfall into a shallow pool below. Hangra fish scattered to and fro as the boys tossed tiny stones at them. They competed—seeing who could come closest to hitting first the fish, then the furry dandra that scurried on the forest floor beneath the foliage. Small games escalated to larger ones, when finally Lo said, “I reckon you can’t be climbing that rock.”

“I reckon I can,” said Elu.

“Show it to me,” said Lo.

“Show it yourself.”

“You are the elder. Show it first.”

“I will, but you follow when I succeed.” Elu started to climb up the slick rock before calling back, “If you can.”

Slowly, but steadily, he climbed the rock and within a minute stood triumphantly on the top, kicking water down at his brother below.

“Your turn to show it, brother.”

Lo began unsteadily at first, but gained confidence and skill as he climbed. Not an arm’s length from the top his bare foot slipped off the mossy rock and he fell, hitting his head as he dropped out of sight. Elu yelled and jumped into the shallow pool below, making a wave that washed his brother’s unmoving form up against the rock. He dragged the boy out of the water and examined him. His mask had been thrown off and blood issued from the back of his head, but soon he stirred and opened his now naked eyes.

“I didn’t show it.”

“You’re showing it all over me. Come, we must heal you.”

Lo stumbled to his feet, but soon collapsed. Elu lifted the boy and carried him down the ravine, off the hills and to the village where he entered the healer’s hut. The healer, a young woman with the black oak and bone mask of her trade, hurried Elu inside and snatched the smaller boy out of his arms. She laid him on a table and began chanting as she pressed cloth to the wound. Elu listened to the chant, how it began in the woman’s throat, but flowed through the mask, channeled and shaped by the ancient healers’ spirits that gave life and power and purpose to the mask. Long-dead masters of the healer’s art now caressed Lo’s head, and the bleeding staunched.

“Where is his mask, young one?”

“I do not know.”

“Then the gods have punished him for removing it. We do not remove them for play. You know that, child.”

“He did not remove it. It fell off when he fell.”

“The gods punish lying as well. Leave this place and tell your mother what you have done this day.”

“What have I done this day?” said Elu, his voice now raised defensively.

“You have lied, and to a healer, by the gods. I can see it. In your countenance. In your face, written upon your very mask. I know a liar when I see one. Get thee hence.”

Elu returned to his mother, a troubled but shrewd woman who could read her child’s mask like the teacher reads his scroll. He recounted the day’s events. She knew he did not lie—a child of hers could not dare to—but she knew his foretold destiny and feared for her other children. His free spirit would infect them—she knew. No more would his siblings be allowed to follow him in his wanderings. Not the older children, anyway, for they were now too busy with their apprenticeships, and now not the younger ones, by command of their mother.

And so Elu met Thora.

Thora ran and jumped as the boys, but with the grace as of a rowyn, with its delicate antlers and slender legs. Thora had not antlers but long braids of hair tied at the ends with coarse bark string, and her girl-child’s mask radiated thin strips of speckled, shining tak-weed from the river, tied there by Thora herself, which caught the beams of the sun and scattered them where she ran. The wild one, the villagers called her, and the other girls dared not play with her out of fear the wayward spirits haunting her mask might also latch onto them. Her girl-child’s mask must not have been properly anointed in the river during her masking, so Elu thought, otherwise, how else could the spirits find her and speak troubled, mischievous thoughts through the mask to her ears?

Elu did not care though, for she began to follow him in his adventurings, in spite of his younger age and the social impropriety of a girl and a boy alone together, unbetrothed. Some day, Elu’s mother would choose his partner and obtain for him a householder mask, but Elu did not feel, or yearn for Thora in that way. She simply filled the void left by Elu’s brothers, and he liked her. She climbed better than Lo, threw rocks farther than Lan—Elu’s next oldest brother—and punched harder than Elu himself.

Several villagers began to whisper, particularly those whose masks were wont to gossip. The potter’s wife especially, whose homeweaver mask must have been home to several considerably loud spirits, for the woman’s voice carried as she remarked at the ill manners of the teacher’s son and the blacksmith’s daughter. Her neighbor, the weaver’s wife, nodded in agreement, her mask giving its solemn approval to the prudent judgment.

But for the most part the wanderers were not heeded much, for they were rarely present. The closer hills to the village soon felt far too familiar to Elu and the thirst for unknown forests called his spirit, beckoning him to wander further from the known. Before he attained the age of apprenticeship he had ventured as far as the neighboring village, a small hamlet far up in the hills at the base of craggy mountains, near the spot where the icy creek issued from the snowy, forlorn peaks.

“Let us explore the village,” said Thora. They perched themselves on the middle branches of a particularly large elmore tree on a bluff overlooking their new discovery.

“We shall not. My father warned me about meeting strange men from other villages. Their masks may have evil spirits that deceive and make afraid.”

“He just tells you that to scare you. Let us go down.”

Elu sniffed and crossed his arms in defiance. “Father does not lie. He is a teacher. Your father learns at his feet after his forge grows cool and he sets aside his tools for the day. He does not make up lies to scare me.”

“It is not a lie when a grown mask tells a young mask stories to frighten it. Father tells me things all the time to scare me. Just this morning he told me the water spirits will spring out of the lake to drag me in if I get too close. I know they will do no such thing. But he likes how my mask looks when he tells me fantastic stories.” She let her eyes go large and thrust her tongue out the small opening of her mask. Elu couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Let us go down, brother.”

“Why do you call me brother?”

“Because your brothers used to be your companions during your wanderings. You were sad when they stopped, and so now I replace them.”

Elu marveled at the perception of her mask. The spirits therein could read his mind and whispered to her ears, he was sure of it. He said little, and yet every day Thora seemed to speak his mind as if she read it from a scroll.

“Then, sister, let us go down. But let us stay away from the people.”

“It is well.”

The two negotiated the thick branches of the elmore tree and shimmied down the final few feet of trunk which had no branches at all, but whose callous bark bulged out in great islands from the tree’s body, providing plenty of space for small fingers to climb. Deep, verdant shrubbery shrouded the feet of the trees and the two cautiously descended the bluff amidst the cover of green and approached the village.

It seemed to be part of the forest itself, with several houses built into the very trees—several sturdy trunks forming the corners of the buildings with cut logs stacked to form the walls, a patchwork of interlaced living elmore branches and thatch forming the roof. Where there were streets they were filled with ruts and holes. This village must not have a wheelwright mask to serve it, though the very existence of the roads suggested that a wheelwright lived here in the past. His mask was never passed down to an apprentice.

Such were the times.

Elu had seen the king’s men come to town on occasion seeking bodies to don the warrior’s mask and assist in the wars on the borders of their land—the minor kingdom of Hemlade. As such the village of Gheb had lost its last shipwright a year ago and no longer were almseeker masks seen in the streets, for those were taken at the point of a sword to serve the king’s armies.

“What mask is that?” Thora whispered into Elu’s ear.

“Which one?”

“The white ones. With no mouth holes.” She pointed across a crowd of people that had gathered itself before a large open-air market. Merchant masks shouted their wares while men boisterously haggled with one another. The sharp sun unexpectedly pierced the grey and green canopy overhead and forced the sellers of leafy vegetables to cover their wilting produce. But Thora’s finger aimed at a pitiful looking group of people, tied at the hands and feet, and to each other, their expressionless white masks double strapped to their heads, no mouth holes as if their masks were not meant for speech, most looking straight down, though the smaller ones appeared fidgety and looked this way and that.

“I have not seen those before, but my father has spoken of them. Slave masks,” said Elu.

“There are no slaves in Gheb.”

“We are not in Gheb. We are close to the hinterlands, where slaver masks have free reign. The king has little influence there. Or here, so it appears.”

“Where do they come from?”

“I know not, sister.”

“Can we do something?”

He looked into her eyes, shocked at the question. If they were wearing the white mask of the slave then they were meant to be slaves. The gods do not distribute masks without purpose. “It is not our place. If they wear the masks then the gods have willed it. If they did not will it, they would send the king to their rescue. Or someone.”

“Maybe they sent us,” she insisted.

“That is not for us to decide. We must honor the ways of the ancients.”

“That’s just what your father says.”

“And yours. It is what all our fathers say.”

He sensed her change of mood. He did not want this. All he wanted was adventure. To see new things. New places. Fresh places, where the spirits were unfamiliar and interesting. To get away from his mother and her constant haranguing and the endless chores and mindless tasks. He had not wanted to upset his friend. He looked down at her fists, which balled up in a rage that manifested itself also in her mask, whose tak-weed strips flashed the angry sun into his eyes. He touched her arm.

“We should go. We’ve been gone long.”

“Look.” She pointed to a slave-masked woman. Men argued next to her, but finally agreed on a price, and one of them handed the thick rope to the other, the rope that ended in the collar around her neck. A smaller girl, not a little child but not yet of age, clasped her hand tightly and would not let go. One of the men yelled at her. She cowered before him but still would not relinquish her grip. The man violently struck her arm and her grasp broke. She cried.

“Let us leave,” said Elu.

Thora remained rigid but allowed herself to be led from the village. Midway up the hill, she shook off his guiding hand and pulled ahead, leading the way back to the village of Gheb.

They did not speak of that day afterwards. Elu could sense her anger and her helplessness and thought it better to be silent. Talk would make it worse. Silence was a salve, according to his father’s lore, that mended the piercing of words. Words would damage her more, and what good was an upset traveling companion?

The wicked heat of late summer relented and the mornings grew crisp. The falling leaves told Elu that his treks up into the hills would soon have to end—his wanderings would now be in the valley below during the months of the chill winds. Thora had not followed him to the valley yet, and he had all sorts of wonderful sights to show her.

But it would not be.

“Son.”

“Yes, father?”

The man’s shadow darkened the doorway to the children’s bedroom. “Tomorrow you reach the age of apprenticeship.”

“The land is my master, father, and I am an apprentice to wandering.”

“That was sufficient for your youth, but a man must learn a trade. You are to apprentice to the potter. He expects you tomorrow. He will mask you in the morning and you will be his.”

“But I do not wish—“

“Silence!”

The soft green wooden teacher’s mask took on a terrifying air as its ancient owners recoiled at Elu’s rebellious speech. He was tempted to cower, to hide his eyes from the now terrible mask and the fiery eyes behind them, but he squared his jaw, righted his child’s mask and repeated, “Father, I do not wish to be a potter.”

The man took a step towards his son. His mask towered menacingly over the boy, but only momentarily, and the shadow passed. The mask’s countenance softened and a hand extended to his son’s shoulder.

“Son. Some day you will make your destiny, as I foretold in your youth. But for now, your destiny is made for you. The potter is your master now. Learn from him. Learn from your new mask. The spirits will have much to teach you. Patience, son. Patience and duty.”

Elu watched him leave. Why must he be a potter? Of all the trades—he could be a blacksmith, a healer, a maskmaker, even a teacher as his father—but a potter? Of all the trades, is there one that requires more stillness, more patience, less movement, less adventure? Surely the gods have erred. Surely they meant to tell his father that Elu was to apprentice to the king’s magician or his horsemaster. Surely he was to become a shipwright and restore that lost lore to the village, making Elu a hero, to be honored in time as one of the great among the ancients.

But all Elu could see in his dreams was the potter’s mask. It was not the bold blue painted clay mask that Gheb’s master potter wore, but a bone white mask, double strapped to his own terrified face as he peered down at his hands and feet, chained to the potter’s lifeless wheel.

Chapter II

The Potter

BOREDOM IS A TEDIOUS SCHOOLMASTER. When once one thinks the lesson is learned, the indifferent master remains and delivers the lesson anew. Such thoughts filled Elu’s mind during the first days as apprentice to the potter of Gheb.

His time with the man began promisingly enough: on a cold morning Elu’s father presented the boy to the man—more a shadow than man, he was so thin—who greeted Elu by placing his overly-large potter’s hands on Elu’s mask. He then pulled Elu’s new apprentice’s mask from the folds of his robe, revealing a slender, smaller version of his own indigo clay mask, though of milder color and not so finely adorned.

The man stooped at the water’s edge and immersed it once in the water, not three times as with masks of identity—child masks, householder masks, homeweaver masks, these must be mostly purged of their spirits, and the three washings banishes all but the most potent, and therefore knowledgeable spirits. But the trade masks need only one immersion to wash away only the most unclean spirits—the most lazy, the most unprofitable—thus keeping the vast host of spirits of those competent bearers who previously donned the mask.

Elu felt them when his master pressed the mask to his face. They called to him. As his face warmed the cold clay they brought things to his remembrance that he didn’t know he knew, or rather forgot he knew. He saw clay—the flesh of the earth, in all its textures and colors, writhing and contorting under masterful hands on the revolving surface of the wheel, and he recognized those hands: they were his. But not his—they belonged to all the owners of the mask from generations past, and their collective memory spurred his hands to action as he sat to work the first time, shaping, smoothing, curving, flattening, mashing, caressing the pliant mud as his feet sped and slowed the wheel beneath.

At first, it was like his adventurings, except now the places he discovered through his new craft had the vaguest air of nostalgia, of familiarity, and within days of his initial instruction from the wiry, gruff master potter he began to venture out on his own, exploring new shapes, mixing new glazes, stretching the clay into creations taller, wider, bolder than what had gone before.

“No, no, no!” The potter boxed his ears, making Elu wince in pain and embarrassment.

“No, master?”

“What is this you are doing? I gave you a task. Basins! You are to make basins! Not this refuse!”

“But the spirits spoke to me, master, I—”

“Your master spoke to you and ordered basins. The spirits will not contradict your master. Do as I say or I will remove your mask and send you to your father in shame.”

Elu did not wish his mask to be taken, as much as he already loathed the man and the thought of endlessly fashioning the same basin every day for the rest of his life. But he would not shame his father. To return maskless to one’s father is the highest dishonor. It is like being born anew—but it is an ignominious rebirth, to return from your manhood as a naked child to your father who sent you prepared to face the world. And no tradesman in the town would henceforth agree to take one as apprentice who had so shamed his father and himself.

“I will make basins, master. Forgive my rebellion,” he gritted through his mask, and angled his face to the master’s feet.

He made the basins, grudgingly, but before the day darkened he longed for his days wandering free among the trees and streams. He found that with basic tasks the potter’s mask simply took over and completed them by rote action, leaving his mind to wander far. He longed for the forest grass under his feet, for the rushing water of the creek against his bare skin. He longed, and watched for his opportunity.

His first chance came on a snowy day. When it snowed in the village of Gheb, rarely did more than a finger’s depth fall at once and this time was no exception. But the potter was one who imagined all sorts of false ills. Many villagers thought he was so thin because he spent half his time working clay and the other half working himself into a panic about his supposed symptoms. The weatherweaver, in whose mask the people held great trust and esteem, had not called for snow that day, so when the unexpected snow began to fall the potter rushed into the shop where Elu sat shaping another basin. He tried to speak but a fit of coughing erupted from his mask instead. He gripped the table until the coughing subsided and then breathlessly jabbed his finger towards the window.

“Do you see that? An ill omen! The weatherweaver promised rain today. Rain all this week! And look at me—my nose waters, my body shakes, and I do not cease this cursed coughing. Evil vapors are about, my son, and you would do well to go home to your mother in this evil hour.”

“But master, it is just some unexpected snow.”

“This is no ordinary snow, boy. This is the work of evil spirits—whether they have taken up abode in the weatherweaver’s mask to create the snow, or in mine to make me feel its effects more powerfully, I do not know. But I know that you should go. It may be the last time you ever see your loved ones. Go!”

Elu’s mask had only a very small hole for talking, as potter apprentices are not expected to need much speech, but in this instance it was just as well: he could not contain the smirk spreading across his face and when the door slammed shut behind the potter his eyes closed and he laughed as silently as he could as he followed his master out the door and turned down the street, not towards his mother’s house, but to the house of the blacksmith, where Thora lived.

“What do you want with her?” The burly man asked through the half-open door. His steel mask glinted the reflected light of the leaping fire in the grill behind him.

“Just to talk.”

“My daughter has no friends. She is wild. What would you want with her?”

Elu weighed his options. Would knowledge of her wanderings with Elu make her father more or less likely to allow her to see him? Best to hedge.

“I have seen her wander and would like to ask her what she sees in her travels. May I talk to her?”

“You may not, teacher’s son.”

“It will be brief, master.”

“I have spoken and will not speak again.”

He slammed the door firmly shut, but not before Elu heard a sharp, “Father!” He waited by the door for a while, but the cold forced him to move on. Adventure called. The unknown would not wait.

He turned his face south and west, to the low, rolling hills that bordered the forbidden barrows. It was rumored that thieves and brigands frequented those hills and apprehension had kept him from exploring them, but Elu was of age now, and no brigand would frighten him. On the trail that led from the village he heard rustling behind him. Thora ran up the path and nearly knocked him over.

“Elu!”

“Thora! Your father let you go?”

“After a fashion, yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is an obstinate man and required persuading before I left, though I cannot honestly say I had his leave. But enough. I’ve missed our wanderings. Lead on.”

Elu looked deep into her mask. Off to the side of her eye, he could just make out a blue shadow, as if bruised, but the light coming off the snow cast strange shadows and beguiled his eyes. He turned and resumed his pace. He rarely spoke to her before in their wanderings, but now having not seen her in months he felt compelled to make conversation.

“Do you enjoy your apprenticeship, Thora?”

“I have none.”

“Why is that? You are of age, are you not?”

“I am. But no woman in town will have me.”

“Then they know not what they deprive themselves of.”

“I do work for the innkeeper’s wife. Not as apprentice, but as … as helper,” she said, struggling for words. No word existed for one who assisted another with their trade, and yet was not an apprentice. It was a grave dishonor to be of such comport and countenance that would preclude one from meriting an apprenticeship. Thora had often related to him the tauntings of the other girls, and occasionally hinted at nastier things unnamed adults in the village said in her presence, but he had not realized the extent of her exclusion.

They traveled far that day. The snow ceased. The sun burned its way through thick clouds and the landscape rose up before them in a blaze of white. For hours they explored the hills, talking much and delighting at the rare blanket that covered the ground, however fleetingly. Elu turned his eyes further south.

“Shall we explore the barrows?”

“I will follow you to the end of the earth. But not there. And it is late.”

“Why not there? Do you fear the spirits?”

“No,” she said, defiantly.

“Then why not?”

“They are forbidden. Your father the teacher tells us to avoid that part of the land. As does the presbyter. And the maskmaker. And the weatherweaver. They all say the same.”

“My father is the teacher and he is a good man, but he does not see all. He has never been there and knows not of what he speaks. Come. Let us find out for ourselves.”

“No. I will not go. You persuaded me last season to enter the strange forest village. I followed you then, but not this time.”

“And what ill followed? We entered the village, we saw it, and we left. The same shall be so again. We will enter the barrows, see, and leave. And if I recall, it was you who persuaded me to enter the village.”

“For the last time, no!” And she punched Elu hard in the gut before flying northward. Elu doubled over, and before he caught his breath he was alone. He pursued her, but soon lost her tracks in the quickly melting snow. Why was she so nervous? She seemed different somehow from when they explored as children, as if some burden weighed her down.

Further opportunities for exploring eluded him for some time, and he grew weary of the plodding monotony of the basin making. His back ached from hunching over the spinning wheel for so many long hours every day, and his spirit ached more at having to spend his vital youth in a trammel, a cage of boredom that leached his vigor.

Inevitably he decided to make his own opportunities to escape. At first he resorted to simple lying. The potter, though skilled at his craft, was hopelessly dull in all other matters and naively believed Elu when he claimed his mother was ill and required assistance at home, or when his father needed help skinning a wrobly. Soon, as one lie required another for company it became too much to manage, so Elu resorted to contriving sicknesses, something that played well to the natural fears of the potter.

On most occasions, Thora managed to escape the eyes of the innkeeper’s wife and steal away with Elu, but her partings were more inopportune and awkward, leading to uncomfortable situations in which the innkeeper and his wife both publicly scolded Thora for her insolence and laziness, and worse encounters that she only hinted at to Elu. She bristled at the treatment, but held her tongue, for someone with a mere child’s mask did not hold the rank necessary to question their treatment by an experienced tradesman.

Eventually, the inexorable pull of justice exposed Elu’s many deceptions. The innkeeper’s wife remarked at Thora’s frequent absences to the potter’s wife, and added that she believed the girl was still gallivanting about with the teacher’s son. The potter’s wife, ever the overbearingly loud gossip, passed her suspicions to her husband who confronted Elu’s father publicly in the street.

When Elu returned to his father’s house from his wanderings that day, the usually calm, affable man awaited him. As he walked through the door the teacher stood up, strode over to his son, the son that had brought such dishonor upon the house, and ripped the potter apprentice’s mask violently from his head, revealing a shocked, naked face.

Chapter III

The Maskmaker

ELU’S NAKED FLESH SHONE BRIGHT red from the cold and he quickly covered his face with his hands. But he did not move, knowing his father had discovered his evil ways, and he knew he had no excuse but one.

“I’m sorry, father. But I had to get out.”

The father approached his teacher’s lectern in silence and laid the potter apprentice’s mask on top. He sighed.

“Father, I am not a potter. I—”

“No, you are correct. Because of your impatience and insolence, you are not a potter. But you could have been. You could have been one of the great ones. You have the gift of an adventurer, son, and the power to speak to the very spirits of things. Combining the wisdom of your potter’s mask with your yearnings for knowledge and discovery would have made you great. In time, the king himself—gods bless him—would have called you to work at his court in the city of Skandia.” He paused, stowing the mask underneath the lectern.

“But you’ve pissed it away.” His voice rose ever so slightly and he turned to regard his son. “Your shame lies naked for all to see. The potter will not have you back, and after his wife finishes telling every other homeweaver in town none will have you as apprentice. Do you understand me? None. It is not just that you love exploring, son, it’s that you run from your responsibilities. No one wants an apprentice who will neglect his tasks—who will shirk the roles given him.”

The magnitude of his situation began to register on Elu’s mind. All he wanted was to explore. His heart yearned for it. His soul demanded it. But his father was right. With no occupation, he was nothing. He may as well present himself to the slavers, to be taken away and put to work at the lash of a whip. At least then he’d be useful. Why must the potter be so … so disagreeable? So lacking in vision that all he could ask Elu to make was basins?

“I’m sorry, father. I will go to the potter and beg his forgiveness.”

“No.”

“No? But surely if I humble myself and ask—”

“You do not understand me, son. When I say he will not take you back, that is what I mean. I know the potter. He is a proud, stubborn man. He may be simple, and paranoid, and of feeble mind, but these only make him more stubborn—as one who fears that what little he has in the way of grace must be compensated for with brutishness and abuse.”

“Then what is to be done? Have I no chance to redeem myself?”

Elu’s father nearly yelled now. “And what did you expect? You lied to a craftsman. You made him look a fool to the entire town. What other craftsman will want you? What other craftsman will trust you?”

“Can’t I just be your apprentice?”

The man laughed. “Ha! A teacher does not choose himself. The people choose the teacher, and the mask confirms the choice. When the mask was placed on my face, the ancient teachers of old spoke to me. Whispered to my mind. They broadened my knowledge. They brought words to my remembrance such that I spoke in a manner as never before, and it became clear to all that I was chosen by the mask to be the teacher indeed.” He regarded the naked-faced youth before him, “And besides, a teacher can only teach wisdom if it is found within him. You have demonstrated a lack of wisdom: few in the town would desire you as a teacher.”

Elu looked down, face still covered with his trembling hands. He wanted to reverse the flow of time, to return to the Elu from before his transgressions and warn him of the consequences, of the inevitable grip of justice that wrenches false masks from the charlatans that parade them as truth.

“Then I am lost,” he said, and sobbed.

The teacher looked at his wayward son, and pitied him. But the lesson must be learned, or it is no lesson at all.

“Go find your child’s mask. Perhaps with time the town may forget. For now, though, you are my child once again.”

Elu left the room to search for the mask of his childhood, the simple leather and wood frame that his father bought from the maskmaker with pride and cleansed himself in the river over a dozen years earlier. The man lingered by the lectern and fingered the mask stored underneath—the blue jeweled adventurer’s mask—borne by the teacher before he was called teacher. Before he was even called father.

The shame of losing his apprentice’s mask burned in Elu’s mind. As he walked the streets for the next few weeks the sight of the other boys his age working at their apprenticeships renewed his anguish. The injustice of it all frustrated him, but he caught himself—it was by justice that he was in this position. Exploring did not help. It only brought fresh feelings of guilt. Guilt at having dishonored his father, one of the most honored men in the town, of the same standing as the weatherweaver, the maskmaker, and the presbyter—though not quite as much as the magistrate, whose ruby-studded silver mask seemed filled with the power and majesty of the king himself, gods bless him.

Elu found solace in Thora. For the first time in his life, rather than being followed and shadowed by someone else, he found himself loitering near the rear of the inn in hopes of catching Thora at an unoccupied moment, which were few as the innkeeper kept her very busy.

“Thora!” Elu hissed from behind a bush. Thora had just emerged from the rear door of the inn.

“Elu? What is it? I’m busy.”

“Oh. I can come back later, if … if you want.”

“I’d like that. The innkeeper and his wife are good to employ me, but the work is hard, and I’d like to talk to you sometime. I miss our wanderings.

“So do I,” said Elu.

“Then maybe later, after lunch. There is less work to be done then, and less chance of the innkeeper finding you here as he is usually asleep at that hour.”

“I will return, then.”

Elu crept away from the bush behind the inn and aimed for his own home. His mother would appreciate some help in the house.

“Boy!”

Elu looked around for the source of the voice. A craggy, hard voice. He saw the old man in his doorway, looking out at him. He recognized him—he had seen the man often talking with his father. His mask looked simple, elegant, yet lordly—constructed of pure, unpainted elmore wood, and adorned with a few touches of all the common mask materials: metal, glass, stones, and jewels.

“Lord Maskmaker, sir.” He bowed slightly, touching the top of his mask in respect to the high office of the man.

“Come here,” he growled.

He approached the hut where the maskmaker conducted his business. He stood before the old man, and waited for him to speak. It is insolence to presume to speak before one of such authority.

“I need a servant. Come inside.”

“You want me to be your apprentice, sir?”

“Don’t be foolish! I have had three in all my years and one such as you has no place as an apprentice. No, boy, I said I need a servant. Someone to fetch me materials. Someone to clean the piss out of my chamber basin. Someone to sweep my floor after I finish my work.”

“But, sir, why me?”

The man laughed at him. “Who else will have you? You’re the talk of the town! The potter has made sure that all know of your treatment of him, and if he missed someone, his wife will surely finish the job.”

Elu considered the man beckoning him into the hut. To be a servant was … not exactly dishonorable, but servants never became craftsmen or masters of a trade. They remained servants. The servant mask was reserved for drunkards or idiots if one was a man, and the unmarriable or widows if one was a woman. He thought of Thora, in her servant’s mask. He never considered why she became a servant. Many of the girls her age had married already, and the rest were either apprentices to their mothers or another woman in town, or betrothed to a man, or had parents that still had not settled marriage negotiations with an appropriate suitor. Thora was able-bodied, intelligent, and strong. Why was she still a servant?

“Well, boy? If you wait any longer, I might die, and then where will you be?”

Elu bowed his head. “Thank you, sir, for employing me.”

He entered the hut. The man was, after all, the maskmaker. If he proved himself with this man then other opportunities might follow. And the maskmaker was the keeper of all things related to mask lore. He knew the history, method of craftsmanship, owner, and powers of nearly every mask in the village of Gheb, and in many of the towns surrounding it. He might even know some lore of the masks of legend. Certainly he would know of the masks of power. He may even have crafted one of them.

All that day Elu did as the man commanded with exactness. He soon learned of the maskmaker’s eccentricities and singular way of looking at the world. He looked at the world, as do all, through a mask, but a maskmaker is unique in that he must look at the world as through any mask—whichever mask he is intent on making. If he is crafting a homeweaver mask, as he was that first day, he must become the woman, caught up in the daily cares of the matters of weaving together a home, juggling the upbringing of children, the mending of clothing, the procuring and cooking of food, the care of a husband; and so the tasks he assigned Elu that first day mostly revolved around the care of the maskmaker’s hut—scrubbing the floors, mending the old man’s shirts, rinsing the chamber basin.

At the end of the day, the maskmaker released him, and he set out for home. He remembered his promise to Thora to come visit her after lunch, and though it was well into the hour of the evening meal he decided to go to the inn to see if she was very busy.

He casually ambled into the main room of the inn and sat on one of the many wooden benches ringing the central common area. Travellers and men from many neighboring towns sat at the tables and filled the stuffy air with their raucous jeering and laughter, spinning lurid tales and jokes as they drank their beer and feasted on the meal set out before them by the servants and the innkeeper’s wife.

Elu caught sight of a familiar figure serving tankards of beer to the table near him. When she distributed the last of them he reached out to her arm.

“Elu!”

“You did not expect me to return today, Thora?”

“I thought you forgot about me and decided to go explore instead. You shouldn’t be here. It is the dinner hour and—”

“I did not go exploring. Thora, I think I might have a way to redeem my family’s honor. I met—”

“Elu, please go. I should be working. The innkeeper’s wife has already scolded me once today. You must leave.”

“I will go. But first, let me tell you my news. The maskmaker! He has taken me as a servant! I know it is just the lowly servant’s mask but maybe it will lead to better things. Maybe if I serve him well, I could be accepted as apprentice to someone else. A hunter, maybe—that would let me be out in the forests. Or maybe to your father, the blacksmith—then at least I could travel to the other towns selling my wares … Thora?”

Thora no longer looked at him, but up at the doorway to the next room. The imposing figure of the innkeeper darkened the candlelight behind him, and his mask looked directly at Elu and Thora. He pushed his way through the crowded room.

“Insolent wench!” he yelled as he reached Thora, who now cowered before him, and before Elu could react the man struck her face with his open palm, knocking her mask onto the floor. The room fell silent. Elu jumped to his feet and ran at the man, but the innkeeper saw him coming. He grabbed Elu’s shirt and sent him flying into the wall behind the bench and the youth crumpled onto the floor, looking up at the imperious form of the innkeeper whose mask flared with anger and violence.

A hushed murmur arose from the crowd of men now standing to see the commotion, and Elu saw disgust and revulsion in their faces, and in a few, fear. He followed their gaze to Thora, and cringed.

Her face. Her lips. Her nose.

The black scars.

Half her nose was simply gone, and the other half looked mottled and purple. Raw. In its place were two ragged holes, surrounded by cheeks and lips that looked as if a scorching fire had nearly burned them away. The horrible scarring nearly disappeared near her eyes, which were themselves surrounded by a lighter shade of purple, the apparent source of which had now turned its attention from Elu back to her, and struck her face again.

“Get up, wench, and work! I didn’t take you off your father’s hands only to be repaid with laziness! Get up, I say!”

He delivered a swift kick before turning to leave, but not before looking to Elu.

“Leave, teacher’s son, and if you come around to distract my servants again I’ll give you a lesson that not even your father could teach you, gods bless him.”

Elu glared at him from behind his mask—the one the maskmaker had given him earlier in the day. The mask glared with him. He stared at the man’s head as he walked away and saw his innkeeper’s mask look this way and that as he attended to his patrons and assured them that all was well, begging their pardon for the disturbance.

Elu’s mask throbbed. It whispered to him. No, it did not whisper, it spoke. But not to him. To the innkeeper. Elu’s mouth opened.

“Your mask is not well earned, innkeeper.”

The man stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned back to Elu, who could make out the barest tremble rippling through the man’s body. Mainly, he could see into the man through his mask, which appeared to Elu as no mask ever had—it was as if he could look into the innkeeper’s soul, and saw the black, fetid thing curled up, gnashing inside of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thora replace her servant’s mask, but his own continued to speak through him.

“I tell you, innkeeper, your mask is not well earned. You know of what I speak.”

The man visibly trembled now.

“Wh—what are you talking about?” He forced a laugh, and slapped the backs of two men near him who joined him in laughter. “Go home, teacher’s son,” he said, grimacing—though how Elu could sense the contorted face beneath inkeeper’s mask he was not sure. Yet he knew what the man felt without seeing his face, for the innkeeper’s mask reeked of fear and loathing.

“The graves of dead men may spin no tales, but your mask cannot lie to me. You do not deserve that mask—gained through ill-gotten schemes. Your shame is laid plain before me.”

At this, the man took a few steps backward, then turned around and walked quickly to the next room and slammed the door shut. After a few more seconds of muffled whispers, the patrons resumed their conversations and laughing, but now with many eyes warily regarding Thora, and this strange boy standing tall next to her.

Elu stooped to help Thora to her feet, and turned to leave, but before he walked to the door he raised a hand to her face and gently placed two fingers on the forehead of her mask.

The sign of friendship. Deep and abiding friendship.

He still felt like he hardly knew Thora, though they had explored the countryside together for many silent years. But he felt as if she needed that token. The knowledge that she was not reviled.

Not by everyone, at least.

Elu could see her mouth open, then close, but he left before any words could come out.

Over the season that followed Elu worked night and day for the maskmaker, doing much of the basic upkeep of the house and the shop, for the man’s wife had died years earlier and flown to that other world. But most days the man ordered him to assist in the procurement of materials for the masks, and increasingly often as the season progressed, in their construction. And during the sessions where the master guided his young hands in the delicate task of building a mask, the man taught him mask lore.

“Did you know, Elu, that your mask grows with you? Not its frame, of course, that stays fixed. But its knowledge grows. Its capacity for power increases. If used after the order and measure of its creation, it becomes filled with wisdom and light. But if used against the natural order of things, wisdom leaches from it, until it becomes filled with darkness and becomes a waking curse and nightmare to the wearer. Remember to honor your mask. Fulfill its purpose and it will enlighten you, fill you, teach you … complete you.”

“Yes, master.”

Elu concentrated on his task: an assortment of wood, jewels, leather strips, and a stylus—the tools he would need to complete the merchant’s mask the old man had assigned him. He carefully inscribed the runes of the merchant into the inside of the mask. The rune of wealth. The rune of speech and persuasion. The rune of honesty. The rune of industry. Into the face of the mask, already painted yellow, he attempted to set the jewels—not rare jewels, but symbols of wealth and power nonetheless. He could see the spirits awaking within and felt their power—this merchant would be successful, he could tell, and wealthy.

“Master, tell me of the masks of power.”

The man didn’t even look up from his own work. “The mage. The sorcerer. The wizard. The witch. The fortuneteller….” he paused, as if remembering.

“Are there more?”

“Of course there are more, boy! What? Do you think old age has addled my mind and saddled me with forgetfulness? I am concentrating on my work, as you should be.”

“Forgive me, master.”

“Now, as I was saying. The fortuneteller. The weatherweaver. The mender. And of course, the king, though I suppose his is more of a mask of legend. There are others of course, but the masks of power vary in their potency, according to the skill of the maker, and the potential of the wearer. A mask cannot be worn by anyone, remember. The mask chooses the bearer, and will always choose a peer. A kindred spirit. And then they grow in power together, each building on the other, each lending the other virtue and making an indelible imprint on the other’s substance. In this way, the masks of power grow more potent with each generation, if used properly. Many are not. And so any given mask of power will wax and wane over centuries of use and refurbishment. And of course, when they are presented to the new bearer, they are washed in the river. The idle, unclean spirits wash away, leaving the more potent, powerful, knowledgeable spirits of those worthy bearers that came before.”

“What if a mask is not cleansed?”

The maskmaker wove strips of leather together into a flat panel, his wrinkled fingers expertly flying over the material and binding it together, his lips breathing an unspoken chant as he labored. After several minutes, he replied.

“I once knew a seer in the city of Falsten, many leagues to the south. His mask was given to him by the city’s magistrate, a corrupt man who loved money more than wisdom. I suspect that the seer’s brother, a rich merchant, paid the magistrate to choose his brother for the seer’s mask. When presented with the mask, he demanded that it not be cleansed, insisting that he desired the wisdom of every seer’s spirit that had gone before in that mask, and his wish was granted, possibly due to a few more coins from his brother’s purse. When I met him years later, I looked into his mask and saw—”

He fell silent. His hands, paused during the recounted experience, now flew anew over the still unformed mask he labored over. Several more minutes passed.

“Saw what, master?” Elu prompted him.

“I saw rot. Chaos. The unclean spirits had, over the years of being borne by this seer, attracted a host of other spirits of menace, spirits of filth, to inhabit the mask as well, such that they were now legion, and rendered all that came out of the man’s mouth nonsense. The people of the city thought he foretold great wonders for he spoke as no seer ever had. He told of wondrous things. Awful things. Frightful things. The magistrate heeded everything the man said, and the seer’s visions became more terrible. He foresaw the gloom of an awful destruction come upon the city, and a plague from the gods. He warned the people that if they did not make an adequate sacrifice to the gods, that the destruction would come to pass.

“The city was in a frenzy. The people demanded that the magistrate act, and quickly. The maskmaker of the city had sent for me months before, and that is when I arrived—in the midst of this chaos. I went to one of the seer’s pronouncements, a nearly daily event when the people gathered to hear the wondrous and terrible things that would soon come to pass. I looked into his mask from afar and beheld the spirits. That is the gift and power of a maskmaker: to see both into the substance of the mask, and the substance of the bearer. I saw the awful mask, and I saw the awful man, as he was, nearly powerless before the swollen ambition and power of the mask.

“He demanded the sacrifice. He insisted the sacrifice be young. Innocent. I—“

He fell silent again. Elu looked up at him, and saw a look of agitation about his mask. He noticed how the elmore wood frame seemed to melt almost seamlessly into the grizzled head of the maskmaker. He looked closer and saw the benevolent spirits of power ebbing under the surface of the wood, and the kind, tenderhearted spirit of the man himself—hidden under layers of gruffness and age—as he labored with his strips.

“Master, why can I see into the masks as you do?”

“What else would you expect from an apprentice maskmaker?”

Elu could not speak. He shook his head, believing he misheard the man.

“Excuse me, master? I thought I was but your servant.”

“Does a servant make a mask, or does an apprentice? You speak of servants with derision, as if their labor is beneath you. Remember, Elu, that we are all servants. Every one of us, if we are worth anything at all.”

“So I am your apprentice in truth?”

“Do you think me a liar?”

Elu blushed beneath his mask. “No, no. Of course not, master.” Could this be? What good fortune had smiled down upon him! The gods must highly favor the son of the teacher of Gheb, he thought, to lift him up to this honor when just months before he was considered the most worthless of the young men of the town.

“Master, does this explain how I was able to see into the innkeeper’s mask, and tell him things that—that surprised me?”

“Oh?”

“I am not even certain of what I said, but the mask caused me to speak. I looked into his eyes and his mask and saw that they did not belong with each other. I saw other things, but—but I’m not sure I understood all of them.”

“You saw and spoke correctly.”

“But how? If I was but your servant, and not a maskmaker? Not even his apprentice?”

The maskmaker’s eye twinkled, ever so slightly, in the weak candlelight. “Surely by now you realize that I never gave you a servant’s mask.”

Elu could not speak.

“As I said, you saw and spoke correctly. But that is not our place to intervene. Let the mask’s spirits convict his soul. Come now.”

He stood up and directed Elu to the closet where he kept the store of maskmaking supplies.

“See here, Elu. We require elmore wood, wrobly feathers, and the eggs of the hundir lizard. Tomorrow I must construct a bard’s mask, and the spirits of the bard require that a paste of the egg’s shell be rubbed into the grain of the wood before painting.”

“Yes master,”—he hesitated—“I know where to find the elmore wood, and feathers, but I am afraid I know nothing of the eggs. Where are they to be found?”

“To the south, at least ten leagues or so from town—the hundir lizard despises man, and avoids all contact with him. Look in the crevices between rocks. I suspect you will have luck among the rolling hills to the south and west. Go tomorrow. It is late.”

Chapter IV

The Barrows

THE HILLS WERE LUSH ONCE again with the coming of spring and Elu, for the first time in many seasons, now wandered among the trees. He headed south but made no particular hurry, not knowing when he would have the chance again to explore as he once did.

But exploration was not his task. He must try to focus, he thought. Enjoy the wide spaces and the green and the wild, moving life all about him, but also focus on his task.

The trees soon relented to the vast plain of the south and he turned west to the barren, rolling hills. He scaled up and down the nearer ones, looking in the tangled grass behind large stones for the elusive eggs. He held still and listened for movement, hoping that a hundir lizard might lead him to her nest. His ears strained, and he heard something. Water. He bounded down the hill, following the beckoning laugh of the stream.

It was icy cold, fed by the snows of the mountains to the north and west. He tilted his apprentice’s mask to the side, dipped his hand in the water and drank. He looked to the other side of the bank and saw large stones scattered across the shore, abutting the abrupt rocky edge of the next hill, which slanted down sharply toward the stream and ended in a nearly vertical rock wall.

He splashed across the stream and began looking behind the stones. Sure enough, after several minutes of looking he found a nest of hundir eggs, eight in all. He gingerly lifted two into his satchel, and then held out his outstretched arms to the nest, calling the spirit of the hundir in greeting and in promise—to leave her remaining eggs and never return, thanking her for the sacrifice she unwillingly made.

The task complete, he looked up the rock wall. It sloped down to the water’s edge a hundred paces away, and he set off to hike to the top, from which he looked out further west and south.

The forbidden barrows loomed ahead, just three hills in the distance. They called him. He yearned to see them. Explore them. Discover their secrets and penetrate their mysteries, as he had free reign to do for all his childhood. Enough responsibility. Enough craft and work and toil, he thought. Just one last time before I commit myself to manhood. And besides, do not men explore? Did not father himself wear the adventurer’s mask before he became the teacher? Before he met mother?

He reached up and unfastened his mask and pulled it from his head, letting the cool spring breeze flow over his sweaty brow.

Movement near his feet caught his attention. He froze. A hundir lizard—a massive one, lay close and deadly just steps away. Its long tail and lithe, powerful legs twitched—the sign of alertness and defensiveness. But the lizard was not looking at Elu. He followed its gaze to the south to a small encampment of several tents and a wagon. A dozen posts dotted the ground, a few with people sitting at their bases. He spied four men sitting together, laughing and drinking. He squinted closer at the people sitting by the poles. Their arms extended behind them, as if tied to the poles, and white masks covered their downcast faces.

Slavers. He watched the hundir lizard. It did not so much as heed him, though he stood but three or four paces away. It just watched the encampment, occasionally growling in its low, guttural voice when she saw movement among the men. He stepped backward. Then again. Still she paid him no attention. He took another step.

She turned and looked straight at him. Her eyes penetrated his. His still naked face faced hers, wild and armored with thorny scales. He felt vulnerable and weak sensing her gaze on his unprotected cheeks. His brows, his nose, his chin. Yet she did not strike. She did not move. Her eyes, locked on his, only told him, thank you. Thank you, and, leave.

He continued his slow retreat and replaced his mask, and as the eyeholes moved across his eyes he saw the lizard as a maskmaker. Her spirit was revealed, laid bare before him in its wild majesty, and he understood.

He had acted well, fulfilling the measure of his mask. He had taken her eggs, but left most of them, respecting her and her honor, and she accepted the act. She would not strike. She understood the necessity of his actions and considered the unwelcome encampment as the real danger. She turned her head back to the south and continued studying the strangers intruding on her territory.

He returned to the maskmaker’s hut and presented the finds to his master, who took them with glee back to his workbench. He cracked the eggs open and tipped the contents into a clay basin. He replaced the basin’s lid and handed the container to Elu.

“Take this to the healer. She will have use for the unformed lizards,” he said, already in the act of grinding up the eggshells with a small ceramic pestle.

He remembered the healer from long ago—the last time his smaller brother, Lo, followed him into the forest. She was a formidable woman. Stern and cold. But there was no mistaking the power emanating from her mask, the black oak set with bone. As the maskmaker’s apprentice he partially understood now the presence of the bone fragments set into the mask’s brow. The spirits familiar with the workings of the flesh would be attracted to the artifacts of life, and thus called to inhabit the mask.

“Master, the healer’s mask is a mask of power, is it not?”

The man grunted. “All masks are masks of power, in their own way.”

“Yes, master. But—”

“It is a mask of power as you understand it, yes. I should know. I made her mask many years ago.”

“Really? So you have made a mask of power,” Elu said, excitedly.

The man continued grinding the shells into a fine paste, the clink of the pestle chiming against the solid mortar. As was his way, he worked silently awhile before responding.

“I have made three masks of power in my time. The healer’s you know. There is a wizard in the land of Ro Tarlain who required a mask for his apprentice. That mask took me nearly a year to complete. The third mask was actually my first. I was young and arrogant, and having just completed my apprenticeship and become a maskmaker in my own right I set myself an audacious and vain task. My patron, a prince of the land of Varnor, was as presumptuous and arrogant as I was and he demanded a mask of great and terrible power. I, to my folly, complied. But I will not speak of it now. In the prince’s possession it became an evil, twisted thing and it ruined him. The prince and the mask destroyed each other in the end, but only after great harm and bloodshed.”

Elu stared wide-eyed in awe of the old man hunched over his bench. He had no idea that his master had been involved in the great and high events of the world, associating with kings and wizards and war. He imagined himself travelling to the distant lands and kingdoms of the world, greeting high men of power and authority as equals. Peers. Not stuck in this small town at the edge of nowhere that saw little of magic, or of wars. No one had even seen the king in this part of the land in ages.

“Deliver that basin, Elu, and stop dreaming of that which you cannot control.”

“Yes, master.”

He made the delivery, and for days he set himself to faithfully executing the tasks the maskmaker gave him. He occasionally pestered the old man for more stories about the men of power and authority, of the majestic courts and fine palaces of the kings, of the masks of power, and, had he ever encountered a mask of legend? But the maskmaker’s stories dried up, and he answered his queries with only vague references and admonitions to avoid tempting the spirits of the legendary masks, for they were not all entirely stable.

Elu felt the old urge to explore, and this time it forced its incontestable will upon him such that he could no longer ignore it. He sought a list of materials from the maskmaker that he still required, and the man gave it, though not without a squinted eye and a warning tongue. With the satchel at his side and the apprentice’s mask at his face he set out, but stopped at the inn first.

He strode in with his head held high, for since it had become more common knowledge that he was indeed the maskmaker’s apprentice and not just his servant the people gave him a little more distance. The innkeeper’s wife glowered at him from behind the counter as she dried a clay cup. He saw Thora sweeping cobwebs out of the corners and approached her.

“Come with me. I go to explore the lands west. It will be for us as it was.”

She demurred, and continued sweeping.

“Thora? Will you not come with me?”

“I must not. If I do, the innkeeper will become angry again.”

“Don’t bother with him. He won’t dare harm you if you come at my request. Not now.”

“I think he holds you in less esteem than you guess. But no. I must not go with you.”

“I will not leave without you, Thora,” he said.

She stopped sweeping and regarded him. Her arm was bruised, from what Elu couldn’t tell, and her hands looked worn and ragged, probably from the ceaseless washing that the innkeeper set before her.

“Elu, if I am to make a life for myself, I must heed my master and mistress and do my work. I cannot continually leave with you to wander, as much as my heart desires it.”

He snatched the broom from her hands and laid it on a table. He let the hint of a smile extend past the edge of his mask. Thinking of the carefree Thora he once knew while exploring the village in the mountains, he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out from the mouth-hole of the mask. She stared at him for a moment, and her face smiled as well.

“Very well. Just for a few hours, then I must return before the evening when customers come,” she said, taking the broom again and laying it in the corner.

“I knew I could convince you.”

They left the town with the stares of idle folk following them, and approached the hills to the west. Elu directed them more to the south, until once again they came near to the forbidden barrows. Thora stopped when she saw them rising in the distance.

“No, not there. Let us go further west. I have never been that way.”

“Are you afraid of the barrows?”

She locked him in her fierce gaze and said defiantly, “I fear no man.”

“There are no men there. Just the dead. And their spirits.”

“I have no fear, but I just want to—”

“To what? I think you’re afraid. The people of the town fear the barrows and the presbyter forbids entry, but I want to see them. And you’re just like them. Afraid of the unknown.”

Calmly raising her arm in motion to the barrows, she said, “Lead on, then.”

A mysterious air hung around the entrance, really just a series of low openings into a network of caves. Tall cairns of stones topped the hills of the barrow—a warning to all to stay away.

They entered one of the caves, Elu cautiously, until he saw Thora fearlessly descend the sloping passageway without looking back. Not eager for her to detect any hesitancy on his part he summoned his courage and caught up to her, walking side by side. Every now and then the roof gave way to sky, bathing parts of the dank cave in a brilliant light, but leaving most of it gray or in darkness.

As time passed, Elu noticed wrapped bodies ensconced in the walls, resting on their backs in timeless sleep. He shuddered. But he knew their spirits had left. They had flown to that other world, leaving parts of themselves in the masks they inhabited in life. They could not harm him here. He repeated it to himself. They could not harm him here.

For ages it seemed they descended lower and lower, the shafts of daylight becoming fewer and more distant in the heights above them. Finally, they came up against a dead end. A wall stood before them, inscribed with runes and words.

“What does it say?” said Thora.

“I am not lettered. But my master has taught me the runes of maskmaking and many of the ancient words of that trade.”

He studied the wall, running his fingers over the symbols caught in the golden light of the sun, now high in the sky shining through a deep crevice in the roof above.

“This one here is Tarkund’s rune. He was one of the great maskmakers among the ancients. My master told me of them. There were five of them. Men and women of great craft and skill, and powerful magic.”

“Magic? The first maskmakers were wizards then?”

“Of sorts. We are all wizards—so says my master. Our masks give us power, after our own kind and abilities, allowing us to fulfill the measure of our creation. The ancient maskmakers were the first among men to clothe our naked faces, before which we were stupid and innocent. Like children.”

“Like children,” repeated Thora, running her own fingers along other runes, one depicting a child pointing.

Elu studied more of the inscriptions. He pointed at the top of the wall. “There. There’s Eldrin’s rune.”

“Eldrin? The first?”

“Yes. He spoke the words of power that masked the sky, for it was too blindingly bright. And there is Sipora, she who masked the barren earth with grass, trees, and water.”

“Your master teaches you much,” she said. Then she added a bit wistfully, “That sounds wonderful.”

He nodded, not knowing quite what to say. He pitied her station in life. Unmarriable—closed off from the main avenue of advancement and joy for women, and of such shy and awkward disposition as to make her virtually unemployable as an apprentice. The people of the town feared her—Elu had found that most knew of her ugly disfigurement, and though it was mostly covered people avoided looking at her. And that which you cannot bear to look at—even through a mask—you fear.

“Look here. These words talk of masks. I don’t understand all of it. But this part here tells of Tarkund creating his masks, always two at a time, each the companion of the other. I remember my master telling me of him, and his sister, Ria the Elder. She looked on his creations with jealousy, and made masks of her own.”

“Of what sort?” She asked. She wandered down the length of the wall, touching it here and there when a drawing or a word caught her eye.

“I don’t know. My master is a man of few words when he works, and he is always working. They were masks of great power, that much I know.”

“What is this?” She called, motioning with her hand to the wall.

He approached her and looked at what she indicated. It was an indentation in the wall. A face. A mask, but the wall itself was the mask. Elu examined it, and as he studied, his mask whispered words to him but he could not quite catch their meaning. He reached out to the indentation, studying it as a maskmaker, and saw it through new eyes. The spirit of the stone spoke to his mask and he grew to an understanding.

“Look over there, on the other end of the wall,” he said, pointing, without even looking for he still studied the indentation. She searched the wall at the other end and called out.

“Yes. There is another here. What are they?”

“I’m not sure. But I think I know what we are to do. And it is fortunate there are two of us. Remove your mask and press your face into the wall while I do the same over here.”

“Remove my mask? Not with you here,” she said, sounding shocked at the impropriety of his suggestion.

“Thora, just do it. I won’t look. I just—I just feel like it is what happens here. In this place.” He looked around at their surroundings: what before looked like normal cave walls seemed now to him as a cacophony of spirits, a chorus of silent voices parading about them, shouting, laughing, calling, pointing, screaming, crying, threatening, smiling. The unease he felt before now climbed to genuine fear. But he could not show Thora his fear. She seemed perfectly at ease now, except for her annoyance at his suggestion of mask removal.

“Very well. But you keep your eyes to yourself,” she said. Out the corner of his eye he saw her remove the mask and place her face into the small indentation in the wall, and he did likewise. For a moment nothing happened.

Then the silent spirits were silent no more. With a violence of sound and force they released their pent-up energy and desire, and the center of the wall in between them cracked wide open, the large splinters of stone falling backward behind the wall and in front, though they were both well out of the way to come to harm.

Elu yelled, then feeling ashamed, quickly replaced his mask before the dust cleared. Thora, still bare faced, calmly watched the last of the rocks fall before looking back up at him. He shuddered at the sight of her, the craggy, burnt flesh where her nose should have been. Her left eye now black, as if it had been struck. She came to herself and also replaced her mask.

Not quite believing what had happened, they helped each other over the fallen rocks, some nearly as big as they, and made their way into the chamber beyond the wall.

Two raised stone platforms occupied the center of the space, reminiscent of altars, with intricate designs ringing the bottoms. And on top of both rested linen-wrapped figures, though the cloth was yellowed and decayed, revealing ancient bone and dried skin and hair underneath.

Faint light from high above shone down, barely illuminating the shrouds. They approached, cautiously, hesitantly—Elu did not wish to approach, but he was not willing to allow Thora to know his fear. Thora pressed forward, driven by curiosity—for as long as she was away from the dull confines of her life she might find something of beauty or goodness, or at the very least, something interesting.

On the heads of the figures lay masks, and such masks neither of them had ever seen. Elu at once recognized them as masks of great power from the descriptions his master had given him, but they seemed more than that. They were ancient. A thick layer of dust covered them both. He blew on one of them, revealing yellow and white gold underneath. A single priceless emerald was fixed on the brow, and platinum wings inlaid into the sides. The mouth was broad, indicating the power of words this mask wielded, and the eyes wide, suggesting the need to see danger coming. The emerald seemed to be set into what looked like an image of a shield. A faint smile adorned its face, but with a touch of sadness. Regret.

He studied it for several minutes, held in complete awe of the object and art before him. This was far above the craft of his master, or his master’s master. Or even of the great maskmaker of the palace of Hartree, of whom his master spoke with marked reverence.

He touched it. And he heard his own mask whisper to him. He looked at the artifact with a maskmaker’s eyes and knew: this was not his. At least not now. Not yet? Could he take it? How wonderful it would be to have such a mask. He would be the wonder of the town. No. The wonder of the kingdom. The wonder of all of Terremar. All would behold him and rejoice. They would praise him and herald him. He should have it. But he could not. He saw it in its face. It served a very distinct and special purpose. A dangerous, awful purpose. But a great one. An honored one.

“Are you going to take what is yours or not, old friend?” A proud voice rang out behind him, and he jumped.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“No one’s here, you fool. Just me. As I have been since the beginning,” said the voice, mockingly. Teasingly.

He turned around and saw Thora. She held her servant’s mask in her hands. One half in each, for she had broken it in two. He looked at her face, now covered by another glorious mask—an equal to the one he studied moments before. And as before, with the innkeeper, he saw into the mask, and into its bearer. They were properly matched, unlike the innkeeper and his ill-gotten mask. But the mask was … wrong. It was like a stew with too much salt. Like the sun, but like staring into it soon after waking. It nearly blinded him. He did not understand.

“Why do you hesitate? Take up your mask!” she said. Elu heard her voice—and it was hers—but it too was wrong. It was loud. Distant. Proud. A terror sprung up within him.

“It is on, sister.”

“You have on but a child’s mask. And just as well”—she said with contempt—“for you are nothing more than a child.” And she strode away.

“Thora!”

A great force struck him in the chest and he stopped in his tracks, unable to follow her. He watched with horror as she suddenly disappeared, only to instantly reappear fifty or so paces up the slope of the cave. Over and over she jolted further up the slope, until within seconds she was out of sight.

He grabbed the other mask, stuffed it into his satchel, and ran. He bolted up the passageway, stumbling over fallen rocks strewn over the floor. Out of the cave he flew, and ran east, trying to catch a glimpse of her. On and on he ran, thinking several times that he spotted her but each time realizing it was just a large animal prancing away, or a tree swaying in the buffeting wind. A storm approached.

Up and down the gentle slopes of the hills he ran, until, bursting through a stand of trees, he stumbled into a wagon. He looked to his right. Several tall posts stood out of the ground, each with a prisoner tied to the base. Several of them wailed in terror at his approach.

He looked around for the men but their tents were set afire. He ran to one of them to see if it contained a slaver, but he tripped over something.

A slaver. Though he could hardly tell, from the state the mask was in. It was mostly burned, as if with the heat of a thousand fires—for it had fused to the man’s face, and the flesh was melted. His eyes were still open, a look of terror now eternally masked on his face. Elu quickly averted his eyes.

The wails of the bound men called him back to the danger he was in. There were still at least three slavers in the camp somewhere and he had no intentions of ending up as a slave shipped off to some unknown kingdom.

But he did not have to search far for them. Three more bodies lay near the first, all similarly afflicted. He touched the arm of the first. The flesh was hot, warmer than a normal body at midday in the sun. They were killed recently. Motion caught his eye and he looked up.

Thora. She stared down at him, laughing.

“Do you like it, brother?”

He had no words. The terror from the cave returned, magnified now with the ghoulish faces of four dead men.

“See, brother? I have feared these men since that day we stumbled upon them in the village all those years ago. And now there is nothing to fear,” she flashed a wicked smile just visible through her mask, “though the fear in their last moments was … delightful.”

“Thora? What happened to you?”

She strode over to where he stood, seized him by the shoulders, and lifted. He opened his mouth in silent shock as his feet dangled a finger’s length above the ground.

“Happened? What has happened is that I am liberated! I am me again after all this time! So long have I waited. In the cold. The dark. And you too!” She released him and he crumpled at her feet. “Put your mask on! What are you waiting for? Ah yes …” she trailed off, regarding him coldly, “you think I am out of control again. Overzealous was the word you once used. You thought you could harness me. Constrain me. Well—” she stared at him and Elu could sense immense power coming from the spirits within the mask. The wave hit him and he flew back several paces, landing next to the cowering prisoners. “—not this time, brother.”

She vanished. He caught sight of her a hundred paces off, facing north toward Gheb, and presently she vanished again.

Chapter V

The Terror

AFTER UNTYING THE PRISONERS ELU ran as quickly as he could back to Gheb. Visions of the ravaged faces of the slavers stained his thoughts and he ran faster, imagining the same horror coming upon his mother or brothers. As he approached the outskirts of town he saw a crumpled figure on the road. He knelt down and vaguely recognized the town’s cooper, his simple leather mask burnt to a crisp. The man groaned, his face terribly burned, but he appeared otherwise out of danger.

He flew to the center of town, head turning left and right looking for evidence of Thora’s trail. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what he would do once he found her, but he had to do something. He had unleashed her, had brought her to the horrible mask now on her face, and so it was his responsibility to stop her. Somehow.

A thought crossed his mind and he changed direction. He barged into the maskmaker’s hut and called out for his master.

“What? Why are you yelling like a crazed lunatic?” the flustered man said. Raw materials and a new, jeweled mask cluttered the table before him.

“Master. I have erred greatly. I have caused great harm. She’s loose. She’s out there. Men are dead! I don’t … I don’t know what to do.”

The maskmaker sprang to his feet.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

“I … I went to the forbidden barrows. I took Thora with me. She didn’t want to go but I insisted….”

He trailed off. Shame and embarrassment welled up within and he could not go on.

“Go on. Show it all to me,” the master said.

Elu took a deep breath.

“We found masks there. They looked beautiful, and she took one, and—”

“The Terror,” said the man bluntly, and he dashed out the door.

Elu followed close behind, shouting, “What do you mean, master?”

“You have unleashed the Terror. A mask of legend of unspeakable power. Ages ago, before the time of the kings when Tarkund and his brethren made the masks of legend, one of them was stolen. The servant girl who took it did not please its spirits and they corrupted her, and she them. She was only stopped after much … difficulty. Come. There may still be time.”

Elu did not understand how the maskmaker knew where to go, but he headed straight for the inn. The old man burst through the door and immediately began mumbling a strange chant in the old tongue of maskmaking of which Elu had learned very little.

The innkeeper hung before them in midair, suspended by an invisible web of power. They could hear crackling and a tumult as if a chorus of spirits encircled them, shouting in their wrath. But none of this fazed the maskmaker as he continued his chant, now nearly shouting it over the din of the spirits, and marched straight at Thora, the Terror, who seemed to have grown to the height of the tallest of men. Her arms extended towards the poor man dangling in the middle of the room, and he whimpered as the force of her will squeezed his body. But she had not yet noticed the newcomers.

The maskmaker shouted a final word and lunged for the Terror, clamping one hand firmly on the face of her mask. She screamed and struck him with her already outstretched arm, sending him flying through the air, and he hit the wall with a sickening thud. The innkeeper fell as well and his wailing wife ran forward, lifting his head and cradling it in her lap as she moaned.

The Terror, Thora, the servant of the innkeeper and his wife, held her mask and shouted as if in agony. But her wail turned to laughter, and Elu looked as she lowered her hands from her mask, revealing a burn mark in the shape of the maskmaker’s hand across its left cheek.

The mark began to fade.

She laughed again and approached Elu, but moved her legs slowly as if they carried great weight. She breathed heavily as she addressed him.

“I’ll repay you for this, brother. I will come for you. They call me the Terror, but that name won’t even begin to do it justice. And it is justice I will bring.”

Elu hardly recognized the voice. Or the eyes. Only the ragged black pit in the middle of her face, barely visible through her mask’s large eyeholes, told him who bore the mask. He stared at it in revulsion, locked in her gaze.

She felt his thoughts. He tried to hide the disgust from his mind, but it was too late. The Terror stretched out her arm to Elu, her eyes flashed, and his mask burned, white hot. He screamed, attempting to rip the mask from his face before it could damage him.

He could hear the sizzle. The sound burned his ears as the mask had burned his face. His hands cradled his head and he fell to his knees, moaning.

She vanished. The tumultuous chorus of spirits ceased. The awful wind that Elu had not even noticed calmed as well.

Elu, in great pain but fearful for his master, crawled over to the man and bent close over him. The man still breathed, but the breath caught and rasped against his throat. He bled from the ears and the nose. Elu cleaned what he could and fretted over what to do next, but a firm hand gripped his shoulder and thrust him to the side.

The healer knelt next to the master, mumbling her healing chants as she began feeling his chest and neck.

“Help me lift him to my home!” she shouted.

Elu and several others who had gathered lifted the maskmaker onto a table and carried it down the dirt pathway to the healer’s hut, placing it in the center of the room. The woman hunched over the man, administering all manner of aromatic herbs and salves. Her chanting never ceased and the maskmaker’s groans grew less urgent. Elu took heart.

“Will he be healed? Will he live?”

The healer did not speak.

“Healer? Will he live?”

She looked up, still facing away from him. “I think not, my child.”

“But, why? His bleeding has stopped. He moans less painfully now …”

“He moans less because his life ebbs. Some power works at odds to mine. My healing arts are useless. I fear he will fade, and go to that other world.” She eyed Elu with pity. “You need healing yourself. Immerse your face in the creek and hold it there awhile. Then rub this on it,” she said, handing him a salve. “Then come back to me and I will do what I can for you.”

Elu did as she asked but hastened through the steps, wanting nothing more than to be by his master’s side. He kept a silent vigil over the maskmaker, who never woke. For two days Elu would not leave his side, but his father, the teacher, finally persuaded him to come to his mother’s house and rest.

On the third night, the maskmaker passed out of the world and flew to that other world. The teacher, the presbyter, and the weatherweaver gathered in the healer’s hut and removed his mask, revealing his old, grizzled face, scarred with wounds old and new.

The mask was placed in the care of the presbyter who would choose the next maskmaker, most likely one of his former apprentices. Elu protested, saying that as the man’s current apprentice he was entitled to it, but the teacher forbade it saying the people of the town would not accept him as the maskmaker. His previous dishonor was still fresh on their minds, and news of his latest dishonor now crept among the people like fire among smoldering coals.

“But father, I was his apprentice! Who else will take his place?”

The teacher stood in the doorway to the house, unmoving, as if guarding his home against an evil that would enter. “Old Goshorn had other apprentices. One of them will be called back. The people will never accept you—all they see when they look at you is one who dishonors his role and his mask and therefore scoffs at the ancients and destiny and the gods themselves.”

“At least give me your adventurer’s mask so that I may leave this town at last and find my own place in the world.”

The teacher shook his head. “Nay, son. That mask is mine until I go to that other world myself.”

“Then may you go there soon!” shouted Elu, and he stormed from the doorway of his mother’s house. He wandered the streets and the pathways, not knowing where to turn. The people eyed him suspiciously, for the word had spread among them of his evil deed in taking the blacksmith’s wild, damaged daughter to the forbidden tombs and unleashing the terror that had rested there, undisturbed for a thousand years or more.

He found himself at the door to his old master’s house and he entered, wishing against all that he knew to be real that the old man would grunt a cantankerous greeting at him from his workbench and order him to scrub the floors or empty his chamber pot.

He fingered the tools and the scraps of wood that littered the workbench. He looked at the mask his master had been working on when Elu unleashed the Terror.

An adventurer’s mask. Jeweled, bold, and with a vaguely wild and foreign feel to it. It was not quite like his father’s—for few masks look exactly the same, depending on the spirits that inhabit it and on the art and whims of the maker—but it was finished and Elu knew it was his.

The maskmaker had made it for him. He knew it by looking into its eyes. Its substance.

One task remained.

He grabbed it and hurried to the stream coursing through the outskirts of Gheb. He dipped it in once, removing any lingering foul and idle spirit, and strapped it to his face, placing his apprentice’s mask in his satchel. He raised his eyes to the world and saw it afresh. He saw it as he did long ago—with the wild and determined eyes of the teacher’s son who wandered unconstrained across all that country when he was a small boy.

Practicalities sprang to mind and he reentered the hut, scooping up the master’s coins into his satchel and selecting several of the finer and necessary maskmaking tools he might need.

Leaving the hut for the last time he looked east, the spirits of the mask indicating it to be a worthy direction to walk, and he left the town of Gheb, only looking back once while rounding the crest of the first hill, feeling both excitement and heaviness as he descended into twilight.

Chapter VI

Ri Illiath

ELU WALKED EAST FOR WHAT he deemed many weeks, and the midsummer fruit sustained him, along with what fish he could spear in the many streams issuing from the foothills of the northern mountains. The range soon bent away farther to the north and before him spread a vast coastal plain. Tiring of fruit and fish, he set his sights on a town far off in the distance at the confluence of two rivers and not ten leagues from the Lacian Sea—the vast ocean he had heard his father mention in his teachings to the people of Gheb.

On the outskirts of the town, a young boy told him its name: Ri Illiath. The scrawny youth sat perched on a rock spearing fish. He was brown, darker than the people at the feet of the mountains in the country around Gheb, and his child’s mask appeared wild, but friendly.

The people of the town talked with a foreign lilt to their voice, as if they spoke in song, but Elu understood them well enough and he asked the men in the inn if there was a maskmaker in Ri Illiath that might require an apprentice. A squat, hairy man wearing a fisherman’s mask replied, saying that due to the intransigence of the local magistrate the town had no maskmaker, the previous one having died several years ago and the magistrate, taken heavily to drink, had not seen fit to call for another.

When Elu found the magistrate and offered his limited expertise at maskmaking, the man heartily agreed, directing him to the old shack previously inhabited by the former maskmaker. He left the magistrate heartened, but as he approached the shack it became apparent to him that it was not as deserted as the magistrate thought, for a man and his wife greeted him at the door as he approached.

“Hail, stranger,” said the man.

“Hail. Is this not the old maskmaker’s house? The magistrate told me I should stay here.”

“It is. But it seems we have a problem. First, however, allow me to introduce myself. I am Derry, a wizard by profession, and this is my wife, Londu.”

“Greetings. I am Elu,” he said, bowing low to Londu as Derry presented her. “But you mentioned a problem, sir?”

“Yes. It seems that the magistrate has put us in a difficult situation, for not one year ago at the height of the festival of midsummer, he gave me this house for my place of residence when I offered to serve him and his town by my art.”

“Did he?” said Elu, and he laughed, for in spite of this new misfortune Derry had a kind disposition and it pleased Elu to finally have someone near his age to talk to, for the wizard looked nearly as young as Elu himself.

He focused on the young man’s mask—clearly a mask of power, for Elu could nearly see the air surrounding the frame crackle with spirits and fire, but without his own apprentice’s mask on he had a much more difficult time understanding the spirits within. Plainly, the mask was made for Derry since it looked new. Pristine. It was constructed of metal, wood, and glass, with leather straps and set with a single ruby in the brow, signifying to Elu that the wizard’s specialty was in the magic of fire and life.

And it showed in his eyes. Derry smiled kindly at Elu as he invited him into the house, but his eyes shone as brightly as fire—not red, but active and alive, friendly but with smoldering intensity. He motioned for Elu to sit.

“Come now, and let us discuss our problem. It seems—“

Elu interrupted, “It seems that we have no problem, friend. The magistrate made a mistake, clear enough. And since he promised you the house first and I am but a wanderer, I will move on and find another place to settle.”

Derry stroked his mask. “We will not accept that. No, you must stay here with us. We insist. Look, there is an extra bed in the second room that we have no use for. There is space enough for all of us. Londu agrees, do you not, apple?”

The young woman nodded, “Of course!” Her witch’s mask obscured the view, but Elu could just make out a blush on her cheeks as she shyly looked down.

Elu studied her mask. It seemed to be a living thing, made of stone and earth with lichens and mosses sprouting in patches—mostly green in color but subtly changing as the conversation progressed—and Elu guessed that their spirits were influenced by her mood and altered their color accordingly. For now they blazed a more vivid green with patches of fiery orange lichen.

“But—I should be such a burden and an imposition. You would soon tire of me. It is not right for a man to live with another man and his wife as if their child and yet fully grown.”

“It is good then that you are not fully grown.” Derry nudged Londu with his elbow. “Look, wife, Elu means for us to adopt him. You shall have a child after all!”

She laughed, and Elu, hearing their tone and laughter as mockery, nearly stood to leave. But Derry leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. Elu looked into his eyes, and though still masked as the adventurer he saw the honesty written there as they burned brightly at him, and coupled with the wide smile they told him he had nothing to fear.

“No, we insist. Please stay with us—as our friend. You can always change your mind later if we prove to be burdensome housemates, and we shall in that case assist you in finding your own place. But for now, be at ease. Tell us of yourself. Wife, have we any refreshment?”

Londu offered Elu a carrot, a hunk of bread and some goat’s milk which he devoured rather quickly, having eaten nothing but fruit and fish for weeks, and scant amounts at that. A long tale of his journey and childhood followed, though he left out any mention of Thora and her mask. He explained that he had an interest in masks, having been an apprentice for some time to an accomplished master maskmaker, and had a desire to establish himself in the profession in some new town away from the country of his youth.

“Do you think that I will be welcome here?”

Derry shrugged. “I should think so. Londu and I come here from the north. From Varnor, Tilith fiefdom, and we were welcomed here quite warmly.”

Londu cleared her throat. “And what of Karna, husband?”

“The magistrate invited Elu to set up his trade here. He should have no problem with Karna,” said Derry.

“Who is Karna?”

“A squirrelly pretender that calls himself a maskmaker. Somehow, he came to possess the old maskmaker’s mask after he died, and told the people to come to him for any masks they required. Some do, but many see him as the charlatan he is. I’m not sure why the magistrate allows it to continue.” Derry refreshed Elu’s milk from the basin on the floor, and he accepted it gratefully. The setting sun shone in through the open door and appeared to light Derry’s ruby afire.

“I shall have to go see him. It is unwise to usurp a mask. Bad things follow …” he trailed off, the shadow of the Terror still lurking in his thoughts. He wondered if it would find him here. Can the Terror read his thoughts? She spoke to him as if she knew him for ages. Elu imagined himself sleeping in the night with a looming shadow close at his side, reaching for his mask, causing it to flare and burn into his flesh. He shook his head.

“Tomorrow I shall introduce you to some people of the town. There are many who will rejoice at having a proper maskmaker here again. You will soon have more work than you know what to do with,” Derry said, reassuringly. “The sky darkens. Let us show you around before we retire.”

Derry rose to his feet and helped Londu get up, and escorted Elu out of the tiny house, showing him the small garden, the latrine, the shallow creek that ran down to the sea some five leagues distant. The air smelled oddly refreshing with an unknown aroma, and Elu later came to adore the salty ocean air infused with seaweed and fish.

Elu looked around at the landscape, regarding the now distant mountains to the northwest, the grey sea to the east, the laughing stream trickling pleasantly between their house and the next, about a hundred paces off. He sighed contentedly, happy with his new discovery, fingering the chin of his adventurer’s mask and feeling gratitude to its spirits for leading him here.

He reached in his satchel to retrieve the apprentice’s mask, knowing that his journey was over for now and that he must settle into the patterns of a maskmaker. His finger brushed against the strange mask he had taken in haste from the barrows, the companion to the Terror. He nearly shuddered as he touched it, feeling the distinct impression and confirmation that it was not made for him. Its spirits felt foreign.

Did all masks of legend feel this way? Would he be cursed if he placed this on his face, suffering a similar fate to Thora? He feared that if she ever found him, he might be forced to wear it, and he resolved there and then to do so only at the utmost need.

What evil might he unleash then, he wondered.

The day came and he met many people of Ri Illiath, and as Derry said, all seemed pleased that a maskmaker had come to them at last. Many townspeople asked how soon he could begin his crafting and offered to help him procure his first stock of needed materials, which he gladly accepted. Petch, a kind baker, offered him bread for a year if he could make his apprentices new masks.

“The ones that Karna made for me seem empty. Not cursed—just empty—and all that my apprentices make for me comes to naught! The bread won’t rise for them. The salt either has no savor when they use it, or else it has too much! I am desperate—you must help me. You will, won’t you? Splendid!”

For many months Elu labored at a feverish pace, keeping up with the throng of townspeople asking for masks. It seemed to him that he made fifty child masks at least, and almost that many apprentice masks for a variety of trades. The barman needed his mask repaired, as did the healer, whose mask, though strictly not a mask of power, drained Elu for all the labor and art and chant it required of him, for he had never made a healer’s mask and had to teach himself. But the spirits within it and his own mask showed him the way, bringing the required knowledge to his remembrance, the skill to his hand and the chant to his lips.

In fact, Elu found that his mask brought him not only the required skill, but combined with his own adventurous spirit, inspiration as well. As he did before with the pottery he explored new forms. To the barman’s mask he added a black stone in the brow. The stone spoke to him of empathy and understanding, and besides, it looked rather striking against the stark wood and leather of the mask. The barman caught him in the street weeks later.

“I do say this mask is not quite the same since you mended it. Nay, it seems better! When I listen to my patrons recount their sorrows it seems I have ears for it, yes and words too—words that soothe. And words that encourage them to drink more, of course. Ha!”

Elu found peace and contentment for the first time in his life living in Ri Illiath, with real friends now rather than little brothers following him or other boys sneering at him.

Derry treated him as a brother. They fished together when not busy with their craft, and Elu assisted Londu with her household duties, having become intimately familiar with them while in the service of the maskmaker. It surprised him how quickly his friendship with the pair grew, and he often found himself in deep conversation with the wizard as they waited for the fish to swim near enough to spear.

“Did your master teach you much lore?” said Derry, standing poised, motionless on a rock in the middle of the stream.

“Some. Mostly of maskmaking, and little of legend and myth. Did yours?”

“Quite a bit. A wizard’s trade is mostly in the great stories, anyhow. Why waste your power on spells when you can spellbind your audience with the great tales of bravery and heroes?” He laughed easily, and Elu joined him.

“Tell me of them, then,” said Elu, balancing on his own rock, staring intently at the water.

Derry paused momentarily, then began the tale of Coron Indibar the enchanter, the wyvern tamer, his voice dropping in tone and becoming more solemn.

“He was the chief wizard of the highest house of the land of Varnor, in the time when the countryside was beset with wyverns, which had fled the destruction of their own land far in the northeast, over sea and mountain. The king commanded Coron to stop them at all costs, promising Coron half the kingdom if he found success. He judged ruling half a kingdom better than losing a whole one, for the wyverns attacked the people mercilessly and the blood of his armies ran freely, they being powerless against the infernal beasts.”

“Coron, realizing he could no more slay one wyvern than he could slay fifty, began weaving a spell of enchantment to ensnare but one of them. No wizard had ever enchanted a wyvern before for wyverns are creatures of great power that wear a living mask. If a wyvern were to be unmasked before a mortal man, he would shrivel into ashes within moments, so incontestably powerful and brilliant is the true spirit of a wyvern.”

“But Coron chanted night and day, for three days, unceasingly, drawing the spirits of the earth into himself, channeling their power through his art and mask, and when a wyvern passed too near, he ensnared it. He forced his will upon the creature and made it his own, causing it to do his bidding, as he desired it. It struggled mightily for a time, but Coron proved to be too powerful: finally the beast submitted to his will, and so Coron earned the name Indibar, the wyvern master.”

“He mounted the wyvern, and flew straight at the other passing beasts, forcing his own to spew fire and embers at them and conjuring the illusion of an army of a hundred more wizards mounted on wyverns rallying behind him, and they pursued the host of the wyverns back to the ocean where they flew into the east, not to be seen again in Terremar for hundreds of years—”

Derry jabbed at a fish in the water, spearing it through the gut and raising it triumphantly over his head.

“Can you show me better, friend?” he challenged Elu.

“I’ll show you far better than that.”

Elu concentrated on the water below him, and asked, “And the wizard, Coron, did he receive half the kingdom? Was the king true to his word?”

“Alas, no. The king was treacherous, and paid another wizard to break the enchantment over the wyvern, even as Coron returned home triumphantly from the chase. Then a true battle began, the likes of which has not been seen in the world since the ancient times. Still riding atop the wyvern, Coron sensed it passing out of his control and he leaped from the beast, transforming himself into a great eagle. They tangled in the air, caught together in wind and war for days, and when the two fell from the sky injured and bleeding, he changed back to the form of a man and fought the beast on land too, wielding a sword he gathered up from a fallen soldier. The sword danced with fire and magic, fracturing the wyvern’s armor and tearing open mortal wounds. And alas for both the wyvern and the wizard, Coron struck the beast’s face, and through the wound, a portion of its true essence shone forth, stunning Coron to the point of motionlessness as he sank into a stupor. The beast lurched to and fro but soon collapsed dead, killing Coron as it fell, and the two lay there lifeless, a wonder to behold for all the people who gathered near to see the outcome of the great battle in the sky.

“The wizard’s body was demasked and carried to the tomb of the kings below the great city of Akalei where he was laid to rest among the most honored kings of old. His mask, infused with power from the essence of the wyvern and hallowed by the king’s master maskmaker was hidden deep within the tomb, for the king feared that others would steal it and have power over him. And the sword that slew the wyvern was placed over the throne, so that all approaching the king would know of his greatness and remember him as the great deliverer that drove the wyverns out of the land.

“But his pride proved to be too much, for the spirit of Coron Indibar, before he left for that other world caused the fasteners holding the sword aloft to weaken, and it fell, cutting the king asunder in front of the court, and all took it as an evil omen. His line failed and was replaced by a new line of kings who ruled more wisely than he.” Derry paused, deep in thought. “For a time, at least.”

For a time. After which they most assuredly succumbed to the temptation of absolute power. Such was the story of all men in the tales Elu had heard.

“In all the lore your master taught you, did he ever mention of the Terror?” asked Derry.

Elu started, and nearly fell off his rock. He could not speak. Derry could not know of Thora. How could he? He must not let him know of what happened. Surely his new friends would shun him if they found out.

“He mentioned it once. Towards the end of his life,” he added. “But he did not get the chance to tell me the tale in full.”

“Oh, I only know pieces of it. I just thought you might since it is mask lore. I am eager to learn more. Will you tell me?”

Elu hesitated. “I’d rather not. Maybe some other time.”

Derry cast a sidelong glance at him as he swayed on his rock, then, losing his balance, he tumbled into the water.

Elu laughed. “It appears the sorcerer needs to practice his balancing spells.”

Derry splashed water onto Elu as he emerged from the stream and climbed the bank. They lay among the tak-weed in the warm sun to dry off, and Elu could feel the free spirits of the weed sing to his mask. They were wild and stubborn, but adventurous and rather shy. He thought they might make a fine addition to an adventurer’s mask, for the right bearer. The thoughts of tak-weed drew his mind to Thora and her girl-child’s mask, and Elu, hoping to ensure the subject did not return to the Terror, began another tale.

“Surely you’ve heard the story of Eldrin and the making of the earth and sky?”

Derry nodded, “Of course, from my master, yes. But I’ve never heard a maskmaker tell it. Do go on.”

Elu cleared his throat. “The sky was dark, and the earth void and empty. Formless. Shapeless. Then, the highest god of all the gods came down from that other world, the world of deathless light, and saw the void. He wanted another world, like his own—filled with light and wonder—and so he spoke the first words of power, and the sky became light—filled with his power and spirit. The entire sky was one continuous fiery curtain. He spoke other words of power and the shapeless, formless earth became intricate and jagged, full of mountains, hills, rocks, and valleys.”

“But both the sky and the earth were barren. No life came to inhabit the earth and the highest god of gods became concerned, worried that his wondrous creation might be wasted. So he called forth two of the spirits of man, the two most potent, powerful spirits of man. Eldrin the first, and Sipora, his companion.

“The highest god of gods placed them on the earth and they very nearly died, for the heat and power of the sky scorched their skin and burned their eyes. But before they succumbed, Eldrin uttered new words of power, words not given him by the highest god, but by another spirit that had found its way into the new world—a foreign spirit that knew not the highest god but sought to destroy all his work and hide his glory. With the words given him by the malevolent spirit, Eldrin reached toward the pure light of the sky the highest god placed there and he masked it. The mask covered the light and a great darkness fell over the land. But he didn’t cover all, for Eldrin, being the wisest of all the spirits of men, left holes for a portion of the pure light to descend upon the heads of his children. The largest hole he called the sun, the smallest pinpricks he named the stars, and a third hole, a restless one that continually changed according to the days and the seasons, he called the moon. And thus Eldrin frustrated the plans of that spirit of malice, using the evil words of power for good.”

“Sipora, seeing the earth about her feet, thought it unattractive and ugly, being but a dull mass of dirt and rocks. Another spirit from the other world found its way to her, this one the companion of the highest god of gods who saw the mischief in the malevolent spirit’s face, and whispered other words of power in Sipora’s ear. She spoke them, and with their power wove a fabric of life that masked the barren earth, adding to it and beautifying it, forming lakes and streams and trees and birds….”

He trailed off, distracted by the billowing clouds sailing overhead. He found shapes there that showed the story as he told it.

Derry grunted. “It is different coming from a maskmaker. My master always simply said that Eldrin spoke words of power from our craft and created the sun and the moon, and that Sipora, the first witch, formed all life by the power of her magic. Nothing about masks.”

“That is to remind us of our own masks. As Eldrin masked the sky to shield its true power from our mortal eyes, so we must mask our true selves from each other. Just as the unmasked wyvern could kill a mortal man with its unconstrained glory, so is it dangerous to behold each other unfiltered, uncovered. And just as Sipora masked the earth to give it variety and glory and beauty, so do our masks add to us, to give us power and variety and beauty.”

Derry considered this, and nodded his approval at the wisdom shared. The sun neared its setting and the two young men gathered their fish and spears and joined Londu in the house where she had prepared refreshment for them.

The next day, Irwo, a widow homeweaver came to Elu with her mask, seeking repair.

“All in my house has come to naught since I had it fixed last time by Karna. My children fall ill constantly. The roof springs leaks with every rain….”

Elu decided to go have a look at this Karna for himself and confront him in his deception. Did this man not have any understanding of the forces with which he trifled so arrogantly, having no knowledge of the harm he could bring to others, and himself? If not, Elu would teach him.

He found Karna in the inn, a half-empty basin of beer in front of him on the table. A middle aged man, he appeared still older than his years, and feeble, as if those years had not been kind. But the maskmaker’s mask on his face was unmistakable. Newer than Goshorn’s, this one had not so many stones and jewels adorning it but still looked lordly and elegant. But, still wearing his apprentice mask, Elu saw through the deception. With the eyes of his craft he saw rot. The spirits within it railed against the wearer, appearing twisted and angry to Elu. The man’s eyes, unfocused in his drunkenness, reeked to Elu of desperation and pride.

“Karna!” he sternly addressed the man, though he was surely less than half his age. “I am the maskmaker of this town. What possesses you to continue in your deceptions? Why do you usurp a mask unfit for you?”

The man sneered. “Usurp? Ha! It’s mine by right.” He tilted the mask aside and gulped more beer. Wiping his mouth, and plainly under the influence of the beer’s spirits, he went on. “And who are you to do anything about it? The magistrate gave me this mask. It is mine and I will do with it as I please! Leave me!”

Elu spoke sternly. “I will not. And you will learn one way or another.” He spoke with power, and he found the words were not quite his own, nor was the chant that now came from his lips, nor did he understand the unnatural light that now began to shine from the man’s ill-gotten mask. Elu could feel the heat coming from it, and for a moment he feared that the Terror had returned. He looked left and right, but realized that the power gripping the man’s mask came from his own.

Karna fell from his chair and screamed, ripping it from his face, revealing cheeks ravaged by pox and disease and unforgiving time. His sunken eyes and curled lips trembled, and he covered his face in shame before the youth standing over him.

“What have you done?” the old man said, sobbing into his hands.

“Setting things right,” Elu replied, picking up the mask where it had dropped.

“How shall I make my living? What will I eat? I’ll wander the streets, as I did for years before this mask.”

“A better life than what awaited you had you continued to abuse this mask. For as you misused it, it misused you, and you would have become a shadow of a man.” He looked sidelong at him. “More of a shadow than now, I should say.” Elu’s disgust grew as the man’s weeping grew louder.

Karna stumbled to his feet and fled from the inn with his face still covered by his hands, and Elu did not see where he went for the mask now in his hands held him entranced. He knew at once it was his. The spirits greeted him as an old friend, and those in his apprentice’s mask bade him farewell, as if they knew their time together now came to an end.

Hastening to the stream flowing past Derry and Londu’s house, he immersed it once, letting it linger in the water to remove all traces of its previous bearer, and brought it out, fresh and reborn, ready to resume its life’s work. Derry remarked as he returned to the house, “Tis almost a mask of power indeed!” for the mask nearly shone as he presented it to his friends. He turned his back to them and replaced the apprentice’s mask with that of the maskmaker, and straightaway felt the difference within it and himself.

He was older. Wiser. These spirits were more potent and the elements and materials of maskmaking would respond in kind. He foresaw with glee the masks he could make—oh! The masks he would make! What new forms and shapes might follow? What new wood, new metal, bones, stones, and feathers might he combine together, materials that had never been joined together before in endless combinations?

And in that instant also, a terrible unease overshadowed him. He turned left and right looking for anything amiss but nothing appeared out of place. Did he leave the mask in the water long enough?

He lay down on his bed but presently a cry in the night awakened him. Londu, often prone to nightmares, called out to her husband who comforted her, and she soon stopped screaming but continued to moan and the two shared worried whispers.

Elu slept little after that for his dreams too turned dark and unsettled. Nameless fears called out to him from dark corners in his mind and he awoke several more times in a cold sweat, absolutely sure he had just heard voices calling him in his sleep, but upon waking he found the room cold and still.

Just before dawn Londu awoke again but Derry could not console her, and even his voice sounded disturbed to Elu. Their talking became more heated, and one of them conjured a magelight, which brightly illuminated the two rooms of the small house.

The unease of his dreams now stayed with him in a waking nightmare. He could not fathom why, but his neck hairs rose, tingling, and dread thoughts filled him. Had she found him? What would she do to him? He arose from his bed and stepped into the other room, seeing the frightened couple sitting upright on the bed holding each other.

“Elu! What is this dread fear that has overtaken us?” said Derry.

Elu looked at Londu, who quivered in her husband’s arms. What would the Terror do to his new friends? He had no master here to protect them. No master to know what to do. Was the Terror even here?

“I do not know,” he murmured. But he knew. He was sure now. He stepped to the door and opened it.

Thora, the Terror, stood still as a statue on the hill not fifty paces from the house.

Chapter VII

The Guardian

AT FIRST SHE DID NOT move. He was not sure why, but her inaction terrified Elu more than the uncertainty of her presence moments ago.

“Who is it?” whispered Derry in his ear.

“The Terror.”

Both Elu and Derry looked back at Londu, who had answered the question.

“The Terror has come. My nightmares have come to pass. I … I …”

“She is right. It is the Terror and we must leave,” said Elu in a rush.

Derry shook his head. “Leave? No. I am a mage and my mask is one of power. As is Londu’s—she possesses greater potency of magic than I. And you! I perceive that you have no small power yourself. If it is so terrible, then should we not stop it?”

Elu shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the unmoving form of his childhood friend, now possessed by an ancient spirit of malice. “This power is greater than us. It is an ancient evil, in an ancient mask. A mask of legend. The mask of Terror. I … I unleashed it months ago and now it has found me. I will run and try to draw it towards me. I think it is me she wants. You take Londu and run when you can.”

“You never told us any of this,” whispered Derry.

“I know. I am sorry. I was ashamed. But there is no time now. Derry,” he gripped his friend’s arm in his hand, “you have been a good friend. Thank you. I will never forget you and Londu.” Elu made to leave the house, but Derry yanked him back and threw him towards the bed.

“You are right. You will never forget us. Especially not after what you’re about to see,” he said with a wide grin visible on each side of his now transformed wizard’s mask, which flamed as with the heat of a blacksmith’s forge. His eyes began to smolder red as he nodded once to Elu, and he turned and ran towards the Terror who still stood motionless on the hill.

“No!” said Elu, but Derry ran quickly and was halfway up the hill before Elu could even cross the room to the door. He watched as the young wizard raised his arm as he ran, chanting something in a loud, confident voice, and the magic flames rising from his mask leapt higher. His fist transformed into a ball of fire, and he threw it. It sailed through the air over the steps remaining between him and the Terror, growing quickly as it flew, until just an arm’s length from the unmoving figure it halted suddenly, colliding with an unseen wall. It burned brighter and brighter, searing the grass below with intense heat before dying to a whimpering flicker, and then extinguished completely.

The Terror turned to regard the man charging up the hill and with a slight inclination of its head he flew high into the air, struck by some unseen force. He landed hard on the ground.

“No!” Elu shouted again. He stopped, having only made it a few steps out the door. The Terror turned to him, ignoring the prostrate moaning man several paces away. It snapped out of existence with a flash and reappeared just out of arm’s reach from Elu, who fell backward in shock.

“I told you I would return,” she said. It was Thora’s voice. But not Thora. It dripped with pride. At once both icy and full of passion. And it filled him with dread.

“Wh—what do you want, Thora?”

“You tried to stop me. You brought him to me. Your master meant to destroy my mask. To destroy me. He failed miserably, of course—no one can destroy me. No one can rob me. I am justice to my enemies, and my enemies are,” she paused, “numerous.”

“Thora, you can stop this. Take the mask off. You do not have to do this. The mask is not you. It cannot control you if you do not let it!”

“Of course it’s me, you fool! You say I am not my mask, but you are wrong. I am me and my mask. We are one, together.” She began to pace. “I never knew it could be this way. I never knew a mask could not just hide my disgrace but also endow with righteous power. I can’t take the mask off. Because it is me, and I am it.” She stopped and looked down at him again, eyes locking onto his.

Elu saw movement behind Thora, and without breaking eye contact with her he noticed that Derry silently approached, arms raised in the act of conjuring great power. He must keep her talking. Keep her distracted.

“What do you mean you cannot take it off? Is it … stuck? I could help with that. I am a maskmaker now, you know.”

She paused, as if considering his words.

But she was not focused on him. An invisible force grabbed Derry and thrust him high into the air. The fires extinguished from his mask and he wheezed, as if an invisible hand squeezed the life out of him.

“Don’t you touch him!” Londu screamed from behind Elu, and with one stomp of her foot a wave of earth spread out from her, rippling like an ocean breaker towards the Terror, knocking Elu aside, and enveloping her. For a moment it looked as if she was trapped under a mound of dirt.

But Derry hung still in the air, gurgling and coughing.

The mound burst open and the Terror stepped calmly out of the hole. Vines sprouted up from the mound and wrapped themselves around her, only to shrivel and wilt on contact with her skin. With a quick thrust of her arm, a force leapt out that sent Londu flying back into the house, crashing into the wall and onto the floor, motionless.

Elu sprang to his feet. Something must be done, he thought. He would not permit this. He would not lose his only friends in the world. He would not be the cause of their deaths. He bolted into the house and lunged for his satchel next to the bed. He pulled the strange mask from it and ripped his maskmaker’s mask from his face. The peculiar mask tingled beneath his fingers—he could feel the power, and the danger.

But he had no choice. From outside, Derry’s coughing grew fainter. Londu stirred on the floor, arm waving faintly in the air, but did not stand up. He had to act.

He strapped it to his face, pulling the leather cord taut.

And he knew what to do.

Crossing the threshold of the house, he called out to the Terror, “Sister. I warned you to leave the mortals be. At least for a time.”

Her head snapped to him, and for a moment she cowered. But she straightened her back and laughed.

“You, brother! Always meddling in the affairs of justice.”

“And this here, what you are doing now, this is justice?”

“Yes, it is justice! They are mortal, and all mortal beings do evil, and so I am justified in purging them.”

Elu, feeling the power within himself to do it, stretched out his arm and with his will and power released the Terror’s grip on Derry and lowered him gently to the ground, where he gulped deep breaths of air and clutched at his throat.

“And what, precisely, have these two done?”

“Does it matter, brother? If they were murderers of children, you would permit me to do it, no doubt. But what if they were murderers of vagrants? Is that less evil? Or what if they had their way with beggar girls in the street, taking them home to commit unspeakable crimes? What if they do what my father did to me? And the innkeeper? What if they simply steal the widow’s food? What if all they do is spit in their neighbor’s eye? Just one of those things makes them evil, and I am justified. Stand aside.”

Elu’s head swam with a mixture of his own thoughts and the spirits of the mask of legend on his face. They were potent, filling his mind with images and words, but it was muddled. All he knew was that her reasoning was skewed. Unbalanced. And that though he knew his power matched hers, he was not sure how to stop her. And still he felt the foreignness of the spirits. They mocked him. Railed at him for presuming to unite with them.

Derry had recovered somewhat, and now wonder filled his face as he saw Elu, whose mask shone brightly, illuminating the grassy land around them.

“The Guardian,” he murmured, before catching sight of Londu on the floor inside. He sprang to his feet and dashed into the house.

Elu sensed the Terror’s power coming after Derry, but with a word and his will, the power was checked. Thora laughed.

“You cannot shadow me forever, watching my every move. Policing every action I take.”

“I do not have to,” he said, and lashed out at her with his mind. She flew backward, but landed in a crouch on her feet. She matched his power with her own and he felt the wind knocked out of him as he sailed through the air, landing on the grass next to the house. He gathered up a hand and thrust it into the air, thinking of Londu’s earth magic, and a giant fist of dirt sprung up out of the ground under Thora’s feet, knocking her several paces away. Elu brought the giant clod of earth down on her, and held it there, firmly. He felt her struggle against it, but its position was fixed and he would not permit it to move. Powerful magic swirled around him and he startled to see her flash into being just a step away. She grabbed his arm and flung him towards the house. He crashed into it, splitting one of the corner beams as he struck, but the power coursing through his body from the mask of legend, the Guardian’s mask, protected him.

He did not know how this would end. She seemed invincible. At some point, either Derry or Londu would be standing in the wrong place and one of them would die. The realization dawned on him that he could not win. Not here and not like this. Not with his friends in danger. He decided to run.

“Come get me, you fool!” he cried, and mimicking her, he willed himself to shift to a spot fifty paces away. Feeling himself jump across the distance, he stayed there just long enough to be sure that she saw him, and shifted again, this time to inside the house next to his bed. He reached down and grabbed his satchel, and for just a moment paused to bid his friends goodbye.

“Farewell, my friends.”

Derry started to answer, but Elu flashed to a point across the river. He felt her following him. Good. He led her north, making sure he never got too far ahead to lose her, but never allowing her within striking distance. For hours they travelled this way and along their journey the people cried out in great fear, feeling the passing of a terrible shadow and weeping for reasons they could not understand.

Flashing in and out of the fabric of the world allowed them to cross great distances, and many kingdoms and lands passed in and out of Elu’s view during that day and night. But all the while he felt the Terror’s smoldering anger pursue him and he frantically searched within himself for a strategy, a plan. He looked to the west and seeing the snowcapped mountains glinting under the beams of the full moon, he quickened the pace to the north.

They flew hundreds of leagues. Thousands. And by the middle of the second day Elu found himself passing through a land of snow and jagged ice. Further and further north he went and the terrain turned snowier, harder, rougher, until there was nothing but hard ice all around, covering the mountains and the plains. Looking south he saw the midday sun hanging low in the sky, casting weak rays of warmth from that other world down onto the frozen landscape.

This is far enough, Elu thought, and concentrating, feeling the Terror’s wrath just behind him he focused his thoughts on a city he had passed late in the day before. He willed himself to be there, gathering up all power of the mask about him, and caused it to be.

He blinked, and found himself in a sunny marketplace amidst the shouts of merchants and customers, the bleating and neighing of animals, and the music of a handful of bards. He quickly removed his mask, conscious of all the people around him who might catch a glimpse, but he preferred they see his face than the glory of the Guardian’s mask, as Derry had called it.

And possibly the Terror might not be able to see him clearly across such a great distance without his mask on. He rummaged through the satchel, groping for the adventurer’s mask his master had made for him, to the dismayed stares of passing strangers. Finding it, he placed it on his face at once.

He looked all around himself in a panic, his eyes searching the busy crowd for any sign of his pursuer. Someone bumped into him from behind and he whirled on his feet to face the threat.

“Excuse my clumsiness, traveller!” said a man in a strangely painted mask.

He continued looking this way and that. Was that her in the distance, next to the vegetable seller’s stall? The mask looks bright and … no, it is just a blacksmith’s mask reflecting the noonday sun.

“Sir, are you well?” The man stared at him. “Do you require my assistance? I can take you to the healer’s guild if you so desire.”

She had not come. His gamble paid off—she could not track him without the mask on his face. Unless she was hidden in the crowd—he strained his neck over the heads of those around him … but no. He felt at peace. Calm. Not the awful foreboding that preceded her coming in Ri Illiath. He was safe. For now.

“Sir?” The man extended a hand to Elu’s shoulder and gently shook it. The motion summoned Elu back to the present and his eyes focused on the man.

“Yes! Yes, I am well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The man squinted his eyes ever so slightly and stroked the chin of his mask.

“Are you sure? You seemed quite unwell just moments ago. I knew I hadn’t jostled you too hard. I thought you were ill, or that an evil spirit had usurped your mask.”

Elu straightened his shirt and his mask, which he had strapped onto his head slightly askew in his haste. “Yes, sir. I am well, I assure you. I was simply looking … looking for a friend. I had lost her in the crowd, and I worried for her.”

“Oh! Well then you will permit me to assist you in finding her? What a terrible thing for a young woman to become lost in the marketplace.”

“No, I think she will find her way on her own.” His nerves no longer tingled and he offered his palm to the man. “My name is Elu. From the town of Gheb, south and west of here among the foothills of the mountains.”

The man placed his palm on Elu’s in greeting. “Dilly’s the name. From, well, from right here, the city of Glendon. You’ve travelled far, my friend. What brings you so far to the north, adventurer?”

“To seek my fortune. I was apprentice to the maskmaker of Gheb, but he made for me the adventurer’s mask, seeing within me the spirits of exploration and restlessness. I came north, hearing from a friend of the goodness of this land and its people.”

“Your friend knows the land of Varnor indeed! Our songs and chants are old, our warriors and kings stern, but our people kind. Come! Allow me to show you the city,” he said, taking Elu by the arm. He thought about protesting, but the man seemed jovial enough.

He still couldn’t identify his mask. Without his own maskmaker’s mask on, he could only faintly discern the spirits within, and it was clear the man was some sort of apprentice—which made no sense, for a bush of white hair sprouted above the mask and he spoke in the husky voice of an obviously middle-aged man. Rich, bold colors graced its surface, as the magistrate’s mask back in Gheb, but it did not look quite so lordly.

The spirits within it spoke to him of fairness. Of competence, temperance and patience, and oddly enough, of tension. They saw within Elu and scolded him lovingly for his misdeeds, his guilt, and he worried that the man saw through to him as well, but Dilly led him down the streets of the vast city, speaking to him of its layout and governance, its various markets and guilds, and of the work a traveller like him might find in such a city of the north.

“And that, my friend, is the Corundum Tower. The seat of governance of our king, Lord Drevellian. It is the oldest building in all of Varnor….”

Elu remembered the tales of his friend, Derry. “Is it the hall that houses the sword of Coron Indibar, who tamed the wyvern?”

“It is not. That is the stronghold of Akalei, further to the north, though our land suffered under the wyverns as well in that time. The sword still gleams high in the king’s hall. I have been there once or twice—”

Hours passed as Dilly showed him most of the city. Elu’s feet dragged and his eyes grew heavy and he remembered that he had been travelling halfway across the known world since the previous morning.

“Excuse me, sir. I have travelled far. Is there an inn where I might rest?”

The man grabbed a handful of white hair. “Where are my manners? Of course, not far from here, in fact. I’ll show you the way.” He led Elu down several more streets to a humble looking building—compared to the rest of the dwellings in that quarter of the city—but which appeared palatial compared to any house in Gheb. “Rest, friend, and tomorrow afternoon come find me at the hall of justice and we will talk more then.”

“Justice. You are a judge then?” Elu began to understand the man’s mask.

“Judge? No. I am the first apprentice to the chief judge of the city.”

“I thought your mask looked like an apprentice’s. But, you are … not young,” stammered Elu.

“Very astute, traveller, what gave you that idea?” he said, running his hand through his white hair. Elu’s face grew hot with embarrassment and silently thanked his master for making his mask so wide.

“Forgive me, sir, I—”

“Peace, son. I am only having fun with you. Yes, I am an apprentice. But the chief judge is a very old man and when he dies I will become the chief judge, with the consent of Lord Drevellian of course. And when that happens my apprentice will become the apprentice to the chief judge and he will take on his own apprentice.”

Elu’s mind spun with fatigue and the description of such an odd arrangement of work. “That is—I had never heard of an apprentice having an apprentice. It reminds me of an onion—each layer has one below it.”

Dilly laughed hard and slapped his back. “An onion! I love it! You have insight, young traveller. I shall have to tell it to the chief onion tomorrow when I report for duty.”

Elu’s face burned red again. He was still not sure if the man mocked him or genuinely tried to be his friend. The judge’s mask peered into his own, and he felt its prying eyes, looking for evidence of wrongdoing. Signs of guilt. Why had Dilly invited him to the hall of justice tomorrow?

“Thank you again, sir. I shall come tomorrow as you ask. Good day.”

Elu watched the man walk down the street until he disappeared around a corner, and breathed a sigh of relief. The man’s mask made him increasingly nervous. Everything in Dilly’s manner suggested joviality and good will, but the spirits within his mask unnerved him. Gheb did not have a judge, but the magistrate along with the teacher, the weatherweaver, the maskmaker, the presbyter, and the healer formed a tribunal when a crime of serious magnitude required it. But common, petty cases of conflict in the town were simply handled by the magistrate, or sometimes Elu’s father would mediate a dispute himself.

Time would tell, of course. He would go to the hall of justice and see what Dilly wanted of him. Just to talk most likely. To show him the hall of justice and the seat of government of the fiefdom. Joke and laugh. Dilly was just being kind. His hand reached into his satchel searching for a coin to give to the innkeeper, and a finger brushed up against the Guardian mask.

He could leave. He could vanish out of sight and reappear anywhere he wanted. He could go home. The memory of the pained look on his father’s face as he left called him to return and make amends. The last words he spoke stung him now more than he intended them to hurt his father.

No. He must not use that mask again, unless Thora came again.

Thora. She was right, he thought. She claimed to be one with that cursed mask, that her actions were not just those of the mask but hers as well. She took full responsibility for them. He felt no sorrow for the slavers that were lost, but he boiled when he thought of his dear master laying in a heap next to the wall, straining to breathe. Thora did that. The mask enabled her—and surely encouraged her—but she did it. She owned that action.

Was it because of her face, that she had so much anger? What she had hinted that her father had done? The innkeeper struck her often, that was sure, and Elu felt he understood her targeting of him, but why anyone else? He knew that the entire town of Gheb thought her a wild girl, unfit for marriage and undesirable as an apprentice. Did such rejection settle beneath her skin, only to be brought to the surface by the power of the mask? The temptation of power?

Or maybe the Terror was in complete control. They sent the spirits into that barrow and told him how to find it, and when Thora drew near it ensnared her. There was nothing she could have done.

Nothing was clear. Least of all how to stop her. But that was something he couldn’t do. She had matched him power for power. She could kill on a whim—the memory of the masks burned into the slaver’s faces, and into his own, had seared that fact on his own mind. He feared for his family. And for his new friends left behind in Ri Illiath.

His mind continued to race, not letting him sleep that night, and he dreamed of faceless horrors reaching out to him, calling him, begging him to mask them, to hide their vile pitted heads with masks or death, for either would hide their shame and either would give them more power than they had.

Chapter VIII

The Judge

ELU FOUND THE HALL OF judgment easily enough—it stood right next to the Corundum Tower, which itself was the tallest structure in the city, a vast sprawling network of stuffy narrow streets winding through numerous districts and neighborhoods. The earth of that land blazed red—redder than any soil in all of Terremar—and the thick clay found its way into the building material of nearly every structure. The hall of judgment soared above the street below, and Elu spied people within rooms in the building, high off the ground level. He marveled, for Gheb had not even one building with more than one level and this city seemed to have several.

After waiting patiently for the afternoon to arrive, he entered the building and searched for Dilly. An abundance of guards stood at attention sporting brutish looking, utilitarian masks, as well as common people of all trades, apparently there to hear judgment in their individual cases. He spied a blacksmith, his steel mask glinting in the sun that streamed through the open-air windows. His hand firmly gripped a young woman’s arm and she in turn clung to a strange mask held close to her chest. Her girl-child’s mask seemed simple enough, but her squinting eyes smoldered like fire.

“Elu!” Dilly approached him, shouldering his way through the crowd though the people soon parted voluntarily before him as they recognized his mask.

“Dilly. Or do I call you Judge Dilly?” said Elu, unsure of the proper etiquette in the hall of judgment.

“Usually, just Judge. But you are not here for judgment, so call me Dilly.” The man took him by the arm and led Elu back to another expansive room that, despite its expanse, held noticeably fewer people. Small wooden tables lined the walls and men sat counting and changing money. Supplicants and offenders scowled as they paid their fines. Dilly drew him towards another man, this one younger—closer to Elu’s age—and masked as an apprentice judge as well, though not so finely as Dilly whose judge’s mask cast its stern gaze from an imposing wood façade, detailed with steel runes of judgment and impartiality inscribed in either brow—shown on the exterior for the world to see and not only for the bearer to feel against the skin.

“Elu, meet my apprentice, Dil, who also happens to be my son. Dil, this is the man I spoke of yesterday. The adventurer, though I see now he wears a new mask! A maskmaker, eh?”

“I am indeed. I have not yet found a town to settle down in and establish my trade.”

“Interesting. I may have a favor to ask of you, but we will speak of it later. For now, I wanted to show you the hall and introduce you to my son. He is a little older than you, but hopefully you will become fast friends. But you must first excuse me as I must hear a few more cases with the chief judge.” He turned to his son and his smile dropped. “Dil, show him around the hall and answer his questions.”

Dilly left, leaving Elu to wonder why he had brought him here just to meet his son. There was something odd about their masks that he noticed now with his own maskmaker’s mask guiding him, but having never seen a judge’s mask he had no idea what it might be. Dilly seemed just as agreeable as yesterday and Dil now walked him around the building, pointing out the various details that only an apprentice to an apprentice judge would be privy to. But he asked far more questions than he answered, Elu noticed. And Dil’s eyes never left Elu’s mask.

“What was the most recent town you visited just before arriving in the city? Did you have any travelling companion? Did anyone know you came here?” The questions followed one after another and he tried to answer them to Dil’s satisfaction, yet still conceal details that might give a man of judgment cause for concern.

“And you, Dil, how long have you been apprentice to your father?”

“Since I was of age.”

“Is that standard here in Glendon, for everyone to apprentice to their father?”

“I suppose not. Most other men send their boys to other tradesmen for their apprenticeship. My father has but one child, however, and the chief judge gave him permission to appoint me his apprentice.”

“Is the chief judge your grandfather?”

“No, no, of course not.”

Dil was curt, and hardly anything like his father, who exuded warmth and spoke gregariously. Dil seemed matter-of-fact and rather unwilling to engage in joke telling or the relating of anecdotes as Derry had. His thoughts drifted back to the friends that he had left. Back to the fresh tang of salt and sea. Glendon smelled mostly of latrine.

Dil soon tired of both asking and answering questions, and showed Elu the rest of the building with only a few terse words of description before returning to the chambers where Dilly had introduced them. They milled about the room awaiting Dilly’s return, and Elu wondered when he might find the chance to escape.

The question soon became moot for Dilly returned, followed by a few other men he introduced as assistants to the court.

“Elu. I trust Dil gave you a fine tour of the building? Good,” he continued without waiting for the reply, “I spoke to you earlier of a favor I needed. The chief judge is hearing a dispute today brought by a blacksmith and his daughter. It involves a disagreement over the nature of her mask and the court requires an expert to lend his opinion to the judge. Normally in cases such as these I ask one of the many maskmakers in the city if they would favor me with their assistance, but since you’re here anyway….”

Seeing his chance to escape Dil’s unremarkable companionship, Elu nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, I would be delighted to offer any assistance you require.”

“Splendid. The chief judge will hear the dispute in an hour’s time. Feel free to explore the building or meditate as you see fit. A court assistant will come retrieve you here in an hour. Dil, come. I require your assistance.”

Elu breathed a sigh of relief that he was finally left to himself. Dil made for such an odd companion, albeit temporarily, that he was glad to see him go though perhaps with a touch of guilt. But that was just it—Dil never took his eyes from Elu, through all the questions and through most of the silence, which Elu found quite unnerving. And the eyes seemed to be searching—with the art of his own mask he could discern at least that—that Dil was looking for something.

Had they heard of ill tidings out of Gheb and Ri Illiath? Were they looking for the fool that had released the Terror into the world, to find him and punish him for the horrors that Thora undoubtedly now unleashed on some unsuspecting town even as he sat in Glendon’s hall of justice pondering the intentions of some minor judge? How could he live with himself knowing that innocents suffered because of his own actions? Perhaps that is what Dil and Dilly saw in him as they studied his mask. Regret.

He told himself that he could leave. He need not assist these people. He did not know them. He owed them nothing. By the gods, he held the Guardian’s mask in the leather satchel hanging at his side and had power that these men only dreamed of. Why did he not just put it on and transport himself back to Ri Illiath, or better yet, why not explore the world as only he now could, with this mask of legend in his possession? What sights he might see? He had just yesterday travelled farther north than possibly any man in the history of Terremar, for all he saw around him in that cold land was ice and rock and the sun passed only low in the sky, even in midsummer. What other wonders could he find? If only he just had a friend to see it with.

Thora. She would have loved to see it all with him. Escape from her abusive master and his wife, from her indifferent father. Maybe more than indifferent. But she now was as guilty as he was. Worse. She had killed. Killed Goshorn, the only man besides his own father that he loved.

Elu found himself passing through the front door of the hall of justice to the busy street, full of colorful masks and people bustling about. He watched the people go about their business in the shadow of the great building. He studied their masks. Before, with only the adventurers mask on his face he felt a general unease in the marketplace. Now that he saw the people through the eyes of the maskmaker he could see it more clearly.

These people were afraid. Their masks seemed strained somehow, as if they felt compelled to put on a show or a good face, and that small but continuous deception created almost as it were a furrow in the brows of each mask he saw. What was wrong with these people? Was their king a tyrant? Were his henchmen watching their every move, suspicious of uprisings or determined to squeeze every last bit of tax he could out of them?

He wandered the streets immediately adjacent to the hall of justice, examining the various shops and dwellings surrounding it, all built of the same red brick as the hall itself, though not so expertly or lavishly for the hall was indeed a beautiful building, almost woefully imposing, as if the structure itself looked down on people as they entered, chastising them for their guilt and threatening swift justice to the unrepentant.

He passed a maskmaker’s shop. It, and it alone of all the buildings on the street looked just as well built as the hall of justice itself. Curious, he thought. The columns on front were beams of entire elmore trees—the most common mask wood, and the red bricks were exquisitely cut and expertly laid. The maskmaker obviously was a man of wealth and did very well for himself. He looked inside and saw various masks on display—his old master never did this, for he knew all the townsfolk by name and would know for weeks in advance who would be needing a new one just as a farmer knows when a field is ripe for harvest. It almost seemed untoward, improper, to display masks to entice buyers. Did these people not accept masks from their elders, as he was accustomed to in Gheb, or receive them from fate as he did with the Guardian mask?

But he supposed it made a little sense there in the city, for with such a throng of people all around it would be impossible for any maskmaker to know every one of them personally, and with other maskmakers present in the city it would behoove them to compete for business. Still, it struck him as strange and … indecent. Almost—but not quite—sacrilege.

He fingered a few of the masks absentmindedly, admiring their construction, for they were very well made after all. The maskmaker obviously had access to finer materials here in a city than he did out in the small town of Ri Illiath.

“What do you want?” an accusing voice called out to him.

He looked around and saw the proprietor of the shop, a maskmaker, approaching him from the workshop in the rear. “Oh … nothing, I suppose. I am just passing through. I come from the south. Elu,” he said, extending the palm of his hand.

The man stood stock still looking down at the hand, then back up at Elu.

“Then I suggest you be on your way,” he grumbled.

He wore fine clothing, and several exquisite rings graced his fingers, mostly of gold and set with priceless jewels. Elu wished he could discover how to set up his trade in a city such as this and work his way to such finery and affluence.

“Tell me, sir, I am a maskmaker myself, down in the town of Ri Illiath,” he said, half lying, “and I am curious to know of our trade in this city. Do you find much success here? Are there other maskmakers?”

The man squinted at him, searching Elu’s mask, reading the spirits within it and probing his Elu’s own. Elu did likewise, reaching out to the spirits of the other mask. The man came by his mask honestly—that much he could tell—but the honesty stopped there. The mask was full of unease. Fear, even. Not the fear he had felt from the other people in the city, but fear directed at him. And a dishonest spirit permeated the man’s being, coiled like a venomous snake around the man’s soul, slowly poisoning it.

“You would do well to mind your own business, maskmaker. Yes, there are three others in the city. But that is all I will tell you. For all I know you come to set up shop yourself and steal my business and my livelihood. Be gone.”

Elu bowed his head and stepped out of the shop. No sense starting an argument with a fellow craftsman. And besides, he was probably justified in his fear, for competing with the three other maskmakers already in the city had probably put a strain on the man’s business.

Judging that nearly an hour had passed he returned to the hall of justice and found the room he had met Dil in earlier. A man stood waiting for him.

“Maskmaker? Judge Dilly desires your presence in the main chamber. Please follow me,” he said, and beckoned him through the door. Elu followed, and soon found himself in the most opulent room he had seen yet. The door, framed with gold, was the humblest feature of the room. Rich tapestries covered the walls, curtains hung over glass windows—he had never seen glass used in anything but masks and occasionally a flute for fine wine. And at the head of the room in a throne inlaid with gold, sat a man.

The chief judge, Elu knew, for the spirits of the mask were ones of authority, power, wisdom, judgment, and mercy.

And they were all wrong.

Elu blinked, and took a quick breath. His thoughts darted back to the innkeeper of Gheb—the cruel man who found delight in striking those weaker than himself. Elu’s first experience of his apprentice’s mask seeming to take on a life of its own still loomed fresh in his memory. His mask had seen that the innkeeper clearly had come by his mask in some ill-begotten manner or another, by fraud or by subterfuge. Certainly by lying.

This mask, the mask of the chief judge of the city of Glendon, bore the same hallmarks only far more grievously. The innkeeper was a petty man with small, self-serving thoughts, but however ill-gotten his mask was he basically used it as it was intended, and though his spirit and the spirits within the mask did not match perfectly, they were sufficiently similar.

This was different. It reminded him of the tale his master told him of the seer of the city of Falsten, far to the south. He led his people to ruin with that mask for it was a mask of power, and though he was a man of strong will himself, the manner in which he obtained it and his determination that it not be subjected to the washing ceremony caused the mask to twist him. It corrupted and ruined him. And took the soul of the people with it.

Elu saw Dilly standing next to the chief judge, conversing with him and another assistant. Dil, near to them but uninvolved in the conversation caught sight of him and waved Elu over.

“You’re here,” he said.

“Did you expect otherwise?” said Elu.

Dil stumbled over his words, apparently unsure of what to say next. Maybe he was surprised Elu returned. Why would he expect him to leave?

“No, not at all. Come, talk to my father. He will explain your role.”

Dil touched his father’s arm who still conversed quietly with the chief judge. “Dil, what is it … ah, my young maskmaker. Good. Elu, meet the chief judge of the city of Glendon. Sir, this is the foreign maskmaker I told you of. He was passing through our city the other day and I saw him in the marketplace. He is young, eager to learn, and seeks to establish himself and seek his fortune. He will do, won’t he?”

The chief judge regarded him coldly. On the surface his mask and his eyes appeared quite warm. Stern, but warm. The coldness lay under the surface. The twisted spirits of the mask thrashed about it, for it was indeed a mask of power. He had never made a judge’s mask or any related to it and had no experience whatsoever with any mask associated with law and judgments apart from the magistrate and his own father, and so had no idea of what powers the mask of the chief judge might hold.

But the spirits soon told him. They reached out to him and mocked him, suggesting to him that they knew all his secrets. All his lies and misdeeds. Elu recoiled slightly, terrified of the idea of the man knowing his every fault, especially the one that had caused so much suffering. Could the mask really read him that clearly, as if he were a scroll?

His raspy voice rang out. “Welcome to Glendon, maskmaker. We thank you for agreeing to lend us your expertise in this matter. You see, you possess a mask that lets you look clearly into the mask of another. Yours is similar to mine, and to my friends’ here, in that it allows you to see the spirits within, even the spirit of the wearer, and hear what they say. But whereas ours only tells us of guilt and of innocence, yours tells you of function. Identity. Purpose.”

So. Maybe they could not read him as a scroll, but instead only saw his guilt, which he was sure oozed out of him like thick blood. Why had he come here? He could still leave. It was not too late….

“We have before us a case of a woman—a simple girl, who has come by a new mask. Her father, a blacksmith, swears he did not give it to her and has forbidden her to keep it. She being of age but not married is bound to do his will. And yet he is also bound to honor the will of the ancients and permit her the mask if it was rightfully given to her.”

Elu’s mind flashed back to the blacksmith he saw earlier gripping the younger woman’s arm. That mask she was holding. Her eyes.

“What is the mask?”

The chief judge’s raspy voice continued. “That is another strange part of this tale. It is a mask of power. We are not quite sure of its capabilities but it clearly exudes greatness. Its spirits are potent.”

Strange, thought Elu. A mask of power, come into the hands of a young woman without the knowledge of her father. It was not so unusual for a woman to wear a mask of power. Londu, for example, or the healer of Gheb. But in those cases the women were apprentices to their masters for a time and rightfully earned their masks after displaying mastery of the skills native to the trade.

“How did she come by the mask? Was it given to her? Did she find it?”

The chief judge grunted. “She claims that a traveller gave it to her as she walked along the road just outside the city near the coast. According to her, a man began walking by her side, seemingly out of nowhere. After a short conversation, he presented her the mask and disappeared as suddenly as he came. She went home to her father and announced she would be leaving the house to fulfill the calling of her new mask and her father dragged her straight here.”

Elu looked around at the men gathered. Dil shifted uncomfortably. Dilly smiled broadly. The so far nameless assistant looked on intently, and the chief judge—his lips curled greedily behind his mask, went on, his voice hoarse but strangely gleeful.

“And so we come to your service to us. We need you to pronounce to my court what the spirits of the mask say. Can you do that?”

Elu nodded. “I can.” He felt confident enough in his abilities to at least do that.

“Excellent. And what the spirits will tell you is that the mask was ill-gotten, and should be placed in the care of the court.”

Elu stared at the old man, dumbfounded. “Excuse me, sir?”

“The mask was clearly stolen and should be placed in my care. I would have ordered it already but I am required by our law to have the expert opinion of a maskmaker in disputes of this nature.”

“But, do you not want me to divine what the spirits of the mask actually say?”

The judge snapped at him. “I am telling you now what they will say. I have seen her face and I know of her guilt. You will announce to the court that the mask clearly does not belong to her. Say that they are a poor match, or whatever you need to say.”

“Are you telling me to lie?”

His question hung dangerously in the air between them all. He caught Dil’s eye. He subtly moved his head back and forth, as if in warning.

The chief judge leaned forward in his gold encrusted throne and smiled a cold, wicked smile.

“Surely not. Lies are banished from my court, as this is a court of justice. And of mercy. I am simply telling you what to expect when you finally look into that mask of hers. And I very much hope you will confirm what I have seen of her guilt,” he paused, and added very slowly, “for it will go very well for you here if you do.”

Elu understood. This man, the man wearing the chief judge’s mask, clearly had no place as its bearer. He only sought riches. Money and power. And they surely would have known that he, as a maskmaker, would have recognized immediately that the chief judge had no standing to possess the mask that he did. But they counted on him to cooperate just as the maskmaker across the street, for Elu now recognized the source of that man’s wealth as well. They counted on him because Elu was easy prey.

What could he do? He was trapped. If he cooperated, he became just as guilty as them. If he refused, well then, he was just a stranger in their land and at the mercy of the chief judge’s soldiers at the back of the room, for Elu could feel the martial spirits of their masks, just out of sight.

“I understand,” he said.

“Good.” The chief judge turned to the assistant, who, Elu just realized, also was richly dressed and wore all manner of precious stones and gold on his fingers and chest, and said, “Send them in.”

The people involved in the case filed in: the blacksmith, his daughter, a representative of the king, the scribe of the court, other court assistants, and spectators. Before long the room filled with people sitting on benches next to the walls. They all circled around the two chairs in the center of the room, which faced forward and up to the gilded throne of justice, upon which perched the imposter, the chief judge of Glendon.

Dilly approached the chief judge. “You have had the chance to question these two supplicants, oh wise one, and now, in accordance with our law I present to you a maskmaker. For as the dispute centered on the ownership of a mask, an expert in their affairs must examine the mask in question and tell us what its spirits say. Elu! Come forth.”

Elu stepped to the center of the room, still looking expectantly at Dilly.

“Go on. Inspect the mask.”

She clutched it in her hands. Her father still had not taken it from her, for fear that she actually might be telling the truth. Elu approached and extended a hand, waiting as she reluctantly relinquished it.

He looked into its eyes. Its substance. The mask was smooth, constructed of fine wood. Not elmore wood, which was remarkable, since the few other trees that inhabited this part of the world bore wood unfit for masks. It was unlike any mask he had every seen before. The judge was correct—it clearly was a mask of power, for it seemed to pulse in his hands. Not visibly—at least not to the common eye—but it throbbed with an unknown power that Elu did not quite comprehend. Looking inside, he greeted its spirits and called to them, inviting them to show him their purpose. They flooded him with answers and the tumult of their reply made it difficult to understand what they said.

He glanced at the girl, who sat before him wearing her simple girl-child’s mask, the mask of her youth. Her spirit spoke to him of longing, of nostalgia. And of danger, though he didn’t flinch, for the threat was not aimed at him. Her eyes. They shone red. But wait, no, they were brown, like most, but Elu, looking at her with his maskmaker’s eyes saw them clearly as smoldering fire. He considered the spirits of the mask, and felt them calling to her. Hers called to them. They clearly were kindred. Peers.

And now he must decide.

He cleared his throat and addressed the assembled people.

“They are kindred. The mask is hers.”

The blacksmith jumped to his feet in a rage. The guards darted forward to restrain him. Elu looked up and saw a dangerous shadow pass over the chief judge’s eyes. Dilly shook his head. Dil stood stock-still, but stared straight at him with his eyes wide and his head slightly turned as if trying very hard to tell him something. Elu studied his mask—something he had not done earlier that day since Dil seemed aloof and rather uninteresting. But now the spirits of his mask chattered excitedly, and Dil’s gaze penetrated Elu with a new interest and zeal, and, he now understood, hope. Hope for what?

“The maskmaker has spoken,” said the chief judge, now at his feet. “My judgment is that the girl shall keep her mask. The blacksmith, in my estimation, has no claim on her now for she possesses a mask of power—what power that is none can say,” he turned and glared at Elu, “unless you can. Did you discern the purpose of the mask? Surely it must not be terribly valuable.”

It is priceless, thought Elu. Priceless and wildly beautiful. It should never be sold. It would be worthless or worse in the wrong hands—in anyone’s hands but the girl’s, and probably disastrous in the hands of anyone chosen by the chief judge, who most likely would sell it for a handsome price to some rich merchant craving more power.

“I could not tell, sir. The spirits are potent indeed and they have much to say, yet I cannot discern their purpose or their power, not in so short a time. But their intention was quite clear. They wish to be with the girl.”

The chief judge pursed his lips together behind his mask and glared at him. He raised his hand quickly to the crowd in dismissal, turned on his heel, and strode out the rear door of the chamber.

The girl arose from her chair, visibly more at ease than when she entered. She tenderly held the glittering mask close to her chest and turned to her father, now calmed a little and waving off the guards.

“Father. I understand your feelings. And all is forgiven. I—”

Before she could speak another word the man shifted his mask to the side and spat on the ground in front of her. Anger still binding up his mask he rushed out of the hall. The girl shook her head and began to walk out as well, before stopping and looking up at Elu.

“Thank you, master maskmaker. My name is Brea. You do well by me, and by …” she drifted off, and looking around her, she approached Elu and leaned in to whisper, “and by the wyverns, the wisest among us, whose mask this is.”

No. It could not be. He told the truth, for this? What did she mean, whose mask this is?

“Are—are you telling me the wyverns made this mask? Or that it belongs to them? Or that … what is it, exactly, that you are telling me?”

Her voice rose barely above a whisper, and she eyed the people around them warily. “I had little understanding myself when I first received it, and a complete knowledge eludes me still for I have had the mask but less than a day and worn it less than an hour. But it comes from the wyverns—that much I know. How it came to me I know not. But it is mine as you plainly saw, and I am to wear it and accept my destiny, whatever it might be.”

“And this does not frighten you?”

“A little, yes. But why be frightened of your destiny?”

Elu had no answer. She straightened up, bowed slightly, and left, calling back to him as she exited the door, “If you ever need help, find me and I will do what I can.”

The crowd had mostly dispersed and Elu turned to leave as well but felt powerful hands grip his arms.

“What—”

Four large guards surrounded him, two holding him immobile, one stood behind him and removed his mask, and a fourth faced him, grimacing somewhat as Elu scowled at him, barefaced, his shiny scars marking his first encounter with the Terror. The guard lifted up a white mask to his face, one without eye holes or a mouth hole, but had crude painted versions of each on the front.

The prisoner’s mask. The guards strapped it cruelly to his head—double strapped and knotted securely in place with little regard for Elu’s cries of pain as the taut straps cut a little into his neck and pressed hard against his scars, which still smarted in places.

“What’s going on?” he said through gritted teeth, for speaking through the prisoner’s mask clamped to his head was difficult.

“A girl was found dead today. We have several witnesses claiming you were the last to be with her. The judge has ordered you held until he passes judgment.”

The judge. Elu underestimated the amount of time it would take the corrupt man to have his revenge. Or perhaps they had this all prepared ahead of time in case he did not cooperate. The guards jostled him down a flight of steps to a dank smelling chamber with little light, for it had only a few small slits in the stone walls looking out at the street above. They threw him into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it tight. Elu reached down frantically, feeling for his satchel, but it too was gone along with his maskmaker’s mask.

He sat on the floor, head in hands, wondering how he would escape from the situation, preferably with his masks but at the very least with his life. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the blank wood of the prisoner’s mask in front of him and felt the spirits within jeer and taunt him. He could immediately tell this mask had never been washed, never been purged of the unfortunate and pitiful spirits that had borne the mask in the past. They were all there, hundreds of them, laughing at him for his stupidity, his carelessness at having found his way to such an ignoble thing, this mask without eyes or tongue.

He struggled with the straps on the back of his head but they were tight, knotted beyond hope of untying without a knife.

They will kill me, he thought. I am a dead man. And in his sorrow, his thoughts turned to Thora. The anger he felt before for her now subsided to pity. She would be stuck with that mask now forever, corrupting her and twisting her. She would rise up and become a terrible dark queen, holding the land in thrall under her power. And he would not see her again, for he would be dead by morning. He was sure of it.

Chapter IX

Brea Indys

TIME SEEMED TO STAND STILL for Elu. Why had he done it? He could have cooperated. He could have done as the chief judge asked, and then escape in the night. He owed nothing to that girl. She was just a blacksmith’s daughter, after all.

A blacksmith’s daughter. Mistreated by her father. Abused by the town. He knew her story all too well. Of course he helped her. How could he not? How might things have been different had he somehow helped Thora instead of dragging her all over the countryside seeking after thrilling sights and other trivialities?

“Elu!”

“Dil?”

Elu could see nothing through the prisoner’s mask, but recognized the voice of Dilly’s son. He had half a mind to ignore the man, so involved was he with the evil his father and the chief judge had inflicted upon the people.

“Elu, I’m so sorry this has happened. I usually try to reign in the excesses of my father and his master, but it is difficult, you realize.”

“Difficult? Yes, I suppose your life is incredibly difficult. Trying to figure out which person to swindle, deciding which maskmaker to bribe or coerce into assisting with your schemes. What a cursed life you lead.”

Dil did not speak, and Elu thought he might leave. But the man stood there, motionless. Elu could not hear the redness of Dil’s cheeks.

“Yes, you are right, I am part of the evil here. But I do not know how to stop it. I am but one man. You see how it is here—if you stand up in opposition to the power, you get struck down. Elu, I must warn you, the chief judge is not lightly crossed. He intends to see you dead tomorrow for embarrassing him.”

When they met, Dil seemed to search deep into Elu’s mask, and later, at the judgment, seemed to look into his mask with hope. The spirits in Dil’s mask cried out then—with excitement and joyful expectation. Did he tell the truth? Has he been searching all these years for a way out? For help? Only one way to find out.

“Then I need to escape. Can you bring me my satchel?”

Dil shifted uncomfortably. “Your satchel? How will your satchel help a man in your position?”

Elu hesitated. He did not want to tell Dil of the precious mask of legend inside, nor did he especially want to use it for fear that Thora would instantly find him and unwittingly carry out the chief judge’s will.

“It won’t. But that blacksmith’s daughter, Brea, she can help me. I need my satchel because after you beg her to rescue me, she will come and I will want my satchel with me as I escape.”

“Brea? That girl? What in Varnor could she do to help you? You’re in the most heavily guarded prison in the land! There are no fewer than ten guards between you and your freedom. What will a girl do to them?”

Elu raised his voice and spoke with some authority. “I am a maskmaker, and as such I looked into her mask and saw the power within. When she puts that mask on, ten guards will be to her as ten mice are to us. It is a mask of power, and one does not trifle with masks of power—advice that your chief judge would be wise to have learned by now. And your father.”

The last words bit deep into Dil and he winced behind his mask.

“Very well. I will fetch your satchel and plead with Brea to come for you. Please know, Elu, I did not want this. I wish for things to change here, but I do not know how to begin. I do not know what to do. The chief judge is, as you have seen, an awful, wicked man. The people all live in dread fear of him for they know that if they are brought before his throne the judgments usually go in favor of those with the heaviest pockets. I know you cannot forgive me for my part in all this but I will do my best to send you away from here with my goodwill.”

Dil left, leaving Elu to his thoughts. And that was when the unease in his heart returned.

Not the regular fear that had struck him when he realized the chief judge meant to kill him the next morning. That fear was more real. Manageable.

This new fear unsettled him. Filled his heart with a dull terror that for all he tried to shove down, down into some dark corner of his mind, he could not avoid it.

Thora had found him. She was coming.

Or had she? Was he imagining things? He forced his eyes open and stared at his prisoner’s mask. Perhaps it was the malevolent, idle spirits within the mask that caused him to feel this way. They continued to jeer at him, assailing him with their insults and jealousy—for he was still alive and they not.

He convinced himself that they were the cause of his unease, for he realized now that the feeling had been building within him ever since the guards had brutally tightened the mask onto his face. It felt like a prison—an effect of the mask he supposed was intentional, and quite brilliantly done for the wide leather straps holding the mask tightly to his face, stifling his very breath, felt like prison bars. The lack of sight through the mask seemed to him worse than the darkness of the prison, and the evil spirits within its dull wood now created in him more fear than Thora or any other force in the world had been able to stir within him yet.

It seemed that hours upon hours passed away, yet Dil did not return. The light from the falling midsummer’s sun slanted low through the narrow cracks in the wall above his head and the sounds of the street outside grew quieter. He began to wonder if Dil had decided against helping him. No one would ever know, of course. No one would ever be the wiser if Dil simply let justice proceed as it should.

As the time passed the prisoner’s mask’s spirits whispered to him, and he felt their dank fetid breath wash over his face, but the breath was not air but fear and panic. The unease within him intensified and he began to wonder if maybe he was right. Maybe Thora was near after all. He paced the small, cramped room of the prison, probing the uncaring stone walls with his fingers, looking for something, anything that would help him escape. A few rusty hooks in the wall, a chamber pot, straw scattered in the corner, and a very short length of frayed rope, probably the remains of a previous prisoner’s arm restraints.

Dil surely was not coming. Why had he even thought the man would help? His only interaction with him had been dull and unpleasant. He felt sure that the only reason Dil had talked to him at all earlier in the day was to give Dilly time to arrange affairs should Elu decide against assisting in the evil schemes of the chief judge. But that would all not matter now. Thora approached. He was sure of it. He was sure—

“Elu?” a voice whispered through the door.

Dil opened the door wide and pressed the satchel to Elu’s chest, who snatched it and reached inside. He felt the adventurer’s mask, the maskmaker’s mask, and, but wait … where was it … ah, his fingers grazed the smooth emerald set into the white gold of the mask of legend. He sighed relief. Maybe Dil told the truth. The spirits in his mask certainly felt guileless. If Dil was leading him into some other diabolical trap, he hid it well. And he had brought him back the Guardian mask—surely Dil had looked inside the satchel. But should he use it? Was his situation of sufficient urgency? He still felt the unease, the quiet terror within himself, but it had subsided somewhat … but no. It returned, stronger, nearer. Thora moved—he knew it.

A terrific thud sounded out from the wall, as if it were struck by a giant boulder.

Thora.

“Dil! We must run. The Terror approaches!” he yelled at the befuddled man. Another great thud, even louder, hit the wall facing the street. Elu grasped at his prisoner’s mask and pulled, then tore at the straps behind his head with determined urgency. “Help me!”

Dil reached at his side for the knife hanging against his thigh and meant to unsheathe it, but the third thud against the wall was the last, and it crumbled in a tumultuous noise, just as the wall had on that fateful day in the barrows. Elu still struggled with his prisoner’s mask, and Dil, panicked at the fallen wall reached over and cut the mask loose. Elu reached into his satchel and pulled out the first mask he touched—for he could not see in the dust—and pulled it over his face.

“We must run!” Elu grabbed Dil and started out the prison door.

“Maskmaker?”

The voice sounded familiar. And it shook the building, it seemed. Had Thora grown in power?

“Maskmaker, I’ve come to help.”

Thora did not talk like that anymore. The dust had cleared somewhat and Elu looked cautiously around the corner of the door into the room now half-open to the street above.

He was not entirely sure, but Elu felt confident that he stared straight into the face of a wyvern, whose head peered down into the room from the street above.

“Maskmaker, it is I, Brea. The blacksmith’s daughter. Do not be alarmed.”

Brea?

“I—I’m not alarmed,” he stuttered, still peering cautiously into the room from around the corner.

“Then come out where I can see you!” The wyvern’s voice made his mask tremble and nearly shook him to the core, but he stepped out from around the door and approached. Dil followed, cautiously. They climbed up the stones of the ruined wall and emerged onto the street above. It was no longer as crowded as earlier in the day but people yelled and pointed at the beast now hunched low next to the hall of justice. Most ran away as quickly as they could but some just stared in disbelief as the two men conversed with the wyvern.

“I told you I’d help you, maskmaker,” she said, and as she spoke, she diminished, the scales of her skin shrinking down, changing from grey and green to a warm pink. Within moments, Brea, the blacksmith’s daughter, stood before them smiling behind her mask of power.

“A wyvern’s mask,” said Elu, understanding the mask and its spirits at last. The longing, the nostalgia—not all made perfect sense, but the spirits were those of wyverns who had passed on to the other world, whose knowledge and power still inhabited the mask on Brea’s face.

“Yes. The moment I touched it, I knew.”

Dil broke his silence. “Are—are you really a wyvern then, come down from across the sea in human form?”

She laughed. A confident, delightful laugh. The wyvern’s mask was actually rather small, covering only the eyes, nose, and the upper lip, exposing far more of the face than masks Elu was used to, far more than any woman’s mask he had ever seen. He wanted to avert his eyes out of shame, or out of fear for himself but he could not look away from face. Her eyes were afire, almost as Derry’s when he went out to face the Terror. Her cheeks glowed soft and smooth for she was still quite young, perhaps a year less than Elu himself.

“No, I am not a wyvern. Not at the moment. I was born of my mother like you. But in the few moments I have worn this mask I have learned that the wyverns are not so different from us.”

Elu glanced down the street. A troop of soldiers holding pikes approached, urged on by terrified city dwellers pointing down the street at the young woman.

“Brea?”

“I do not fear them. Only Coron Indibar ever slew a wyvern, and his mask was powerful.”

In the blink of an eye she transformed back into the wyvern and roared a warning to the approaching soldiers. They paused. She growled deep in her chest and howled at them, spitting a flaming missile of brimstone, which landed, just paces from their feet, causing them to scatter.

Elu looked up at her. “Brea, we need to do something about this judge. He is a tyrant over this city, and abuses his mask. It should be a beacon of light for an abused people seeking justice and mercy but instead he has corrupted it. Ruined it.”

“I will bring him here.”

She flew into the air, howling at the reassembling guards, and shot up to the upper story of the hall of justice where an ornate balcony looked out at the street below. She passed out of sight for a few moments and Elu and Dil heard the tearing of stone and wood. A minute later she reappeared, clutching a terrified chief judge in one of her clawed hands. She dumped him on the street before Elu and hovered there in midair, flapping her gigantic wings majestically.

The cowering judge rose to his feet, still bowed over with his hands covering his head, ducking as if to avoid the flapping beast. A crowd of people began to gather, curious at seeing the chief judge—the man who had pillaged half the city and coerced the other half to conspire with him—shrink and wail before the wyvern. And though they still feared the wyvern, it had not yet attacked anyone, save the chief judge. So really, how bad could the beast be?

“I will see you all unmasked and flogged to your deaths for this!” the judge shouted at them. Elu simply smiled. He tried to imagine the soldiers, still hanging back from the wyvern, trying to brave the beast’s claws and fire to fulfill any order of the judge.

His thoughts drifted, directed by his mask, to his old master, Goshorn the maskmaker, and how he reached out to grab the Terror’s mask. The spirits of his mask began to speak to him, whispering a chant and bringing it to his lips. He began slowly, almost inaudibly, unheard over the din of the wings and the murmur of the crowd.

The people hushed, seeing that the maskmaker chanted, and strained to hear the words—not that it would have helped them, for the chant fell from his lips in the ancient language of the first maskmakers, whose authority imbued those first masks of legend with unspeakable power. His voice rose in timbre and volume, amplified by the power of his mask to the ears of all that heard.

He stopped. All was silent. Brea alighted behind him next to Dil and held still.

The words came to Elu as they had come to him with the innkeeper, spoken by the mask, the memory and art of all those spirits channeled through his.

“Chief Judge. You do a great evil here. Your mask is ill-gotten, and you have defiled and perverted it. You have enslaved this people, squandering their trust and the authority the king placed in you. Do you have anything to say to them? Anything at all?” he said, motioning towards the people who gathered in number and gawked at the cowering judge.

“How dare you! You—you filthy—” he began, spittle dripping down his mask.

Elu interrupted, “Very well. There is nothing more to say.” He chanted once more, picking up where he left off, and his mask shone. Not as brightly as the Guardian mask had, but it shone with the light and power of the ancient maskmakers.

Elu reached forth his hand, remembering the motion of his master, and placed his open palm on the judge’s mask.

It split in two with an earth-shattering crack, a massive sound that belied the mask’s small size. It fell clattering to the ground. The judge covered his face with his hands and collapsed to the earth, crying and moaning. Elu looked at the mask with sadness and regret—it could not ever have been saved. No immersion in the river or the sea would have rid that mask of the corruption the old man sowed in it.

The crowd burst out into a cheer. They waved at him, shouting praise to the strange, foreign maskmaker sent to deliver them from their tyrant. Elu held up his hand to ask for silence.

“This man here on the ground is finished. He is to have a vagrant’s mask, or the like. But do no harm to him for all the many evils he committed against you. Let him go free, for the knowledge of his evils and his feverish desire for the wretched mask that is no longer will be punishment enough for him.” He turned to Dil, pointing to him. “This man here will be your judge, for I give him the mask of his father. I have seen its spirits and know Dil’s heart, and they are properly matched—” he paused, looking at Dil, “—and he will be a fine judge. And a merciful one.”

The crowd continued its cheer, made greater by the news that Dilly as well would no longer judge them but that his son would be the chief judge. Apparently Dil’s reputation as a man of fairness outpaced his reputation as a conversationalist.

The chattering slowed. Brea, the wyvern, wailed and reared her head. Elu looked around himself, and felt the fear rising in the crowd, who looked not at the wyvern but all about themselves. Some looked to the sky. Others fell to the earth and wailed.

With a crack that sundered the air she appeared.

Thora stood next to the still weeping man once known as the chief judge. She looked down at her feet, and curled her lips in disgust.

“Brother, is this the company you have been keeping? I should have known….”

With a motion of her head, the maskless man flew high into the air, screaming, and careened into the brick wall of the hall of justice with a crack. He crumpled to the earth, bloody and unmoving.

Brea reared on her legs and wailed at Thora, breathing a torrent of fire towards her, punctuated with hunks of brimstone. Thora calmly held up her hand and the fire stopped just a pace away, enveloping her all around with scorching heat.

Elu, afraid of another confrontation with her but fearing worse if he did nothing, removed his mask and slipped the Guardian’s mask over his face. He looked at the Terror, and let his anger fly.

His mask shone nearly as bright as the now setting sun, stinging the eyes of any who looked directly at him. Thora flinched from the light shining on her and held up her hand to ward it off, but she had no power over it.

“Go, Terror, and never come back. Leave this land forever or I will destroy you.”

Thora laughed. “You can’t destroy me. Nothing can destroy me. Even when I slept all those long years I was not dead. I was not destroyed. Even as I lay slumped over the forge, shoved there by my drunken father, the fire eating my face, I knew I would rise again. You can not rob me of my power and withhold from me my claim.”

She had never told him about her face. In all their wanderings he never thought to ask, or rather, never felt like he could. And that man. Her father. How he survived and his own master had not burned him inside. It made him hate her.

“And what claim is that?”

“Justice,” she whispered. “I am not woman. I am not mortal. I have no cares or needs. I only do what must be done. Did he not deserve it?” she added, pointing at the broken form of the judge.

“It is not my place to decide if he deserved it, I only know—”

“Ha! You finally learn after all these years. You are right—it is not your place.”

That made Elu snap. The image of the unfortunate cooper who unknowingly crossed Thora’s path on the road outside of Gheb—the vile innkeeper suspended helplessly in the air of the inn, the memory of the dead form of his master on the healer’s table—these spurred him to action. He howled in anger, and concentrated his light on her. On her dreaded mask. She must be stopped. She was evil. Evil to the core. It wasn’t just the mask—somehow she had fooled him all those years, hiding her nature deep within herself, only to reveal it when her power allowed her not just to show her true self, but to flaunt her twisted soul. And who knew what horrors followed her in her travels? How many months had passed since he loosed her?

The light smote her and she cowered under it. But the Terror lashed out with her own assault, and Elu felt the wind knocked out of him as he soared backward, hitting the cold brick wall of the hall of justice. He landed close to the chief judge, whose motionless body held no spirit—none that he could see through the Guardian mask. And that was when he noticed it.

He could not see the judge’s spirit, for it had left. But he saw everyone else’s. Dil’s, the city folk’s, the soldiers’. He saw them all, not as he saw their spirits through the maskmaker’s mask, for with those eyes he saw purpose. Utility. With those eyes he matched people with their masks and discerned kinship and likeness. Not with the Guardian mask.

He saw their … he couldn’t place it. They all, each of them, appeared different. Dil looked noble, shy, and patient, and Elu understood the patience for he had labored long under his father and the evil judge, tolerating their ways in the hopes of better days ahead. He looked at Brea still in wyvern form, but that did not mask her true nature as a woman, and yet, more than a woman. Her spirit smoldered almost like a wyvern itself—wild, ancient, wise, and dangerous, but virtuously dangerous, as if none but the oppressors need fear her.

And he saw Thora. He was right—it was almost as if there were two parts to her: one was the old Thora, whose natural anger and hatred had twisted with her inner strength and will until, under the influence of the Terror and without fear of punishment, she surrendered herself wholly to her anger under the aegis of justice. The other part was … opaque, inscrutable, and incontestable—like a being of pure power and aloofness and … utterly uncaring about anyone. And he understood now—she would not stop. In her eyes he had wronged her, and she must pay it back—with equal measure. He had summoned his master and he had tried to kill her—destroy her mask, at least, which to her would be a death, and so she would—must—kill Elu too. There was no way around it for her. There was no choice. Only action.

An action that he decided he must make first, or die like Goshorn.

And so he flew. He leapt off the ground and summoned the power of his mask, calling upon the spirits within to aid him, to lift him off the ground and assail her. But still the spirits grumbled at him. He had noticed it before, at their last meeting. He tried to match power for power with her and had come up short. They resisted him. He was not kindred. He was foreign, and they felt reproach at having dealings with someone so ill-fitted to their task. They obliged, but grudgingly. And with only a token of power—with but a fraction of their potential.

Walls of force sprouted from his hand, pushed on by his will, and struck her. She flew backward onto the ground, but then laughed.

“Oh, this is great fun. Is that all you have? I sense your mask has not taken to you as it once did,” she said, rising to her feet. She disappeared.

The people began to panic, fearful of the terrible magic on display before them, and started to scatter. In the confusion, Thora appeared behind Elu and grabbed his neck, lifting him into the air above her. He struggled against her powerful grip and kicked at her. He begged the spirits of the mask to grant him more strength as his vision sparkled and began to fade. They obliged, but warned him to remove the mask or face dire consequences. He kicked at her head, connecting with the terrible mask, and he fell.

She moaned and held her face in her hands. Good. She felt pain. Now to finish the job.

But could he do it? As evil as she had become, was she still Thora? Maybe. He hesitated. He stretched his arm to her but the spirits warned him again: do not presume to use us. His face began to burn where his scars connected with the mask and he cried out, unstrapping it from his head. He yanked the adventurer’s mask over his face and ran, calling out to Brea.

“Can you bear me away? She will kill me.”

The wyvern bowed low to him, and she said, “Climb on. She cannot harm me. Her mask has no power over mine.”

He did not understand this but climbed up anyway, and she kicked off the ground and soared high above the tumultuous scene. Thora stood, now recovered from his kick, and rose into the air after them, attempting pursuit. Brea swooped higher and higher, speeding away like an eagle. Thora, even with the terrible power of the dread mask, fell behind. Soon, she disappeared behind them in the distance.

The people looked up and saw the man escape on the wyvern. Some remembered the legend of Coron Indibar and reckoned his spirit had returned from that other world, harnessing the power of the wyvern he tamed and slew. Others, recognizing her as the blacksmith’s daughter from when they saw her transform, called her Brea Indys—the woman of wyvern blood.

And all remarked at the Terror that appeared that day—how the hated judge paled in comparison to the dread she brought—but also at the Guardian who stood in her path and shielded the people from her, and cast her down with his radiant power—if only momentarily—as if with the light of that other world.

Chapter X

Hartree

FOR OVER AN HOUR BREA and Elu flew north and east, following the coastline. The sun had set, casting dark shadows of twilight across the gray terrain below, and when the darkness completely engulfed the land Brea descended, for they saw flickering lights far beneath them.

“Where is this? Where are we?” whispered Elu in her ear.

“The city of Hartree, where dwells the high king of Varnor. My father often sells his wares here.”

They landed, and in the darkness none in the city suspected that a wyvern now stood at the outskirts.

“Maskmaker. Thank you for freeing me. I hope I have been of some service.”

“Brea, you have saved me from a terrible fate and I consider myself in your debt.” He bowed low to her in salute. She likewise lowered her head solemnly.

“What will you do now? What was that which attacked you?”

He sighed heavily. “It is the Terror. A mask of legend that has overwhelmed my friend, and now goes about bringing fear and death wherever she goes.”

“And your mask? Can it not stop her? You appeared as a guardian of light when you bore it—but you took it off.”

“I do not know if I can stop her. I am ill-fitted to that mask—it will not have me, and I know enough mask lore to fear the evils that would come to pass if I tried to bend it to my will.” He paused. “And you? What will you do? Do you return to your father?”

The wyvern grunted. “No. He tried to take from me the one thing that was mine. This mask is my identity. It is me. I never knew who I was until I placed this on my face, and in doing so I was unmasked to myself—laid bare—and I understood finally who I was. I can never go back to him. Not unless he changes. Not unless he admits his error.”

“Then you may wait until you meet in that other world, for men change slowly if at all, and when they do it is usually not by choice.”

“So be it. And you, Elu, will you change?” She turned her scaly head to regard him. He winced looking into that large, unmasked face, until he remembered that the wyvern’s face itself was a mask, shielding him from the hidden glory underneath.

“What do you mean?”

“You say you seek adventure, but escaping from consequences often bears a striking resemblance to adventure. Tell, me, are you seeking, or are you running?”

Elu opened his mouth, and shut it, unsure of what to say. His father had said something similar. Wyverns were ancient, wise beings, weren’t they? Even if they were murderous beasts. But this was no wyvern. This was a girl. Another blacksmith’s daughter.

“I seek my fortune,” he said, noncommittally.

“Very well, Elu, but as for me I will seek out my kin. They call to me. Somehow, they sent me this mask, and I must find them.”

“Where are they?”

“I do not know. I only know what the legends say, that they came suddenly out of the north and east over the sea and returned there when driven out by Coron Indibar, but beyond that the tales are silent. People catch sight of a stray wyvern here and there over the long years but only from a distance, and fleetingly. So I will fly across the sea, and perhaps I may find them. If not, I will look elsewhere.”

She gathered her wings and sprung off the ground, wheeling higher into the night until she disappeared into the blackness, and even after he lost sight of her the sound of her wings flapping against the wind punctuated the stillness of the air.

Elu found an inn, paid its keeper the last coin he had taken from his master, and slept that night and all the next day.

For many days he rested and ventured tentatively out into the city. Hartree, the seat of power of the high king of the land of Varnor was not so large a city as Glendon. It was barely larger than Ri Illiath, and yet it spoke to him of antiquity and history. No building seemed much younger than several hundred years old, and the streets sunk deep, suggesting that weather and the steady wearing of feet and hooves had tamped the dirt and gravel down steadily over time.

The common masks of trade shouted their wares in the street, and the usual professions had their shops and tents: blacksmiths, bakers, wheelwrights, tanners, potters, but what caught Elu’s eye was the unusual abundance of masks of power. More than one wizard passed him in the street, witches and healers looked to be not in short supply, and many masks made their presence known simply by the aura of power he discerned about them while wearing his own maskmaker’s mask. He did not recognize them all, but felt their power. One man, whose mask seemed to be made of pure stained glass and leather, stood guard in front of a particularly imposing building. He couldn’t be sure but Elu felt animal spirits in his mask, mixed with those of its previous bearers and the potent spirits of the glass, fiery and implacable.

He wondered at the bounty of masks of power this city seemed to possess, thinking that perhaps there was a school in Hartree to train those who the masters saw fit to receive such a mask. There was no shortage of grand, ancient buildings that Elu imagined such a school might reside in.

Seeing a man come into the inn once day, a remarkable glass and steel mask on his young but scarred face, he decided to ask.

“Greetings, sir. May I ask you of your mask?”

“You may, but as you are a maskmaker I fear that you may be able to tell me more of it than I can tell you,” he said. His countenance was warm and his manner engaging, reminding Elu of Derry.

Elu sat down next to him at the table, in awe of the array of food spread out before him. He clearly not only owned a mask of power, but also looked to be quite wealthy.

“It is only that I have not seen that mask before. It is obviously a choice mask, of great power, and its spirits speak to me of curiosity and adventure, but that is no adventurer’s mask.”

“It is the shapechanger’s mask,” he said, munching on a mouthful of bread.

“I have never heard of that. Is it common?” And realizing how foolish he sounded, added, “I mean, for a mask of power, that is?”

“Not so much. I’ve only ever met five or six others in all the land with the like, and that was right here in Hartree. A few of them have left to seek their fortune, but I stay here with a few others.”

“I had wondered about that. Is there a school of some sort here? I mean, for those with masks such as yours? I have seen so many like you.”

“School? No. There is no school to qualify you to wear a mask. You should know that, maskmaker.”

Elu blushed a little, feeling quite grateful to his mask for its concealment. “Yes, I know that. But then, why are there so many masks of power in this city? It is not particularly large.”

The shapechanger turned to regard him. “You’re new to Hartree, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away?”

“Hartree is the city of the prefect. All the kings of Varnor rule under him. Sometimes they call him the high king, but he prefers the prefect title. Where are you from, friend?”

“The town of Gheb, south of the mountains.”

“I have heard of it. I am from Karzad in the north. Do you know it?”

“No. But I have heard that it is quite cold in the north.”

“Yes. Karzad is cold for much of the year, but summer is pleasant.” He returned his attention to his meal. “Is Gheb terribly hot?”

“Only on some days. Snow is rare, and it rains much,” said Elu.

“Ah, very well, I shall have to visit it someday—I tire of the cold of the north. I hope to seek my own fortune to the south when I have finished my study here.”

“But, you said there was no school.”

“And I did not lie. There is no school. But there are the guilds. Hartree is not only the home to the prefect, but to the masters of many trades, including yours if I remember correctly. The master shapechanger is a counselor to the prefect and advises him in many matters. The rest of us come here to learn from him for he is wise, and knows much of the lore of shapes and essence.”

“How long do you stay?”

“I came two years ago, and I don’t plan to stay for much longer … maybe a year. There is still much he could teach me, but I grow weary of the city. My father is a trader in Karzad and he sent me here to learn my trade, giving me not a small number of coins hoping that I would stay here for many years and become the master shapechanger’s apprentice, but I have no wish for that sort of life—answering to a master everyday, dressing properly for life at court. I want to see the world. There are so many exciting things to discover, who knows what wonders one might find?”

“Indeed,” said Elu.

“You know of what I speak, then. And what of you? Why do you come to Hartree? Especially knowing nothing about it?”

“I am a maskmaker, but an adventurer as well—both masks suit me. I served the town of Ri Illiath by my craft but that proved to be … short-lived. I came north to find another place to establish my trade and sell my masks.”

“And not to seek adventure? Why then do you wear the adventurer’s mask?”

The question made Elu wistful. He thought of his wanderings as a child, of his travels in the world since—how exciting it would have seemed had he not been running from a dread evil. “Adventure never becomes what it seems when you set out.”

“So it may be, maskmaker. But is the discovery at the end still not worth the journey?”

“Perhaps.”

The man finished his meal and stood. He extended his open palm and said, “Zand. My name, that is. And yours?”

“Elu,” he said, placing his palm against Zand’s.

“Let us meet again soon. If you wish, of course,” Zand said as he left the inn.

Elu nodded his approval. “Yes, I should like that.”

The door closed behind Zand and Elu decided he would try to find the master maskmaker, of whom his own master had spoken of before, but he never explained his position as the master of the guild of maskmakers. He did not even know there was a maskmaking guild.

He looked for the palace and found it soon enough, an ancient, awe-inspiring building. It looked as if it had once been a fortress made for defense, but now after the many recent years of peace it seemed less functional and more beautiful, with gardens and flowers springing up everywhere. He recognized the guard out front as the man with the stained glass and leather mask of power, the vague sense of animal spirits within growling at him as Elu passed.

A courtier led him to the master’s workshop where the man spent most of his time, still constructing masks even at his advanced age. His hands worked deftly and confidently, full of power and craft. And not just power but art as well, for he made masks both beautiful and elegant. He waited, standing near the man as he worked, patient to let him finish his task—well aware that when the spirits of the materials grant you inspiration you do not turn aside but stay at it until it is finished.

He spoke. A high but guttural voice, creaking with age. “And you? Who are you?”

“I am Elu, sir. I was apprentice to Goshorn, maskmaker of Gheb.”

“And how is old Goshorn? I haven’t seen him in ages. He was one of my first apprentices, when I was just older than you.”

“He is dead.”

The master continued working, but in silence.

“That is unfortunate. He was very skilled. Arrogant and cavalier in his youth.” He grunted. “But, who isn’t?”

“He spoke very highly of you before he died. Said there was none greater.”

He shrugged, as if it were common knowledge. “That is true. Of maskmakers there are none greater for I hold the mask that makes it so. Someday there may be one who is greater than I, but not until he holds this mask, and as long as my fingers can still move, I’m not giving it up!” he cackled, amused at himself.

Elu watched the man work. His fingers, ancient and skeletal, but nevertheless deft and firm, confidently wove strips of leather into the wood frame. A child’s mask—a girl, from the spirits he sensed inside the frame. A small pile of glittering sand rested in a small pile amongst all the other ingredients of maskmaking on the table in front of him, including many rare and precious stones. Did the man have an army of apprentices out right now seeking the finest materials for their master’s masks? Or did he have the favor of the prefect, and access to the high king’s wealth to aid in his craft? Elu supposed that if he were here at the behest of the prefect, the maskmaker would have no shortage of fine materials.

“You say you knew my master when he was young?”

The master nodded, continuing his work, “Yes. He grew up in this very city, and I had my eye on him when he was a lad. He might have become the master of this mask had I not lived so long. But, alas, the spirits did not will it so, and here I am clinging to life.” He grimly smiled, glancing at Elu. “The spirits will all, you know. Nothing comes to pass without their consent.”

“They make everything happen?”

“They don’t make it. They consent to it, giving their blessing to what is meant to be. And if something is not meant to be, they curse it and rail against it. Which is why we never wear a mask not suited to us or make a mask ill conceived. That was almost the downfall of your own master.”

“He mentioned his first mask of power that he made. Do you speak of that?”

The master nodded, a frown on his face.

“He left here at the height of his power, the peak of his craft. A prince of Varnor summoned him and offered to be his patron and proud Goshorn accepted it, not caring that the prince had dubious morals. Of all the princes of Varnor he was known as the most unscrupulous, the most ambitious. Which is why I suppose Goshorn was attracted to him—he wanted fame and distinction. He wanted to be the greatest maskmaker in this generation and saw the prince as his vehicle.” The master began coughing, holding his chest as the fit passed. “Age, my son. I don’t recommend it.”

“So Goshorn knew of his patron’s evil nature? Did he know the prince would demand a mask of power?”

The master grew silent. His eyes met Elu’s, each mans’ shrouded partially by their maskmaker’s masks.

“Demand? The prince demanded nothing. The mask was Goshorn’s idea. He told the prince that he could make him a mask of great power that would elevate his standing among all the princes, and what prince wouldn’t jump at an offer like that? And so Halas, the prince, expended great wealth on materials for that mask, sending servants to the far reaches of Terremar for priceless wood and jewels. Goshorn requested a diamond, and Halas obliged, spending perhaps a quarter of his wealth on it. Servants brought back banda wood from the far reaches of the south where the heat of the sun makes the wood hard and the spirits potent.

“Goshorn labored for a year, making every detail just right, carving the wood meticulously, spending weeks on each rune he inscribed, chanting until his mouth dried, and then chanting more. But he knew the mask would be ill suited for his master—any mask of power would be, especially one so opposed to the nature of the prince himself.”

“What was the mask?”

“A mask of persuasion. Charm. It was a diplomat’s mask, but much more. Properly worn, the mask had the potential to do great good—it should have been destined for the chief ambassador of the prefect, such that he could bring peace and respite from our enemies. The mask could persuade any from their intended purpose and in this the mask became great and terrible in the hands of Halas.

“He demanded it, and at the last moment Goshorn repented of his folly, and foresaw the horror that Halas would unleash if he wielded it. And so he altered it before placing it on Halas’s face. He made it vulnerable, though unbeknownst to the prince.”

“How did he make it vulnerable? To what?”

“To truth. The mask would have its power to charm and persuade, but if confronted with the truth plainly spoken the mask would be powerless. But still the mask did great evil in the land for it was poorly matched and its spirits railed against Halas. They corrupted each other.”

“And this was the cause of Varnor’s war? The war amongst itself?”

“Indeed. Halas charmed half the other princes to be his vassals, promising them great wealth and glory. He challenged the prefect for his seat and brought his armies to bear on Hartree. The siege lasted a year and was broken only by the combined might of all the masks of power that the prefect could summon here. That is why the guilds are all located here, you know—as a relic of that war. But Halas was still not stopped. That came later, with a mask of power that I made.”

“You stopped Halas?”

The master scowled. “No. I was but the craftsman who made the tool that stopped Halas. It was a child’s mask—after all that—a simple child’s mask that rendered the prince’s mask impotent. It was not worn by a child, of course, I took a child’s mask and altered it, made it into a mask of power. The mask of Truth. It looked like a child’s mask, of course, and that was part of its power. The man who wore that mask would not draw the suspicion from Halas that a majestic mask of power would have. It was just a child’s mask after all, and a man who wears a child’s mask humbles himself below all.”

“The man chosen for the task approached the Halas, who paid him little notice. The man spoke to Halas, telling him, ‘I see you.’ ‘What do you think you see?’ Halas replied. ‘I see your spirit. It is full of hate and fear. You are afraid that all will see you and think you incompetent. You fear being thought a fool for that is what you think you are. You consider yourself a fool and yet seek to elevate yourself above all men. And the more you do so, the more miserable you become. You cannot hide that from me.’ And Halas summoned his guards to slay the man but the man’s truth temporarily lifted the spell, and the guards simply stood there, confused about what to do. The man lunged at Halas and slew him. A dagger through the heart,” he said, jabbing at his own chest with a gnarled finger.

Elu sat down on the other chair in the small room. “A child’s mask slew Halas? What a thing this is!”

“It was a mask of power, and one I still hold here for the day that the need arises again.”

Elu considered this, and thought of Thora. The Terror. Would the truth somehow disarm her? Could it be possible?

“Master, do you know of the Terror?”

The old man looked pained. “Yes. The mask of legend, made by Ria the Elder in imitation of the great masks of Tarkund, her brother. Why do you ask?”

Elu shifted in the chair uncomfortably. “Oh, my old master mentioned it once, briefly. You reminded me of it as you spoke of Halas’s mask.”

The man set the child’s mask down and thought. “The tales bear some similarities, yes. Ria the Elder made her masks in jealousy, seeing the works of art Tarkund had made. She filled one with her rage and anger, for at that time her brethren had banished her from the land, and she made the Justice mask in order to right the wrongs and injustices she felt at their hands. That was its name—the Justice mask. No one called it the Terror until one of Ria’s handmaidens stole it. Ria was a cold hearted woman who ruled her house without mercy or kindness, and her servant rebelled, stealing the mask for herself and aiming to dethrone her mistress from her own household.”

“But the mask’s power overwhelmed the poor handmaiden. It was full of anger and rage, but righteous anger, for Ria’s brethren had indeed wronged her. The handmaiden took it, and would have killed Ria had her own brother, another servant of Ria himself, not intervened. He convinced her to leave the house of Ria with him, and she went out into the world bringing terror wherever she went, for she convicted and punished people for their crimes.”

“When Tarkund learned of this, he set himself the task of stopping the Terror, as the people began to call it, and he fashioned a mask that could match the Terror power for power. He called it the Guardian mask and he sought out the Terror and her brother, and he gave the Guardian mask to the latter. They were well matched. At first the Guardian permitted the Terror, his sister, to continue her work, albeit with more reserve and care. But Ria, angry with her handmaiden for her theft, sent a group of wizards to assail her and recover the mask. A terrible battle ensued, wounding the Terror and causing her great anger. None of the wizards survived, and the Terror returned to Ria’s house and slew her, along with half her kinsmen.”

“The Terror began to roam once more, filled with passion and hate and consumed with the idea of justice. She tormented the land. The Guardian followed wherever she went and saved the people from the worst of it, but he eventually decided that the Terror had to be stopped. And he did so, at the cost of his own life, for they were equally matched in power, one having no advantage over the other.”

The master let the words linger as he turned his attention back to the mask under construction. Elu considered the words, wondering if history could only help repeating itself. Must Thora die? Must he die? He unleashed her. She was his responsibility. Everything she did was his responsibility. How many now lay dead because of her? Because of him? He would stop her. If the only way to stop her was to kill her, then so be it. He could do it, that much he was sure of.

But there must be another way.

“So, my son. Do you wish to stay here awhile and learn with me? I can see from your mask that Goshorn taught you well—that the spirits bring the words of the chant to your lips. But I see something else as well. Adventure, perhaps? No matter. What do you say?”

“I would be honored to learn from you, master.”

“Not as apprentice, of course, for you have already assumed and fulfilled that role. But as companion, to learn together—for the ancients still teach me the craft after all these years.”

“I understand. Again, you honor me,” said Elu.

The next weeks brought needed respite to Elu. He learned at the side of the master of maskmaking by day, and explored the city by evening, often with his new friend, Zand the shapechanger.

Elu knew he had found a kindred spirit, for the unknown called to Zand as it beckoned Elu. Zand’s mask, though not an adventurer’s mask, longed for exploration. Such is the nature of a shapechanger. To change an object’s shape means to explore new ones, and to change one’s own shape means one is willing to see the world with new eyes.

Zand led him through the city, showing him the inns where he could get a free meal for telling a good story, the section of the city where young women tended to congregate in the evening hours, the outskirts of the city where travellers and adventurers from all over Terremar gathered to talk, or to trade, or sometimes fight. The fights happened in good fun and Elu especially enjoyed seeing masks of power duel each other, often flaring with fire or ice or raw force.

“I’d like to see you duel one of those men,” said Elu one day as they watched two men jab at each other. “You would be a formidable opponent.”

“I fear you are correct. I would.” Zand’s eyes gleamed with smugness.

“Then?

“But I fear there is no one here that could match the humblest of my skills.” His voice dripped with mock pride. Elu smiled, for in the few days he had come to know Zand he found the man to be one of the more generous and humblest people he had met, in spite of his blustery talk.

“What about those men there? One of them has a mask of power—a wizard, I believe.”

“Oh, I suppose. But this might be over quick—don’t pick your nose or you may miss it.”

Zand set his satchel down and motioned to the man in the wizard mask and held up his palms, indicating his invitation to fight. The man nodded, and when the previous two pugilists had their fill of hard knocks—one of them broke the other’s mask—Zand and the wizard stepped into the street to face each other.

They nodded slightly to one another to show respect, and when Elu blinked he saw that Zand had transformed into a hundir lizard and darted forward, snapping at the other man with his powerful, lightning fast jaws.

The wizard appeared to be a conjurer of force, according to the dazzling sapphire adorning his mask and the explosions of earth that erupted all around the pair. Zand the hundir latched onto the man’s leg, and he yelled—not in pain, but annoyance, for they dueled not to kill, but for sport. The wizard kicked at it, and motioned with his hand, and Zand flew backward, receiving a flying clod of earth in his open jaws, flung there from a small pit in the ground, scooped up by the wizard’s power. Elu laughed and clapped, as did the other men watching from both sides of the narrow street.

The two went back and forth, Zand occasionally transforming into a new shape, the wizard constantly having to defend against the new attack with his own magic of force, and in the enjoyment Elu saw something out of the corner of his eye. Just by chance.

The wizard’s companion had crept around the group of men watching the duel, and with impressive stealth had taken Zand’s satchel where he had dropped it just a few paces from Elu. He kept his eyes on the man as he made his way back to where the wizard had left him, making sure he removed nothing from it.

When the duel concluded with the wizard holding a wyvern-like beast to the ground with his force magic, Zand returned to Elu, panting and grumbling about poor sportsmanship. Elu pointed out the wizard’s companion.

“I think I know why he was so willing to fight you. His companion there stole your satchel.”

“Really? I wonder if he likes to duel too,” he said, rubbing a purple bruise on his arm. He approached the pair, Elu in tow, and as he drew near he raised his palm in greeting.

“Well matched, friend! You fight well and I daresay I would rue any real confrontation with you.”

The wizard met Zand’s palm with his own, somewhat warily. “You as well. You must have been holding back.”

“I assure you I wasn’t.” He turned to the man’s friend. “And you sir? What did you think? Did you know your companion could fight so well?”

The man looked nervous—Elu could see it in his mask, for the spirits writhed and twisted about, hiding themselves. “Yes, he is very skilled. And you, too, have my respect.”

Zand took a step toward him. “I have your respect, and I believe you have something of mine.” He smiled.

At first the man did not understand and nodded nervously. But the realization dawned on him that he had been discovered, and he sheepishly opened his own satchel to reveal Zand’s within.

The wizard erupted. “Please believe me, brother, I had no idea my friend would do something like this. You must believe me….” The wizard turned to his companion. “Return it to him immediately.”

The man passed the satchel back to Zand, who accepted it with a slight bow.

“Thank you. Good day to you.”

“Wait,” said Elu, “these men belong in the prefect’s dungeon. Had no idea, did he? Everyone knows the best place for a thief is either the prison or the grave. We need to alert the prefect’s guards, Zand.”

The man stammered. “Please, you don’t understand. I meant no harm. I am a simple potter, and need extra money for my daughter. She is ill, and well, I think—”

“Zand. Are we to believe this? I can read his mask as I can read a child’s. The spirits within writhe with lies and stories. I’d wager he has no daughter.”

“Peace, brother. It is not my place to judge his tales as lies or truth. There is no harm done here. I have my satchel, and he has his freedom to continue to provide for his sick daughter. In fact,” he reached in his satchel and pulled out a coin, flipping it over to the potter, “take this. I hope this helps with your daughter, and all your burdens.”

Zand turned to leave, pulling a shocked Elu along with him, and leaving an equally shocked looking wizard and a stunned, gaping potter.

Elu protested. “What are you doing? They will find some other unsuspecting traveller tomorrow and relieve him of some well-earned coins before he is the wiser. Why don’t we stop them? The guards will believe us—I am a friend to the master maskmaker and you are a man of power yourself….”

“And what would that accomplish? I told you, I don’t know if the man tells the truth or not. And if he doesn’t, maybe this grace is what will convince him to live honorably. Whereas if he goes and languishes in a prison what good will come of it? At least my way has some hope of redeeming him, however small. Let it go, Elu. I have money to spare. Come. Let us go to the inn.”

Zand seemed to grow in stature in Elu’s eyes in the days following, so impressed was he with the grace that came naturally to his friend. He thought back to Derry his first friend, and his wife, Londu. He missed Ri Illiath and longed to return. Oh, to be needed in a place again, with people thanking him for such an unremarkable task as making a child’s mask. He decided he would return if he survived dealing with Thora, and he would settle down in that small town. And maybe he would even find Karna and make for him a dignified mask, one that suited his nature and would not have him begging on the street.

Elu grew to treasure not just his time with Zand but also his sessions with the master maskmaker, who had taken a liking to his new young friend. The ancient man quivered in the wind as Elu escorted him to an inn or to the healer who he visited often, but once at his workbench he resumed his work as with the strength and vigor of a man half his age, which would still make him a middle-aged man.

“Elu, my son, you have never made a mask of power, correct?”

Elu shrugged. “No master. The need has not arisen, and my mask has not seen fit to teach me how.”

“Surely your mask will teach you much art and the necessary words for the chant, but what you should know is that you must be the mask. That is why it takes so long. If it is a healer’s mask you make, you must be the healer before you can understand the mask. You must summon the healing spirits that will inhabit the mask and you must commune with them, seeking their wisdom, begging their opinions on how the mask should be made, what adornments it should have. And so it is not just your personal taste, it is the tastes of the resident spirits within, whose combined knowledge and wisdom and memory will transfer to the bearer of the mask. They are the very ancestors that came before, and their preferences will be exacting. One stray cut in the leather here or too little shaving the wood there, and it will offend them. Often have I started a mask of power, only to toss the whole thing out after a few weeks and start over. With time, I have learned to work slower, only making a cut or a marking when I know it is right, that the spirits approve. Each move on my part requires deep meditation, often over several days, and much chanting.”

“Yes, master.” Elu worked next to the older man, helping him with a set of new soldier masks the prefect’s steward had requested. He made them as the master described, but his spirit conspired with those of his mask and he added to each an extra touch—a bit of sand here, an extra rune there, making each unique and invested with some hidden power, mild and subtle though they were. The old man watched Elu out of the corner of his eye and grumbled occasionally, but often shook his head in approval and once opened his eyes wide in amazement at one of his innovations.

“Master?”

“Yes, Elu.”

“How do you make a mask of legend?”

“I tell you what I tell all who ask that of me. A mask of legend has only two ingredients. One mask of power, and time.” He shook with laughter, obviously pleased with his humor.

Elu managed a small chuckle, finding the master’s laugh more humorous than the joke itself.

“But I will tell you more than I tell a layman. The method for making a mask of legend is nearly identical to that of a mask of power. The difference lies in the nature of the sacrifice involved. To make a mask of power is a sacrifice indeed, for the maskmaker spends many weeks and months to build it. But the masks of legend require more. They require life itself. It is said by the ancients that all the good and wholesome masks of legend were filled by life freely given, either of the maskmaker himself who grew old and willingly laid down his life as a final act of ultimate creation, or by a voluntary sacrifice of another elderly or stricken associate of the maker. The evil masks on the other hand were filled by life stolen from others. Ria the Elder was notorious for taking the lives of unfaithful servants in her construction of the masks of legend we ascribe to her. The Terror, or the Justice mask, was filled in this way—a former servant had stolen some valuables from Ria and plotted to take her life. Ria responded by executing him, and filled her new Justice mask with the tormented life-force.”

“That’s what makes them so much more powerful than just a mask of power, then,” said Elu.

“Yes. And it’s what makes them so difficult to destroy. For as the creation of a mask requires the giving of a life, so also does the destruction of the mask. That is why the Terror’s brother, the Guardian, died. His final act was to take his own life to destroy her power. And it worked. In his sacrifice, the mask was ripped from her face and she flailed about, momentarily befuddled. A servant of Tarkund lying in wait to spy on events to report to his master took advantage of her confusion and slew her with a sword.”

Elu waited for more but the old man had finished speaking, and concentrated on the mask before him. Images of his own death haunted his thoughts—he pictured himself writhing in pain at Thora’s feet, his mask scorching his face, and with his last mortal strength reaching up to her mask to channel his sacrificed life into its substance to destroy it. The grim reality of it settled on him.

Zand and Elu’s friendship grew, and as the autumn waned and Elu saw no sign of Thora he began to feel less apprehensive and fearful that she would appear suddenly, albeit still well aware that with every day that passed, others felt and suffered from the terror that she brought.

Elu began to question Zand about his mask, asking him about the powers it gave him and its limitations.

“Here, take this,” said Zand, rummaging through his satchel and producing a less elaborate version of his own mask. “It was mine when I apprenticed to the shapechanger where I grew up. I keep it now for the day when I have my own apprentice. Try it.”

Elu eyed it warily, aware of the evil that followed presumptuous use of masks. But the spirits within saluted him, recognizing him as a maskmaker eager to expand his knowledge. They would permit his curiosity.

He fingered it delicately, exploring its many ridges and angles. He examined the runes etched inside the mask on the forehead—the rune of power, the rune of change, and the rune of exploration and discovery—that must be why he thought Zand an adventurer when he first saw his mask.

Elu turned his head from Zand and quickly exchanged masks, slipping the apprentice shapechanger’s mask over his face. He felt the spirits directly know, mingling together with his.

They were wild.

And powerful.

They swirled within his head, or within his heart—he couldn’t tell, and whispered excitedly to him, and as his maskmaker’s mask had told him of new materials and new masks, this one told him of new shapes. Looking around at the rocks and grass where they lay outside the city, Elu saw the world with new eyes—with eyes that saw shapes and lines and circles where before he had only seen wood and leaves and stones. That made sense to him—as the maskmaker, he was primarily interested in procuring materials for his next mask and therefore saw the world through a maskmaker’s eyes. With the shapechanger’s eyes, objects that before only spoke to him of utility, now cried out for him to copy them. He felt the urge to try to be them.

“Do you feel it?” asked Zand, “how they beckon to you, inviting you to try their shape? To alter theirs?”

“You can change the shape of other things? Not just yourself?”

“Of course. Watch,” he said, pointing to a large stone several paces away. Elu watched as the stone expanded out to the size of a man, and changed color until it resembled an exact copy of Elu himself. Elu approached it, walking all around his double, touching and prodding it in places. It certainly felt real. The bones felt hard and the soft parts of his body squished like actual flesh.

“Can you make it move? Talk?”

“Some. A stone’s substance is not well suited for fluid movement or speech. But I could do it much more easily with a large animal. Even a tree would be better than a rock.” Zand closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. The stone Elu took a few haltering steps, tottered precariously, and fell with a crash back to the ground, quickly changing back into its previous, rigid state.

“You try it. You’re a maskmaker. You can see the spirits within the stone. With the mask’s power, reach out to them. Suggest a new shape. Don’t command it—stones especially don’t like that—they are very stubborn, appropriately enough. Entice them with the shape. Convince them that they might like it better. At least for now—they can always change back if they want. Reach out with the power of the mask and reshape them when they give their consent.”

“Reshape them? How?”

“How? I don’t know, you just do it,” said Zand, shrugging. “Try it.”

Elu stared down at the stone, searching its depths for the spirits within. He saw them, but without the eyes of a maskmaker they didn’t tell him what he usually heard from a stone. With his new eyes he only felt them say, we like being a stone.

Why not try being a stick?

Stones are stronger than sticks. We like being strong.

Sticks are strong too. Just try it for a while. You might like it.

No. We like being a stone.

I can change you right back. You will only have to be a stick for a moment.

We do not have to be anything we don’t want to be. We are a stone.

Elu frowned, trying to think of some logic that might appeal to a stone. What could possibly entice a stone to become a stick?

Why do you like being a stone?

Because we are one. Stones are strong. We are strong.

You are very strong. Stronger than any stick.

Yes.

But I know something stronger than a stone.

You lie.

No. I have seen it. Back in my youth I explored the stream. I saw stones there. One of them cut my brother. But there was something there that steadily wore down the stone.

What was it?

Water.

You lie. Water is weak. We are stronger than water.

I cannot lie to you. You know I do not lie. I saw stones there cut through by the steady flow of that cold water over hundreds of years.

How can it be?

I do not know. Would you like to find out?

Yes. We like being strong. If water is indeed stronger, we want to know.

Then do you permit me to change you into water?

Yes.

Closing his eyes, he searched within his mask. Its spirits stirred, growing excited at the prospect of soon exercising their power, and he directed their attention to the stone below him. Water, he told them, stone to water. He opened his eyes and looked down. Sure enough, the stone appeared to melt before his eyes, forming a small puddle on the solid dirt below.

Do you like it?

Before, we rested on the ground. Now we penetrate it. We are sinking into it. We were never this strong before.

Would you like to try something new?

Something stronger than water?

I don’t know. But it has water in it, sometimes.

What is it?

A stick. They grow on trees, and the tree’s roots suck water out of the ground to feed the sticks. The sticks have water in them. So they are strong both like a stone, and like water. Would you like to try?

Yes.

Again, Elu reached inward to his mask, and steered the spirits’ attention to the puddle. Intensely concentrating, he opened his eyes and the water sprouted upwards out of the earth and formed into a branch of an elmore tree, complete with needles and droplets of sap emerging here and there from the bark.

“Hey, you’re good. I couldn’t do that for many weeks after I got my mask,” said Zand.

Elu admired the swaying branch, rising from the earth as if it were a tree, but without trunk or branches of its own.

“What happens if you force something to change?”

“Bad things. Probably like how you’ve described what happens when people wear masks not fit for them.”

“It is not terrible at first. But the evil grows, for the mask twists the wearer and the wearer corrupts the mask,” said Elu.

“With shapes it is similar. It was a real struggle to get that rock to change to a stick, wasn’t it? Those are not like materials, and if you held the stone in that shape for too long it would degrade. The stick would become brittle, it would turn unnatural colors, and when you finally allow the stone to resume its normal shape, it too would be unnatural. Changed. And if you force it to a shape it does not desire, it will cause both you and the stone to go mad.”

“How does a stone go mad?”

“By rebelling against you and its natural shape, and reverting back to the form it was in before the gods made it a stone and the earth was masked by Sipora. I’ve never seen it myself but my master spoke of stones blazing hotter than a blacksmith’s fire and flowing like thick water.

A blacksmith’s fire. Thora was driven mad by a blacksmith’s fire. Her father’s fire.

Is it the stone’s fault if it goes mad and reverts back to its primordial form? Can Thora be held accountable for anything that happened after being raised by a drunken man who shoves his daughter into the fire?

“Can you teach me more?”

Zand laughed. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you? Shape changing always makes me hungry.”

“Zand, standing makes you hungry. Talking makes you hungry. Eating makes you hungry.”

“So it does.” Zand’s mouth tugged into a grin. “Let’s go.”

Chapter XI

Flight

THE FOLLOWING DAY ZAND TAUGHT Elu more. The morning started, as most of Elu’s days did, with several hours working closely with the master maskmaker of the palace of Hartree, assisting him with replenishing his stock of child and homeweaver masks. The afternoon came swiftly, for Elu delighted in the lore the master shared almost absentmindedly as he worked, and presently Zand knocked at the door.

“Shall we explore the coasts today?”

Elu finished threading a leather strip through a child’s mask. “Yes, almost done….”

They left the city behind and hiked east, towards the wide, undulating coast that marked the boundary between land and the cold Lacian Sea. Swift gulls caught up on the wind called to them, warning of sharp retribution if they disturbed their nests. They walked north along the coast, finding small caves cut into the hill by the regular ebb and flow of the water, fish caught in shallow tide pools, giant logs strewn over the sandy beach, left there by the now receding waves.

“What is it like to fly like the gull, I wonder,” said Elu, staring up at the soaring birds.

“It’s wonderful.”

“You’ve tried?”

“Of course! It’s one of my favorite shapes. I’ve flown high over the city, and it’s amazing to see it from up there. The people look like small insects crawling slowly through the maze of the city streets.”

“Can you teach me?”

Elu turned aside and put on the apprentice’s mask that Zand now held out to him once again. When he turned back around to talk to Zand, his friend had already changed, flapping his wings to gain height. He drifted through the air above Elu and settled on his shoulder, staring at him, locking his gaze on Elu and cocking its head. Elu laughed.

“You’re a bird! Come. Show it to me. Show me how.”

Zand hopped off his shoulder and changed back, his mask deforming from the bird’s beak and returning to its glass and steel form, momentarily revealing the vague scars of childhood pox on his face.

“First, come. Come look at a real bird.” They approached a flock of gulls that had alighted in the shallow water hunting insects and fish. They approached cautiously, not wanting to disturb them, and stopped a handful of paces off. “Look into that one there. Study its spirit. How does it feel?”

“Right now? Fear. It fears us. We are new to it. Unknown. It fears the unknown—what it can’t comprehend,” said Elu, studying the bird closest to them.

“And food. That’s what the gull cares about—food, and staying out of danger. We are a double threat to them right now, for not only are we unknown, we might be threatening their meal.”

“Their fear forces them upward. To flight. But not just fear. I see in them the longing for the sky. It calls to them, offering both safety and wonder,” said Elu.

“Yes. You need to feel that. We don’t think of the sky as safe, especially when looking down atop a building. But they do, and to be the gull you need to think of the sky as your refuge. Try.”

Elu dropped the satchel to the ground and closed his eyes. He imagined himself soaring through the air as if he were weightless, as if he belonged in the sky. He looked to the sky in his mind and tried to imagine the wonder it held for the bird. It was not difficult to imagine for the sky beckoned to him as well—the mask of the heavens that concealed most of the light from that other world called to the maskmaker within him. He reached out to the spirits of the mask and directed their power to himself and to the sky.

He felt himself change.

Opening his eyes, he saw the world as a gull. He opened his wings and shot upward, suddenly liberated of earth and weight, and saw the ground fall away as if it were the unsteady one and he now retreated to the safety only the steady sky could bring.

He excitedly beat his wings harder and faster, gaining altitude quickly, feeling the buffeting winds grow stronger as he flew higher and higher. He looked down and saw the shoreline far below and a small dot ascending up to him, growing until Elu recognized it as Zand changed into a gull as well. They circled around each other, wheeling higher and higher. Zand peeled off to the west and Elu followed.

They flew high over the city and Elu spied the palace far below, its guards patrolling the parapets like ants. The central market usually buzzed with activity at midday, but from this height it seemed placid and tranquil.

He called to Zand to catch his attention, but to his surprise he only heard the screech of a gull. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised—he was a gull after all, but he had half expected to hear his own voice.

They turned back to the east and glided slowly lower, coming level with the city wall and the tops of the taller trees nearby. Landing near his satchel, Zand immediately exploded back up into his normal form, laughing. Elu landed as well, but walked around at Zand’s feet. How to change back? He thought of his regular form, his humanness, but nothing happened.

“Stuck, are you?”

Elu answered with a nervous squawk.

Zand laughed again and crouched down to Elu. “Just as when you became a bird you had to get into its mindset, or its vision of the world, so too do you need to readjust your outlook. You need to think like a human again. What was important to you? As a gull, it was to fly from danger up to the safety of the sky, and marvel at the wonders there. As Elu, what do you want? What gave you purpose?”

Elu wasn’t sure. He had never given it much thought for he was not prone to such self reflection. His mind wandered back to Gheb, to his adventures in the forests with his brothers. He loved exploration. Is that what gave his life purpose? Yes. And no. There was more, wasn’t there? He wanted to do the right thing—that was a common theme in his life, wasn’t it? Yes, there was the usurper maskmaker in Ri Illiath, Karna, who he chastened. He had protected the honor of his craft and brought the man down. And the chief judge of Glendon—hadn’t Elu taken him down as well, freeing the people from their oppressor? Shouldn’t the people raise their arms and hail him as a hero? Especially with him as the Guardian, the world’s protector against the Terror?

The Terror he had unleashed. They should banish him or throw him in a dungeon for the pain he had brought into the world. He looked up at Zand, still smiling down at him. Zand was perfect, he thought. A man born in wealth, given a mask of power and sent to train with the greatest and most learned of his craft with a sack full of coins, and in spite of the privilege, he was good. He was kind. The wizard’s friend, the one Zand had frankly forgiven and sent on his way, Zand would have been more than justified in sending him to prison. But he did not.

He closed his eyes. He wanted to be like Zand. And Derry, who had rushed out to meet the Terror head on to protect his wife and his friend, not fearing the consequences to himself. Derry, who had freely given his own home to a stranger. And did Elu resemble them in some small way? As a maskmaker? To give people not just a covering for their face, but to give them a life—to labor and wear his life and hands away to give people power and purpose? That was his purpose, and he decided then to be Zand. To be Derry. He had thought to maybe befriend the master maskmaker of Hartree and thereby come into his good graces and possibly inherit the master’s priceless mask, but no more. He would return to Ri Illiath, or some other town that needed a maskmaker, and he would serve the people there.

Opening his eyes, Elu found himself looking mask to mask at Zand, who stood in front of him wearing a large grin.

“Found your life’s purpose, did you?” He stooped to retrieve his satchel, and tossed Elu’s to him as well.

Zand taught him new shapes and Elu learned the shapechanger’s mask, exploring its depths and capabilities. He felt he could make one himself if the need arose one day, and he hoped it would for he had grown fond of the spirits of the mask and the way the spirits of the material and objects around him responded to the mask’s call.

The fall came to an end and a chill breeze began to blow in from the northeast, from the icy reaches of the Lacian Sea. He remembered his trek to the north those many weeks ago—how frigid that dark land seemed even in midsummer. He and Zand made it a habit to fly together has often as they could—when their other duties did not inhibit it.

“How far can you fall?” Elu shouted as he tumbled through the air high above the city. Zand had taught him how to quickly change in mid-air, and the two found a new favorite game of soaring as high as they could, changing to their human form to fall some distance toward the ground before changing back to a gull’s shape and gliding safely back to the ground.

Zand shouted, “Farther than you!”

“Show it to me!”

“Don’t blink,” he said, and darted away downward, pointing his body towards the earth, speeding away from the tumbling Elu, who reached up to his mask to make sure it was securely affixed to his head. He had no desire to experience the thrill of falling without the shapechanger’s mask secure.

He spiraled head over foot, still high in the air. Zand called out from far below him, but Elu could barely hear his voice over the roaring wind in his ears.

He peered down, squinting against the blast of cold air hitting him in the face as he fell, and he searched for Zand.

On the ground, a new figure appeared, a handful of paces from their satchels.

Thora.

He yelled. She raised her arms at them. Zand continued his fall. He should have changed by now. He was too close to the ground. Elu closed his eyes against what he saw below and concentrated on the sky and the shape of a gull. His feathers and beak sprouted and he shot downward, beating his wings to gain speed. He craned his head this way and that, looking for Zand, but he saw no bird soaring away from the terrible mask below.

He looked at Thora again, and her arms had lowered. She looked at a jumbled unmoving wreck at her feet.

She had prevented him from changing.

Elu screamed a gull’s piercing, angry cry and flew at Thora, who now looked up and regarded the bird bearing down on her. She raised her arm and Elu saw the malevolent spirits in her mask work their magic, and he swerved to and fro, dodging the great walls of force that she directed up at him.

He broke off his fall, veering away from the awful figure poised above his fallen friend. Elu peered down at Zand and searched for his spirit, but could not find it. He screeched again, in fury at Thora and her evil mask.

Thora was gone forever. There was nothing to be saved. Nothing to be redeemed. The Terror was all that remained. He darted down again near her and grabbed his satchel with his talons and flew off, the currents of force slamming the ground he had just left making chunks of earth tumble through the air.

Pointing his beak south, he flew. He felt Thora attempt a chase but he shot away on the icy north wind, and even though she travelled swiftly with the Terror mask’s power she fell far behind. Elu cursed her in his head with every beat of his wings and he surged forward, out of reach of her deadly power.

South he flew, and west. His mind frenzied itself in anger and grief, and he didn’t know to where he flew, but he continued his course with a mind only for flight. Flight from the Terror that had now stolen his best friend. The gull keeps to the sky for safety, and so he stayed aloft for hours. The sun set, and he continued his flight. The sun rose behind him, far in the east, and still he beat his wings constantly.

He looked below him and saw a familiar sight. Gliding downward, he soon came to rest in the windowsill of the healer of Gheb, and she, waking from her sleep looked up and eyed him warily.

“I know you, I think.”

The gull released the satchel onto the healer’s floor and collapsed onto it, having expended all its energy, feeling, and power in the flight. The healer arose from her bed and stooped to lift the gull onto her table.

She began to chant, passing her hands slowly in the air above the still bird, which had closed its eyes and lay motionless on the table. For hours she chanted. People from the town came to her door seeking healing and she did not answer, but kept her vigil over the gull with the satchel full of masks.

It did not wake that day but at the next sunrise, the bird opened its eyes.

“You have flown far?”

He tried to answer, but only croaked out a ragged sound.

“You’ve stayed a bird for too long, my friend. What would cause you to do such a foolish thing?”

Elu had no answer, even if he could speak. He had wanted to fly farther, fly to the end of Terremar, to the lonely islands of the southern sea. If he could, he would fly to that other world where his old master Goshorn had already flown, as had now his friend Zand. And it humiliated him. Shame surged within his chest and his shapechanger’s mask mocked him, taunting him for his cowardice.

He lay there that day as well, but by the evening he managed to hop up onto his gull’s legs. Standing on the table he looked all around the small room of the healer’s hut. He thought about being a human again. Closing his eyes, he imagined standing tall and walking and talking, but he remained the same. Zand had warned him about staying in an unnatural shape for too long.

Zand.

Is death an unnatural shape? An unnatural state? His mind flashed back to the crumpled figure on the ground next to the Terror and he quickly brought his focus back to the present, unwilling to dwell on the image.

He recalled Zand’s words, his instructions for changing back to human form. What was important to him? What gave him purpose? He honestly couldn’t say anymore.

Movement in the other room caught his eye. The door opened. In walked the healer, and behind her, another. The young man looked somewhat familiar, but he had trouble seeing the spirits of the mask through the gull’s eyes.

“Maybe he can help you,” said the healer. She stepped aside and retreated back to the other room. The other came near.

“Elu?”

So, he knew his name, whoever he was. His voice….

“Elu, is that really you? The healer says it is, but,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “I think she may be a little crazy, because to my eyes you look like a bird to me.”

Lo. His smaller brother. Not so small anymore. His mask—a tanner apprentice’s mask. Elu opened his beak to speak, but no words escaped, just a ragged screech.

“Remember the last time we were here? You carried me and I was maskless? How the healer scolded you so?” Lo laughed. He reached up to the back of his head and turned. “Look. See the scar? It never quite healed.”

Elu had carried a maskless Lo to the healer, and now he himself stood maskless on the healer’s table. But not maskless—only to Lo’s eyes. His mask had simply been transformed. Hidden.

“Our mother never let me explore with you after that. I was angry with her. But she knew better. I’m an apprentice now, see? I work with the tanner—an honorable man. I cure all the hides he brings me, and he teaches me to work the skin into suitable leather for clothes and shoes and masks. It is good work and I like it.”

So he found his craft. His purpose. Elu wondered at how simple it seemed for Lo. Why couldn’t it be so easy for Elu? He just wanted to run.

“Our father cried, you know. When you left. He didn’t think I saw, but I did. He cried for the dead maskmaker. But I think for you too, because you left.”

Not just because he left. His last moments in Gheb came back to him now, the stinging parting words with his father. Then may you go there soon, he had said. To that other world. He had not meant it of course. Maybe he did at the time, but no longer. Does that matter?

“Can you change back, Elu? Did someone do this to you? The magistrate talks of sending for a wizard to come and change you back but the healer doesn’t think that will be necessary. She just sent for me instead. I wish you’d come back.”

Lo sat with him awhile. Elu crouched back down onto his underside and waited, searching for the power to change back. He reached inside the mask with his mind, but it seemed as if the spirits themselves slept.

After a time Lo departed, leaving Elu alone on the table. Dark thoughts clouded his mind. Thoughts of Thora. Of his old master, Goshorn, who tried to stop her. Of Zand. And now Elu was back in Gheb. He could not hide from Thora forever—she would find him here, eventually. And she could kill Lo, his mother, his father. She would not stop until her sense of justice was appeased—a sense that seemed insatiable.

He glanced over to the healer’s desk. She had removed his masks and they lay now next to the satchel. The Guardian mask. The adventurer’s mask. His child’s mask. The maskmaker’s apprentice’s mask, and finally, the maskmaker’s mask itself, which he had taken unceremoniously from Karna, the usurper in Ri Illiath. He fixed his eyes on this final one, its bold, painted blue wood adorned with all kinds of small jewels and pieces of metal and glass—the materials of the maskmaker. The Guardian’s mask eclipsed it in presence and power. It seemed to radiate light: the emerald shone like a living verdant shield and the white and yellow gold sparkled in the sunshine now slanting through the window.

He knew he didn’t deserve it, this treasure that nameless servant bore all those years ago. He sacrificed himself to save all those threatened by the Terror, laying down his life so that those less deserving of life might keep it. Elu was not he. All he had cared about was adventure. The thrill of discovery. He had sworn his duty to Goshorn, but cast it aside to explore, just as he had with the potter. The wyvern, Brea Indys, was right. Pride consumed him, and he placed his own will above that of the spirits, those ancients that knew his destiny.

But maskmaking—that was an adventure of service, at least. He remembered the homeweavers in Ri Illiath who had come to him for their children’s masks—their gratitude to him for his service. He wanted that. As the maskmaker he explored the spirits, pushing the materials to their limits, wearing different masks, even masks of power, to learn their natures and abilities. He longed for that again.

Elu looked down. His limp legs hung off the table and his shaking hands rested in his lap.

Removing the shapechanger’s mask from his face he walked over to his other masks. His hand rested on the Guardian’s mask. It was time, he thought. Time to stop the Terror. Even at the risk of his life, he was ready. The Terror mask must be destroyed. And there was one sure way to do that.

The Terror had to die.

He held it up to his face, but paused. Once it was on, she would immediately sense his presence, and he must be far from Gheb when that happened. He lowered it, putting it once again into the satchel. He slipped the maskmaker’s mask over his head, gathered the rest, and headed for home.

Chapter XII

Pursuit

THE SUN DIPPED BELOW THE horizon when he approached his mother’s house. His breath caught when he saw the door open. The teacher, his father, stood in the doorway. Elu dropped his head and approached. He was of age now and practiced a respected craft, but he still felt sheepish, the shame of his final conversation with his father still fresh on his mind. Will he have forgotten?

Of course not.

“Father, I—”

His father pulled him close in an embrace and Elu fell silent, surprised.

“You’ve come back. I thought I would be dead before you returned,” the man said in Elu’s ear.

“Of course I’ve come, father. Where else would I run to?”

“Run?” The man pulled away and studied his son’s mask. “Still running away, I see.”

“I only just escaped with my life. But my friend lost his. Death seems to follow me these days.”

“Come inside and tell me all.” His father led Elu into his mother’s house and closed the door. Sitting on the floor by the teacher’s lectern the man motioned his son to sit as well.

“Mother?”

“With the cooper’s wife,” the teacher answered.

“Does she know I’m here?”

“No. Only Lo and I. The healer and the magistrate too.”

“Good.”

“You do not wish to see her?”

“I do, but not yet. I must tell you all.”

Elu hadn’t planned on telling anyone his plight, but as he looked up to his father he began to understand the spirits of the teacher’s mask, and why they chose his father as the teacher. They greeted him kindly, but sternly. He felt their power of discernment, as if he could tell them no lie, but felt their immense wisdom. Teachers of the village of Gheb had worn that mask for hundreds of years, always the wisest man receiving it from the one before. He felt safe speaking, and somehow knew his father would have an answer for Elu’s predicament.

He told his father all. The wandering while in the service of the potter—which his father already knew—how he still found excuses to do so as an apprentice to the maskmaker. Thora, and her father and the innkeeper and Thora’s face. The forbidden barrows. The masks. The Terror. Everything.

The teacher nodded serenely throughout the telling, not interrupting except to clarify points of the story. The only reaction that broke through his calm demeanor was his eyes opening wide at the mention of Brea Indys, the wyvern woman.

Elu fell silent.

“Is this all?”

“Yes, father. I was hoping you would give me wisdom—such as your mask can give you.”

The teacher regarded his son. The spirits of his mask told him everything Elu should do, everything that would solve the problem and send the Terror back to the abyss where she had been imprisoned for so long. They told him all, leaving the man to figure out how to teach it to his son.

“Why do you think the Guardian mask would not have you as its bearer?”

“I don’t know, father. Its spirits recoiled at me. All the time I wore it, they railed against me.”

“Tell me about Karna.”

“Karna?” Elu looked at his father in surprise, then looked at his own hands, thinking. “Karna? He was a usurper. He obtained the maskmaker’s mask somehow, probably through some ill-gotten scheme.”

“Probably. Tell me more about him.”

“He, well, he was a poor man, a beggar if I remember Derry correctly. When I challenged him, I removed his mask in the inn and saw his face had been scarred by pox and disease—”

“You removed his mask?”

“Yes, father. He was defiling it. I saved the mask from him. And him from the mask.”

“But you demasked him in front of the other men of the inn?”

“Yes. He quite deserved it.”

The teacher stared at him, the spirits within the mask raising their voices in an inaudible chorus at Elu, making him feel simultaneously ashamed and confused.

“Go on.”

“He covered his face and ran out. I don’t know what became of him.”

The teacher stroked his mask’s chin, considering his son’s words.

“To defeat Thora, you must master the Guardian’s mask.”

“How?”

“You are the maskmaker. This is your trade and your lore. How does a mask choose its bearer?”

“It chooses kinsman. Peers. Those who are filled with the same qualities of the mask.”

“So the Guardian seeks a worthy bearer. Are you that bearer?”

“I—I don’t suppose I am.”

“No, you are not. The man who shamed Karna is not the Guardian. But, my son, people change.”

Elu considered his father’s words. He had treated Karna justly. But poorly. His thoughts turned to Zand. To the wizard’s friend who had trespassed against him. Justice would have taken that man. Thora would have burned his mask to the man’s face. Zand would have been a better Guardian. Elu should have given the mask to him when he was still alive.

“I should have—”

“Elu!” his mother shouted, sweeping in through the door. She descended on him and swatted him with the small bag of bread she carried, and he held up his arms to defend himself.

“Mother! What are you doing?”

“Thrashing you, that’s what, you disobedient miscreant!” She flailed him a few more times before he got to his feet, and she dropped her bag and pulled him close, weeping against his chest.

“Good to see you too, mother.” He stood, allowing her to fawn over him, noting his bruises and cuts.

“Wife. Please bring broth. Elu has travelled far to come back to us, and will be leaving soon.”

She pulled away in shock. “So soon? I’ve only just seen you! You! You and your adventuring! Your running! Why can’t you stay put? Settle down? Accept the roles given to you!”

“He has unfinished business, wife, that he must settle. He is a maskmaker now. See?” The teacher indicated Elu’s mask.

“Well! I hope whoever gave you that mask knew what they were doing!” And she hustled to the other room to warm the broth.

“Do you know what to do, son?” The man said.

“I—I think so. I will find her, father. I will stop her.”

“Good.”

In the morning, Lo bade him goodbye.

“Father says I should see you off. He says one never knows when a departure leads to that other world, or just another step in this one.”

“His teacher’s mask chose well when it picked him,” said Elu.

“Where do you go?”

“I think I’ll go east. To see a friend. I may need his help in my journey.”

“I could go with you, you know. Like I used to.”

“No. Mother would not have it. You are not yet of age.”

“Father could convince her.”

“No. I will not ask him. My path ahead is dangerous.”

Lo shrugged. “Very well, brother. May we meet again soon.”

“Yes, Lo. I hope so.” He placed a hand on Lo’s forehead, at the top of his mask, and held it there a few moments. Lo did the same. Deep and abiding friendship. They were brothers.

Elu had removed his maskmaker’s mask and now wore the shapechanger’s mask. Elu studied his brother’s. A tanner. Honest, earnest, and fair. He had found a good trade. Elu turned from his brother and thought of the sky. He longed for it, and soon, he sprouted wings and soared into it, flying high above the elmore forest surrounding the village of Gheb.

He flew for over an hour. He intended to find Derry again, for having heard the story of the Guardian mask he knew he might need assistance in destroying the Terror when he made his move. As he flew, however, his thoughts turned to Zand—of that last, horrible fall. Why did he now think to bring Derry into harm’s way as well? Much could go wrong.

Changing his mind, he alighted on the ground in the middle of a vast wind-swept field. After changing to his regular form and removing his mask, he reached in his satchel for the Guardian mask. His fingers brushed up against it, and now the spirits within did not recoil. They accepted him, tentatively. He had realized his brash arrogance in his dealing with Karna and resolved to be like Zand, and with that repentant resolve came acceptance by the mask. They considered him a worthy vehicle for their power. For now, at least.

He placed it on his face. It was time.

As the Guardian, he could sense the Terror’s existence in the world. She was somewhere far in the south of Terremar, but the instant he felt her he perceived that she moved.

She approached. She felt his mask, now that he wore it, and considered it a challenge to her. She came to return the challenge.

He would meet it.

He reached out to the spirits of the mask and summoned them to him, submitting his will to them to gain their favor. You used us before, they said. You used us, and only received but a part of our power. Now we give you all of it. Use it well. Guard the people. Stand between them and the Terror which awaits.

I will, he thought, and he felt the power and confidence surge within him. In his mind’s eye, he had always seen the mask shine, and indeed it had when he confronted Thora in Ri Illiath, but that light was as the glow of the moon. Now, the mask seemed to rival the sun itself, as if Eldrin had made a third hole in the mask of heaven.

He felt her approach. She travelled quickly, covering the vast distance between them as if she were the hangra fish in a mountain stream jumping in and out, travelling more through air than water.

But there was something now uncertain about her movement, as if she hesitated. Still she approached, but slower. What was wrong?

At last she appeared, at the other end of the field, towering high over the waving grass, which now started to brown in the chill of late fall. She regarded him. He looked into her mask and saw uncertainty. Doubt. Fear.

He jumped out of existence and landed just a few paces from her. She shrunk back a few steps.

“You’ve mastered your mask, brother. Again,” she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

“I have. And now justice has caught up with you. Again. Or rather, mercy. Mercy for the people you torment.” The words came almost unbidden as they had before with the innkeeper.

“Fool!” she said. “You’ll have to catch up to me first.” And she disappeared.

Elu chased her. He flashed and disappeared, jumping far over the plain and the forest beyond, south to where he sensed she had jumped. He landed, looked around himself, and felt her just over the hill near a small river in the distance. But she leapt again and disappeared farther to the south.

He gave chase for over an hour, jumping great distances over land and sea. Every time he appeared in a new place, he sensed she had just left moments before, always one step ahead of him. This won’t do, he thought. He stretched out his mind to her mask, the power of the Guardian’s spirits reaching out to study hers. He discovered her, noted her location and discerned her next movement. Guiding the power of his mask, he jumped, the same time as she did, and met her where she landed.

He grabbed her arm and pulled. Yelling, she swung with her free arm, catching him in the side of the head and sending him careening into a nearby tree. She disappeared again in a flash, a look of desperation on her countenance. Elu groaned in pain, but smiled. At least now he had her on the run.

He had changed the game.

Outside Londu’s hut, Derry sat by the stream on a rock, his spear hovering motionless over the surface of the water.

“Hello, friend.”

Derry looked up, startled, and fell off his rock into the water, drawing a laugh from Elu.

“Elu! You’ve come back! Well met, friend!” Derry splashed through the water and up the other side of the bank, into the arms of his friend.

“And Londu? Where is she?”

“Oh, she’s helping the neighbor woman with her sick child. And you! Where did you go? Did you manage to defeat that thing? The Terror?”

“Alas, no. That is why I return. I am not sure I can defeat it on my own.”

“I will help,” said Derry before Elu could even ask. “With both of us working against her, she cannot stand.”

Elu laughed. He had missed the brashness of his friend. “Very well, Derry. In the meantime, let me tell you all about Hartree, for that is where I have spent much time. And you may not believe me, but I’ve talked to a wyvern!”

“Tell me everything,” said Derry, and handed Elu his extra spear. They fished as they had many times months before, and Elu recounted all his experiences, dwelling on the encounter with Brea Indys and the chief judge, for he saw that the tale enthralled Derry.

“Always have I wished to see a wyvern. And you’ve ridden one, no less! When Londu hears this….” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Elu kept the Guardian’s mask donned, for he wished to stay apprised of Thora’s movements and intentions. He could sense her still, but she was far to the south again, farther than she had been before. Through her he felt the terror she brought among the inhabitants of that land, yet for the moment he could not help them. But soon he would find her. And stop her.

Londu returned with a wrobly, freshly skinned and ready to roast. She rejoiced at the sight of Elu, placing her palm against his, and together the three enjoyed a feast, far richer than Elu had eaten in some time: roasted wrobly, accompanied by many vegetables from their garden and bread the neighbor had given them the day before as thanks for Londu’s healing services.

“So, Derry. Elu. When do we leave?” said Londu.

Elu looked at Derry, concerned.

“Wife. You are perceptive and shrewd. Yes, Elu has come to ask my help. But I wish you to stay here. I do not want you in danger.”

“Fa! And I do not wish you in danger either. Where does that put us then?”

Derry looked at Elu, pleading for help.

“Londu, the Terror is powerful. In every encounter with her, I only just escaped. This time I go hunting her. There is no telling what dangers we face. We may both die.”

“Which is why I am coming with you. Three masks of power are better than two, and his is no greater than mine.”

They had no response.

“Londu,” Derry tentatively began.

“Enough. I have spoken. I do not accept your word as command. If Elu forbids my coming, then I will abide. But I will hate him for it.” She said this last part fiercely, but with this slightest hint of a smile behind her witch’s mask. Elu knew she would not accept anything other than a plea for her help.

“Londu. I do not think I could do it without you,” he said, adding to Derry, “Sorry. I fear what she would do to me if I said no.”

Derry sighed. “As do I.”

They left in the morning. Elu had just recovered from his prolonged entrapment in the shape of the gull and was wary to even touch his shapechanger’s mask, but he could see little alternative.

“Why not just don the Guardian’s mask and jump to where she is? Do you think you could bring us along with you?” asked Londu.

“I believe I could. But the problem is this: when I become the Guardian I can see the Terror’s mind. Discern her thoughts. I fear that if I don the mask she will do the same and jump away before we reach her.”

Derry frowned behind his wizard’s mask. “A puzzle for the ancients, then. We can’t get close quickly without revealing ourselves. And if we travel over land she may not be there when we arrive. Where is there, anyway?”

“She was far to the south when I last wore the mask. Possibly over the Inner Sea. On the island of Ter, perhaps. Without the mask I can still feel her, but only just. I do not believe she has moved far.”

“And why, then, do you reach for your shapechanger’s mask?” said Londu.

“I had thought to change to a shape that could easily bear all of us. But I have only ever changed myself into a gull.”

He eyed them nervously, wondering if they guessed at his purpose.

“Have you changed anything else before?” said Derry.

“I’ve changed stone to wood, and water. But never another living being, or their mask.”

“Try on me,” said Londu.

“Wife, no. I will not permit it.”

“It is not yours to permit. Elu?”

Elu did not want to get in the middle of their dispute, and his mind raced with possibilities and options.

“Let me first attempt it on an animal,” he said, and looking down at the ground he added, “or insect.”

After switching his maskmaker’s mask with the shapechanger’s, he focused his eyes intently on a small bug crawling along the dirt. He reached within the mask and called the power of its spirits, thinking of the longing call of the sky, of its safety and exhilaration. He directed the mask’s power to the bug. It suddenly grew, sprouted wing, and soared aloft, screeching excitedly. Before it had flown ten paces he maintained his focus, but thought of earth, of food, of damp, dark places, imagining things he thought an insect might like. It fell to the earth and shrunk, landing with a tiny thud several paces away.

Derry bent to inspect it. Holding it up to his eyes, he murmured his approval as he watched its twitching legs moving excitedly still as if the bug hadn’t yet realized it was no longer flying.

“Very well. Make us gulls, then,” said Derry.

“Wait one moment. Let me give us a gentle push,” said Londu, and she closed her eyes and began a murmured, wispy chant. Elu watched the moss of her mask change color to white and azure, and it rippled as if caught in a powerful wind. Looking at her mask he could feel its spirits reaching upward, calling the very air to come and heed her call.

She opened her eyes. “It is done. We should fly faster now, no?”

Elu paused for a moment, feeling the gentle breeze that wrapped around his mask. “Yes, Londu, I suppose that might—” he began, but noticed her pointing upward. He looked up to the sky, and marveled. Morning had arrived with few clouds, but now these raced across the sky to the south, pushed by an unseen gale. The clouds further west and east held steady, but those directly over their heads moved as if in a swift river. Elu laughed. “Well now, that will help. Come, let us begin.”

Soon, three gulls rose steadily into the sky, and as they ascended the wind grew fiercer, blowing them swiftly to the south. When they reached the height of the clouds Elu looked down and gasped. They flew far faster than he had as a gull with Zand, and even faster than when mounted on Brea Indys. The hills and streams whipped past them. Towns and villages flew by at astonishing speed. Before the sun had reached its peak in the sky they flew over water, which Elu guessed to be the Marian Sea. They passed over land again, rising up above vast mountains that came nearly up to their level, and the air grew cold around them. But the earth gave way once more to water, dotted with numerous small islands.

Land loomed ahead and Elu flew lower, coming out of Londu’s summoned stream of wind. They spied small fishing boats bobbing along the shore and children playing in the shallow water as their parents labored in the small craft. A large town spread out from the seashore and the gulls descended to one of the quieter streets.

Elu changed back to a man, and directed the power of his mask to his two gull companions to change them too.

“Where do you suppose this is?” said Derry, looking around himself.

Londu shrugged. “Ter, perhaps? Or is this Glant?”

Elu picked up his satchel and hefted it over his shoulder. Looking around himself, he approached a man in a merchant’s mask.

“Aye, Ter this is, stranger,” he said, eyeing Elu’s mask of power warily, “but you’ve chosen an ill-fated time to visit our land. Evil tidings! Black sorcery torments us and curses our towns.”

Elu’s eyed narrowed. “How so?”

“A malevolent spirit wanders the land. Not three days ago, a blackness passed over my heart and all the town wailed in fright all the long night. When we woke with the sun the next morning the magistrate and his entire house lay dead, as well as a handful of travellers on the roads coming into the town. It has been an uproar ever since as half the people think assassins from Ister are to blame, and the other half believe dark wizardry from the isles of the Inner Sea has made its way to our shores. But no one alive saw anyone come or go that night.”

Elu glanced at Derry and Londu, fearing their judgment of him. He had let Thora wander all this time, unchecked and unchallenged, fearing her power. What must they think of him? A coward.

Shutting those thoughts aside, Elu pressed the man further. “Have you heard from merchants in other towns?”

“Frandle, the nearest town, has seen nothing of this darkness. But I heard a rumor from a traveler that the city of Tor Rhondyll is in chaos. That is the seat of the lord of Ter’s power. He said the people riot in the streets and that there is turmoil in the lord’s house itself. Mercy be upon us all if the Glantish wizards made it as far as Tor Rhondyll.”

“You believe the threat to be from Glant, then?” said Elu.

“No assassin from Ister could have made my heart ache with terror within me as it did. Only the darkest sorcery could do that.”

They made their goodbyes with the man and stood quietly for a while, waiting for Elu to speak. When he broke his silence, he murmured, sounding forlorn and distant.

“We must go to Tor Rhondyll,” he said. “And quickly. Londu?”

Londu breathed her words of chant and the clouds overhead whipped across the sky. Assuming their gull forms, they rose to meet the wind.

Chapter XIII

That Other World

THORA HAD NEARLY KILLED THE cooper. Elu remembered rushing into Gheb soon after unleashing the Terror and bending over the cooper’s moaning form, seeing his charred flesh under his mask. He wondered if those travellers outside spoken of by the merchant had faced a similar doom as the slavers outside the barrow entrance. Their faces. Just like Thora’s. Now, after a fashion, just like his. But his burning anger towards Thora had cooled, for the wound she had given him had subsided, replaced now with determination. He would stop her. Certainly many guilty had died at her hands, but undoubtedly many innocent had as well. And what gave her the right to determine which were guilty and which were innocent? Weren’t they all guilty, after their own fashion? And therefore, weren’t they all innocent, after their own fashion?

The large island sped away underneath them and they passed over numerous smaller towns and farms and grasslands. In the distance he saw great buildings loom on the horizon, reminding him of the ancient stone palace and halls of Hartree. They sank lower on the wind and slowed their approach, landing a short distance away from the city on a nearly deserted street of the lower town, for the great center of the lord of Ter’s power was built on a towering hill in the middle of a vast grassy plain.

The town reeked of fear. Even without his maskmaker’s mask he could read the spirits of the masks around him as a scroll, and they spoke to him of panic and despair.

“She is here,” he said to his companions. They nodded grimly, signaling that they knew already. Elu addressed a beggar sitting against a building. “What is going on? Why is everyone so morose?”

The beggar, his plain wood mask sullied with filth, said nothing but pointed up to the city.

They passed through the lower streets and approached the gate into the city proper. Elu would have expected it to be manned by guards as was the custom in the north, and indeed he saw quarters for the guards on one side of the gate, but no one checked their approach. Trash littered the street and they encountered few people, though they saw many eyes catch fleeting glimpses at the newcomers through windows and around corners.

They ascended the city’s hill, making their way for the center where they presumed the palace of the lord of Ter would be, and where they assumed Thora worked her dreadful craft.

At last they arrived at the palace, a stately stone building at the very top of the hill in the center of the city. The courtyard in front presented them with a ghoulish sight. Strewn with the former inhabitants of the palace, the green grassy lawn stretched out before them and ended with the lord’s throne, having been uprooted out of its place in the throne room and placed outside the palace itself. Before it stretched a line of people, cowering, whimpering, guarded by men in soldier masks but whose eyes appeared equally terrified.

And atop the throne, sitting with her feet resting upon the unmoving form of what looked like the lord himself, was Thora. A quivering man stood before her, his mask that of a palace courtier. She addressed him.

“Poor fool. You were one of the good ones, weren’t you? At least, you thought you were. You served your lord well, did you not? You bristled at his uncaring commands and balked at carrying out his most grievous wishes. I see it now, there in your spirit, in your mask—you thought yourself as a balance to his monstrous rule. You set aside food for the widows and poor of the city without his knowledge. Very commendable,” she paused, smiling magnanimously at him, but with a smirk. He looked up at her and his shaking slowed ever so slightly. “And yet….” The shaking intensified. “And yet, you still profited from his rule, did you not? You live here in the palace. You hoard your money, and not just yours … ah yes, I see, you skimmed a little off the top of all the transactions that passed through your slippery hands. And for that, your judgment is set.”

She absentmindedly waved a hand and the man shrieked in pain. They saw steam or smoke rise from the man’s mask and he struggled to rip it off but could not. Soon, the steam ceased and he collapsed to the ground, moaning in agony. A nearby guard dragged him away to a group of other afflicted men and women laying on the ground.

They were the lucky ones.

Elu nodded quickly to Derry and Londu, initiating their prearranged plan. He separated from them, walking to a point among the waiting crowd of despairing people while Derry and Londu slowly approached the Terror sitting in presumed judgment against the people.

Londu looked down. Slowly, steadily, the moss and lichen of her mask flared red and brown. Elu saw her lips move with an inaudible chant under her breath, and within moments began to hear a low rumble in the earth.

Before the guard summoned the next victim to stand before her Thora stood, sensing something amiss. Without warning, a giant earthen fist smashed up through the ground under her, sending her flying through the air, only to be met by a second fist which slapped her back down again. Elu had not been watching Derry, but now he saw a cyclone of fire jump over the courtyard wall, bearing down on the Terror now sprawled on the ground in front of the stunned people.

In the confusion Elu began moving towards Thora, who ripped at the bands of earth holding her, each time breaking an arm free only to be grabbed once again by another living tendril of soil. The fiery cyclone passed directly over her, drawing her attention and her power, for she lifted an arm to summon power, shielding herself from the heat.

In a blink she vanished, reappearing instantly several paces from the cyclone and began turning around to catch a glimpse of her assailants. Eyeing Londu, she advanced towards her, and with an inclination of her head sent a wall of force that struck the girl to the ground. Elu waded among the confused people, who did not know whether to run or cower. Just a few paces now from Thora….

The Terror lifted her arm towards the prostrate Londu, preparing to dispatch her, when a wall of fire erupted between them and the clouds parted, revealing the sun, but magnified as if by a giant drop of rain. The intensity of it shocked Thora, causing her to cover her eyes with her arms and turn away. In that instant Elu made his move. Ripping his shapechanger’s mask from his face he slid the Guardian mask in its place and jumped in front of her. The moment the eye openings passed down over his eyes, her head snapped toward him, her own eyes opened wide.

Elu’s mind raced. This must work, or all was lost. He would die, and Terremar would fall under the rule of a merciless tyrant. His friends would perish. His family, his town, everything would change if he failed.

He locked his eyes on hers, and they stood facing each other at barely an arms length.

“So, brother,” she sneered the word, “You resort to trickery to find me.”

“You ran from me otherwise,” he said, and softened his tone, “Thora. It’s time we end this. Please.”

She lifted her head back and laughed.

Elu removed his mask.

The crowd of people gasped. They stared, open-mouthed, gaping at Elu’s naked face.

Whereas before the Guardian mask had been shining brighter than the sun and the crowd had begun to hope against hope that the Terror would be banished or defeated, now all they saw was the scarred, naked face … of a man.

He knelt, and looked up into her eyes. The old scars of his first encounter with her had faded somewhat, but now glistened with sweat.

Her lips curled in a gleeful smile, but looking into her eyes Elu saw uncertainty. She did not know what to make of this. It was confusing her.

“You fool,” she started, “you give yourself to me? Like this?” She drew her arm back and shot it towards him, sending a buffeting wall of power. It collided with his body and passed over him as a gentle wave, yet sending earth flying up all around him. Her eyes grew wide with fear. He extended his arm to her mask, reaching his hand to wrap around it. Another pulse of force shot out from her, but he swam through it as the hangra fish.

He placed two fingers on the forehead of her terrible mask, and kept her eyes locked in his gaze.

“Thora. I miss our wanderings. Our adventures. I miss you. Won’t you come back to me?”

She yelled in fury and lashed out at his face with her fist. It collided with a solid thud, but with no more force than an angry homeweaver hitting her foolish husband. His nose bled, but he smiled at her.

“Thora, please.”

And the unbridled power of his face penetrated her. The masks that had always covered him and protected both him from the world and the world from him now lay in the satchel at his feet, and as the uncovered sky set afire with the light from that other world before its covering by Eldrin his face overwhelmed her. She could not look at it, and yet could not look away.

“Thora,” he began again, “I forgive you. Please forgive me.” he added in a whisper, “Please come back. You’re my friend.” With those last words he removed his fingers from her forehead, and slowly, tentatively, reached behind her head for the straps that bound the mask to her head. She shook, struggling to resist him, but only half-heartedly. One strap came undone. He reached for the other.

The mask fell to her feet.

Her face, as he remembered it in that inn months ago now shone into his, the hideous scars on her nose and cheeks still appeared as a festering pit, but her eyes—her eyes were hers. Not the Terror’s.

“Elu, I—” she began.

A slow murmur built up in the crowd now gathering around them.

“Thora? Will you come with me?”

“But, all those things I did—I did them, didn’t I?”

“Did you mean to do them?”

“No. I mean, yes. I think so. I can’t remember all of it. I was so angry.” Her eyes teared up. “I was so angry,” she whispered.

Murmuring louder, the crowd moved in close. Derry pushed his way through.

“Elu? All is well?”

“Yes, Derry. Thank you.”

“These people want her blood. Will you deliver her to them?”

Elu looked back to Thora, who stared around still barefaced and red-eyed at the people who lay dead or maimed on the ground while the unharmed closed in on her.

“No. I must remove her from this place.”

Derry looked nervously at Thora but nevertheless nodded. He turned to the crowd and flashed his burning eyes at them, summoning the spirits of his mask to halt them in their tracks. They began to shout at Thora and Elu, who now put on his shapechanger’s mask and gathered up the other masks and satchel. He placed the Justice mask and the Guardian mask both within it and turned his attention to Thora. He summoned the power of the mask and willed her body to a shape he could easily bear away.

Be strong, he thought. Be the strongest shape.

She shrank down to a small, black stone. Picking her up in his hand, Elu held it aloft to the crowd.

“She is gone. Go now, and suffer at her hands no more.”

A great cheer went up and they hailed Elu as their deliverer. They pressed forward again, eager to touch him, to hold onto him, but he changed to the gull’s form and along with two other gulls that had suddenly appeared among the crowd soared into the sky, clutching a satchel in one talon and a small stone in another.

The wind caught them in its flow, now toward the north, called by Londu as she had lain on the ground watching the scene unfold. They flew swiftly north, over the Inner Sea, passing over the shoreline of the mainland and up over the mountains that loomed above it. Alighting on one of the lower hills Elu gently released his load into the grass, and changed them all back again.

Thora sat in the grass, covering her bare, ruined face with her hands, weeping.

“Thora?” said Elu.

She sobbed.

“Thora?” repeated Elu.

Thora took a deep breath, still holding her face. Shielding her from their gaze. Or shielding them from her. “You should have killed me. Look what I did to you, what I did to all those people.”

“It is done. You cannot stop those things from happening, for they have passed. Just as I cannot stop me from taking you to the barrows. Only the future is in our hands.”

“But I deserve death! Nothing less! Why did you spare me?”

“We all deserved the undiminished light of that other world when this one was made, but Eldrin masked it, and gave us our gift. He gave us the time to become accustomed to that light, so that when we fly to that other world we are ready for it. We deserved the barrenness of the earth but Sipora masked it as well, giving us the fruit and the water and the trees. All of us, every one of us, were marked for death from the foundation of the world. And yet we are here. We live. We breathe. We rejoice. We weep. And we learn.”

She remained silent for a long time. Elu studied her bare face, seeing her spirit beneath its damaged surface. She made decisions, and he understood.

“I must go,” she said.

“I know.”

“I need a mask.”

“I have one for you.” He removed his shapechanger’s apprentice’s mask and looking around he saw a small brook trickling down from greater heights above them. Chanting as they walked, he led her to it and stooped down to kneel. He dipped the mask into the cold water and held it there for several moments, and looking into its substance he saw those spirits he had become accustomed to, as an old friend, and knew it was meant for her. It was meant for her all along.

On the side of the stream tak-weed grew in abundance, and taking a handful he dried some on his shirt and with a tool from his satchel secured them to the rim, nearly hearing the weed’s spirits sing as they joined their kindred in the mask. It sparkled now in the sun as he held it out to her, reminding him of her childhood mask, the one she wore as they romped through the forest together.

“I can’t take your mask.”

“I have others. It is yours. It was made for you,” he said, offering it to her. “It came to me, but it was meant for you.” She tentatively strapped it to her face, and he smiled, watching the sunlight sparkle on the tak-weed flaring out from the mask.

“I’m sorry, Elu. For….”

“I know. So am I. I shall miss you, Thora.”

She reached out and touched him tenderly on the forehead with two fingers, and without a word of instruction from him about how one must long for the sky, for freedom, for safety, she changed to a gull with feathers sparkling like the rim of her mask, flying high into the air. She flew east, out over the Marian sea.

Derry and Londu approached from behind, Londu presenting him with his satchel and averting her eyes from his bare face. He accepted it with thanks and reached in, pulling out the Guardian mask with its brilliant emerald shining in the evening sun. He slipped it over his face.

“What will you do now with the other mask? You told us it required a sacrifice to destroy it,” said Derry.

“It is powerless now.”

“But … how?”

“I made the sacrifice. I laid myself bare before her, powerless and naked, hiding nothing. I sacrificed my hate. I sacrificed my pain, and my guilt. The old me died. And in so doing, I killed her. The Terror is dead. Maybe not forever, but banished—for a long time.”

“And Thora? Was the Terror Thora? I mean, could the Terror have done those things without Thora willingly playing the part?”

“No. Those were Thora’s actions to some degree. To what degree I do not know, but it is not mine to judge. The gods will judge her when she flies to that other world. But for now she will seek her fortune like the rest of us. And her redemption,” he paused, before adding, “like the rest of us.”

After a moment’s silence he reached out to their arms, and willed them all home. The hut in Ri Illiath snapped into place around them. The sun set. The stream flowed.

The maskmaker of Ri Illiath set up his trade once more, in the home of Derry the wizard and Londu the witch, making masks for all the homeweavers’ children and all the tradesmen of the town. His renown as the great Guardian of Terremar spread among the kingdoms of the land and the many princes and kings of Varnor and other lands came to his hut to beg masks of power from his hand. Some he made eagerly, gladdened by a new adventure, while others he turned away, knowing the ill fate that would await those who asked in bad faith.

And one day, after much time and much living, he took up the master of Hartree’s mask. The people called him the greatest maskmaker of that age and they named him the Guardian, The Lord Maskmaker, and Elu Indibar—who rode the wyvern in his pursuit of the Terror, standing as the shield between the people and indifferent justice.

This Story Will Continue In…

Masks of Terremar: Book #2

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Afterword

ENDI WEBB IS THE USA Today bestselling author of The Pax Humana Saga, The Rohvim Chronicles, and the Masks of Terremar. He lives in Huntsville, Alabama with his family. He is: a dad, a husband, a scientist, a writer, and a total sci-fi/fantasy nerd.

Connect with him:

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Website: www.endiwebb.com

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Email: authorendiwebb@gmail.com

Other books by Endi Webb

The Pax Humana Saga

Book One: The Terran Gambit

Book Two: Chains of Destiny

Book Three: Into the Void

(10 books total)

The Rohvim Chronicles

Book One: Metal and Flesh

Book Two: Water and Blood

Book Three: Earth and Sky

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THE DARK CITADEL

Michael Wallace

Prologue

SURFEYN COULD NO LONGER PROTECT his master from thieves and vipers. Since his wife’s death, the high khalif had consulted with every manner of witch, fortune teller, wizard, and astrologer in the Eastern Khalifates. One evening, when waves began to crash over the seawall at dusk and a great storm gathered over the ocean, Surfeyn watched helplessly as the khalif turned his worried attention to their advice.

“There will be wights,” a blind hag with no eyes said as she crawled on her belly to the Iron Throne. “The Harvester will come to hunt them. You need runes or they will get into the castle. Let me help you, great one.”

“Only the catacombs will keep you safe,” said a wizard. “We will hide your passage and they will never find you.”

“No, he must consult an oracle,” said another.

Surfeyn stood next to the throne. “Send them away, Master,” he whispered. “I will draw tight the shutters and heap extra wood onto the fire. You’ll sleep quietly and there will be nothing in the morning except a few broken branches in the garden and maybe a seawall to repair.”

Khalif Ahmaad Faal gripped the throne until his hands turned white. “Typhoon season has passed. This is not the turning of the weather, this is something unnatural. I’ll need other advice tonight, old friend.”

Cragyn approached the throne. “I know what must be done, Master.” He had a cunning look on his face and Surfeyn met his gaze, knowing the wizard would do something to turn this to his advantage, and knowing he was helpless to stop it.

Sheets of rain pounded against the shutters of the throne room, divided by a clap of thunder. “There are shadows entering the city, Master,” Cragyn continued. “The hag is right. I can see them, they are cloaked in the storm. Veyrians shiver in their beds. From the hovels on Knacker’s Row to the manors outside the palace, they sense the wights entering the city.”

“No storm can penetrate these walls,” Surfeyn said. “And we are protected from wights. Unless someone lets them in, they’ll never get past the gates. Master, you don’t need new runes or incantations. The old ones are more than enough.”

“What does a slave know?” Cragyn asked. “Listen to me, Great One, I know what you must do to protect yourself.”

“What is that, Wizard?” the khalif asked.

“Drink this.” A glass goblet appeared in his hands. Blue liquid sloshed, slow and lazy, like something molten.

Before Surfeyn could protest, the wizard had lifted the goblet to Ahmaad’s lips. The khalif drank, sputtered, then drank some more. A smile passed over the wizard’s face.

“That will protect you, master. Now, leave these wretches and follow me. I’ve prepared chambers below the palace. No wight shall find you there.”

Surfeyn started to follow, but Cragyn held up a hand. The slave couldn’t move, his feet felt stiff, his limbs like stone. He opened his mouth to warn the khalif, but his tongue wouldn’t obey.

“No, do not restrain him,” the khalif said. “I would have my servant at my side. Tonight, especially.”

“As you wish, master.”

Together, the three of them left the throne room. The other wizards and astrologers voiced their protest, but a glaze had come over the khalif’s features, and he ignored them.

Barely forty years weighed on the khalif’s shoulders, but palsy and white hair made him look like a man twice his age. He supported his weight with a bronze staff. Some nights, he woke screaming like a child, his bedding soaked with sour sweat. When Surfeyn rushed to his side, the khalif would lie trembling in his guard’s arms for hours before he could sleep again.

They found their way into the bowels of the Grand Palace. Hundreds of years old, the palace squatted atop the volcanic rock that rose from the center of Veyre. Some said King Toth himself had built the palace, after his senses had fled. Indeed, only a madman could have built such a jumble of rooms, alleyways and staircases. And in the palace underbelly, tunnels and secret apartments wormed deep into the rock.

The upper palace had apartments for several hundred to live comfortably. Some khalifs and khalifas kept rooms for nobles, to keep their scheming under watchful eye, but during the last few years, Ahmaad Faal had forced the nobles into their own family manors. He kept the palace emptied of all but his slaves and advisers. The khalif’s vizier ordered unused wings and passageways walled off, while in other corners, Cragyn practiced his dark arts.

The khalif stopped in front of the doors to the catacombs, and Surfeyn, misunderstanding the hesitation, opened the door with sword drawn, as pleased his master. “No, Surfeyn.” Ahmaad glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Cragyn has prepared the way. There is no need for the sword.”

Displeased, Surfeyn bowed until the tassels of his turban swept the floor. “As you wish, my master. May you live forever.”

Ahmaad’s lips turned in a slight smile, then he glanced back at the hall, cast in flickering torch light. “Live forever? To survive the night will suffice. By the Brothers, I saw the Harvester in a dream last night, come to gather my soul. I sense your displeasure. Come, trust me tonight.”

The wizard led Ahmaad and his bodyguard into the catacombs, chill and dank beneath the palace dungeons. They passed below the catacombs, into mad King Toth’s secret apartments and passageways. Small creatures scrabbled and hissed in the darkness, but fled when Surfeyn drew too close with his torch. At last Cragyn led them to the rooms he had prepared. He bowed, then scuttled back into the darkness in the direction from which they’d come. Surfeyn watched him go with a sense of release. There was no sound but their own breathing and the crackling of the torch.

Surfeyn drew the khalif inside, then lit the candles set out by the wizard, dipped from strange-smelling wax that burned with ghostly blue light. He helped Ahmaad ready himself for bed, then covered him with several blankets.

Ahmaad gripped his wrist with a palsied hand. “Stay awake, my friend.”

Surfeyn bowed low, ignoring the blue foam that flecked his master’s lips. “Yes, master.” He drew his scimitar and turned to guard the door.

Surfeyn hated himself for despising the khalif at moments like this. He reminded himself of the man Ahmaad Faal had once been. He’d rebuilt the aqueducts, driven the stone giants back to the mountains, and commissioned seven new cities to reap the trade flowing east along the Tothian Way. He’d commanded such respect and love from the other khalifs of the eastern plains that they’d crowned him high khalif, with the power to tax their cities and command their armies. When Josiah Saffa, former enemy of Veyre, gave his favorite daughter Tainara to Ahmaad Faal for wife, the people of both cities celebrated for two weeks. Ahmaad built the famous hanging gardens to honor his new bride.

Tainara Saffa lacked the beauty of her sisters, but as a queen she had no equal. She loved the people, and turned her husband’s heart to mercy. He lowered taxes in her name, forgave debts at her request. On their fifth anniversary, he emptied the treasury to feed the poor, just as the five brothers had fed the world with the work of their creation. That night, an assassin poisoned Tainara’s wine. Two days later, the khalifa lay atop a tower of silence outside of Veyre, her bones picked clean by ravens and vultures.

Surfeyn’s heart tightened in grief. Had it really been ten years? So long, but such a short time for a king to wither and die. To give the scepter of power to his wizard and his vizier to rule in his stead.

Surfeyn heard a noise in the hallway outside the door. It began as a whisper, followed by the patter of feet and a chill breeze that bled through the key hole. He drew his sword and climbed to his feet.

He peered through the key hole, cursing the paranoia that kept the khalif from guarding his rooms with an entire regiment, as he’d once guarded the rooms of his wife. Still, Surfeyn had killed assassins before and might yet preserve the khalif’s life. But what he saw clenched his stomach with fear.

Wights. At least ten of them, glowing with a pale blue light, milling outside the door as if waiting for something or someone to come. What could bind so many at one time? Only dark magic could keep so many hidden from the Harvester, who collected the souls of the dead lest they pollute the world with their madness. Surfeyn pulled back and looked for something to block the door.

The door rocked backwards with a terrific blow. Behind, Ahmaad sat up straight in his bed. “The Harvester,” he whispered, drawing his blankets up to his neck. His face paled and his hands trembled. “Don’t let him take me.”

No, not the Harvester. Surfeyn would have welcomed the dark gatherer’s presence now, as the wights would flee if he appeared. Surfeyn braced himself.

The door rocked backwards again. Splinters burst outward and the hinges sagged. Again and again the door rocked until at last it burst open in a shower of splinters.

Wights poured into the room, setting into him with teeth and claws. He drove them back with his sword. He chopped the head of one from its shoulders and it dissolved with a scream, then fled like a shadow back to the halls. Not dead, but rendered harmless. He destroyed another, and the rest hesitated

And then she stepped into the room. Unlike the crippled wights surrounding her, she stood taller than she had in life, a tiara blazing on her forehead. She who had once commanded every khalifate from here to the mountains. She who had once ruled the khalif’s own heart with love and tender advice. She reached out a pale blue hand to point at Surfeyn. “Out of my way, worm.”

“Tainara,” the khalif whispered behind Surfeyn, his voice a mixture of awe and horror. “You’ve come for me.”

“Yes, my dear. I’ve come to take you away from this frail body,” she said, her voice so deadly beautiful that Surfeyn wept under its power.

At last Surfeyn understood. The blue candles, the blue poison given the khalif at dinner, the blue light cast by the wights. Cragyn. The wizard meant not only to kill the king but to bind his soul. Yes, much as he must have done to the khalifa herself. Corrupted her strength and goodness with dark magicks.

Surfeyn tore himself from Tainara’s spell. He let out a terrible cry and swung his sword at her head. But the other wights reached him first, driving him to the ground. They stripped the sword from his hands and ripped at his face and belly. Surfeyn stood no chance.

The queen stepped toward her husband with outstretched hands. In one palm lay a dagger. Ahmaad Faal’s eyes widened in horror and madness. She clasped him in a deadly embrace.

And thus was the high khalif murdered in his bed. Murdered and bound into the service of Cragyn the Wizard. And such had grown the wizard’s power that none in Veyre dared challenge his right to the Iron Throne. The other cities of the eastern plain shortly fell under his sway. Soon, he turned his attentions to the western khalifates and to controlling the length of the Tothian Way, all the way to the Citadel lying over the mountains.

Chapter I

BEFORE THE CORRECTIONS GUILD SOLD his family into slavery, laughter and beautiful things filled Darik’s life. Every year, his father acquired more slaves and servants to buy and sell his wares, and every year he added to his shops in the heart of the Merchant Quarter. Men came to his father to borrow money or beg his support for claims against the other guilds. There was even talk that the grand vizier would appoint him to guildmaster, Balsalom’s most powerful position outside the walls of the palace. The khalifa herself invited Darik’s parents to the Feast of Summer’s Eve at the palace.

At the height of their wealth, Darik and his parents moved from their house on the edge of the quarter to a lavish three-story manor with a courtyard, gardens, and forty slaves. Father tore down the manor to the east and built a children’s garden in its place.

And then, after three failed birthings, Darik’s mother gave birth to his sister Kaya. She was a beautiful child, with eyes like her mother’s, but her birth cost Darik’s mother her life, and would soon cost the family their fortunes.

Darik spent most of his time after the year of his fourteenth birthday in the garden, losing himself in daydreams among the statues of griffins and giants and other strange and wondrous beasts. Wild roses tangled the walls, and monkeys chattered in the trees as they fought over figs pilfered from the kitchens. Sometimes he fell asleep in the shade and dreamt of his mother holding him in her arms. That year was like a glass of fermented coconut milk, both sweet and bitter at the same time.

The family’s fortunes held the first year after his mother’s death, then collapsed. Darik heard rumors of bad loans, of trading partners cheating his father, of caravans lost on the Tothian Way as it snaked through the mountains. Father retreated to his rooms and drank too much wine.

Darik soon learned what the rest of the household thought of his father. Darik and the stablemaster’s daughter, a pretty girl with curly black hair named Lassa, had gone to the stable lofts. Lassa was a year older than he and Darik noticed her swelling breasts every time he passed her in the stables. How long had she worked in the stables with her father? He had no memory of her until a few months earlier. Perhaps she had lived elsewhere, but he thought it likely that he had simply never noticed her before.

One afternoon she had whispered to him while he brushed his horse, and beckoned wickedly for him to follow her up to the loft. Darik obeyed, heart pounding as he climbed the ladder behind her, watching her hips swaying seductively with every step.

Up in the loft she pushed him into the hay and kissed him hard on the mouth. Her scent mingled with the sweet smell of fresh hay. Startled, he pulled away. He scrambled toward the ladder. But when he turned around to climb down, she pulled her robe down from her shoulders to bare her breasts. She grabbed his hand and put it on her breast, pulling at his tunic with a shocking urgency. Her touch was like fire against his skin and he felt a sudden shame.

Voices sounded below and Darik sat upright. He straightened his tunic. Had the stablemaster followed them? The stablemaster had a terrible temper, raging against the hands when they reported late for work. Darik feared the man would beat him senseless for daring to touch his daughter. Lassa giggled and Darik put his hand over her mouth to quiet the foolish girl.

It was the stablemaster, but he wasn’t looking for his daughter. He spoke instead with another man, so loud and brash that it was clear that he meant to hide no secret. And he spoke treason against the family.

“Not a bad offer,” the stablemaster mused. “Yes, I think I’ll accept. Kerack has nothing but nags in his stables anymore. There’s nothing for me here.”

“The offer is only good if you bring along Kerack’s chief cook. My master has taken a liking to the cook’s game hen pie. You are friends with the cook, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” the stablemaster said. “If I tell him to come, he’ll come.”

“How long?” the other man asked. Darik looked through the wooden slats in the loft. The other man wore the purple robes of a master merchant’s chief steward. Sent by one of Father’s rivals? Or maybe even a friend. None of his father’s friends amounted to much these days.

“A fortnight, no more.” The stablemaster grinned. “Long enough to pay a final visit to my favorite wenches in the kitchens.”

The other man laughed. “And what if you leave, and Kerack rights the Nendra family fortunes? There was a time when people thought he’d rise to guildmaster when the khalifa tires of Fenerath’s petulance.”

“Nah, they’re finished,” the stablemaster said. “Give them a year and the Nendras will be no higher or lower than any other family in the guild.”

The girl grabbed Darik to pull him into the hay again, but he pushed her aside. He climbed down the ladder with an angry curse, completely forgetting that the stablemaster’s daughter still lay half naked upstairs.

“Go then,” he shouted at the stablemaster. He picked up a clod of dried horse dung and hurled it. The dung struck the stunned man directly on the forehead. “Leave, if you’re so anxious to betray your master! Or stay and muck stalls because your days as stablemaster are finished.” Darik ran from the stables, face flushed with rage.

Later that afternoon when Darik approached Father with news of the man’s treacherous words, Father merely sighed and turned to looking out the window at the courtyard. He’d had a statue of mother built and he liked to look at it. Father poured himself another glass of wine and sent Darik away.

As it turned out, the stablemaster was wrong. Within a year, the family dropped much lower than the merchants who Father had once called friends. Rather than selling some of his markets and property to satisfy debts, Father determined to cling to his status as long as possible. He borrowed more and more, convinced that his fortune would turn. Soon, debts mounted so high that moneylenders refused to grant new funds, and voracious interest payments ate every dinar he earned and then some.

At last, angry merchants cast him from the guild, and with no license, he couldn’t buy or sell goods. Even then he might have salvaged the family honor if he had sold everything at once, satisfied his debts and begged mercy from the guild. Instead, he wasted time appealing to his friend the grand vizier. The vizier was sympathetic, but he needed the guilds to raise tax money to finance the new tower to honor the fifth year of the khalifa’s reign. By the time father decided to sell it was too late. He found no buyer before the guildmaster moved against them.

The Nendra manor sat quietly for three weeks after the money counters left father’s employ; father could no longer pay them. Servants slipped away during the night, or begged release to visit a sick relative or take care of other pressing business. Father railed against their faithlessness but was powerless to stop them. The slaves and a handful of loyal servants remained behind, together with Darik, his sister Kaya, and Kaya’s nursemaid.

Darik woke one night to an insistent pounding on his chamber door. He pushed aside pillows that had built up over his head while he slept, pressing in with a smothering heat. Still groggy, he opened the door and blinked at what he saw.

A man stood in the hallway, wearing thick purple robes, clasped with a broach with a giant emerald that stared at him like a green eye. A silk turban sat on his head and rings sat on every finger, so big and heavy that they made his hands look like claws.

“Come with me, slave,” the man said sharply. “Hurry, boy.”

“I’m not a slave,” Darik said, heat rising in his cheeks at such insolence. “And who are you? Where are the guards?”

The man laughed without fear and Darik blinked, suddenly recognizing the man. Father had pointed him out at every feast, complained about him too many times to forget. Fenerath, the guildmaster, and father’s enemy. Fenerath was young for a guildmaster, several years younger than father, with a lean, cunning look in his eyes.

The man standing to the right of the guildmaster wore the blue turban of a Selphan and held scrolls of disbursement in his hand, closed with the grand vizier’s seal. The grand vizier had given similar scrolls to father when he’d brought judgment before the guild courts against a business partner who’d cheated father during a trading mission to Eriscoba. All of the man’s properties and markets had been forfeit by such a document.

Two armed guardsmen stood behind Fenerath’s shoulder, scimitars in hand. The guildmaster beckoned with one jeweled finger. “Come, boy,” he said, voice softening slightly. “It will be easier if you don’t fight it.”

Kaya cried out down the hall, sounding frightened as Fenerath’s men carried her from her nursery. Kaya’s nursemaid wailed out in terror as men dragged her from her room. At last Darik woke enough to understand. It had ended. Father’s business, his hope for reconciliation with the guild. The family. He looked wildly around the room for something with which he could fight. He would not be taken as a slave.

The two guardsmen stiffened. “Boy!” Fenerath warned.

Shouts came from down the hall. “Let her go, you bastards! Let her go. The Harvester take you all.”

The two guardsmen looked to the struggle down the hall as Father struggled against the men holding his arms. Kaya cried out and tried to reach her father, while the child’s nursemaid wailed and tried to reach the girl as well. Darik moved quickly.

He grabbed the sword from the nearest guardsman, wrenching it free before the man could pull the blade away. He slashed at the guardsman to drive him out of the way, then shoved past the startled guildmaster to run to his father’s aid.

Two of the guardsmen surrounding his father stepped to block the way, swords drawn. Darik lunged at the first man, who easily turned his blade. The second man grabbed his wrist and wrenched it sharply toward the flagstones until Darik winced in pain and let the blade drop.

“Bring the boy here,” Fenerath said.

“Leave him alone!” Father roared, but the other men dragged him down the hall, together with Kaya and several slaves.

Fenerath’s eyes hardened. “Very well, slave, you make this difficult. I’d thought to spare you humiliation, as requested by the grand vizier. But we will do this as guild law allows.” He fingered the broach around his neck and turned to the guardsmen. “Summon the Corrections Guild. They shall accompany us to the slave blocks.”

They dragged him into the courtyard just inside the gates and stripped him naked. He stood shivering in the chill air of pre-dawn, while Fenerath’s men brought the manor slaves to stand naked by his side. Kaya’s nursemaid clenched the child to her breast and wept. Two men from the corrections guild lashed their whips at any slave who dared step from the line, and thrashed Darik across the shoulders when he tried to move closer to his sister. Another corrector came a moment later to bind them all together.

The destruction of a family house cursed all who worked within its walls—anyone who could be sold as property, that is. Father’s slaves looked just as stunned as Darik felt, accustomed as they’d become to the family’s wealth and honor.

The correctors brought his father to the courtyard just before dawn, his face bruised and swollen. He stood too far away for Darik to speak with him. But it was just as well. A rage burned in Darik’s gut, much of it directed toward his father.

It was his fault. He’d led them to this point. Such thoughts shamed Darik in their petty cruelty, but he was helpless to turn them aside.

The manor gates opened at dawn and the correctors lashed their whips and drove the naked slaves into the streets. A curious crowd gathered in the streets to watch. Such slave processions were rare. The fortunes of few families changed so spectacularly. More often, a wealthy man’s fortunes might slip until he became another man’s servant, while a bondsman might climb his way from apprentice to journeyman to master guildsman to take his place in the order of things.

He saw Lassa, the daughter of the stablemaster, in the crowd then, standing amidst a group of servants. Darik hadn’t seen her since the stablemaster left father’s employ a year earlier, hadn’t given her much thought, to be honest, but there she stood, laughing at the naked slaves as the correctors drove them down the hill.

A young man stood by her side. His hand rested possessively on her arm, and Darik saw a tell-tale swelling in her abdomen.

By the Brothers, how old was she? Seventeen? And with child already.

Lassa’s eyes widened in recognition when she saw Darik and the smirk faded slightly. She turned and said something to the man standing by her side, and the man nodded. He, in turn, passed the conversation to another young man who stood on his left, and all three of them laughed. Darik looked away.

They marched down the hillside toward the slave blocks, which stood on the far edge of the Grand Bazaar. Mercifully, the curious onlookers melted away by the time they reached the giant square in the middle of Balsalom. A band of naked slaves was not a sight that drew attention in the Grand Bazaar. But when Fenerath ordered them driven to the blocks, Darik noted familiar faces among the crowd: many of Father’s rivals, but none of his friends. Fenerath the guildmaster stood to one side, grim-faced.

The bidding began immediately. No single man led the auction, rather a handful of men who notched offers into sticks and took the successful bidder to the money changers who sat under a canopy to the right of the blocks to complete the transactions.

An old man with a greased beard bought one of the serving girls, while one of the merchants whom Darik recognized acquired Darik’s father and father’s chief steward, an old man who’d been with the family since before Darik was born. Darik was too angry to meet his father’s imploring look, but hung his head when they led the two men past him.

Darik waited nervously for his turn. The sun prickled against his bare skin. A foreman for the salt mines made three successful bids for slaves before he paused to pinch the flesh of Darik’s arm and shoulder. Darik sucked in his breath, terrified that his time had come, that he would live the rest of his short, unhappy life laboring in the salt mines.

“Six blocks,” the man grunted. By law, the mines could buy slaves or pay debts and taxes with blocks of salt.

One of the men tallying bids notched a stick and shouted the number in coin to the crowd below. “Eighty dinarii!” Darik held his breath.

“I’ll give you ninety,” a voice shouted from the crowd.

Darik looked down at his benefactor, hope leaping within his breast. Two men stood on the edge of the crowd. One was an older man with a long beard and graying hair, while the other was tall and muscular looking. They wore simple, but clean clothing, and Darik hoped they might be the servants of a merchant or a similarly honorable man.

The mine foreman grinned. “I don’t like to be outbid. Make it eight blocks.”

Darik figured the number before the bid-tallyer shouted it to the crowd and winced. Who would match such a price?

“One hundred five dinarii!”

Darik looked to the tall slave who shrugged an apology. Darik despaired. But the older man nudged him and whispered in his ear and the tall man said, “Make that a hundred and ten dinarii.”

Darik held his breath. The mine foreman grunted and flashed the two men an irritated look, but turned away and stepped off the blocks, gesturing to his men to take their slaves and their waiting camels, the latter laden with blocks of salt.

“Twenty dinarii for the child,” the tall man shouted as two correctors grabbed Darik’s arm and pulled him down from the blocks toward his new owners.

Darik looked back at Kaya, his heart leaping for a second time. He thought it beyond hope that they would both be sold to the same owner. But nobody else bid for the girl, and a moment later, the correctors wrenched the child from the arms of her nursemaid and handed her to the old man. The taller man paid the money changers and unlocked Darik’s chains. They led him away from the blocks.

Darik had become a slave.

Kaya was barely two and would remember nothing but slavery, but the loss of Darik’s freedom was a knife in his bowels. And the humiliation, the stain on the family honor. The shame stung his eyes with tears. Well, he would escape when the time came, and redeem that honor.

“Put this on,” the tall man said, handing Darik a robe. He turned to other man and said, “And wrap the child before she burns in the sun. Boy, it seems the old fool took a liking to you. I hope the master feels the same or he’ll be angry I spent so much. Hurry, you sluggards. We’ve got bread to sell.”

His new owner was a master baker named Graiyan, the older slave explained. The old man wrapped Kaya in his turban and handed her to Darik. As Darik took his sister, his emotions broke and he wept. Kaya buried her head on his shoulders. Some of the terror left her eyes and her head drooped with fatigue.

“Ah, so you know the child,” the old man said with a grin.

“My sister,” Darik said fighting down his tears. “I was afraid I’d never see her again.”

“Fortune smiles on you today, boy. Come. Whelan is always in a rush.” He grinned at the taller man, who ignored him, scanning the thickening crowds ahead of him for a way out of the square.

The tall man, Whelan, kept quiet after they left the Grand Bazaar, but the other man kept up a steady stream of conversation as they made their way to the Bakers Corner, a quarter square mile held by the tiny bakers guild near the center of Balsalom. The two men were also slaves of this Graiyan, who owned twelve ovens, two servants and eight slaves before he bought Darik and Kaya and had carved a moderate prosperity from the quality of his baked goods.

The older man—he said his name was Markal—proudly declared that Graiyan’s kitchen made the best bread in the Grand Bazaar, and Darik had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting, “What is that to me, old man? I’m a slave.”

Over the next few weeks, Darik avoided making trouble until he could come up with a plan for escape. Graiyan was a stern master, but not cruel. When his slaves finished selling Graiyan’s goods in the Grand Bazaar, they could sell their own loaves made from sweepings. Guild law didn’t allow a slave to buy his freedom, but he could prosper in his own right, even buying his own ovens and slaves and enriching himself and his master in the process. Darik got up early every morning with Whelan and Markal, the two slaves who’d rescued him from the salt mines. The two men baked their own loaves before the others rose. Darik quickly formed a friendship with them.

He settled into a familiar pattern, so comfortable that he knew he could live it for the rest of his life if forced to do so. Rise early to bake the extra loaves, then pass the morning kneading dough and blistering himself in front of the ovens. Spend the afternoon in the Grand Bazaar or the bakers souk, haggling to sell Graiyan’s wares. Return in the evening for dinner and a couple of precious hours before bed when the slaves gathered to talk, drink wine, and smoke hookahs.

But then Darik discovered that Graiyan had different designs for the brother and sister. Darik slept with the slaves and sold bread. Kaya slept in the nursery next to Graiyan and his wife’s room. Elethra couldn’t have children, Whelan told him, and had fallen in love with the young girl. Kaya would be raised as their own child.

The thought burned him alive with rage.

“If you make trouble,” Whelan warned while leavening the dough one morning, “Graiyan will sell you to the mines. He harbors no dissent from his slaves.”

“I won’t let it happen. She’s the blood of my parents.” He groaned. “But what can I do?”

Old Markal looked up from soaking his hands in a bucket of water. Darik still thought him something of a fool. He’d burned them again. Markal grinned in that gap-toothed way of his. “There is something.”

Whelan stayed quiet, looking down at his loaf of bread. Darik turned back to Markal for an explanation.

The old slave glanced at Whelan then nodded solemnly. “Sanctuary.”

Sanctuary! The idea consumed every spare thought from that moment on.

Sanctuary meant reaching the Citadel, that great tower rising from the midst of the barbarian’s greatest city, Arvada, a hundred and fifty miles to the west in the Eriscoban Free Kingdoms. A fanatical sect of warriors jealously guarded its right to grant Sanctuary, just as a second sect of wizards guarded the magical secrets of the Citadel. Their rules were strict: arrive at the Citadel of your own power, not carried by man or beast; come without worldly possessions; be purged in a ritual that might kill or maim.

But if you survived, the Brotherhood of the Thorne would buy your freedom, pay your debts, and pardon your crimes. And a young man like himself would also earn the right to join the Brotherhood and train to become a Knight Temperate, if he so desired. The practice infuriated the khalifs, but the barbarians had grown so strong that it would take war to overthrow Sanctuary.

Whelan told him the plan while they baked bread one morning before the other slaves awoke. “Markal and I earned forty dinarii in the last nine months. Yesterday I bought enough provisions to last us a hundred and fifty miles on foot. I hid it outside the city.”

Darik nodded. “What did you buy?”

Whelan shrugged. “Food, extra boots, cloaks to keep us warm through the mountains. Enough. We’ll discard everything when we stand in front of the Citadel.”

A hard edge played at the corner of the tall man’s eyes. His father was a barbarian from the Eriscoban Free Kingdoms, but Whelan said he’d grown up in Mascadas fifty miles east along the Tothian Way, rising to the rank of captain in the khalif’s guard. But one night after drinking too much, he’d argued with the khalif’s pasha and struck him across the brow with the pommel of his sword. The pasha was merciful. He could have ordered Whelan beheaded. Instead, he’d stripped Whelan’s rank and sold him to a caravan traveling west. After Whelan exchanged angry words with the merchant who owned the caravan, the man sold him to Graiyan. Whelan maintained that he had since learned to control his temper.

Darik looked at Markal, who grinned and nodded his agreement. “And me?”

“We got a good price in the market. We have enough food and supplies for a third,” Markal said, a little too eagerly. “We wouldn’t leave you behind.”

Darik frowned, struggling to understand the look that passed between the two men. He worried that they were setting him up. “I have no money. No knowledge of the Way or any other roads. Why tell me this?”

Whelan hesitated. He said, “We like you well enough, Darik, but the truth is, Markal shouldn’t have told you our plans. It was a mistake. I considered my options. I talked to a man yesterday who was to rob you on the way back from the market and slit your throat while I watched. I couldn’t risk having you tell Graiyan.”

Darik’s heart pounded that he’d come so close to death. It all made sense, now. He didn’t trust Markal to keep his mouth shut, either. When Darik spoke, his voice was shrill. “Why didn’t you?”

Whelan shrugged. “I told you, we like you. And it’s not your fault that the old fool couldn’t keep his mouth shut.” Markal looked at his feet, but Whelan ignored him. “So it’s your decision, Darik. Will you come with us?”

Only one thing didn’t fit. He was old enough to carry his own weight along the Way and through the mountains. But it would be a difficult journey on foot. Even without a two-year-old child.

“And Kaya? What of her?”

Whelan shifted on his heels, looking at his hands. He opened the oven and pulled out some loaves of bread one by one with a bread paddle. A blast of heat roiled from the oven and made beads of sweat stand on their skin.

“We leave the city and here’s what we do,” Whelan said at last. “We divide up the provisions equally. Every man carries his own burden. What you do with them after that is your business. You’ll have to forage for food alongside the road or go hungry some meals, and you’ll have to carry your share and the child. Can you do it?”

Darik imagined such a journey. Sore feet, Kaya whining for more food, and begging to be carried. Hunger gnawing at his belly for a hundred and fifty miles.

But what of their plan? Leaving Balsalom would free him of slavery. Head south to Darnad, or west to the Free Kingdoms and nobody would think him a slave. He didn’t need Sanctuary for that. But Sanctuary could provide something that escape wouldn’t.

Honor. Join the Brotherhood of the Thorne and become a Knight Temperate. Repair the tatters of his family’s honor. He owed as much to Kaya, if not to himself.

“Yes, I’ll care for her myself,” he said. “Thank you.” He couldn’t help but notice that Whelan had called him a man. Darik passed a look to Markal. “And I’ll keep the secret.”

Whelan said, “You’ll owe us each fourteen dinarii plus usury when we reach Eriscoba. You’ll have to find some way to pay off your debt.”

“Of course.”

Whelan didn’t wait long to spring their escape. The next day, he pulled Darik aside for a moment while Markal haggled with a customer in the market. The customer had light skin like a barbarian, but that wasn’t unusual in Balsalom, since Eriscoba lay just over the mountains to the west. Witness Whelan.

The customer wanted to sample the ginger cakes, the sesame bread, the sweet meats, but couldn’t decide what to buy. All the while, he held out the promise of a major purchase, perhaps enough that they could sell the rest of Graiyan’s goods by early afternoon and their own wares until the Grand Bazaar closed at seven bells.

The man weighed a heavy purse in his hand and sighed. “I need enough to feed my wife’s sister and her seven starving whelps for three days, but if it doesn’t taste right she’ll complain to my wife, and my wife, in turn, will make me wish I was lying in the road, gnawed by wild dogs.”

Markal blinked nervously. This time of year, with the fall festivals coming, they’d sell their goods anyway, but he took his haggling seriously. “Take the cakes and I’ll give you a loaf of soured millet. Two dinarii, six crana.”

The man shook his head and weighed his purse again. Darik could see him struggling against spending that much money, although Darik had no idea if the man’s story was true, or just a story. There was no question that Graiyan’s goods were more expensive than most coming out of the baker’s corner, but from the way the man’s eyes widened when he tasted the ginger cakes, he’d also appreciated their quality.

“I don’t know. Two and six?” He let out a low whistle. “A lot of money. How about two?”

Markal groaned and threw up his hands. “Go somewhere else then, and stop eating my food before I call the watchman!”

Laughing at the old slave’s haggling techniques, Darik let Whelan pull him aside. They stepped toward a troupe of brightly colored musicians playing for coins in the squat shadow cast by a tan mudstone building that encroached on the edge of the square. A placard hanging from the door was painted with the coin-laden scales of the moneylenders guild.

Darik glanced through the slats on the window, instinctive dislike rising like bile when he saw the moneylender himself. Moneylenders had ruined his father with their usury, charging higher and higher rates as Father’s situation grew more desperate. Darik couldn’t hear the conversation, but gestures told him enough. The moneylender sat on a velvet cushion haggling with a man squatting across from him on the carpet; the borrower trembled in anticipation at the huge pile of gold coins stacked between them. The moneylender gnawed on a joint of meat, occasionally gesturing at the money and shrugging as if to say the money itself was a trifling thing.

The midday chimes of the bakers tower turned Darik’s attention. The master baker had commissioned the white stone minaret at the edge of the Grand Bazaar two years ago to match the bell towers of the other guilds, draining the small guild’s coffers dry in the process.

Other towers joined in. The troupe of barbarians struggled to be heard against the bells. The musicians scrambled together a grating mix of lutes and barbarian gut pipes that didn’t harmonize well with the guild towers.

Darik looked back at Markal haggling harder than ever, regretting that the music and the shouts of a slave auction further into the square drowned out the show.

“Did you see what just happened?” Whelan asked.

Darik shook his head. “With Markal and the man trying to buy the bread? No. What do you mean?”

Whelan smiled. “Good. Then hopefully nobody else did either.” He explained. “We feared that the man might be followed so he pretended to be a customer. If the man told Markal that Hasdini’s man wanted three dinarii for worse bread, that meant he’d hidden our supplies where the north aqueduct meets the Nye River. If he offered two, which he did, that means that we’ll find them in the Tombs of the Kings, just beyond the west wall of the city.”

Darik was surprised. “I had no idea that Markal could put on such an act.”

“Oh, he wasn’t. The two dinarii offering price was solely for my benefit. I imagine our friend from the smugglers guild will haggle for a few more minutes, make a couple of small purchases, then leave Markal grumbling.”

Darik smiled at the thought. He understood Whelan’s caution. Slaves were too costly, and Eriscoba too close. The watchmans guild closely watched the city gates for escaping slaves.

They made their way back to Graiyan’s canopy, where the customer moved on with his bag of bread. Grinning, Markal marked notches in the stick with his knife to count the number of loaves sold. Whelan had been wrong about that much, anyway. It appeared that Markal’s haggling had convinced the smuggler of the quality of their wares, despite other motives.

In the center of the square, the giant bells atop the merchants minaret chimed, drowning out the smaller bell towers of the other guilds. The merchants purposely started their song late to remind the other guilds how much wealthier and more powerful they were. Indeed, their tower stood taller and broader than any other in the city, save Toth’s View near the Great Gates, and the stone carvings and gold leaf offsetting the white stone made it more elegant than any but the artists tower.

The bells, the barbarian pipers, and the shouts of merchants hawking their wares blended into a noisy cacophony. Darik’s stomach churned with just as much vigor. Tonight, they would run. Whelan didn’t need to remind him what happened to runaway slaves after capture. Public castration, followed by a short, unhappy life in the salt mines.

That night, Whelan and Darik told Markal about the transaction in the bazaar as they made their final preparations. The old man was annoyed that he’d been duped by his co-conspirators, but Whelan convinced him it had been necessary.

Whelan turned to Darik. “I’ll knock on your door one hour after Graiyan takes his evening wine.”

Every night after his wife went to sleep, the baker crept down to the kitchen and unlocked the wine chest and drank two glasses. Darik could hear his heavy steps past his door shortly thereafter.

“And then what? We just walk out the front door?”

“The watchman keeps a close eye on the bakery. We can’t just walk out the door. No, you look out the window and I’ll go down to the street and toss you a rope. We’ll slip out the back alley.”

One problem with that plan, Darik noted. No mention of Kaya. He opened his mouth to ask, but stopped himself. No doubt Whelan’s omission was intentional. How else could the man omit the reasoning behind Darik’s escape in the first place? With all of his earlier talk, he had no intention of making a dangerous trek through the mountains with a two-year-old child in tow.

Darik lay in bed a few hours later, formulating his true plan. Outside the window, the bell towers chimed curfew. Slaves chanted as they marched home from the mines and whips cracked against their backs to speed them along. Crickets chirped, hanging in tiny cages at the threshold of every house, their songs frightening away the spirits of the dead. A cool breeze blew in through the window, carrying spiced desert air.

The success of his plan depended upon two unknowns. First, could he keep Kaya quiet? And second, did he have the nerve to move fast enough?

The floorboards creaked overhead and Darik lay quiet, listening. Graiyan, going down to the kitchen for his wine. As predictable as the chiming of the merchants tower. Graiyan would pause at the top of the stairs to see if Elethra woke and called out to him, but she never did. In fact, if Darik threw open his door, he’d hear her snoring. Two months ago she’d slept through a thunderstorm that blew down the thorn tree growing in front of the bakery.

Graiyan, however, tossed and turned all night, sometimes pacing the hallways when he couldn’t sleep. Hence the wine to soothe his nerves. Darik didn’t dare creep into the room while the man slept. While he drank his wine, however, his wife slept alone, and Darik’s sister in the room beyond. Darik would creep into the baker’s unlocked room, take Kaya and return to wait for Whelan’s knock on the door.

Graiyan’s heavy feet creaked on the stairs. He walked slowly down the hall, stepping lightly past each door. He tried to keep his night drinking a secret, but all of the slaves and servants knew. No doubt Elethra did as well when she saw the extra wine purchases on the ledger. Graiyan stepped into the kitchen farther down the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

Darik dropped from bed, his feet bare against the cool stone floor. He would move much more quietly up the stairs than the heavy baker; he had plenty of practice stealing out of his father’s house at night to play in the children’s garden. But as he turned toward his bedroom door, he heard a sound that turned his careful plans into disarray.

“Boy!” a voice cried softly outside the window.

Darik froze at the door, horrified. He hurried back to the window and threw open the curtains. Whelan stood in the street below, face pinched and nervous. He held a small olive-oil lamp in his right hand. No, Darik thought. Please, not yet. Whelan was supposed to wait until after Graiyan returned from his wine, then knock on the door first.

Darik looked down the alley for Markal but saw no sign of the older slave. “What happened?”

“No time to explain. Here, catch this rope.” He threw a rope up to the window. Darik caught it and tied it to the curtain post.

He looked down to Whelan. “Wait a moment.” He held up his hand at the expression on Whelan’s face. “Please, just a minute. I’ll be right back. My sister.”

“No! Darik.”

Darik turned from the window, opened the door and ran down the hall, then up the stairs toward Graiyan’s bedroom, all caution fled.

The stairs creaked their alarm to any listeners, but Darik didn’t dare stop. He had to get Kaya out and back to his room before Whelan gave up and left. If Graiyan found him with Kaya . . . well, he’d been down that unhappy road in his mind more often than he cared to admit.

He heard Elethra snoring even before he pushed open the heavy oak door. A lock secured the room, but the baker didn’t want to jangle keys while he stole in and out so he’d left it unsecured.

Darik pushed open the door. Moonlight trickled in through the window. Elethra lay on a heavy pillow, her hair drawn into braids behind her head. She snored loudly. Elethra was a large-boned woman and not particularly pretty, less so without the kohl that she smeared under her eyes every morning. But she was no ogress, buying figs and sweetmeats on feast days to bake into special pastries for the slaves. A small kernel of guilt gnawed at Darik when he imagined her grief.

But he had had no time to entertain guilt. He rushed past her bed and stepped into the nursery in the back, where his sister slept in her bed. Graiyan had traded goods with a man from the artists guild, who’d sent an apprentice to paint Kaya’s rooms with pictures of sun flowers and beasts. A small lamp burned in an alcove along the wall; Darik remembered that Kaya woke with nightmares and Graiyan no doubt lit the lamp to soothe her to sleep. But the lamp light guttered along the wall, making gorgons and dragon wasps dance in the shadows. The apprentice artist had magic in his work, and Darik thought the struggling, moving figures in his bestiary were unlikely to soothe Kaya’s night fears.

Darik pulled back the blanket and picked up his sister. She stirred in his arms, then rubbed her eyes and looked at him. She smiled in recognition.

“Shh,” he urged. She said nothing but snuggled her head against his shoulder, yawning. The curls on her head poured over his shoulder, tickling his neck.

He hurried from the nursery, past the baker’s snoring wife and was about to leave the room when Kaya lifted her head. “Bye, bye Mama.”

Instantly Elethra, who Darik thought could have slept soundly in the midst of the Harvester’s kennel, surrounded by baying hounds, sat upright in her bed. All vestiges of sleep fled from her face.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

Chapter II

ELEVEN YEARS BEFORE CRAGYN MURDERED the high khalif and seized the Iron Throne of Veyre for himself, assassins murdered the khalifa of Balsalom and two of her sons while they slept. Then the five deadly shadows slipped through the royal apartments to finish their job by killing the khalif and his remaining children in the tower rooms.

But one of the assassins tripped over a harem girl lying on pillows just inside the khalif’s darkened room, and she cried out before he could silence her. Within seconds, a dozen guardsmen filled the room, rushing to take the five men alive. The first four assassins turned their knives on themselves, while the fifth, who had killed the harem girl, grabbed the startled, groggy khalif, and plunged his poisoned dagger into the man’s chest.

“Seize him!” the pasha of the guard shouted, and the guardsmen pushed past the four dying men to grab the final assassin before he could turn his dagger on himself.

But the assassin leaped toward the window, just out of reach of the pursuing guardsmen. He swept aside the curtains and hurled himself through with a triumphant shout. By the time the guardsmen reached the window, the assassin lay crumpled on the flagstone, five floors below.

The grand vizier arrived a few minutes later, fully expecting to find the khalif already dead. When he saw the man sitting against his pillows, sipping mint tea, Saldibar almost wept with relief. Blood trickled through the khalif’s night paijams and he dabbed a cloth against the wound.

“Not poisoned, eh?” the khalif asked, managing a weak smile. “Else it would have killed me for sure. Ah, but I feel a burning in my limbs.”

He did not yet know what had happened to the khalifa or his two oldest sons, Saldibar realized, or he would not feel so proud of his own survival. The grand vizier picked up the assassin’s blade where it lay on the floor. Steel with a carved Veyrian handle. He wiped the blade on the pillow and was not surprised to see flecks of dried yellow along the blade. His hand trembled.

Guardsmen dragged the bodies from the room, starting with the assassins. The khalif looked at the dead harem girl and his smile faltered.

“The golden bloom,” Saldibar said, dropping the knife to the ground. “One of the most deadly poisons.”

Faces paled in the room. Best that they know now, the grand vizier thought. The truth of the matter would be obvious soon enough.

“Then I am dead already,” the khalif said.

Yes, Saldibar thought, anguish turning at his stomach when he thought of the horrible death that awaited his master. He looked at the harem girl. She’d have taken the bulk of the poison from the blade. But what was left would suffice. It might take a few months, or even years, but it would kill the khalif just the same.

But which of the khalif’s sons and daughters could succeed the man? There was Omar, drunk with his lust for power. Give him the scepter and his ambition would grow until it engulfed the western khalifates in war. Or Marialla, who thought herself more beautiful than the finest peacock and had half the sense of the plainest sparrow in the gardens.

No, he thought. None of the older ones will do. There is only Kallia.

Kallia Saffa. The blood of seventeen dead kings and queens ran through her veins, a lineage that lasted from the days when her ancestors built Balsalom over the ruins of Syrmarria, a great city destroyed in the Tothian Wars. That blood also ran in her brothers and sisters, but she was the best of them.

But she was barely fourteen years old, still embroiled in the petty intrigues of the palace children, although Saldibar suspected she found little pleasure in such games. He turned back to the khalif to plant the seeds that would make Kallia’s ascension inevitable.

Kallia was not alone.

She had retired to the gardens to read a book of love poetry pilfered from the library while her tutor dozed. Gustau always fell asleep during her history lessons, and today when he’d nodded, she’d slipped the poetry book into her robes. Later that afternoon, when Gustau released her from her studies to go with her sisters to etiquette training, she went instead to the gardens to read the book.

She’d always gone to etiquette training, but in the years since her mother’s death, etiquette training had stretched to four hours a day. Other lessons had increased in length as well. But for stolen moments, she found herself under someone’s instruction from breakfast to bedtime.

Kallia hated etiquette training, not so much for the training itself, but for the other girls at the dinners and dressing lessons, the daughters of her father’s viziers and ministers. Her sister Marialla was too far above them, and the khalif’s other daughters too young, so they focused their nasty games on Kallia. They would speak aloud about how homely Kallia was, while never uttering a single word directly to her. When the girls napped on pillows in the heat of the afternoon, Kallia would be awakened by a dozen pinching hands.

Kallia’s vain, preening sister Marialla was not much better and the younger sisters followed the older girl’s every move. None of them paid any attention to Kallia’s torment.

So Kallia was quite happy that afternoon to find the maids’ attention lagging. She slipped away from the cursed training toward the gardens. Instead of cutting straight through the courtyard, she took the long road through the bestiary. Her father had collected the statues of every beast and monster to be found across the breadth of Mithyl. There were griffins and dragons and winged horses, and one creature so delicately carved that its snarl almost came alive when you looked at it. A fire salamander, her tutor told her.

Past the statuary, Kallia worked her way into a back corner of the gardens, eager to read the book of poetry. This edge of the palace gardens was designed for maximum privacy. Fig trees and grape vines tangled the walls, while a narrow path wound its way through the trees to stop at secret fountains and briars of wild roses, each spot graced with a polished stone bench. For nearly an hour Kallia sat on one of these benches, her only companions a pair of monkeys sitting in the tree overhead, arguing over a fig.

Alas, the book was a silly, sentimental thing, filled with ornate language and ridiculous romantic sentiment directed toward a woman whose only virtue seemed to be that she had fine lips. Kallia pictured the object of the writer’s affection and laughed at her own imagination. Lips as red as a wild rose, full and sensual, yes, but the poet neglected to mention her bulbous nose, her raspy voice, and her nasty temper.

Odd that such a book had survived the burning of the Veyrian library in the Tothian Wars, while so many others had not. She dropped the book on the bench and walked over to a fountain that bubbled nearby. Removing her slippers, she stepped into the cool fountain, letting the hem of her robe fall into the water. It was deeper than she’d expected and the water rose almost to her knees. Silver and gold koi brushed against her legs before fleeing for the safety of the lilies that grew from submerged pots further into the fountain.

Something rustled in the brush just over her shoulder, and Kallia heard a hushed whisper, and at last she noticed that the gardens all around her had become suddenly noisy.

Saldibar. It could only be the Grand Vizier and his men. Saldibar’s eyes were everywhere in the palace, penetrating every corner to watch her, ever since the assassins had come. He even sent a woman to watch her in the baths.

When she complained to her father, he would shrug apologetically and tell her that it was the grand vizier’s job to keep the Saffa family safe.

“Then tell him to watch Omar,” she had protested. “He is the next khalif. Nobody would bother to kill me.” Assassins might even attack Marialla, pretty enough that half a dozen lords in the Western Khalifates sought to marry her to their sons, but not Kallia.

But Father was sick and growing weaker with every passing fortnight, and refused to consider the logic of her pleas.

Kallia turned around slowly in her bench and the rustling stopped. “Saldibar,” she said, “I know that’s you. If you’re going to follow me, at least stop skulking in the bushes like the assassins you claim you’re protecting me against.”

No answer.

“Saldibar?”

Kallia grew afraid. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. She had nothing to protect herself with, not even one of those ridiculous little daggers that Marialla insisted on carrying in her robes.

“Saldibar! Is that you?” her voice sounded shrill in her ears and her heart pounded. How easy it would be for assassins to slip over the wall and into the gardens.

She waded toward the edge of the fountain. And then the watchers came out of the trees and bushes. Relief flooded through her.

It wasn’t what she’d feared. Instead of assassins, it was five of the palace girls, those same girls who teased her mercilessly at etiquette training and snubbed her at the palace feasts. They might come to tease, yes, but she was safe.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, breath rushing out. She didn’t like the way the bigger girls fixed her with narrowed eyes, or the guilty look that the three younger girls gave each other. They meant some mischief, of that she was certain.

“What do you suppose the princess is doing?” a girl named Fashima asked.

Fashima was taller than the others, the eldest child of the most minor minister in the entire palace. Before Kallia could get out, the girl reached into the fountain and put her hand on Kallia’s arm, digging fingernails into the skin.

Kallia flinched, fear swimming up from the depths where it had hid just a moment earlier. “It was so hot out here, I thought I’d go wading. And then I saw the fish and—”

Kallia wanted to get out of the water, but Fashima held her in place and she didn’t want to start struggling. Not yet.

“So our little princess was too hot, was she?” one of the other girls said. She shook her head. “I’ve been under the impression that she came to the gardens to avoid us, because she is too good for us.”

So that was it. Kallia had assumed that the girls had hated all of the khalif’s daughters, those girls who would someday rule over the palace, and already ruled during etiquette training. They only picked on her because she made the most convenient target, neither too young nor too old to bully. Or so she’d thought.

But that wasn’t all of it. They’d misread her. They took her need for solitude as aloofness, assumed that she thought herself better than them. And when they teased her, and she withdrew further, it only proved their assumptions correct.

“I think we’d better teach her some etiquette, hadn’t we?” Fashima asked the others, who nodded, solemnly.

“I’m standing right in front of you,” Kallia said. Her temper flared. “You can speak to me directly.”

She put her foot on the flagstones at the edge of the pool, determined to force her way from the water to stand on even footing with the girl holding her arm. Fashima pushed back and when Kallia’s wet foot met the stone, she slipped backwards, flailing to save her balance. Fashima’s eyes opened wide, as she lost her balance, falling forward into the pool.

The girl landed on top of Kallia, slamming her head under the water. Her head hit the stones at the bottom of the pool and lights flashed in her head. For a moment she was disoriented, clawing for the air and reaching the bottom of the pool. She came up spitting water with the taste of pond scum thick in her mouth. In her panic, she flailed against Fashima, still lying on top of her.

“Get out of my way!” Fashima screamed, pushing wet hair away from her eyes.

The other girls laughed, and this only enraged Fashima more. She grabbed Kallia by the hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes. “You want to swim like a fish? Then you’d better learn how to hold your breath.” She spoke directly to Kallia for the first time.

“No, Fashima. I—”

The girl shoved her head under the water. Kallia fought and clawed at Fashima’s hands and arms. At last, the girl pulled her out of the water, and Kallia gasped for air. She tried to pull away, but the bigger girl held her fast.

“Not bad. Pretty good, in fact,” Fashima said. “But that’s not nearly enough time.”

“Let me go,” Kallia begged. Her heart pounded in terror. “Please.”

“Fashima,” one of the other girls said, sounding nervous.

Kallia’s head went under the water again. This time, she yanked herself free, heedless of the tearing pain at the roots of her hair. But when she scrambled from the pool, two girls pushed her back into the water, and Fashima forced her head under the water again. Kallia struggled harder, but couldn’t pull herself free. Her lungs burned. Spots flickered in the back of her eye sockets.

A single, cold thought penetrated the haze. She was going to die. Not by assassins, but by jealous girls from the palace. It was absurd, really. The black spots spread.

And then her head was yanked from the pond. She sobbed for air. The grand vizier pulled her from the pool. Saldibar shoved the girls out of the way as he dragged Kallia out of the water and set her on the warm flagstones surrounding the pool before leaning over her with a concerned look on his face.

“She started it,” one of the girls said in a shrill voice. “She pulled Fashima into the pool.”

Saldibar turned to her. “I wonder if you would tell the same story to the torturers guild.”

The other girls looked terrified, but not Fashima. She stepped from the pond and wiped water from her face. Water ran from her robe into the pool. A smirk played at her lips.

“You play a dangerous game, my child,” Saldibar said, his voice cold. “One word of this to the khalif and your life is forfeit.”

“No, you play a dangerous game,” Fashima said. “The khalif is practically a dead man. And his son Omar Saffa will be the next khalif. Perhaps you don’t know yet, but Omar and I are betrothed. By the time the khalif’s body sits atop his tower of silence in the desert, my husband will wield the scepter of Balsalom.”

Kallia looked to Saldibar in horror. She would leave Balsalom rather than be ruled by this girl.

Saldibar said, “Ah, so Omar has told you that, has he? He’s told such tales before, I believe, to bed a pretty young girl.” The grand vizier shook his head. “It’s quite sad that the khalif’s son cannot satisfy himself with his harem.”

Fashima smile faltered slightly, but only for a moment. “The choice is yours, old man. You may tell the khalif and risk your life.”

Saldibar gave a slight smile. When the girl turned to go, Saldibar snapped his fingers in the air. A man appeared suddenly from the path behind, a two handed, straight barbarian sword in hand. He knocked Fashima to the ground, put his boot on her chest and raised his sword overhead. She screamed.

“Shall I kill her?” the man asked.

He was a tall man, but young, a barbarian named Whelan who had served as the grand vizier’s bodyguard for the past year. Saldibar had told Kallia that the man fled some kind of trouble in the Free Kingdoms.

Saldibar turned to Kallia. “Do you wish to kill her, my mistress?”

“No,” Kallia said, rising quickly to her feet. “Please, don’t hurt her.” She laid a hand on the barbarian’s arm. “Please, Whelan.”

The man put his sword down, but rage still burned in his eyes. “As you wish.” Fashima climbed to her feet, face pale.

“Very well,” Saldibar said to Fashima. “Kallia’s mercy has saved your life. Now go, before she changes her mind.”

Fashima fled, and the other girls followed. Whelan helped her to the stone bench beneath the fig tree.

“Now, my young mistress,” Saldibar said, turning back to Kallia with stern eyes. He picked up her poetry book and turned it over in his hands before handing it back to her. “Tell me what happened.”

Kallia told him everything. Saldibar kept his thoughts hidden, but she could see Whelan burning with the indignity. At last he sputtered, “But you are the princess. How could they do this to you?”

“Because I am afraid of them,” Kallia admitted. “They have tormented me for years. Since my mother was killed and father poisoned.”

She had considered begging help from her father, or from Saldibar. She had dismissed the idea, thinking it would only make the situation worse. But how much worse could it have got? Not worse than drowning, she mused.

“Much the same thing happened to your father when he was a child,” Saldibar said, twisting the oiled tip of his beard between thumb and forefinger. “Alas, when he took up the scepter, he meted a swift and savage punishment for his tormenters. I trust you will behave more prudently, my mistress. You are no longer a child and the time shortly comes when you will take your proper place in the palace. You will not fear them again, I promise.”

He sighed. “What worries me more,” Saldibar continued, “is how this could have happened without my knowledge. I watch you night and day to keep you safe.”

“I know,” Kallia said, frowning. “Why do you think I spend so much time hiding in the gardens? To be alone for a few minutes, is all. But I thank the brothers that you followed me today.”

“I didn’t,” Saldibar said. “I only came to find you because your father wishes to speak with you. Come, we must change your clothing. I don’t want you to look like a child today.”

“My child,” Father said in a quiet voice when she entered his chambers. He no longer slept in the tower rooms, but in the garden rooms that had been her mother’s favorites. He reclined on a rug and pillows at the center of the room. The light spilled in. “Can you spare a few minutes for an old man?”

“Of course.” She drew closer and had to fight the urge to draw back in shock and horror. The poison continued its slow march, turning his once strong features into a mockery of sagging flesh. His hands trembled and he spilled his wine at meals; Kallia’s sister Marialla giggled that he soiled himself at night. Marialla thought Father funny enough until he helped her to her seat at supper, and then her face showed her disgust. No, Marialla preferred to cover her eyelids with kohl and her body with heavy perfume and fine clothes so she could spend her days in the garden flirting with the sons of the viziers.

But today was different. Today, Kallia could see death across his face, a darkening in his eyes that muted the familiar spark. He had given up. At long last, he had stopped fighting the poison. He would die soon.

Saldibar and Whelan followed her into the room, but stayed near the door, the latter with his hand on his sword, which hung over one shoulder, barbarian-style.

The khalif tried to rise to his feet, but she restrained him gently and kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him. Even sitting down, he wobbled in her arms and she could feel his bones standing sharply beneath his robes. She wanted to weep to see her father reduced to this hollow shell, with the Harvester shadowing his movements, but she couldn’t show such weakness. He needed her strength more than ever. Every day she spoke to his physics and wizards, begging them to do more. By the brothers, she had to give him hope again.

Kallia joined him across from the rug, pulling a pillow to lean against. A servant brought her wine and a bowl of olives, then retired from the room, leaving the four of them alone.

He smiled again. “That sour expression doesn’t become your face, my dear.”

“Don’t you remember? You gave all of your beauty to Marialla.” Her words sounded more careless than she’d intended, and she regretted them immediately.

Truth was, she was worried, and had been ever since Saldibar told her to dress like a woman after the incident at the fountain. She guessed what was coming, and it brought a nasty taste to her mouth. He meant her to marry, to send her away from Balsalom for political reasons that would help her brother Omar when he gained the scepter.

If her impudent words bothered him, he did not show it. “Marialla is a vain, foolish—no, all of my children are vain, foolish peacocks. All of them but you, my child. You are the best of them, the best by far.”

His words shamed her further. How poorly the others treated Father that her own, weak devotion meant so much.

Father said, “I only have a few more months to live. “Kallia opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand to stop her. “Shh, child. I don’t have time to argue. Yes, I’m dying, but there’s one detail that I must settle before I go.”

Kallia bowed her head. “Of course.”

“Then you know. Yes, I thought you would. Do you accept this burden?”

“If necessary, Father, I will do anything for you.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. It trembled again. “Thank you, sweet child. I know how you feel, that you would rather not take this life upon yourself. But you will wield the scepter with honor and –”

The scepter? Kallia’s eyes flew open in shock. “What? No, Father, no. Not this. Please, Father.”

It was the khalif’s turn to look surprised. Doubt played across his forehead. “But I thought you knew.”

“No, I thought you meant—” She stopped and breathed deeply to pass the trembling fear that overtook her. It was a trick she would master in the years to come. “Father, Omar is the next khalif. Not me.”

“Omar? Fa!”

“But I don’t want it. He does.”

Father was angry, but not at her. “That’s precisely the problem. They all want it. They want the scepter and the banners waving at the head of their procession. They want the power to command a thousand men, to build towers to themselves that will last a thousand years. And if I give it to them, they will destroy Balsalom.” He sighed, then repeated the ancient saying in the old tongue, “They are fat of body but starved of soul.”

He continued, “Just as I was for so many years. No, don’t argue. I was a fool and another generation of fools will simply complete what I started. That’s why I’m making you the khalifa.”

“But the laws, the customs say that Omar must be khalif.”

“The laws and traditions be damned. I will do what is best for Balsalom.” He lifted his hand to stem further argument. “No, child, I have decided.”

Father rose to his feet and stepped into his slippers, then left the rooms, walking swiftly and looking invigorated. Kallia sat on the pillows, stunned.

Saldibar followed the khalif, but Whelan lingered. He took her father’s place on the pillows and ate an olive from her father’s bowl. She was surprised to see him take the khalif’s place so boldly. His tongue was as thick as any other Eriscoban’s, but he was usually very quiet and polite.

“Kallia, your wisdom surpasses the ancients. May you live forever and may your reign bring peace and prosperity upon Balsalom.”

“There is no need for niceties between us, Whelan. Speak freely.”

She expected him to complain of the khalif’s decision. Or maybe even to warn her not to hasten Father’s death, as if that could ever be her intention.

He smiled. “I thought it best to begin with formalities. Having said that, I’m pleased that Saldibar and your father made this decision. Indeed, you are the only choice they could have made.”

He looked into her eyes with startling boldness. He was younger than she’d thought, barely more than a boy. It had been his eyes that deceived her. Those eyes had seen much pain, she was sure.

And there was something else on his face. She’d seen it so many times in Marialla’s admirers that she was sure. This man loved her.

“Whelan,” she said, coming to a decision. “Will you stay by my side and serve me when I am khalifa?”

He opened his mouth, but hesitated before speaking. “I would dearly love to, my queen. But the naked thorn waits my visit at the Citadel.”

She shook her head, confused. “What do you mean, the naked thorn?”

He paused, as if considering whether to confide in her further. “I have a daughter in the Free Kingdoms and I must return to help care for her.”

“A daughter? Ah, so you are married.” So she had misread the look in his eyes. Not love then, but what?

“Alas, her mother was never my wife, but the wife of another, of a, a close friend. I fled from Eriscoba in shame.” He sighed. “Alas, I fear I can never truly atone for my sins, but I hope to find honor among the Knights Temperate.”

She knew of the Knights Temperate. They pledged obedience to no man, not even King Daniel at the Citadel in Arvada, but followed only their own consciences. Indeed, even the captain of the Knights Temperate led only through persuasion and example.

“And you wish to join these Knights Temperate?”

“I do,” Whelan said. His eyes and mouth expressed his longing and pain.

“I will be sorry to lose you. Would that I could find others I trust as much as I trust you.”

Whelan said, “The grand vizier will guide you. He loves you as a daughter.”

“As a daughter? Saldibar? Surely not. His spies torment me night and day. I trust him, yes, but I fear he thinks very little of me.”

Whelan smiled, and the pain left his eyes. “He is a stern man, and not an easy man to please. But let me tell you how I first met him. I was riding from Eriscoba with two companions when I was eighteen. Just after the assassins attacked your father. We were young and foolish, running from various problems.” He paused. “On the advice of my friends met only a few days earlier as I traveled, we took the Old Road instead of the Tothian Way through the mountains. My two friends were actually bandits, who’d lured me into the mountains to rob me. I was beaten and left for dead.”

He continued, “Saldibar found me and carried me back to Balsalom where his physics attended my wounds. He fed me and clothed me. I had nothing, but Saldibar brought me into the palace.” After a pause, he said, “Now, I have word of my daughter, and I have to return. But I will always consider Saldibar my second father.”

Kallia nodded, wondering what Saldibar had been doing on the Old Road. It passed through the mountains some thirty miles to the north, beyond the Desolation of Toth. The road was much slower than the Tothian Way. Indeed, her tutor told her that it had been completely abandoned until fifty years ago because of bandits. She supposed Saldibar had been about his spying.

Whelan said, “He is a good man, and will give you sound advice. As for myself, I leave when the khalif—may he live forever—dies.” He sighed. “And I fear that day will come soon.”

But Whelan was wrong. The khalif lingered two more years, while Saldibar groomed Kallia to be khalifa. Her brother Omar left the city with bitterness in his heart to take the khalifate of Ter, a few miles east along the Tothian Way. He had indeed spoken lies to Fashima, leaving her behind when he married a princess of Ter to put himself on the throne.

When Kallia’s father died at last, his final days were hard ones, with stretches where he coughed for hours, filling his basin with blood and other refuse from his dying lungs. He refused to chew poppy seeds as his physics recommended, saying that he would keep his head clear. Kallia stayed by his side, together with Whelan and Saldibar. A few of the khalif’s other sons and daughters visited too, but they hurried their visits, looking relieved to be free of the khalif’s bed chamber and its smell of death. Even father’s slaves avoided the room, and nobody compelled them to stay.

Kallia longed to hide and wait for news of Father’s death. But she saw the pain in his eyes and knew she had to stay and give him comfort. When he coughed, she rubbed knots from his shoulders, and when he stopped, she helped Whelan and Saldibar clean the room and light scented candles to clear the odor of death.

Father’s final collapse dragged on for weeks. At last, the khalif died, quietly in his sleep. Kallia and Saldibar cleaned his body and wrapped it in white linen, preparations for hoisting it atop a tower of silence in the desert.

Father left her the khalifate as his last act. Reluctantly, and to the dismay of other, more deserving claimants, she took up the scepter. Whelan had left for the Free Kingdoms, but Saldibar stayed by her side. He proved as faithful as Whelan had claimed.

She thought herself a poor leader from the start. It took months to earn the loyalty of the viziers, many of whom still wanted to see Omar hold the scepter, and only then with Saldibar’s arm-twisting. She was convinced that the people loved her only because they remembered her father. She tried to rule wisely, failing often, but the trade from over the mountains poured enough dinarii into the coffers to rescue her from most blunders.

Only two things troubled her. The first was the power of the guilds, especially the repugnant and hateful corrections guild and their torturers. The second was the growing taxes demanded by the high khalifate in Veyre.

Eight years passed.

When word came of the high khalif’s death in Veyre, some mourned, but more welcomed the news. Over the last few years, tributes exacted by Ahmaad and his viziers had grown beyond any benefits provided. Balsalom didn’t need Veyre. She could cleanse her own highways of bandits, make her own trade treaties and levy her own taxes.

So when Kallia learned that Ahmaad’s own wizard had seized power, she welcomed the news. She’d met Cragyn: foul-tempered, liked by few and hated by many. Cast from an order of barbarian wizards, he’d made his way east from Eriscoba to the khalifates, eventually taking up residence in Veyre. Once in the high khalif’s court, he’d busied himself building strange mechanical contraptions and speaking to dead spirits.

Kallia had no idea how he’d taken the Iron Throne for his own, doubted he’d hold it long against Ahmaad’s legitimate heirs—but gave him little thought otherwise. He would have no claim on the high khalifate that could bring the other cities back under Veyre’s shadow. Instead, Kallia turned her attention to building roads and aqueducts and loosening the guilds’ stranglehold over the city.

But she was wrong about the dark wizard.

Saldibar woke Kallia from her sleep the night his spies reported Cragyn’s armies on the march. He’d dismissed her guards and burst into her chambers unannounced.

“Khalifa,” he said. “Are you awake?”

Kallia woke with a start, groping instinctively for the dagger she kept sheathed beneath her pillow. She struggled with the knife, a nightmare lingering on the edge of her memory. A black tower rising on the edge of the sea. At last she woke fully and looked up.

The grand vizier stood in the doorway. The light from his lamp blinded her eyes. She put down her knife when she saw him, and fought down irritation, knowing that he would only come with good reason.

“I’m awake now.” Just inside the threshold, her cricket chirped in its cage. Its song calmed her pounding heart.

Saldibar pulled maps and papers from his robe, tossing them on a table that he dragged over from the window. One letter was stained with blood, another torn and muddy. The vizier rarely smiled, but today his face was truly grim. He looked prepared to hold court while she sat in her bed, but she climbed from her pillows anyway. Saldibar looked discretely at his papers while she slipped a night robe over her camisole.

Kallia swept open the curtains to let the breeze clear the last of the dream lingering in her room. “Now, Saldibar. Tell me what this is about.”

“The dark wizard has marched.”

Kallia swallowed, the memory of her nightmare coming into sharp focus. A dark tower rising on the edge of the sea, its shadow reaching out to bind her soul in slavery. Then, just as soon as it had come, the image fled. “Cragyn?” Her cricket stopped chirping abruptly. It hesitated for a moment, then resumed its song.

“Don’t speak that name, Khalifa. He is a wizard and you will draw his attention by speaking it aloud.” He continued, pointing to the top map. “I expected him to follow the Tothian Way from Veyre and Cantacorm, and strike first at Havorn and Saltopolis, get them in hand before testing his army against the stronger khalifates further west. But no, the dark wizard is marching directly at us. He’ll be here in a week.”

She thought of her brother Omar in Ter, and the khalifs of Darnad and Saltopolis who’d pledged their armies to her cause. She’d thought the cities Havorn and Starnar stood against the wizard as well, although she had not yet signed pacts with their khalifs. She didn’t trust Omar, but he wouldn’t act alone. Ter was not powerful enough.

“Have they turned against us, then, and let the enemy past their borders?”

Saldibar shook his head. “Pasha Jas Web of Havorn sent us first word of the dark wizard’s move. He’s fielding an army of fifty phalanx to march to our defense, but it won’t arrive for three weeks. Starnar is a poorer land, but she’s pledged us a hundred horse and three hundred footmen.”

“And the others?”

“Still with us.”

Kallia calculated in her head. Her pashas boasted two thousand footmen and a thousand horse and could raise that many more reserves on demand. Ter, Darnad, and Saltopolis would double her armies again if Ter threw in with her, and she thought they would when they saw Cragyn’s greed and the violence of his army. Add in the thousand from Havorn and four hundred from Starnar, and Balsalom could field as many as ten thousand footmen and three thousand cavalry. A formidable army. Hold off the wizard for a fortnight and other armies of the western khalifates would see her resistance and swell Balsalom’s forces. She could even appeal to the Citadel for help.

She gave her estimate to Saldibar. The grand vizier considered for a moment and then agreed that her numbers held.

“And the wizard?” she asked.

He shook his head, consulting the torn and blood-stained letters from his spies. “Some of these reports are fanciful, so I can’t be certain. But he has at least five thousand horse and ten thousand footmen. More on the way.”

She paled at the thought of such an army assaulting her peaceful city. Cragyn’s armies had hurled diseased animal carcasses over the walls of one city until half the people died of plague. He’d burned another to the ground for beheading one of his pashas in their dungeons. It bewildered her that the hated wizard had grown powerful enough to overthrow such strong cities. Dark magic lurked behind his rise.

“Still,” she said. “We can beat that kind of army with the support of our walls and towers. Turn his army to flight and we might lead a revolt through the east khalifates and dispose of this self-appointed high khalif.”

“Perhaps, my queen.” Saldibar shuffled through his papers. “There is something else. I hate to mention it, for the news is certainly fanciful, as I warned before. Still . . . ”

“Just tell me Saldibar. I’ll pass my own judgment.”

“There are reports of beasts among them. Mammoths, giants, fire salamanders, dragon kin, wights.”

Kallia initially dismissed the reports as the vizier himself had done. But she reconsidered. “Could it be true?”

“Perhaps a few mammoths. The northern cities sometimes bring them down from the ice to keep chained in their gardens. But surely no more than a handful, designed solely to throw fear into our armies. No military significance.”

He paused. “As for the others, giants and dragon kin haven’t been seen east of the mountains for a hundred years. And no wizard has dared bind a fire salamander since the days of King Toth. That part is certainly invented. Wights, perhaps. Cragyn has them aplenty in Veyre to do his bidding. But they are of little consequence. Battle will bring the Harvester and his hounds to reap the dead, and he will scatter any wights.”

Kallia looked through a couple of letters sent by the grand vizier’s spies. “This one is quite detailed. Not accurate?”

“Fa! A forgery, sent to frighten us.” Saldibar had so long taken even the most minor threats seriously that his disdain did much to relieve Kallia’s fears. He said, “What worries me most are not mammoths, or wights, or invented armies of giants, but the fire-breathing siege weapon built in Veyre’s forges. It is said that it can cast a hundred pound iron ball fifty yards. Ten such balls a day. I don’t know what magic built such a weapon, but it will break down our walls within a fortnight. But it will take him several weeks to bring it to bear.”

Kallia said, “So we wait until he brings it into position, then we attack and capture the infernal device. Unless we defeat them in open battle before then.”

“Shall I call council with the pashas tomorrow?” he asked.

Kallia noted how gradually he’d changed over the years, from instructing her every move to standing back and letting her lead. In times like this she regretted the change. She hated the chance to make decisions that might kill thousands of Balsalomians.

“Yes, summon the pashas. We go to war.”

Chapter III

AS SOON AS ELETHRA SCREAMED, Kaya cried out in surprise and groggy fear. Darik froze, terrified into inaction. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and he heard voices downstairs. He turned to run, still cradling Kaya in his arms.

His sister and Elethra kept screaming as he carried the girl into the hall. Graiyan emerged at the top of the stairs, face red and anxious. He held a long cooking knife in his hand.

All fear disappeared from his face when he saw Darik. “You!”

Darik flinched backwards. Graiyan stepped toward him, knife held in front, while Kaya buried her head in Darik’s shoulder and cried.

Graiyan shook his head in warning, his jaws clenched. “Boy, you put her down or I’ll unman you right here and now.” He hesitated with the knife, afraid to move while Darik still held his sister close.

The baker outweighed Darik by over a hundred pounds, and from the look on his face, Darik knew he meant his threats seriously. But Darik also knew that if Graiyan caught him, the corrections guild would castrate him anyway and sell him to the salt mines. By now, Whelan would have heard the commotion and fled with Markal, taking advantage of the confusion.

Something else besides fear tore at Darik’s heart. He’d heard the longing in Kaya’s voice when she called out to Elethra. The child had never known her mother, and Graiyan replaced a father she would never see again, a father who’d let moneylenders sell his children into slavery. What kind of brother was Darik to tear her away from that kind of happiness and drag her to barbarian lands?

Deciding instantly, Darik dropped Kaya to the floor and threw himself at Graiyan. He ducked to one side and tried to wiggle past the larger man, who caught him with his free hand. Darik struggled to escape. Graiyan wrestled with him for a moment, before letting him break free, so he could turn to check on Kaya, still crying on the floor.

Darik raced toward the stairs, hoping desperately that he could catch Whelan in the street before the two slaves left him. He spun himself around the stairs as they curved toward the lower level, but met others coming up.

“Ho, there. What’s this?” One of the other slaves caught him by the arm. Two others stood behind his shoulder, including Jesnan, Graiyan’s apprentice.

Darik tore free, but the other slave and Jesnan caught his arm. “Let me go!”

The two men hesitated and their grip on his arm went slack. Darik pulled to free himself.

“Hold him,” Graiyan shouted down the stairs.

With a cry of mounting fear, Darik thrashed one more time, but the three men held him fast. Elethra and Kaya fell silent upstairs. Graiyan eased himself down the stairs a moment later, his face red and angry. He pronounced judgment.

“I don’t know what you were doing,” he said, “but I won’t have a revolt in my house. Hidras, wake the others. Jesnan, call the night watchman and have him summon the corrections guild.”

The two men rushed to obey, while Graiyan and the other slave held Darik. The baker shoved the long knife into the sash holding together his night tunic. The two men dragged Darik into the kitchens.

Panic seized Darik. His bowels were hot and loose. And above all, he felt shame for betraying Whelan and Markal. Hidras would quickly report that Markal and Whelan were not in their rooms. The corrections guild would bring in one of their torturers who would extract the other slaves’ plan through efficient, long-proven methods.

Slaves and servants gathered, some annoyed, others blinking in groggy surprise. Hidras rushed in with the bad news just as the night watchman came. Whelan and Markal had gone.

The watchman was a large man with forearms that would look comfortable on a blacksmith or stone mason. He put Darik in a chair and bound his hands behind him. “Tell me boy. Where are the other slaves?”

Darik shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything. I just wanted to see my sister.”

“Fa,” Graiyan said. He walked around the room lighting candles, then poured himself a flagon of wine, no longer concerned about appearances. “You were running. Where?”

Darik shook his head and tried to appear bewildered. “Running?”

Graiyan sent the others to watch outside his bedroom in case the other two slaves came to steal Kaya from her mother’s arms. Not likely, Darik thought bitterly. The others would be fleeing the city while he covered their tracks as long as possible.

Two more watchmen arrived, and the first consulted with them for a moment before turning to the baker. The lead watchmen shook his head and said, “I can’t do anything until the correctors arrive.” He rubbed his hands together in a nervous gesture. “I do my job and they do theirs.”

“Very well.” Graiyan looked at Darik and shook his head in disgust, making Darik lower his head in shame. The baker cut bread for the watchmen and lit a fire in the smallest stove where he heated a pot of spiced tea for the men to drink.

Any hope Darik had of rescue disappeared when the correctors arrived. The first man wore the red tunic of a journeyman corrector, with lashes strapped to each hip. A pair of cruel-looking iron tongs hung from his belt—bloodless castrators.

Darik had never seen the likes of the second man before but immediately knew him for the evil that he was. This man wore a long gray robe inscribed with two blood-red cartouches written in an old tongue. Another cartouche of power lay tattooed on one cheek and Darik stared at it through watering eyes as it pulsed with a green glow. The grotesquely embroidered figure of a grinning man with gaping wounds on his face and naked torso sat over the torturer’s right breast.

Several chains dangled from his robe, each carrying an evil device: pincer, crucible for hot lead, thumb screw, maker’s thorn. A veritable iron-monger’s shop of torture. The man looked at him with a dark, eager expression.

Hands still bound but no longer pressed into his chair, Darik leapt to his feet and tried to run. The torturer lifted his right hand and said. “Nach Mobla.” Invisible hands shoved Darik back into his chair and held him there.

The watchmen shrank back against the wall, afraid of this newcomer. Graiyan opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He muttered to himself and took another flagon of wine and turned away from Darik when the boy tried to give his master a pleading look.

At last Graiyan cleared his throat and said, “Really, I don’t think that will be necessary. He’s just a boy.”

The torturer withered Graiyan with his glare then turned his awful gaze back to the boy.

Shudders racked Darik’s body and his teeth chattered together in terror. “Please, don’t. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

The torturer nodded solemnly. “I am quite certain that you will. But first, I will practice my art.”

He pushed aside the kettle of boiling tea Graiyan had set upon the stove and set his crucible on the fire instead. He removed two small lead ingots from a pouch at his waist and put them in the crucible to melt, then turned back to Darik. Removing the maker’s thorn from its chain, the torturer caressed it in his hand like a sculptor might caress a favorite mallet or chisel, then stepped toward Darik.

Darik tried to scream, but nothing came out. He struggled helplessly against his invisible bonds. Graiyan and the watchmen cowered in the corner, eyes bugging. The journeyman corrector at the torturer’s shoulder stared grimly into Darik’s eyes.

Suddenly, the door opened at the back of the kitchen and Markal lurched in, visibly drunk. He stared at the spectacle with blinks of surprise, then staggered toward Graiyan with outstretched hands. “I’m sorry,” he slurred. “Too much wine.” He fell into the baker’s arms. The watchmen rushed to grab him.

No, Darik thought. Don’t try this. Whelan had sent the old man back to start some foolish diversion. But it would take more than an old slave or even a few smugglers to free him from the powers this torturer held bound in the cartouches on his robe and body.

Markal grinned at the men and held up his left hand. “Better not get too close.” He looked pasty white. “I’m going to throw up.” He put his left hand over his mouth and staggered convincingly, while the watchmen hesitated.

“Bind the fool,” the torturer instructed. “Put him next to the boy.”

Markal’s next move surprised even Darik. Left hand still raised, he pointed it at the torturer and said, “Di Nach Necram!”

His hand glowed with a red heat that radiated into the room. Too late, recognition dawned on the torturer’s face and he formed a ring of warding with his thumb and index finger.

A thunderclap burst from Markal’s hand. The intensity of the noise struck Darik like a blow. Pottery in the window shattered, Graiyan’s flagon broke in his hands, spraying his face with dark purple wine. The men cried out and collapsed to the ground. The torturer crumpled in a heap, while the invisible hands holding Darik in his seat dissolved into the air.

Markal jumped to his side and untied his hands. “Hurry boy, follow me.”

The man pushed open the door and stepped into the street. Heart still pounding and ears clanging, Darik staggered to his feet and followed. Behind, the others struggled to regain their footing. All but the torturer. He lay dead in a pool of his own blood, which trickled from his ears to mingle with the flour dust.

Welcome night air enveloped them. Warm and dry, it carried the sound of hundreds of crickets and the smell of drying rugs in the Weaver’s Corner just to the east. Darik heard voices to the south, coming from the cluster of taverns near the brewery. He heard every sound and tasted every smell. A moment earlier all his senses had drawn inward to shield against the torturer and now they reached outward in relief at this unexpected pardon.

Markal grabbed him and dragged him down the alley. “Don’t just stand there gaping like an idiot.”

Darik couldn’t quite grasp the transformation that had overtaken the old slave. Only that he’d grossly underestimated the old man. A torturer, master of dark magicks, lay dead by Markal’s hand.

Whelan emerged from the shadow of the olive tree twisting its way alongside the house next to Darik’s window. He’d extinguished the lamp, but held a sword in hand, not the graceful, curving scimitar of the khalifa’s guard, but a straight barbarian blade. It glowed softly in the moonlight, and was so long that Whelan gripped it with two hands. He wore hardened leather, covered in brass nubs in the Eriscoban style.

“You’ve got the boy? Good.”

Darik looked from one man to the other. The past few minutes left him confused and frightened, and he struggled to make sense of the change in the two men. “What is happening? Who are you?”

Whelan said, “No time now, boy. You think Markal’s magic got you out of trouble? Oh no, we’re in far worse straits than a torturer or two.” He tossed a pair of boots to Darik. “Here, put these on. Where we’re going, you don’t want to be barefoot.”

Darik pulled on the boots. They fit snugly, but felt strange as he was used to sandals or bare feet.

Markal explained, “Those fools in the bakery are helpless for a spell, but what I did won’t go unnoticed.”

Darik looked down at the old man’s left hand in alarm. The hand he’d used against the torturer had withered and blackened until it clenched into a claw. “But who are you? And with such magic, what have we to fear of watchmen?”

Markal let out a short laugh. “Not watchmen. Wights. So long as I kept the magic hidden we were safe, but now I’ve drawn them like vultures to a funeral tower.”

Wights! Darik’s stomach clenched in rediscovered fear. He followed the two men down the alley. Darik could, indeed, sense an aura drifting from Markal like steam from a fresh bun on a cold morning. The spent magic, he supposed, wafting out onto Balsalom’s night currents, advertising the old man’s wizardry as loud as any street vendor barking out his wares.

Darik’s estimation of the two men had turned completely askew. He’d taken Markal for a fool, Whelan a little more than that, but not much. At every junction or turn of the alley, Whelan deferred to Markal’s instructions. The tall former captain slid his barbarian sword into a scabbard over his left shoulder, but moved with the deadly grace of a cobra.

The wights first picked up their trail on the edge of the Slaves Quarter.

The Slaves Quarter was a festering sore on the west side of the city. Gathered in a single square mile, thousands of slaves packed its crammed tenements and built their hovels on its filthy alleys. Only the lowest slaves lived there: the mudders and stone-haulers for the roads and walls, the mine slaves, the unclean who disposed of the city’s human waste and its dead.

Rats, disease, and slave revolts bred in the quarter, and over the years, various guilds and viziers had tried to tear it down. But grand vizier Saldibar, with the decree of the khalifa, fought such measures. Destroy the quarter and the slaves would have to go somewhere else. Better to keep the problem in one location where it could be watched and controlled.

When they slipped past the Beggar Gate that led into the quarter, Darik noticed a curious thing. The crickets had fallen strangely silent. Even the lowest slave kept a cricket in a tiny stick basket just inside the threshold of his house. Indeed, he glanced through the slatted windows of a few hovels and saw the crickets in their cages, but sitting silently.

Darik turned to ask Whelan about this, but the tall man pointed a finger to his ears. “They’re warning us with their silence. Listen.”

Yes, Darik heard it. A rasping sound like dry, drifting leaves floated along the wind from the north. He felt something too, sniffing, searching for them.

They shrank against the mud wall of a low-slung slave house. Quiet murmurs drifted through an open window and the smell of a cook fire followed. The rasping noise paused at the dark head of the alley, then scurried further down the main street that passed through the quarter. Markal and Whelan let out deep sighs and Darik realize that he, too, had been holding his breath.

But just when Darik thought the danger past, the rasping came back to the alley. Blue light flickered and Darik saw his first wights. They merged together and dissolved, sometimes separate, sometimes moving in a solid blue flame of light. When they moved separately, they took the figures of slaves and beggars, noble ladies, and merchants. And their eyes! Both purposeful and completely insane in turns.

“Run!” Whelan cried. They turned and ran, with wights screaming in pursuit behind them.

The alley, narrow to begin with, choked to a bare gap between two buildings at the far end before opening onto the street beyond. Rubbish clogged its far end: heaps of rags, broken crates, the gnawed body of a cat. A bony dog yelped from the shadows when they approached, struggling to pull free some bit of filth it had been eating, then saw the wights and fled. The three slaves pushed through the garbage, kicking up a stench.

The wights caught them before they could get through. Darik turned to see one leaping at his throat with outstretched arms. He threw up his hands to protect himself and slipped in the filth. The wight fell on him, slicing its claws across his face. Darik kicked it away, but his blow felt like kicking through sand. The wight screamed and slashed at his unprotected belly. Other wights boiled down the alley to join the fight.

With a cry, Whelan threw himself between them, sword in hand. It glowed as bright as a fiercely burning torch. Under its blaze, the wight shrieked and scuttled backwards on its belly, but as it drew backwards, it pulled strength from the others who surged forward in a wave of blue spirits. Whelan stabbed his sword into the wights, who flowed around the blade like he’d thrust it into water. The wights pulled back at the attack, then crested to strike again.

“No!” Markal cried behind them. “At its head. Its head.”

Darik saw what Markal meant. Wights rose and crested: a mass of limbs and heads and eyes. But behind the individual wights, he saw something else, as if his eyes had become slightly unfocused. Collectively, the wights formed a horned serpent with coils of blue light, and a head with a tongue that darted out and tasted the air. The head reared back to strike. Darik fell back next to Markal, the burning pain across his face fading with the fear of the moment.

Whelan’s sword glowed in anticipation of battle. “By the Hand!” he shouted. “May the Harvester take you all.” He swung his sword.

The sword itself cried with a loud scream as it bit deep into the serpent’s head. The two lights met in a flash and a terrific sound rent the air, as if the oak doors at the Great Gates leading into the city had been torn from their hinges. Flame burst from the head and the snake dissolved into a flurry of wights. Fire burst onto the buildings on either side of the alley; the dry, thin walls burned like kindling. The other wights fled the way they’d come.

The three stood panting before Markal turned to look at Darik’s wounds. His face stung with a cold wound, but Markal said, “If you survive the blow, the cut of the undead will fade in a day or two at most. Come on.”

“Just a minute,” Darik protested, still breathing heavily.

“We haven’t killed them,” Markal said, “only frightened them off until they find another captain. As for the ones struck down by Whelan’s sword, they’ll return to their dark master. Only the Harvester can gather the cursed spirits who hunt us. Come.” More insistent this time.

Darik shook his head to clear it from the events he had yet to sort through. He followed the two men out the narrow side of the alley, leaving a burning street. Bells in the distance announced that someone had spotted the flames from their watch tower.

“But who is chasing us? What do they care for a few runaway slaves?”

Markal smiled. He held up the blackened claw that had been his left hand. The skin shed in long tatters, like a leper’s. “If you haven’t guessed, Whelan and I are no slaves. The master of the Dark Citadel wishes to speak with us.”

“Cragyn,” Darik whispered. “Is he here? In Balsalom?”

“Quiet boy,” Whelan said sharply. “Don’t speak that name.” He resheathed his sword.

“No,” Markal answered. “He’s not here. But his agents have arrived. I thought that Kallia still resisted the wizard. Perhaps I’ve overestimated the khalifa—may she live forever.”

“I hope you are wrong old man,” Whelan said, a note of what?—Admiration?—touching his words. “She is a good queen.”

Markal showed them their salvation a few minutes later, the escape from the city that would mask the lingering scent of the wizard’s magic. Darik turned up his nose in disgust. Markal meant them to escape through the sewage aqueduct.

Designed by an engineer from Veyre, the aqueduct diverted water from the Nye river, carried it under the city walls, through the palace and the great houses and back under the wall on the west side. By this time, only the sewage flowed down the river’s channel in the dry season; Balsalom and the irrigated fields on the other three sides of the city drained it dry.

The sewage pipe served only the rich, of course. Everyone else gathered their waste into night soil bins which putrefied at every street corner until slaves carried it into the desert. In the Slaves Quarter, however, it was left in heaps with all of the other filth until the spring rains washed everything away. Either that, or a fire like the one raging at their backs burned it.

Early in the year, heavy rains had swollen the River Nye, bursting dikes and overflowing the sewage aqueduct, sending a foul current running down Balsalom’s main roads. When the rains washed out the Slaves Quarter, it joined the overflowed aqueduct to fill the market square with two feet of filth. To prevent a recurrence, the grand vizier ordered the engineers guild to tear up and widen the narrowest part of the aqueduct, west of the quarter.

Markal led them to a gaping trench, twenty feet deep and four or five wide. Stacks of fired bricks lined the trench, together with heaps of excavated dirt. Whelan lit his oil lamp and held it into the trench so they could have a look. An oily brown current flowed at the bottom.

“No time to hesitate,” Markal urged. “Quick, get down there.”

Darik grimaced when the sewage washed over his boots and soaked his robe halfway to his knee. They passed out of the open trench and into the aqueduct itself where the top of the tunnel shrank low enough that Whelan’s head brushed the bricks when he stood straight. The air filled with the stench of human waste so thick Darik thought he would choke.

The floor was slick and the tunnel dark with only Whelan’s small olive oil lamp to lead them, so Darik had to run his hand along the brick side for balance. A film clung to his hand when it touched the wall and his groping hand scared up pale, blind creatures that lived on the filth, skittering away when he touched them. His tongue and throat thickened with the stench.

After about twenty minutes he asked, “How far do you think we’ve gone? Is it much further?”

“Much further,” Markal said. “Keep going.”

Darik sighed. No sense complaining, when the alternative above ground was so much worse. He walked in silence for a few minutes before venturing another comment. “So once we’re outside the city, what then? Are we safe? Until the mountains, I mean?”

Whelan grunted.

Markal let out a low chuckle. “I think what Whelan means, is ‘No, it’s going to get much worse.’”

That was the answer Darik had been afraid of. “How long are they going to follow us? All the way to the mountains?”

“Likely further,” Whelan said. “Hard to say.”

Markal said, “We’ve stirred up a nest of bees. It appears that the dark wizard has already infiltrated the city. And here we flee without knowing how he draws such power.” He turned back to Darik. “He’ll discover soon enough who and what we are and try to stop us before we reach Arvada.”

Darik grew annoyed with the direction of the conversation. The depth of his ignorance stunned him. “You lied to me, didn’t you, Whelan? Everything from Sanctuary up to that staged scene in the market that you said Markal knew nothing about. And bringing my sister along. You made me leave her.”

Whelan just grunted again and moved up to inspect a new pipe leading into the aqueduct, before waving the other two ahead.

Markal said, “Yes, he lied, against his wishes, but not against mine. You couldn’t know too much if you were captured and tortured. Far better you think us runaway slaves than spies. Yes, spies. Finding the strengths and weaknesses of Balsalom.”

“But whatever for?” Darik asked, shocked at this new bit of news. Even though he left the city as a criminal, he still felt loyalty to the city of his birth, a city he’d never left more than five miles beyond its gates. “We are peaceful, and the trade over the mountains enriches us both.”

“War is coming, my young friend,” the wizard said. “Will Balsalom and the Western Khalifates stand against Cragyn or with him? We had to find out. It isn’t the khalifa we worried about, but others.”

“And me? Why take me with you?”

Markal shrugged. “Because I’m an old fool. Last week Graiyan sold you to a caravan leaving tomorrow for Veyre. Once there . . . ” He shrugged. “The dark wizard’s men would work you to death mining iron for the war. To the man’s credit, I don’t think Graiyan knows what has been happening to slaves sold to Veyre. He just wanted you out of the way of his new daughter. Which turned out to be a valid concern.”

Darik nodded. Inside, he wasn’t sure if this were a new lie or the truth. “You expected me to leave my sister?”

Whelan turned around, showing his first interest in the conversation. “Graiyan and Elethra love the child and she loves them. Will she really be better with you, kin, or no? Your path travels through pain, and hardship. Her way, should Balsalom be spared war, will be much kinder.”

Yes, it made sense. But he wouldn’t have left Kaya had he any choice in the matter. He wasn’t convinced that she would be better off with the baker and his wife. No, he wouldn’t give up on his sister so easily. He fell silent and the two older men left him to his thoughts.

They trudged through the gloom and stench for some time before emerging where the aqueduct dumped into the desert. This time of year, dawn came early, and a dim glow already showed on the horizon. Darik blinked against the light and tried to breathe deeper, but the air still stank where they stood. Sewage poured into the sand, spreading into a nasty quagmire for a hundred yards before it formed a sluggish current that flowed away from the city. Sickly plants grew around the edge of the pool, and a cloud of flies worried the surface.

They moved away from the river of sewage until they reached the shade of a jasmine tree that grew up against the city walls. Darik was glad for the strong scent of its flowers. Darik wanted to sink to the ground, but Markal urged them on until they stood a hundred yards away from the city. The wizard stared around the edge of the city walls with a concerned look on his face. Darik saw nothing.

“Wights?” Whelan asked. He reached a hand over his shoulder to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Markal shook his head. When he spoke, he sounded puzzled. “No. Something else. There’s a buzzing in the air. Perhaps—” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, not yet, I don’t think.”

Whelan snuffed the lamp and pushed it into the pouch at his belt. He pulled out a water flask, which the other two gratefully accepted. They took a moment to rub sand on their bodies, to scrub away some of the filth. Markal’s left hand had begun to heal, dead flesh dripping away to reveal new pink skin beneath. He grimaced when it touched the sand. They turned to go.

Ahead, the Tombs of the Kings. For generations, the khalifates built towers of silence to honor their dead. The living wrapped the dead in white shrouds and raised them onto platforms where they’d be picked over by birds, flesh feeding the world that gave them all life. But hundreds of years ago, according to Darik’s tutor, men buried their dead kings in tombs in the desert. Until mad King Toth denied the grave and the Harvester, rising from his tomb and terrorizing the people who dared appoint another king after his death. Darik had no idea if Nathalus told the truth or just repeated old myths, but this was only the second time he’d ever seen the tombs and he stared in amazement as they drew closer. The other time he’d stood atop the west walls with father at midday, squinting against the shimmering sand. Not the same at all.

No two tombs looked the same. Far to the south were pyramids that framed the sky, others immense slabs of marble with stairs that led into parts better left unseen. There were mastabas and sepulchres, white stone towers, and long temples that ran in a straight line for five hundred yards. Some lay choked with desert scrub and twisting, evil-looking vines, while others stood bare and free as if they’d stood unencumbered for a thousand years. Perhaps they had. They passed a grotesque statue thirty feet high of a man with three eyes and a belt of carved human skulls. Darik touched his index finger to his thumb to ward evil and tried not to look at the statue.

“I don’t like this place,” he said.

“No?” Markal asked. “Well neither do the Veyrians. Be thankful. If a Veyrian wizard sent those wights, he won’t follow us into the tombs.”

That was true enough, Darik thought. Veyrians feared the dead and the Harvester who gathered them, perhaps because of King Toth after the war. His wight had haunted the streets of Veyre, snatching children from their beds at night to feed his power until the Harvester and his hounds had hunted him to the ends of Mithyl.

They followed an old stone road, covered with a thin drift of sand, up between two mausoleums and toward a tomb at the top of a rise. Over the years, part of the square tomb had collapsed, and sand crept up against the side. For a worried moment, Darik thought the old man expected them to go inside, but then he saw that Markal only wanted the view from the top of the hill.

The sun rose in the east, turning the rocky sand into millions of glittering diamonds. The hill stretched no higher than the city walls, so they could see little of Balsalom but a few gleaming white minarets pointing at the sky and the rounded tops of cupolas. Smoke hung in a pall overhead, but from the thin trickle drifting from the city, Darik guessed they’d taken control of the fire the three had lit in the Slaves Quarter. He was glad for that.

“Look!” Markal said, pointing to the north edge of the city, where the Tothian Way skirted the Great Gates, or rather, where Balsalom had been built against the road, which predated the city. An older city had once stood on this site, but Toth had reduced it to rubble in the wars.

A cloud of dust floated on the desert. Some windstorm, perhaps? Darik frowned. The air sat quietly enough where they stood.

Whelan let out a low whistle. “We’re mistaken, aren’t we?”

“What is it?” Darik asked. “What are you talking about?”

Markal ignored Darik, turning to Whelan again. “I thought we had until spring. Now, we have to hurry. We’ll pick up horses at Montcrag, if the castle can spare them. We have to warn the Citadel, gather the Brotherhood and the Order.”

Darik shook his head in exasperation. “What are you talking about? What’s happening?” But even as he asked, he caught a glimpse of black and silver flashing off the morning sun. “An army?”

Markal nodded grimly. “The dark wizard. I thought he’d reach for the easternmost of the Western Khalifates first, to test his strength. But if Balsalom falls so easily, the others will come down too.” They watched in silence as the army approached with the rising sun.

“And what from here, do you think?” Whelan asked after a few minutes. “Does he come after us straight away?”

Markal said, “I suspect he’ll march west and take the passes immediately, yes. Take the Way and you take the world, as they say.”

The army drew nearer and Darik could see more. Hundreds of banners snapped in the wind, leading columns of men. A troop of mammoths stomped into place against the south side, and the columns spread apart to let them by. Winged shapes, too large to be birds, shadowed the sun, soaring back and forth over the city. Men on horseback formed phalanxes around the flanks. The army snaked as far as the eye could see.

A small vanguard on horseback left the army to approach the gates. From its apex, a trumpet sounded a challenge, clear in meaning. Let us in or be crushed. The army shouted in a single voice and banged sword hilts against shields in a fearful clamor. When they stopped, a few mammoths still trumpeted, before falling silent with the others.

“Look!” Whelan said, pointing to the north side of the city. Someone raised a huge white flag above the tower that overlooked the Great Gates, emblazoned with the golden dragon of the Saffa. The khalifa’s own flag. “She’s going to resist.” Other banners raised atop minarets throughout the city.

Darik’s heart lifted at the sight, then turned cold when he remembered his sister. Kaya would have to brave the coming battle. He should have gone back for her while the others lay stunned from Markal’s magic.

Markal nodded, but he, too, seemed to take little pleasure from this discovery. “She has no chance. The dark wizard has caught her completely unprepared. And if he brings the Hammer, he can tear down the very walls of the city.”

Whelan’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “Kallia will not go easily, though. Of that, I’m sure.”

Markal said, “Perhaps she’ll gain us a few weeks then. More if she musters allies. If only there were more time, we might bring help. Come, we must hurry.”

Markal and Darik hurried down the hill, but Whelan lingered a moment longer, watching. Darik heard him mumble to himself, “Goodbye, my queen, I will build a chime to your memory when I reach Eriscoba. May the Harvester rest your soul.”

Chapter IV

TOTH’S VIEW OVERLOOKED THE GREAT Gates on the north side of the city. The tower wasn’t built by Toth at all, but by a khalif named Ordvan Ter, remembered for little in Balsalom where he was born two hundred years earlier, but revered in the city a few miles to the east that bore his name. Toth’s View jutted higher than all save the merchants minaret, which stood taller by virtue of starting atop a rise at the heart of the city.

The city stretched below, a vast array of crowded buildings topped by towers, bazaars, and rounded cupolas. The Grand Bazaar sat a half mile to the west, and today it was crowded with thousands of people trying to buy whatever foodstuffs they could before the enemy arrived.

Toth’s View also commanded a view across a long sweep of the Tothian Way as the road described a perfect line across the plain. This was how Ordvan Ter’s tower came to its present name. It gave the khalifa a good view of Cragyn’s army as it stretched along the Way for miles. She watched with growing dread.

All morning, farmers and refugees from burned villages poured through the north and east gates, and they clogged the streets with people, carts, and animals. As the city woke, others crowded the streets to find out what was happening. Some objected to the masses of outsiders, and fights broke out.

She wanted to run down to the street and grab them one by one. Stop it! she would shout. We’re at war. He’ll kill us all!

Pasha Boroah had urged her to turn away any refugees not bearing food. She’d balked at leaving them to Cragyn’s army. Balsalom itself was a city of survivors seeking refuge from the Tothian Wars, together with Selphan and freed slaves from Veyre. She wouldn’t change that now.

Through this crush, Balsalomian soldiers struggled into position behind the gates. Archers crouched along the city walls, ready to rise and fire over the battlements should the enemy attack. But the scene presented her a view of chaos and little more. She hoped her pashas had better control over their armies than it appeared. Kallia worried that too many years of peace left them soft.

Beside her, two men waited to hoist aloft the dragon flag when the enemy drew near the gates. The grand vizier stood on Kallia’s other side, squinting onto the plain. He dictated what he saw to a pair of scribes, who scribbled his observations onto parchment. Impossible to count the number of foot soldiers and horsemen, but Kallia guessed their earlier estimate to be accurate. But they’d been wrong about everything else.

The army stopped a hundred yards from the gates, gathering into ranks and Kallia got her best view yet of the enemy.

Perhaps fifty mammoth trumpeted at the vanguard of the wizard’s army, tusks ringed in iron, ridden by northern soldiers. Several giants milled throughout the group, some more than twice the height of a man. One draped a pole over his shoulder onto which he’d impaled several bodies. Scouts or farmers murdered in their fields, she guessed. The horses shied away from both mammoth and giant, and whinnied in terror whenever the dragon wasps landed or departed from their midst. Kallia’s own men did the same when the wasps swooped low over the walls, dragon kin on their back screaming and shaking spears.

A dragon wasp was not a true dragon. The last dragon died in the Tothian Wars, although farmers still turned up the odd bone in their fields, turned hard as stone by time. A wasp looked more like a flying snake with short, clawed feet and a neck that darted back and forth as it flew.

An oily cloud gathered about a mile behind the army, flickering with lightening. What kind of magic could harness the weather itself?

Three cloud castles gathered overhead, vast windmills churning against the wind to keep them from drifting along with the air currents. She’d heard many ideas of who lived in these castles in the sky, but whoever they were, the affairs of mortals apparently interested them. What did they think would happen today? Perhaps they already knew; maybe they’d gathered to see Balsalom sacked, its people led away in chains. They wouldn’t involve themselves unless the dragon wasps flew too close to their castles.

Where is Omar? she wondered. She feared he would sit out the battle, or worse still, side with Cragyn. And what of the armies of Starnar, Havorn and Saltopolis, ten thousand strong? If Havorn’s Pasha followed plans, he would come up behind Cragyn’s army and take the hill a mile to the north, wedging the wizard’s forces in the valley between the hill and Balsalom. But Pasha Jas Web was a fickle man, prone to changes in mood. He might change plans when he saw the force of the enemy and try to reach the city walls instead.

The powerful army of Darnad, Balsalom’s only real rival in the west, remained on the sidelines for now. The khalif of Darnad wished to marry Kallia to one of his sons and unite the two khalifates, but she had resisted for several years, knowing that as soon as she married she’d lose influence with the other families vying for her hand.

“We found out who tried to burn the city,” Saldibar said, breaking her from her thoughts.

Someone had set fire to the Slaves Quarter last night. The entire quarter might have burned to the ground had not the Eighth Phalanx been marching less than a mile away. As it was, the fire burned a swath two hundred feet wide and a thousand feet long. A pall still hung over the city.

“Have you caught them?” she asked, spirits lifting at the news.

“Not yet, but we will. They posed as three slaves, but when a master torturer came to question them, one cast magic that killed the man and wounded several others. They fled the city, headed west, we believe.”

She couldn’t say she was sorry for the torturer. Of all the guilds, the corrections guild was the worst. She never used them to punish her own prisoners, but many used them to enforce guild law. The power to kill a master torturer meant a powerful wizard indeed.

“Spies,” she said. “But west? They’re not going to the dark wizard. Why?”

Saldibar shrugged. “Undoubtedly they’ve already passed their secrets. Or perhaps they’re from the Free Kingdoms and are fleeing home.”

She immediately discounted this theory. “Setting fire to the city is the act of an enemy. King Daniel is an honorable man.” She considered. “In any event, they must be stopped. Killed, if necessary.”

“I have already ordered it so, my queen.” He hesitated. “I was wrong about Cragyn’s armies.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you wish my resignation?” He fingered the amulet around his neck, symbol of his office. The opal pendant had been in his family for three generations.

“Of course not. But we made a careless mistake. You should have sent more spies at once rather than immediately distrust the ones who’d given their lives.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, my queen.”

“Look!” one of the scribes shouted.

A small detachment of men rode forth from Cragyn’s army. Six horse strong, they wore black, flowing robes girded with iron-bound leather armor. They came to the gates and stopped. One man waved an olive branch overhead while the others threw shields and scimitars to the ground, then unbuckled their armor and cast it down as well.

“They seek a parley,” Saldibar said.

“Whatever for? We’ve already said we won’t surrender.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps a final offer now that we’ve seen their army.”

“Maybe,” she said, unconvinced. “Or perhaps Cragyn has discovered the army marching to their rear and wishes to negotiate safe passage west.”

“Unlikely. The army is pitching camp. I can see engineers assembling siege weapons. But it wouldn’t hurt to stall for time, let us get our armies organized, see if we can contact Omar or Pasha Jas Web.”

Saldibar hurried down the tower to consult with the pashas. A few minutes later, the Great Gates drew open just wide enough to let in Cragyn’s men, then closed. Balsalomian soldiers dragged the men from their horses, searching them for weapons, then led them away under guard.

Kallia counted the stone stairs as she descended. Two hundred and fifteen. Ordvan Ter had built a stair for each year since Balsalom’s founding. It had been another hundred and ninety seven since the man’s death. The city was built by survivors of the Tothian Wars: merchants, farmers, soldiers who cast down their weapons and swore they would never fight again. The very word Balsalom meant “peace” in the old tongue.

Before the wars, there had been another city on this site, the Tombs of the King attested to that, but few remembered its name. Syrmarria, her tutor had told her. Capital of Aristonia, which had become the Desolation of Toth. Of its people little trace remained. Is this how it would end for Balsalom?

Kallia took no chances. She brought the six men into the middle of the throne room, surrounded by twenty armed guards. Half a dozen wizards and the three remaining master torturers stood next to her or mingled amidst the guards as she took her seat on the throne, in case one or more of the visitors were wizards. Kallia lifted her scepter and took a closer look at the six men. They looked like ordinary soldiers, stripped of weapons and armor, but the scepter told her otherwise.

Once, during her great grandfather’s reign, a star storm fell, turning the sky as bright as day for three straight nights. On the third evening, a burning fireball blazed across the heavens, striking the ground with a thunderous boom some distance outside the city. The khalif sent his men to retrieve the star stone, a blackened chunk of rock and iron. One of his wizards forged the Scepter of Balsalom from the stone, and since then, the khalifs and khalifas of Balsalom held a gift of discernment that had saved them from many spies and assassins.

The first four men were pashas of the dark wizard, but the last two hid behind a magical disguise that concealed their true nature. The first of these two she didn’t recognize, a wizard of some kind, but the other . . . her brother.

“Omar,” she said, angry. “You betrayed me.”

At once the disguises swept away. The magic fled, either from the scepter’s power or because the wizard no longer wished to maintain the disguise for the others. Angry murmurs circulated through Kallia’s men and some drew swords.

“No, I’ve come to take what is mine.”

She pointed her scepter at him. “Is Ter not enough for you? That you bring slaughter to Balsalom?” Still, his betrayal did not surprise her. “Then you leave Ter undefended. My allies will take your city and you will have nothing.”

A slight smile escaped Omar’s lips. “Pasha Jas Web? Or perhaps you mean those lizard-eaters in Starnar? Poor lands, who grew envious of Balsalom, apparently. I bought their loyalty with a few thousand dinarii.”

Omar turned to the wizard, “I told you she would see me.”

The wizard chuckled. “And so she has. But khalifa, have you truly recognized me?” He swept back his hood. An iron chain hung around his neck, emblem of the high khalif in Veyre.

“Cragyn.” The name left a bitter taste on her lips.

The wizard had grown in stature since she’d seen him last, if that were possible. She remembered him as short and stooped, not this tall, thickly-built man.

There is something inside him, the scepter whispered in her mind. Indeed, she could see it, rippling beneath the skin, as if something terrible had nested in his belly one night while he slept. Cragyn would soon be too small for such a power and it would stretch his frame until the wizard’s body grew large enough to contain it. The sight fled as soon as it had come; the wizard himself had allowed her to see it.

Kallia turned her attention to Omar. Like Cragyn’s pashas, he stood in awe of the dark wizard. She could see it in the way he held himself, in the vacant gleam in his eyes, like a dog fawning at his master. It sickened her.

“Omar, if you wished to hold the scepter, why ally yourself with this wizard? He can do nothing for you. Or have you simply abandoned Ter and your army?”

Omar smiled, a little too wide. A nervous smile. “Not abandoned them, no, but given them to the service of the high khalif.”

“Fa!” Saldibar said, still standing next to Kallia’s throne. “He’s not the high khalif. And your men don’t fight in the wizard’s army. It’s a lie.”

Kallia nodded her head in agreement. “Perhaps Ter, yes, but the other armies, no. Those cities hate the dark wizard as much as Balsalom does. They would never turn to his side.”

“You don’t believe?” Cragyn asked. He gestured for Omar to stand back. “Send one of your men to see. They gather against the Great Gates.”

Saldibar looked at Kallia, who nodded. The grand vizier sent one of his men. The man returned shortly with the bad news.

“So you see,” Cragyn said. “Your brother speaks the truth.”

Kallia kept her face blank. “Even if it were true, what does that matter?” She gestured around her. “You are surrounded by armed men. And enough wizards to crush your own magic, Cragyn. Your army might fight on while you’re strapped to the torturer’s wheel, but any victory will be a hollow one for yourself. And, I suspect your men will lose some of their will to fight with king and pashas dead. Not to mention my brother, who will certainly die a traitor’s death.”

Omar, poor, foolish brother, paled visibly, but the dark wizard looked unconcerned. “Really, khalifa, did you think I would put myself under your power?”

“Enough of this,” Kallia said. “Take them to the vaults.”

Her men moved immediately. Guards drew weapons, while two wizards made rings of holding between thumbs and forefingers. Another of her wizards cast a blue powder to the floor, which burst into flame and smoke. The torturers chanted an incantation of weakness to throw despair into an enemy. Omar cast himself to the flagstones with a wail, while the wizard’s pashas also quailed under the torturer’s spell.

The dark wizard stood still until the first guards reached him, then he lifted his hand and pushed—that was the only way to describe it—and the guards flew backwards as if struck by a giant fist. Cragyn swept an open palm at the torturers and wizards, who fell backwards screaming. Some clutched at their ears, others threw up on the ground, while one of the wizards staggered around in a circle, groping at the air, blinded.

But while the dark wizard attacked, he didn’t see the two wizards who stood amongst her ministers. They cast spells at Cragyn, and one of these struck the wizard on the side of the head, throwing him backwards. Blood streamed from his nose, his ears, even his head. He vomited blood onto the floor.

Kallia gasped in relief, sure that this had ended Cragyn’s attack. But Cragyn gave a great shiver and the blood spells boiled away from his skin like water hitting a stone in a fire. He clenched one fist and said, “Nach flacem!” Kallia’s wizards collapsed without so much as a sigh.

The grand vizier picked up the sword of a fallen guard and hurled himself at the dark wizard, but two of Cragyn’s pashas wrestled the weapon from his hand.

Some of the guards struggled to their feet, lifting their weapons again. Cragyn made a sweeping motion with the first two fingers on his right hand. A ball of light formed at his fingertips.

“Stop!” Kallia cried. The guards froze, all except the blinded wizard, who kept lurching in a half-circle. One of the others grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. Cragyn put down his hand, the spell dying before it could be cast.

Three torturers and three wizards lay dead, with a fourth wizard blinded and the other two stunned. Several of her guards lay dead or severely wounded as well, while the wizard had shaken off any attacks and waited for her next move.

Her brother Omar climbed slowly to his feet, shaking from the effects of the torturer’s spell. The pashas still held Saldibar, who’d stopped fighting.

Kallia stared at the dark wizard for a moment, unable to believe that she had allowed this man into her presence. She didn’t know the extent of his power, only that it was sufficient to kill everyone in the room.

“You have chosen wisely, khalifa,” Cragyn said. He breathed more heavily than a moment before, but he quickly brought this under control. “Both for yourself and for Balsalom. Even now, wights haunt the catacombs beneath the palace. Should Balsalom resist further, they will pour out tonight and murder every infant in his bed, while giants tear down the Great Gates and my men burn the city until nothing remains but a bed of cold ash.”

Kallia hesitated for a moment, thinking of a hundred and fifty years of Saffa sovereigns. The line would continue after her, if only through her traitorous brother Omar. And even wizards didn’t live forever; someday Balsalom might regain her power.

Kallia stood up and walked to the wizard, scepter cradled in her hands. She handed it to him, then waited for his judgment. He would kill her immediately, she guessed, rather than risk an uprising. And yet, she was strangely calm as she faced death. If she’d had more time she could have questioned her decisions, schemed out ways she could have defeated the wizard if only she’d been a better queen. As it was, she had no time for such thoughts.

“And now,” Cragyn said, handing the scepter to one of his pashas. “There is only one thing left to seal our alliance. We must be married.”

A stunned silence filled the air. Even Omar and Cragyn’s pashas looked shocked. “Never!” Saldibar snarled, fighting at the men who held his arms.

Cragyn pointed a finger at the grand vizier and said, “Silence!”

Saldibar’s mouth clamped shut and he blinked in surprise.

Cragyn lowered his hand and turned back to Kallia. “Khalifa?”

“What kind of man are you?” she asked, dumbfounded by his request. No woman of the Saffa family had ever been forced into marriage, and she swore by the Brothers she would not be the first. These fawning men around her—her own brother!—might obey this monster, but she never would.

“What kind of man am I? I am the man you will grow to love.”

Kallia laughed, not daring to show the fear that tore at her bosom. She’d seen that awful thing twisting inside the dark wizard and it scared her more than death. “You can take my city, but you cannot take my love by force.”

If the wizard was dismayed by her refusal, he didn’t show it. Instead, a slight smile played at his lips. “We will see. Will you marry me, khalifa, and join me on the iron throne?”

“I will not.”

The wizard sighed in an overly dramatic way. “I’m afraid that my men will be disappointed at your refusal. I only hope that they aren’t too disappointed.”

Kallia paled. “What do you mean?”

“My dear, you know how armies are. You march them for weeks, promising pillage, rape, and murder, and then . . . nothing?” He frowned. “I’d hoped to turn their energy instead to a joyous celebration of marriage. Please, for the sake of your people, reconsider.”

The meaning was clear. Marry me or I’ll turn your city to dust. I’ll murder your men, rape your women, and sell your children on the slave blocks in Veyre. Cragyn needed the marriage, or Balsalom might remain the center of intrigue for years to come. Marriage solidified the legality of Cragyn’s control.

Kallia’s world had become a box, with walls closing tighter every time the wizard opened his mouth. She could throw herself at him, perhaps snatch up one of the guard’s swords and impale herself. But no, then he would simply turn his armies loose in rage. The time to kill herself was later, after the ceremony but before the dark wizard came to consummate the alliance. Let Cragyn claim victory and the rightful control of Balsalom but give him nothing else.

“Will you marry me, then?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What? What did you say? I don’t think your men could hear you.”

She looked up and met his gaze. “Yes, I will marry you.”

“Good!” he said, clapping his hands. “I am so happy. We marry tomorrow, then.”

Kallia felt weak inside. She returned to the throne where she sat heavily, forgetting until she sat that by naming Cragyn as her master, she had no right to sit on the throne in his presence. He overlooked this error.

Cragyn said, “Watch the khalifa. Perhaps she is not as pleased about her betrothal as I would hope. Search her apartments, and make sure that all food and drink is tasted before she sees it. She is not to leave her rooms.”

“But wait,” Omar said. “I can’t believe you’re going to marry her. Why?” His voice wavered at first, but gained strength as he spoke. “She’s the ugliest sister I have. You could have any of them. And your promise? Why marry Kallia unless you lied to me?”

The wizard contemplated for a moment. “Omar, I had forgotten. I promised you would rule over Balsalom, did I not?”

“Yes, my master,” Omar said. Rage burned on his face, and Kallia saw Cragyn lose whatever ally he’d held in the khalif of Ter. “You promised I would hold the scepter.” He looked at Kallia. “It’s mine. Rightfully mine. She stole it from me.”

“And so you will. Let it not be said that I break promises.” Cragyn took the scepter from his pasha, considered it for a moment, then handed it to Omar, who grabbed it eagerly, triumph on his face.

But the dark wizard didn’t release his hold. Omar cried in pain and tried to hurl the thing away, but his grip remained fixed. Smoke rose from his hands and the smell of charred flesh. The black metal glowed like a horse shoe in the blacksmith’s forge, and still Omar couldn’t let go. He screamed and thrashed his arms, trying to free them. At last, Cragyn released his hold. Omar fell to the ground, the scepter clattering next to him where it continued to smoke.

Cragyn said, “There, now you have held the scepter in your hands. And you will rule over Balsalom, as well. By tonight, your head will sit on a pike atop the tallest tower in the city. For thirty days nobody shall pass your head without bowing to the ground and praising your name to the Brothers.”

“No,” Omar said, shaking his head. “No, you can’t do this. I gave her to you, I delivered the city like I promised. I did everything you wanted. You can’t do this to me. You promised!” he shrieked, scrambling forward on knees and bloodied hands to grovel in front of the wizard. One of Cragyn’s pashas held him away with a boot.

“I can’t have a traitor in my midst,” Cragyn explained. “Forever plotting and scheming.” He shook his head. “A king should surround himself with servants he can trust. Isn’t that so, my queen?” He waved his hands. “Kallia, dismiss your guards. We have much to discuss.”

Kallia obeyed.

Saldibar pulled himself from Cragyn’s pashas, and made his way to the throne, then removed the amulet from around his neck and put it in her hand.

Saldibar said, “Lamaran is the best of your subministers, but many others would do just as well. I trust you will accept my resignation. I can no longer serve you.”

She rubbed her thumb over the smooth opal and let the chain dangle from her palm. The pendant had been in his family for generations. She started to protest, but caught a significant glance from the grand vizier. Kallia looked back at the pendant and remembered.

Saldibar had hollowed the back of the pendant to hold a small quantity of dragon’s breath, an herb that could deaden a wound, when boiled. Before cooking, however, it could be ground into a poisonous powder. Saldibar insisted that his spies carry the means to kill themselves if captured and had taken the same obligation upon himself.

She placed the pendant around her neck. “You have served me well, Saldibar. May your days end in peace.”

Kallia doubted this. Within a few days, perhaps sooner, the grand vizier would be killed or sold into slavery as Cragyn brought his own ministers to run the city. But she wouldn’t be alive to see this happen. Tomorrow morning, after the wedding, she would retire to her rooms and inhale the dragon’s breath.

She looked down at her brother, still simpering on the ground. She felt no anger, only sorrow. Yes, her heart ached for him. He’d sold everything he held dear, and for what? His last moments would not be pleasant. Death itself would be no release. When the people learned how he’d betrayed Balsalom his very name would become a curse word.

She turned to the wizard. “Now, high khalif—may you live forever—what would you like to discuss?”

Chapter V

DARIK, WHELAN AND MARKAL HURRIED through the Tombs of the Kings, eager to reach the Tothian Way. Obelisks rose from the sand like the skeletal fingers of giants, while mastabas loomed overhead, the rising sun casting long, grasping shadows that caught the three interlopers in a chill grasp. One mastaba lay in a pile of rubble, each of its broken stones twenty feet long and taller than Whelan. The broken bones of an old wall cut a western-stretching line as far as Darik could see, past the sand and into a tangle of scrubby brush. The Tothian Way lay beyond that brush, Markal said.

Just as well. Darik had no wish to linger.

They had to reach the Way before the dark wizard secured the roads all the way to the mountains. If Cragyn captured the Way before King Daniel moved, half the war would be lost already. They didn’t know how much time they had, but Markal feared that it might already be too late to slip through undetected. The sun rose high, burning away the fog.

They had camels waiting up the road, Markal said. But what did camels mean to Darik’s pursuit of Sanctuary? He knew the rules, or thought he did: arrive under his own power with no possessions. If he rode to the Citadel, he would remain a slave in name if not in fact. Or had that been a lie like everything else the two men told him? He’d ask about Sanctuary when he thought he could trust them again.

They stopped to rest in the shade of a broken granite slab at the edge of the Tombs of the Kings. They’d passed a single obelisk a hundred yards back and Darik had assumed that was the end of the tombs until they reached this last monument that rose from a drift of sand like an upright hand, certainly man-made now that he looked at it more closely.

Darik rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It was thick with sand and dried spit. “No water anywhere, is there?”

Whelan shook his head. “None left. Another two hours. There’s food, too. Come, hurry.”

Suddenly Whelan dropped to the ground. He emerged in a crouch and looked around him. “Get down!” he said. He pulled his sword from its sheath in a single, smooth motion.

Markal grabbed Darik and pulled him to the ground. “What is it? Wights?”

“Something,” Whelan said. “Soultrup is ready to fight.” He held the two-handed sword nimbly between two hands and looked about him with the deadly grace of a cobra. “But what?”

“I don’t see anything,” Darik started to say.

But just as he did, the sword flew from Whelan’s hand, even as the man let out a gasp. Darik ducked as the sword flew directly at him. It soared over his shoulder and struck the broken slab of rock with a terrific shower of sparks. They cringed away from the light and only slowly rose to look at the sword.

Whelan whistled low. “By the Brothers. Look at that.”

The sword had thrust directly into the stone as if it were a firkin of cheese. Only the hilt stuck out. Darik ran his hand along the granite. It was solid under his hand.

Whelan grabbed the sword and pulled it out of the stone with a grunt, his muscles tensing in his shoulders and arms. It closed behind the sword, leaving no mark on the stone. “What do you think, wizard?”

“I don’t like it,” Darik said. “Let’s go. Hurry.”

“Wait just a minute,” Markal said. He looked back at the rock. Markal rubbed his hand against the stone, brushing away the sand to reveal words in the old script, eroded by time and the elements. He examined the words for a minute. “Interesting.”

“What is it?” Darik asked, still nervous, but the wizard ignored him.

Markal’s left hand no longer looked dead, but its flesh remained pink and tender, and it trembled when he unflexed it. He examined his right hand—his good hand—wistfully before lifting it and placing it against the standing stone. Now Whelan looked nervous, and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

“Et horgach katoth!”

The stone groaned and rocked on its foundations. They jumped back to avoid being crushed. The stone fell with a heavy thud on the ground. A small hole, just wide enough for a man to crawl through, opened where the stone had once stood.

Markal groaned, clutching his right hand, which shriveled and blackened. He looked up with watering eyes. “So much energy for such simple magic.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest of wizards.” He flexed his left hand, now his strongest, wincing. “This hand will have to do.”

Whelan drew his sword. “I’ll come with you. There might be scuttlings down there.”

“You’ll be worse than me. Blind. Stay and watch for trackers.”

Markal went head-first down the hole, sandaled-feet pausing in the sunlight for a moment before disappearing. A scraping sound came from the hole, then nothing.

Darik looked anxiously back toward the tombs, half-expecting to see mounted pursuit at their backs. “What’s he doing down there?”

Whelan shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a wizard. If you haven’t guessed yet, a wizard’s not the best traveling companion.”

Markal was gone for about ten minutes, then they heard the scraping sound again as he maneuvered his way back through the hole. He pushed out a bundle wrapped in worm-eaten leather, battered by time and its journey out of the tomb. Markal’s head and shoulders appeared a moment later. Whelan reached and dragged the wizard into the light, where he sat blinking.

“What a miserable hole.” Markal unwrapped the bundle. It was some kind of book, built of steel sheets bound by metal rings. He thumbed through a couple of the leaves. “Time enough later, I suppose. Darik, will you carry it?”

“How did you know it was down there?” Darik asked, lifting the tome with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked.

Whelan said, “I told you, he’s a wizard. Best not to ask too many questions.”

But Markal answered anyway. “I didn’t know. But the tome whispered in my mind while I was standing in the shade, saying, ‘Come find me, if you can.’” He sighed. “Alas, I ignored it. I’m somewhat deaf to such things. No, that’s not right. I can hear well enough when I’m awake, but I’m half asleep most of the time.”

“The book talked to you?” Darik said, wondering how this was possible.

Markal shrugged. “It wanted to be found, I suppose. Badly enough that it called Soultrup to wake me up. I once knew a wizard named Memnet the Great who had a glass sphere that was the focal point of his magic. But Memnet didn’t make the sphere, it simply appeared on his table one day while he studied in the library. He never figured out where it came from.”

Markal continued, “Whelan found his sword in much the same way. The sword chose him.” He caught Darik looking at the sword. “Yes, it’s a magical blade—how do you suppose we drove off the wights?”

Whelan reached a hand over his shoulder and placed it on the hilt, but didn’t offer any further details. Darik wondered if Markal had touched a sore spot in the man.

Never mind, since Markal was perfectly willing to tell the story for him. “Once, when he fought in battle, his adversary had beat him down and was about to kill Whelan, when the enemy’s sword flung itself free from his grip and landed in Whelan’s hand.” He paused. “There’s more, of course, but I guess Whelan can share those details if he wishes.”

Whelan turned his back. “Why should I, when you are perfectly willing to tell the tale?”

But Markal had apparently tired of the story. He said, “In any event, I have no idea what’s in the tome but there will be time enough for that later. Just don’t try to read it until I find out what it is. Come.”

“Yes, let’s go,” Whelan said. “Enough talk.” He looked anxious, anticipating something. And not merely fear of pursuit, Darik decided.

“What is it?” Darik asked. “What is the matter?”

“The Desolation of Toth. We’ll reach it tonight after we replenish our supplies,” Whelan said.

The Desolation of Toth marked the boundary between the Western Khalifates and the mountains. If not for the Tothian Way dividing the dead lands, the Desolation would be impassable. As it was, men passed through quickly without looking to either side. Many a trader had stepped from the road and been driven mad by what he’d seen. Darik’s father had despised the place.

Darik caught a glance between Markal and Whelan. It wasn’t just the Desolation, he decided. What new secret were they hiding?

“What?” he asked. “What is it? Tell me.”

Whelan sighed. “My own personal burden, Darik. Come, all this talk will rouse the dead. Look! I can see the Way.”

Darik didn’t press further. As he followed the two men, Darik noticed that the tome had a curious property. It was back-breakingly heavy at first, but the more he carried it, the lighter it became. He liked carrying it, could hear the book whispering in his mind. Whelan asked later if Darik wanted him to carry it for a stretch, but he said he was all right. Indeed, he didn’t want to let the book out of his hands.

They passed onto the Tothian Way. The road was wide and well-drained, with bricks so smoothly cut that they might have been laid four days ago instead of four centuries; the three companions made excellent time even on foot. They passed a number of small yeoman farms, irrigated fields of wheat waving in the wind.

Several times Markal took them into the fields as small groups of riders came and went along the Way. The riders were Veyrians, in crimson and black. Whelan found a well in one of these fields, and they took the opportunity to wash away the filth of the sewage aqueduct and rinse their clothes. In the dry heat of the day, their clothing dried quickly. They kept walking.

The Tothian Way stretched like a flat ribbon on the plain. There was no sign of the western mountains that they called the Dragon’s Spine. For now, the plain was all, dry and dusty.

They left the Way just when Darik thought his feet could walk no more. A dirt road led from the main road, cutting through a copse of cork and olive trees. Beyond the trees sat a sturdy mudstone house, corners anchored by timbers, with windows on both floors, and a flat roof. A placard with a sleeping camel hung from the door, which meant that the house served as an inn for travelers.

Whelan tensed when he saw the building. He licked his lips and glanced back at Markal.

“Go ahead,” Markal urged. “You saw him in the bazaar. Nothing happened then.”

“That was different,” Whelan said, voice straining. “We all worried that he’d been followed. We had no time for argument.”

Darik frowned and looked from one man to the other. He wanted to ask, but thought better of the idea.

Whelan walked toward the front door, then hesitated before pounding his fist against the wood. Three hard knocks. After a minute, he pounded again. Another three knocks. He repeated this a third time. At last, a slat slid open three quarters the way up the door and a pair of eyes peered out. The door opened a moment later to reveal a short, muscular man who looked familiar somehow.

“Whelan.”

“Ethan.”

The two men eyed each other, each standing stiffly. Whelan clenched and unclenched his right hand and Darik feared he would reach over his shoulder to draw his sword and cut the man in two. And then Ethan grabbed Whelan in a fierce hug. The two men burst into laughter and Markal and Darik joined them. The broken tension left Darik with an overwhelming sense of release, even though he had no idea what had just passed between the men.

“My captain,” Ethan said.

“Brother,” Whelan insisted. “There is more between us than titles.”

Ethan’s face turned grim. “I’ve felt your exile more than any, brother. But what the Free Kingdoms need now is not my brother, but leaders. So I will call you captain.”

Darik recognized Ethan at last. “You! You’re the man from the bazaar. The one who haggled with Markal.”

Ethan smiled. “The bread was as good as the wizard promised.”

Darik shook his head, remembering how Markal had feigned ignorance of the secret communication played between the two brothers. The only one played for a fool had been himself.

Whelan asked, “Is Ninny all right? And Scree?”

“Ninny’s fine. Your falcon, too. Here, I’m sorry. Come inside. There have been riders all morning. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe at all,” Markal agreed. “You’ll have to leave here and return with us to the mountains.”

“Here, let me take that.” Ethan grabbed the bundle from Darik, who held it a moment too long before realizing that he was resisting. Ethan frowned at the weight.

“Ah, good,” Whelan said. Some of the tenseness of the last few hours slipped from his face. Whoever Ninny was—a favorite horse, Darik supposed—the man had obviously worried a great deal about her.

The farmhouse was larger than it looked and pleasantly cool after the heat outside. The window slats were drawn closed to ward away visitors, but tallow candles burned in niches in the walls. A tapestry hung on one wall, a man on a horse following a pack of baying hounds that chased a hart with an arrow sticking from its haunch.

“You’ll want to set out tonight, won’t you? Come upstairs and tell me what happened. But here, the boy looks ill,” Ethan said, with a glance at Darik.

“Yes, of course,” Markal said.

All at once, Darik was weak from hunger, thirst and heat exhaustion. Whelan caught his arm and helped him to a chair just inside the threshold.

Ethan told him, “Follow the hall to the dining room. The girl will give you whatever you need.”

Darik looked at Markal and Whelan, uncertain, but they nodded their approval. “We’ll be upstairs,” Whelan said. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

The three men climbed a staircase to the upper floor. Disappointed to be left behind like a child, but relieved at the chance to eat, Darik made his way into the dining hall. It was a small room with three tables and a stack of wine kegs in the corner. Several cheeses and a pair of pheasants hung from hooks over the wine. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Beyond the hall, the inviting smells of a kitchen; someone whistled and he could hear the distinctive sound of bread being kneaded around the corner. He debated taking a mug and helping himself to some wine, but thought better of it.

“Excuse me.”

A girl appeared around the corner, younger than he’d expected. She was about twelve, thin and waifish like so many of the serving girls in his father’s kitchens. He didn’t want to assume too much, however, she might well be Ethan’s daughter.

She eyed him curiously, and, he thought, fearfully. “Did Ethan let you in?”

That answered that question. Not his daughter. Just another servant girl, then. Probably even a slave. “Yes, he did.” Darik pulled up a chair and sat at one of the tables. “He told me to get some food and drink.”

“You came with two others,” she said, her voice high and excited. “A tall man and a wizard? The tall man is named Whelan?”

Darik smiled. He knew how he must look to her, traveling with such men. He forgave the awe in her voice. “I did. Now, could I have some food, perhaps a little wine? And hurry, I’ve been on the road and I don’t think I’ll last much longer before my stomach falls out.”

He tried to put a little humor into his voice, but the simple serving girl didn’t appear to catch it. She brought him bread and cheese quickly enough and a mug of drink. Unfermented grape juice, he was disappointed to note.

“Have you traveled far with the others?” the girl asked, watching him drink.

“Far enough.” He set down the mug and tore off a chunk of bread. Not bad, but nothing like they made in Graiyan’s kitchen. Still, he was so hungry that it tasted delicious. “I could tell stories, but the things I’ve seen would bring you the night terrors.” He took a long draught from his mug, thinking that it would be a little more dramatic if he were downing wine instead of grape juice. Still, a child like this would be easily impressed. “No, they’re not for little girls to hear.”

“Is that so?” the girl asked, her friendly tone drying up.

“Ninny!” Whelan called suddenly, stepping into the room.

“Uncle Whelan!” the girl cried, throwing herself into the tall warrior’s arms.

Whelan swept her around in delight. He set her down and turned to Darik. “I see you’ve met my daughter Sofiana.”

Darik coughed. “Uhm, yes, I just did.” Daughter?

Whelan beamed in pride, apparently not noticing Darik’s discomfort. “She once rode twenty miles while three bandits chased her, and I lay unconscious over the saddle. They never caught us, though.”

Darik tried to disappear into a crack in the floor, but failed. Thankfully, Sofiana said nothing to Whelan, but clapped her hands in remembrance. “I’ve got Scree,” she said. “Let me get her.”

“I’ll come with you,” Whelan said, giving her another hug. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight.” He followed her back to the kitchens. Why, if she was Whelan’s daughter, did she call the man her uncle?

Markal came into the room, giving Darik a knowing wink. “Even the worst wizards have excellent hearing.”

Darik groaned. “You heard that?” He tore off a piece of cheese with his teeth, wishing he’d spent more time using his mouth for eating.

“Who do you think suggested we come down as soon as we did? I thought I’d save you before you made yourself into any more of an ass. Sofiana is coming with us, after all.” He laughed. “And believe me, that girl can make your life miserable.”

“Is Whelan her father or her uncle?”

“Both, in a way.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “But that is Whelan’s business, as I’m sure he would remind me. My tongue wags too freely as it is without delving into that tale.”

Whelan and Sofiana returned, a hooded falcon on the man’s wrist. He whispered in its ear and stroked its chest. Whelan and Sofiana pulled up chairs next to Markal and Darik.

Ethan came in a moment later, then made his way back to the kitchen, returning with food and drink for the two older men. They tore into the bread and cheese much as Darik had earlier.

Whelan eyed the wine and sighed. “No ale, Ethan?”

Ethan shook his head. “Not much demand for ale or mead in the khalifates, I’m afraid. I’m trying to turn a profit here, remember. Every once in a while I find a passing merchant who has acquired a taste for good drink in Eriscoba and pay him dearly for a barrel or two. I had a casket of good dark stuff just last month.” Ethan grinned and patted his stomach. “But I’m afraid I didn’t save any for you, brother.”

Markal gave Darik a wink. “Ah, don’t you love traveling with barbarians?” He took a long sip of the wine. “Now, if only he’d tasted of the Aristonian vineyards before the wars. A taste of those vineyards would convert even the most provincial of palates to its charms.”

Ethan returned to the kitchen to stoke the ovens.

Scree sat on Whelan’s left wrist, and he reached up his other hand to stroke it.

“That’s a pretty bird,” Darik said.

“It’s not a bird,” Whelan said, looking up sharply. “It’s a falcon. I suppose if you saw a griffin, you’d call that a ‘bird’ too, would you?”

Markal laughed. “You think he’s protective of Scree, just wait until you see how he is about his daughter.”

Whelan smiled and put his arm around Sofiana, as if ashamed to be caught fussing over his falcon when he hadn’t seen the girl for so long. Whelan laughed, a welcome sound to Darik’s ears. “Sorry. I’ve been strung out like a bowstring all day. My girl by my side and a little food and drink in my belly helps the spirits, though.”

Sofiana stroked the falcon’s neck. The girl smiled at her father. “I took good care of her.”

“I’m sure you did. I just hope someone took as good care of you.” He looked up at Ethan. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I didn’t mean—”

Ethan held up his hand. “Of course you didn’t. I’ve loaded your bags.”

“Ah, yes,” Markal said. “The camels and the supplies. Will thirty dinarii do it?”

“No need for that,” Ethan said. “I’ve got enough money.” He rose from the table to check the food in the ovens, then returned a few minutes later with goat meat on a skewer, fat chunks of meat interspersed with roasted onions.

“I had some travelers last night who rode west in a hurry toward the mountains and had some food left over. Sorry I’ve got nothing fresher.”

Darik gingerly pulled a chunk of meat from the skewer with his teeth. It tasted delicious, rubbed with butter and garlic. The bread and cheese had taken the edge off his hunger, but this was much better.

“Who were these riders?” Whelan asked. “Veyrians?”

Ethan shook his head. “Eriscobans. Brotherhood, I think. To be safe, I kept quiet about who Ninny and I were.” Ethan took a seat and picked up his own skewer. “But I suspect the time for silence has ended. Friend and enemy alike are sorting themselves into respective sides.”

“Then you can come with us,” Markal said. “We could use an extra sword until we reach Montcrag and the mountains.”

Whelan said, “But more than that, I need you to help me with the Brotherhood, help me win back their trust.”

“I’m afraid Markal will have to help you with that. I’m going to stay here. Someone needs to keep an eye on the city, pass news to the khalifa, and let her know that she has the support of the Free Kingdoms.”

“If you see the khalifa,” Whelan said between sips of wine, “and approach her as Prince Ethan, don’t tell her that I’m your brother. I spent some time at her palace several years ago and don’t want her thinking I had treacherous motives.”

Ethan shrugged. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Prince?” Darik asked, confused.

Whelan smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. “We’re King Daniel’s own brothers, I’m afraid.”

“Is nothing you told me true? What about the khalif’s captain in the Mascaras khalifate? A great warrior. Another lie?”

Whelan shook his head. “Sorry.”

Ethan said, “Part of that was true, anyway. Whelan is one of the greatest warriors across the breadth of Mithyl, from Veyre on the sea all the way to the Wylde. Captain of the Knights Temperate.” He hesitated. “Or used to be, anyway.” He turned back to Markal and Whelan. “When do you leave?”

Markal rubbed at his beard. “Nightfall, I think. Too dangerous to travel before then. Do you have somewhere we can sleep for a few hours? Last night stopped short of restful, I’m afraid.”

Sofiana rose from her seat. “The big room is still a mess from the men who came last night, but the well room has bedding.”

She led them upstairs. The well room was a small room for travelers that overlooked the fields behind the innhouse. Darik looked down from the window and saw a small stone well off the back porch that had given the room its name. Three camels knelt in the shade of the house, dozing while their saddle bags lay stacked to one side.

“Tell me the truth,” Darik asked when Ethan and Sofiana left the three of them alone. “Will riding a camel to the mountains end my hopes for Sanctuary?”

Whelan nodded. “For now, yes. You are free Darik, now that you’re away from the city.”

Whelan took off his boots and lay down on the second bed. Markal took a seat beneath the window and closed his eyes. Soft snores immediately came whispering from the wizard’s bearded face.

Darik shook his head. “I still feel like a slave. I think I might always feel like a slave until—” he trailed off in frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t feel like a slave. But my family has been destroyed and dishonored and my sister is being raised by someone else. I thought if I reached the Citadel and begged Sanctuary—” His voice trailed off again.

“You could join the Brotherhood?”

Darik nodded. “Maybe even join the Knights Temperate. There is honor in that.”

Whelan said, “Great honor. And discipline, too. The problem is, there’s no way you’ll make it through the mountains by yourself on foot. Two days from now it will be too late to make it by horse or camel. It may already be too late.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

Whelan nodded. “I am now. And I’m truly sorry about all of the lies to get you out of the city. We should have been honest, but I couldn’t be sure how well you could be trusted to keep your calm in danger. Now try to get some sleep.”

Darik thought it impossible that he would fall asleep, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he fell into sleep, exhausted. He dreamt of the wights in the Slaves Quarter, who chased him through the narrow alleys, scrabbling at his robes with claws that burned with ice.

Darik woke some time later to an insistent shaking. He sat up to find Ethan standing over him. Whelan and Markal were lacing up boots, while Sofiana stood at the door, a crossbow in her hands.

Ethan lifted a finger to his lips to warn Darik to silence.

“What is it?” he asked in a low voice. The sun slanted in through the window at a low angle. He must have slept most of the day away and felt as though he could have kept sleeping right through the night.

Ethan said, “Soldiers! They’re at the house. Hurry.” He held Whelan’s falcon on his fist, a hood over its eyes.

Darik pulled on his boots, fear penetrating his grogginess.

“How many?” Whelan asked. “And how are they armed?”

“Heavily armed and armored with Veyrian scale and good Eriscoban leather. Too many to fight. Come, we’ll take the back staircase.”

“But I don’t understand,” Darik said, still trying to shake the sleep from his head. “Why are they here? I thought the dark wizard wanted to take the city first.”

“Balsalom?” Ethan asked. “It’s already fallen. The khalifa is dead.”

Chapter VI

WHELAN’S FACE TURNED PALE. “KALLIA? Cragyn killed her? How?”

“I have no idea,” Ethan said. “That’s what they said. Hurry. I need to get more wine for the soldiers. They’re devouring the rest of the goat. They’re hungry bastards. Another minute and they’ll come looking, demanding more food.”

The back staircase was a rickety thing on the opposite side of the converted farmhouse. Ethan stored barrels of wheat and oats on the planks and the stairs, thinned and dusty from dry rot, complained noisily with every step. At last they all reached the bottom of the stairs and made their way into the back of the inn, where the three camels dozed in the sun. Ethan untied their leads and pulled them to their feet.

Ethan handed a glove and Scree to Sofiana then helped Whelan struggle the heavy packs on the camels. Markal cinched the packs tight and then Markal and Sofiana scrambled onto the first two camels.

Darik looked at Whelan and at the final camel, unsure what to do.

“You ride with Sofiana,” Whelan explained, pulling her camel’s bridle until the beast lay on the ground. It bellowed once in irritation, and Darik winced at the sound, sure it would attract attention. Whelan dropped his own camel’s neck and scrambled on top. He pulled his sword from his saddle bags and slung the scabbard over his shoulder.

Darik made to slide in place in front of the girl, but she shook her head and gestured over her shoulder. “You ride in back. Just hold on.”

“I can ride a camel,” Darik protested, heat rising in his cheeks.

“Darik, ride in back,” Whelan said. “Don’t argue.”

He obeyed and climbed behind the girl. She jerked on the reins to pull the camel to its feet then fell in behind the others. Sofiana handed Scree, hooded and tethered, to Whelan.

Ethan said, “The Brothers guide your path. Take care in the Desolation.”

At word of the Desolation, Whelan’s face darkened. “We will. Thanks, brother.” He reached down and clasped his brother’s arm, then they rode.

Whelan led them northwest for the next two hours. They soon moved beyond the fields, making good time across the sandy ground, but slowing where the ground was rocky and ill suited for the camels. The wind blew prickles of sand against the skin.

The desert stretched in all directions like a vast, lumpy rug streaked with different colors of brown. The occasional sage brush clumped in the lee of a boulder, or a desert thorn gnarled its way defiantly from a crack in the rock. Far to the west, the mountains shimmered against the heat, and Darik thought he could see a hint of white at their crowns. As the sun set, it turned the desert brown to a deep, brooding red. It grew difficult to see.

At last Whelan brought them back onto the Tothian Way. It was fully dark by now, with the barest crescent moon in the sky. The camels settled down as they plodded west along the road. None of them spoke, and Darik found himself drifting to sleep. He fought it, not ready to surrender consciousness. He leaned back in the saddle while Sofiana lead.

The stars shimmered overhead. His mother used to tell him they were the souls of the dead scattered across the sky by the Harvester. “For everyone knows,” she said, “that you must sow before you can reap. The heavens are his fields and souls are the seeds he plants.”

The image was comforting. Darik thought of the rich fields of irrigated grain outside of Balsalom, waving in the desert wind. He thought of the smell of desert in the Grand Bazaar early in the morning, before the smells of the souks awakened to the day’s business. That smell came from here, the vast southern desert that only crept this far north in the extreme western khalifates. It was the Desolation of Toth that allowed the desert to spread, his tutor had told him once. His peaceful thoughts evaporated as he thought of crossing that hellish waste.

He closed his eyes until sleep washed over him. As he did, his hand drifted down to his saddle bags and rested upon the steel book.

Darik woke to an insistent tapping on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found Sofiana leaning over him looking annoyed. He sat up, disoriented, but the girl put a finger to his lips. A pain shot up his back where he’d slept at a crooked angle. Other muscles also complained, from his calves to his shoulders and arms.

Whelan pulled his camel next to theirs, face shadowed. His sword lay across his lap. Markal’s camel sat empty. The wizard was nowhere to be seen.

Whelan leaned over and whispered, “Markal heard something. He thinks someone is on the road ahead.”

Darik’s stomach clenched with memory of the battle in the Slaves Quarter. “Wights?”

“They won’t be out on a night like this. The Harvester is abroad. Listen.”

Darik listened. At first he heard nothing but the wind and bugs chirping. And then, in the distance, a huntsman’s horn. Baying hounds. The sound was gone as soon as it had come. He shuddered. A moment later, the horn and the baying hounds again, this time further east. Darik sighed in relief. So the Harvester didn’t mark their own deaths. It didn’t necessarily mean they would live to see the morning, but it was an encouraging sign.

Whelan sounded grim. “If the Harvester is hunting souls, there must be killing aplenty. My guess is, Cragyn’s army has sacked the city.” He pulled his camel away and they waited for the wizard.

Darik’s thoughts turned to Balsalom, to Kaya. By the Brothers, let her stay safe.

Markal returned shortly, approaching so silently that none of them heard him until he was on them. The others dismounted and held a brief counsel with the wizard.

“We’re on the edge of the Desolation of Toth,” Markal said, not bothering to whisper. “I thought at first I heard the Famine Child whispering in my ear.

“But no,” Markal continued, “It’s definitely men I heard. A Veyrian cavalry unit—ten of them—has set up camp on the edge of the Desolation. They’ve got a fire, and no perimeter sentry, so they’re not expecting company. About half of them are asleep, in fact, and I suspect the rest would be too, if they weren’t afraid to be so close to the Desolation. I think they’re here not to fight, but simply to stop traders or spies from getting through.”

“Did you hear anything about the khalifa?” Whelan asked. “How she died?”

Markal shook his head. “If something happened yesterday, these men wouldn’t know. My guess is they split from the army before it reached the Great Gates. The problem is, what do we do? We don’t want to leave the road in the Desolation.”

“If they’re so unprepared,” Darik said, “can’t you cast another thunderclap or something and kill them?”

“Thunderclap? I’d be hard pressed to snap my fingers. I have no magic in me whatsoever right now. Apart from that, we’re not at war with these men. I don’t want to kill them if I don’t have to.”

“The Free Kingdoms might not be at war,” Darik said, “but I’m from Balsalom, and they’ve just killed my queen.”

“True,” Markal said. “And it is also true enough that they will soon be at war with King Daniel as well.” He shrugged. “You know what those men were talking about? How their children learned to crawl. Hard to kill a man when you hear that. Now, I felt no remorse blasting that torturer last night, but this is different.”

“There’s another thing to consider,” Whelan said. “We kill them it makes a lot of people sit up and take notice.”

“So they’re not paying attention,” Darik said. “The road is wide. If we keep the camels quiet, we can creep by in the dark.”

Markal said, “This close to the Desolation, these men are jumping at every little sound. They’ve also got horses, which will smell the camels and make a stir.”

“All we need,” Sofiana said, “is a diversion. Veyrians are notoriously superstitious.”

Darik nodded, remembering how they feared the Tombs of the Kings. He began to see the beginnings of Sofiana’s plan.

She continued, “And everybody knows that the Famine Child lives in the Desolation.”

The Famine Child was a thin, waifish girl, half-insane sister to the Harvester, who appeared in times of hunger and pestilence, spreading misery wherever she went. She was rumored to live in the Desolation of Toth where thousands had once died, feeding off the decay that still permeated the land.

Sofiana’s plan was simple. She would chase their horses from the road, dressed as the Famine Child to frighten the men if they saw her. Whether the soldiers panicked or tried to recapture their horses, the companions could slip by on their camels. Whelan didn’t want to send his daughter into danger, but agreed with the others that it was an excellent idea.

Still sitting on the ground, Whelan rested his knee on his chin, scratching idly at his face. “Not bad, Ninny, not bad. It might work.”

“There is one thing,” Darik said, hesitating and looking at Sofiana, half afraid to contradict her plan. She was younger than he, but these men obviously valued her opinions and skills more. “If the plan fails, they’ll catch her easily.”

Sofiana frowned. “They won’t catch me. Why do you say that?”
“No offense,” Darik said, “But you’re only, what? Twelve? You’ll never outrun those men. I should play the Famine Child. I can run faster.”

“No,” Sofiana said. “You’re too tall, and you’ll have to wail and act half-insane as you come upon them.”

“I played Migrath in the Harvest Festival for three straight years,” Darik said, regretting the overly defensive tone in his voice even as he spoke but helpless to stop it. “I did well enough playing the role of a drunken idiot.”

Markal said, “Ah, so drunken idiot comes naturally, does it?” He gave Darik a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Yes, I can believe that.”

“He’s right,” Whelan said to Sofiana. “You’ll be more useful guarding his back. I don’t think he knows the crossbow, do you Darik? No, well Ninny is an excellent shot.”

Markal rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “And she’ll already be mounted on the camel, ready to flee if necessary.” He turned to Darik. “Don’t take any risks. Veyrians might be superstitious but they’re excellent swordsmen.”

Sofiana looked displeased, but didn’t argue further. Darik also found himself frowning, even though his plan had been accepted. It was a petty thing, he knew, and he struggled to suppress his irritation; somehow he’d won the argument but reinforced his uselessness.

The Veyrians camped in the middle of the Way, and their campfire cast the road in a dim, flickering light. They had no sentries but huddled together, closer to the fire than must have been comfortable.

Darik couldn’t say he blamed them. A humming wafted from the west, rising and falling in pitch. It was an eerie, unpleasant sound.

He crawled forward on his belly as close as he dared and watched for a few minutes as Whelan had instructed. A snake slid past his hand, creeping across the road to take advantage of the warmth captured by the brick during the day. The snake flicked its tongue a few times in his direction, then, deciding he was of no interest, continued its way across the road. Darik watched the snake warily until it crawled out of view, then turned his attention back to the soldiers.

“Make sure you know where everyone is before you move,” Whelan had told him. “You can execute your plan flawlessly and still be cut down by the man who stepped into the bushes to take a piss.”

He counted ten. Four slept in blankets with boots off, although from the way they tossed about, he doubted any of them truly slept. The other six played a game of bones, placing bets with a few coppers. They did it simply to pass the time, he guessed, as one of them with no money bet from a stack of small pebbles instead. They spoke in low voices, and Darik couldn’t make out anything they said. Swords lay within easy reach as well as crossbows strapped to saddlebags.

As for the horses, they acted much the same as their owners. They huddled to the north of the soldiers, milling in the shadows beyond the camp fire. They nickered nervously at the moaning sound. None wore saddles. They were roped to a single lead horse, a large roan, branded across its back. To scatter them, Darik would have to cut that rope.

Markal had dressed him as the Famine Child. He shredded and muddied a cloak from Whelan’s bag, then draped it across Darik’s shoulders. It was too large and hung in tatters to the ground, making him look thinner than before. Markal stripped off Darik’s outer cloak, leaving him with only an under cloth around his waist. The wizard then rubbed dirt and sand into Darik’s skin and hair, mixing it with water until it left him with the proper mud-streaked look. Sofiana had turned up her nose, but admitted that he looked the part of a starving child. Markal pressed two vials into Darik’s hand, one an oil to rub onto his face before he acted, the other a powder to throw into the fire should the need arise.

Time to act, Darik decided, heart pounding.

Darik had spent time with horses in his father’s stables and moved quickly to sooth the animals before they grew jittery. He ducked low behind the lead stallion, then took the first vial, broke the wax plug and dumped the oil on his hand. It might have been a pure cooking oil of some kind but that when it touched his flesh, his skin glowed with a pale sheen. He rubbed it quickly onto his face, then struggled with the knot. The Veyrians kept talking. He could understand them now.

“D’ya suppose they’ll make us march through the Desolation, too?”

“Sure,” a second soldier said. Darik heard the rattle of bones shaken and tossed. “You think we’re going to sleep in Veyre this winter?” He chuckled. “You’ll see the Wylde itself within the fortnight, I’ll wager.”

“Well I don’t like it.”

Darik could not work the knot free. It was too tight and tied in an unusual way.

“Nobody likes the Desolation, you fool. But if we stick to the road, we’ll be fine. Traders cross the waste all the time.”

“Sure,” a third man said. “But when the spirits howl, they cast lots and sacrifice the loser.”

“Good thing we’re not casting lots, the way you’re throwing the bones tonight.”

“Why don’t you all shut up so I can sleep,” a new voice said.

At last, Darik worked the knot free. He slipped the rope carefully through the bridle as the horses danced in anticipation.

“Hey!” one of the men shouted, jumping to his feet. “What’s that?” He snatched his sword and stepped toward Darik and the horses. The other men turned.

Darik froze. An overwhelming urge to run came over him. He took an inadvertent step backwards before he remembered.

“Aieeee!” he shrieked, stepping toward the light. Not a frightened cry, or an angry cry, but the cry of a mad man. The scream was the signal to Markal and Whelan to go.

He lurched into the fire light. “Food!” he cried. “I’m starving. Give me flesh to eat. Wine, red, bloody wine. Ahhh!”

He held out his hands in a pleading gesture, a gesture that showed his hands, glowing from Markal’s oil. They stank too, like something rotting. He let the cloak fall away from his face.

The men jumped to their feet in a hurry, even those sleeping a moment earlier. The bones and money scattered. One man staggered backwards over the fire, kicking up sparks and smoke. He fell into another, who tripped into the coals with a scream. The horses pranced nervously, and freed from their tether, two of them simply trotted into the darkness.

“Ah!” Darik cried, lurching toward the men with outstretched hands. “Give me flesh!” He grabbed one man by the shoulders.

This shredded the last of the soldiers’ courage. One man, eyes drunk with sleep, screamed and the others turned and fled. The horses neighed at the confusion and ran.

Plan working perfectly and a grin on his face, Darik turned to go. Or, he would have, if Whelan’s overly long cloak hadn’t slipped around his ankles. His feet tangled in the cloak and he fell, hands outstretched to break his fall. He landed with a grunt.

And as chance would have it, one of the more level-headed soldiers saw him fall. Darik climbed to his feet, and in a panic.

“Stop!” the man shouted. “It’s a boy!”

Many of the others, those still close enough to the fire to see him, stopped running. Darik turned and fled.

“Stop him!”

Darik reached the darkness before they could grab him, but the shouts spread as the other soldiers joined in pursuit. He almost cried out for Whelan and Markal, but regained his senses. Not enough time bought yet, and the horses not scattered far enough. If he could keep running to draw them further from their camp, then he could call the others and the soldiers would be too far from their horses to reach them in time.

Some of the swifter soldiers closed behind him. One grabbed his cloak and it shrugged from his shoulders and fell off. Darik lurched to the left, leaving the man grasping at air. Heavy footsteps followed.

And Darik found himself surrounded on three sides. Some of the men had looped around while he snaked back and forth to lose them. Hands grabbed, one seizing him by the wrist. He stumbled backwards and lurched in the air on the edge of the road. The grip on his wrist broke as he fell down the embankment.

Darik rolled down the hill, striking rocks. His head landed against a rock and exploded with light. He sat up, dizzy, and looked around him. Dust rose from the ground to fill his nostrils.

“No, don’t follow him,” one of the men said from the road. The voices trailed away as the men drew back from the road.

Darik climbed unsteadily to his feet, thinking at first that he’d broken an ankle. But no, it was only a sprain. He looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. Even the very stars appeared to have been snuffed from the sky. It was then that Darik realized what had happened.

He stood alone on the Desolation of Toth.

Darik thought at first that he would simply walk alongside the Way for a few minutes, and then return to the road. The soldiers knew nothing about his companions, so they would have no reason to mount a pursuit. Certainly, he didn’t expect them to ride through the Desolation until morning. For this reason, he expected that Markal and Whelan would come looking for him on the road.

But it was dark, and he stumbled with every step. After a few minutes, he turned back toward the road, determined to creep halfway up the hill and listen for the soldiers. As he turned toward the Way, however, he found only empty space. He stumbled in that direction for a few minutes, then gave up and tried to return to the spot from which he’d come.

The moaning sound was much louder than it had been on top of the road. It rose in pitch and volume then disappeared, leaving silence so complete that he could hear nothing but the roaring of his own breath and the rattle of his feet kicking stones. And then it returned, howling around his ears.

Darik’s outstretched hands touched a wall unexpectedly and he knew that he’d headed off in a new direction. The wall came to shoulder height and was ragged and uneven on top. On the side, the stones were rounded and smooth.

He was afraid. He could see nothing, not even phantom lights blinking in his own wide-open eyes. Darik forced calm upon himself. Let panic take hold and he’d lurch forward all night into the waste, until he could no longer see the Way when sunrise came. If daylight ever came to this cursed land.

And then, like the slats opening in a window, he could see. The landscape blinked into existence in front of him. It was day time, but a haze draped over the land, cloaking everything in muted gray. The rising sun struggled to penetrate the haze. Darik staggered backwards in shock and fear at what he saw.

The wall his hand rested against was made of skulls, bleached white and mortared into the wall. It stretched in either direction as far as he could see. He could see over the wall and to his back, but didn’t see the road anywhere in sight, just the wind-blasted plain in every direction.

The stones he’d been kicking were more bones, some broken and splintered, others laying as whole skeletons. All clothing had long since vanished, but some still wore rusted armor, held swords in hand, or wore rings on their fingers. One man grinned back at Darik where he’d fallen, an axe buried in his skull.

The landscape was pockmarked with holes filled with brackish water. As soon as it grew light, a scum of tiny flies rose from the ponds and filled the air, swarming about his face. Plants grew here and there, but they were sickly things, huddling low to the ground. A purple, stinking vine climbed the bone wall in places, and as he brushed it, tendrils reached out to wrap around his leg. Darik stepped hastily back.

As he stood trying to figure out what to do, the howling started up again, and as it did, the bones on the ground came to life. Darik shrank back against the wall, no longer concerned about the vines.

Bones reassembled themselves. Tendons and flesh grew on the bones, then organs, skin, and clothing. Rust melted from old swords and armor, and the people jumped to their feet. Houses reformed themselves, fields of wheat and barley sprouted from the dead ground. But everything remained hazy, as if the land itself had been bleached.

The newly risen dead paid him no attention, but set about fighting. As far as he could see, men and women engaged in battle, rape, robbery, and murder, thousands of individual struggles. A man rode by on a horse and impaled a man standing next to Darik with a spear. The man staggered back against Darik, or rather through Darik, who felt nothing, then fell to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. As soon as he died, the man jumped back to his feet to rejoin the struggle.

Now that he could see, Darik could also hear and smell. Screams, shouts, and curses. Burning houses and fields. And above everything, the howling, as if something ripped apart the earth itself. A child screamed as a man on horseback ran her down, hooves throwing her into the mud.

At last the howling stopped, leaving a near-perfect silence but for the buzzing gnats still swirling around Darik’s head. The combatants collapsed to the ground, returning to bones. Fields and burning homes faded. From one of the stagnant pools came the forlorn croak of a stench toad.

Darik followed the wall, heart pounding. Ahead, stretched nothing, behind, nothing, but he had to move. And the howling started again. Armies reformed themselves and fought. This time it was too much for him. He slumped against the wall, trying to shut his ears against the sound, and clamping his eyes shut. The battle raged.

A scream sounded in the air overhead. A second scream closer, and then claws sank into his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Darik!”

Darik opened his eyes to see Scree sitting on his shoulder, eyes bright and piercing. The falcon looked back through the battle and Darik followed her gaze.

Whelan strode toward him, sword in hand. It was he who had shouted Darik’s name. Whelan’s blade blazed brighter than anything else on this blasted landscape, and cast everything gray into sharp colors as he passed. Caught in this circle of color, the wights took notice of the man, wailing and dropping their weapons to shield their eyes. Whelan held out his arm and Scree flew to his wrist.

Darik climbed to his feet and embraced the man, so happy was he to see him. As he drew inside the circle cast by Whelan’s sword, everything changed. He could see the Tothian Way now, not more than a hundred feet behind him. And the battle changed.

The war was no longer in some field, but in Balsalom itself. He saw the Merchants Quarter burning, one of the minarets toppling to the ground. The palace itself blazed with an unnatural green light. Soldiers slaughtered people in the streets, setting fire to buildings and overturned carts. Smoke strangled the air, penetrated only by the smell of death. The bodies of children lay in the streets, and Darik thought for one horrified moment that one of them was his sister Kaya, but the vision faded before he could see for sure. Again, the scene changed.

The flat, blasted plain rippled and shimmered, then turned into water, its edge marked by a flat, rocky beach. A sharp, salty tang filled the air and sea birds wheeled overhead, their shrill cries rising above the sound of the waves. Darik lurched toward the water in amazement, even as he knew it was only an illusion.

“Darik,” Whelan warned, reaching out a hand to stop him.

A woman dragged herself from the surf. In her struggle to gain the land, the waves had pounded her against the rocks, and she bled from numerous cuts. Her clothing hung in tatters.

“No,” Whelan whispered. “Not this. By the brothers, please, not this.”

He staggered past Darik and onto the rocky beach. His sword dropped from his hands as he rushed to help the woman from the water. Scree rose from Whelan’s wrist with a startled squawk. The blade glittered at Darik’s feet. He didn’t know whether to follow the man, or remain. Howls rose from the blasted plain at his back and the smell of death mingled with the smell of the ocean that lay in front of him.

Whelan cradled the woman in his arms. “Oh, Serena. Please, don’t die.”

But the woman was not pleased to see Whelan. “No, Whelan. Don’t. Find him and bring him to me. I am going to die.”

“No, Serena. He’s not here.”

“Then leave me alone.”

This last bit tore the man apart worse than seeing the woman broken by the waves and the rocks. He cried out and pulled away, before reaching for her again. This time, she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes, breathing labored.

Once again, the landscape shifted and the sea and beach disappeared, leaving them in the midst of the flat plain again. The battle raged on all sides.

Whelan was left holding nothing, a terrible, choking look across his face.

“Whelan,” Darik said, grabbing the man’s arm and trying to pull him to his feet.

“Go away.”

“Come, we can’t stay here.” In desperation, he picked up the sword from the ground and handed it to Whelan.

Whelan stared at the sword for a moment, before rising woodenly to his feet. Scree let out a bewildered scream overhead and the man lifted his wrist for the falcon to land.

Whelan swung his sword in an arc and the illusions fled before them. He strode across the plain and Darik struggled to keep up the pace. Tears dried on Whelan’s cheeks, replaced by a grim frown.

At last they regained the road and the visions vanished, replaced by a flat gray plain, much as Darik had originally seen it. He could also see the wall stretching parallel with the Tothian Way. From here, it was impossible to see the skulls that bound it together.

The sun crawled into the sky. Thankfully, it was day—that much hadn’t been an illusion. Pale as the sun was, it lifted his spirits.

Whelan breathed deeply, and appeared to have regained his senses.

“Is this Serena going to die?” Darik asked.

Whelan turned to look at him and shrugged. “Serena is already dead. My sword, there are some who call it Soultrup, lies sometimes. I don’t know what was real, what had happened, what was going to happen.”

“Who was she?” Darik asked. He noticed even as he asked, that Whelan’s cloak was still stained with blood from the dying woman.

Whelan met his gaze, face unreadable. “Serena? Serena was the queen of Arvada and the Citadel.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s right, King Daniel’s wife and Ninny’s mother.”

But Sofiana was Whelan’s daughter, not King Daniel’s. How could she . . . ? Belatedly, he realized the implications. Darik looked to the ground.

Whelan sheathed his sword and sent Scree aloft. He looked down at his hands and breathed deeply. “Yes, that’s right.” His voice had taken on a curious tone. Almost flat and emotionless. “I was young, she was young, and my brother was completely absorbed in the chores of a young king after Father died. It was all too easy to—” he stopped mid-sentence. “No, there is no excuse for what I did. I accept full responsibility and I will beg the king for forgiveness when we reach the Citadel.”

“So that’s why King Daniel banished you from Eriscoba,” Darik said, so many things growing clear. He’d been so overwhelmed to discover that Whelan was a prince in the Free Kingdoms that he’d almost forgotten what Ethan had said. “But why did he wait so long? Sofiana is what? Twelve years old?”

Whelan’s face clenched in sudden rage, the calm look on his face swept away. “Because I was a fool. I thought I could escape my problems, first by fleeing to Balsalom, and then by joining the Brotherhood. I suffered my ordeals in silence, purging myself and learning to control my appetites. But I simply could not admit to my brother what I had done.”

He laughed bitterly. “So I waited until the queen drowned and, in a fit of regret and mourning, told my brother of my earlier sins. At any other time Daniel would have forgiven me, I’m sure of it. But he had grown to love Serena too, you see, and in his grief, he exiled me. Banished from Eriscoba, from my home in the city Arvada, and from the Citadel.”

“But wait,” Darik said. He grew angry as another part of the story came into focus. “What about Sofiana? It wasn’t her fault. Why would the king banish her, too?”

“Oh no, Daniel didn’t hold Ninny at fault. He was angry, but not that angry.” A wry smile touched his lips. “You can blame my daughter for that one. Headstrong girl.”

“It was her own choice?” Having been torn from his own life of ease, Darik couldn’t see why she’d prefer to live on the road, instead of as a princess.

“Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Boys aren’t the only ones who crave adventure. When I returned the first time from Balsalom when Sofiana was young, I made sure I became her favorite uncle. That meant teaching her the bow and sword, horsemanship and falconry. Not that she doesn’t love her father.”

Whelan sighed. “And then when her mother died and I foolishly chose that moment to confess my crimes, she thought it would be a great adventure to follow me into exile. And justice, too. Alas, she’s not the sort of child you can compel to obey you, or I’d have sent her back to Eriscoba long ago.”

Scree returned with a scream.

“Come,” Whelan said, putting a hood over the falcon’s head. He swept the emotion from his face. “They’ve gone ahead.”

They found Markal and Sofiana a few minutes later with the camels. Markal looked at them grimly. “You do, indeed, look like a wight, Darik. I’m afraid you won’t be able to wash until we cross the Desolation.”

Darik looked down at his filthy, scratched hands to see that they still glowed with the oils Markal had given him.

“Ugh,” Sofiana said. “What’s that smell?”

Darik said, “It’s me, I’m afraid. Something in Markal’s potion.” He pulled the camel to the ground and mounted behind the girl. “It worked, though.”

She made a face. “You smell worse than the camel.”

Darik said, “You might not say that if you had to sit in the back.” He turned to Markal. “I don’t know how you happened to have that potion in your bags but it worked. I’d have escaped if not for my clumsy feet.”

Markal smiled. “The oil is an ointment for an ailment I suffer in the, er . . . nether regions. The luminescence was a handy side effect. Sorry about the smell.”

Sofiana giggled. It might have been funny, or disgusting, or both if Darik and Whelan hadn’t just emerged from the Desolation.

“What happened out there?” Darik said, pointing to the Desolation. “My father used to ride through here on trading missions. He didn’t like the place, but I had no idea what it was. I don’t think he did either.”

“Most people don’t,” Markal said. “Not unless they leave the road and if they do, they don’t usually return.”

“This was once a prosperous kingdom. Aristonia.” Markal’s voice was reverent when he spoke the name. “The Fair Land, some people called it. Its people were free, its lands rich beyond belief. It was said you could plant anything in the ground, even gold, and a tree or bush or plant would sprout forth. A valuable gift was a box of the Aristonian soil. Plant it in your gardens and your produce would be the envy of every other grocer in the souk.”

“What happened?” Sofiana asked.

“King Toth demanded allegiance of the Aristonians. He’d subjected most of the world by then, and Aristonia had already suffered the Tothian Way to be built through its lands. Toth thought that if he turned the magic of this land, he could better make war against the Mountain Brother, his sworn enemy, who lived in the mountains just west of here.”

Darik shook his head. “What kind of man thinks he can kill a god?”

“The kind of man who has already killed one,” Markal said. “Toth had slain the Forest Brother the previous year. Most people don’t realize what happened to the fifth brother.”

“As he marched on Aristonia, all the free people of Mithyl united. Those chaffing under his rule revolted. For three years the battles raged across the land. Hundreds of thousands were killed, the Aristonians themselves scattered across Mithyl. When the war ended, Toth lay dead, but his curse remained on the land. I suspect it will always remain.”

“Come,” Markal said. He turned his camel to the west. “We need to reach Montcrag before Cragyn does.”

Chapter VII

THE DESOLATION STRETCHED ON EITHER side with only the Tothian Way to break the blighted landscape. As the sun rose, the air filled with a muggy stillness and the companions settled into an uneasy quiet. The camels plodded along; they had become lethargic in the heat. But the camels’ stamina was relentless.

They saw nobody else on the road.

Darik slept in the saddle before the heat woke him. By then, Sofiana began to droop, overcome by exhaustion herself, so he traded with her and let her sleep where she could lean into the saddlebags. Markal and Whelan rode in front, Darik and Sofiana in the rear. About once an hour, Whelan sent Scree aloft to look for pursuit. She saw none.

Darik found himself rubbing the spine of the steel tome jutting from the saddlebags. He hefted it onto his lap to look at the curious script hammered across the front leaf. The remnants of paint still clung to the low parts, red and blue. A flowering vine snaked up the side of the leading letter.

He tried to remember what he’d learned of the old script. The letters represented ideas, rather than sounds. The leading letter looked like a soth, and he thought he made out tef and ithnat. If you twisted the tail the other way, one of the letters look like kormat. The rest was gibberish.

Markal’s instructions were clear. Don’t read the book. But Darik couldn’t read it even if he’d wanted to. It had been too long, he’d paid too little attention to his lessons, and this script was an older style even than the one he’d been taught. So he doubted it would hurt to thumb through the leaves. A guilty voice in the back of his mind suggested he ask the wizard anyway, but this voice was easy to dismiss. No need to disturb the man. Markal looked half asleep anyhow, slumping in the saddle.

Darik opened the book.

The first page wasn’t writing at all, but a picture of a cloud castle. It was hammered with surprising delicacy, and the paint still hung fresh and bright. Tiny people stood in the castle towers, while a griffin launched himself from the side of the cloud, a woman riding on its back.

The picture interested Darik not so much for the artistry in the picture, but for the cut away diagram of the windmill to one side, with gears and machinery exposed. Whoever had drawn the picture knew how the giant windmills that moved the castles worked.

He turned the page to discover that the writing was on the back of the leaf, and unlike the initial page, the script flowed from right to left. Was this the way everyone had written, or just an artifact of this particular book? Beyond the page, the next page contained another picture, just as fascinating as the first. He forced himself to look back to the writing to see what else he could learn, before he simply skipped ahead. Somehow, it felt important.

“Welcome boy,” the lettering said. “A bridge of time separates us. Time and pain that you cannot understand. Your companions do not yet understand the significance of this bridge, not even the wizard, but they will. In an act of mercy, the Sky Brother built castles in the sky for the survivors of the wars, hoping that by so doing he would—”

Darik shut the book in surprise. The words had come directly from the script to his mind, as easily as if he’d read one of Graiyan’s recipes scrawled in the common tongue. But more: Did the book know who he was? The thought staggered him.

Markal shifted in the saddle and Darik hastily slid the book back into the saddlebags. He must have clanked the leaves together as he did, for the wizard turned around and fixed him with a peculiar gaze. Darik swallowed, certain Markal knew what he’d done.

“Darik? Are you ill?”

“What? Oh, no. Just hot.”

Markal watched him for another minute, then turned back around. Darik found himself sweating. And why? He’d looked at the book, but nothing had come of it. And it wasn’t going to happen again.

They reached the edge of the Desolation sometime after dusk. The first sign was a small brook running across the road. The camels spotted the water first, breaking into a great, loping gate. They stopped at the spring and took in great gulps of water.

“Springfell,” Whelan said. “We’ve crossed the Desolation.”

Indeed, the air smelled different. A breeze blew from the west, holding the promise of mountain glens and wild flowers. It mingled and clashed with the heavier air to the east.

Markal wanted to keep riding, but the camels were exhausted, and everyone needed to get off for a few hours to rest. They stripped down to loin cloths and bathed in the brook, washing road dirt and the pervasive smell of camels from their body. The water was startlingly cold.

They ate in a small clearing off the road, in the midst of some scrubby trees. Scree hunted down a rabbit and a pair of doves and they cooked this fresh meat over a small cook fire. Sofiana and Markal went to search for herbs, while Whelan cleaned his sword. Darik watched him work.

“Darik,” Whelan said, “I meant to tell you about your father.”

“My father?” Darik asked, confused.

“Yes, about your father. Both Markal and I knew, that is, we know him well.”

“You know where my father is?”

Whelan looked uncomfortable. “Well, no, but I believe he’s still alive somewhere in Veyre. Your father might have been a terrible merchant without your mother’s help, but he was an excellent spy. He brought information from Veyre to the Free Kingdoms for several years.”

“A spy?” He burned with indignation. “My father was no traitor. He loved Balsalom.”

Whelan shook his head. “Not against Balsalom, Darik. He watched the dark wizard, kept track of his comings and goings in Balsalom.”

“But he was so, so . . . so soft. My entire family fell into disgrace because my father was too soft to fight the moneylenders.”

“Yes, he had his failings. But I speak the truth.”

“And my mother knew about this?”

“She knew, yes, but your father carried the news. The Brotherhood and the Order had men like Markal and myself in several cities along the Way and we would sometimes help your father and other merchants like him.”

“And when my father’s property was sold?”

“Markal convinced Graiyan to send me to the slave blocks. Once there, it was a simple matter to buy the two of you and then convince the baker to keep your sister as well. When the time came for us to leave the city, we decided to bring you but leave Kaya. I’m sorry about your sister, but she’ll do better with Graiyan. With the enemies your father made amongst the merchants guild, he won’t be coming back for a long time.”

“Is this the truth?”

Whelan held out his left hand palm up and said, “I swear by the wounded hand that it is the truth.”

“Thank you.” Darik felt better, although he didn’t know what to make of the news that his father was a spy. Not a spy against Balsalom, thankfully, but a spy nonetheless.

Markal and Sofiana returned with wild carrots, leek, and radish. The wizard put the dove and rabbit meat into a stew with the vegetables and fresh water from Springfell. In a few minutes, they were eating. Whelan passed around some bread from Graiyan’s kitchen and some of Ethan’s wine to top off the meal. Darik hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Shh,” Markal warned unexpectedly. He dropped the bowl from his lips and listened. The others fell silent, and Whelan put a hand on Scree’s neck to steady her.

Darik heard it, too. A snuffling sound, passing through the trees to the south, further from the road and drawing slowly closer. Whelan rose to his feet and drew his sword. Darik wished he had something—anything—with which to defend himself. He searched the ground near the fire for some stick he could use as a club.

“There you are, Talebearer,” a voice said. “And you have friends, I see.”

A woman emerged from the trees, together with a large dog. She was a tall, imposing woman, with angular features and a firm mouth. A long robe cloaked her, tied with a red cord about her waist. Darik thought her a young woman at first glance, perhaps Whelan’s age, but when she stepped closer to the fire, he got a second look and reconsidered. A slight clouding in her eyes made her look much older.

The dog was a rangy beast of indeterminate breed, sniffing loudly at the ground. When it saw Markal, the dog hurried from the woman’s side, investigating the stew on the fire and the companions in turn. It was one of those overly friendly dogs that think a wet nose in the crotch is a good greeting. Darik pushed its head away and scratched its ears.

“Nathaliey,” Markal said, holding out his hand, palm facing up. The woman put her hand on his.

“Well met, Markal,” she said, removing her hand. She nodded to Whelan. “Captain.”

Markal said, “You’ve met Whelan’s daughter, Sofiana. This is Darik, from Balsalom.” He turned to Darik. “This is Nathaliey Liltige, from the Order of the Wounded Hand.”

Nathaliey’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Darik. Then she turned to the dog, snuffling over the pot of stew again, and said in an exasperated voice, “Don’t do that.”

“He can eat some,” Markal said. “The poor beast looks half starved.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you’d taken a pet.”

“That’s not a pet!” she protested. “That’s Narud.”

“Narud?” Markal asked with a laugh.

“A sparrow said he saw you west of Balsalom, and Narud turned himself into a dog to track you. Knowing Narud, he might stay a dog for weeks.”

Darik frowned, confused. Whelan leaned over to explain. “A wizard.” He touched his thumb to his forehead in the Balsalomian way, indicating someone who was eccentric or maybe a little bit touched.

“I have news for you this time, Talebearer,” Nathaliey told Markal. “King Daniel is ill.”

All three of Darik’s companions looked concerned by this news. “What is the matter with him?” Markal asked.

She shook her head. “Nobody knows. He grows weaker every day. Chantmer thinks it is poisoning, but I see no evidence.” Her voice tensed slightly when she spoke Chantmer’s name. “I guess sorcery, but Chantmer dismisses all theories but his own. He’s sent away most of the Brotherhood, the Knights Temperate, anyway, together with the Order, to search for obscure roots and gather physics from the khalifates where they know something more of poisons.”

“Ah, Chantmer the Tall,” Markal said. “He is always right, isn’t he?” He shrugged, as if this were no concern. “I’ll look at the king when I reach Eriscoba. But tell me, are all of the knights away from Arvada?”

“I saw others from the Brotherhood in the city, but not a single Knight Temperate within ten miles of Arvada. It’s more than Chantmer’s quest. The Brotherhood remains divided. There are reports of fighting in their numbers.”

Whelan said, “Fighting? Surely you are mistaken.”

Nathaliey said, “I am not mistaken, my friend. A few weeks ago a score of Knights grew so disgusted with the continued division that they renounced their vows and rode south, swearing they would leave Eriscoba and never return.”

“What?” Whelan cried. “Are you certain?”

“Enough of this.” Markal changed subjects in that abrupt way of his. “I also have news for you, Nathaliey.”

A half smile played at her lips. “Of course you would.”

“It is a constant struggle to maintain my reputation as the bearer of ill tidings, but I do my best.”

Markal shared what had happened with the Veyrian army at Balsalom, news that alarmed Nathaliey. He said, “So be careful. Any roads to the east are dangerous.”

“Thank you for the warning. In that case, our way will be slow. We’d best leave. Chantmer sent us to find Prince Ethan and secret him back to Eriscoba.” She turned and whistled for the dog and the two of them disappeared into the darkness, traveling east.

Whelan said, “I don’t care for Nathaliey’s tidings.” He had calmed considerably, as Markal had no doubt intended when he’d changed the subject.

Markal shook his head. “No. The news disturbs me. We need a healthy king and a united Brotherhood.”

“I didn’t think the Free Kingdoms had a single king,” Darik said. His father had been to Eriscoba several times, but he knew little about how the Free Kingdoms ran their affairs.

“Daniel’s only the king of Arvada, in truth,” Markal said, “but the other lords trust his word, and he’s spread the wealth of his kingdom throughout Eriscoba. Musicians, poets, blacksmiths, tinkers, and farmers have all prospered under his hand. His influence is as great as the High Khalif of Veyre is to the khalifates, I assure you.”

“Come,” Whelan said. “Let’s get some sleep. Wizard, will you keep the first watch?”

After a few hours rest, they broke camp and Markal spurred them on again. Sunrise came but still they traveled. The terrain changed. The land grew hilly and greener. Trees, mostly oak and maple, shaded the ground, replacing the grass. Further ahead, the trees turned to pine. Sometimes the trees grew right up to the road. The mountains rose like ragged teeth on the horizon, with snow crowning the tallest peaks.

Scree came squawking to Whelan’s arm from one of her scouting flights. They immediately moved the camels from the road to the trees. Darik and Markal crept back to the road to watch. By now, the man’s left hand had mostly healed, and while his right hand was still weak, he could use it. It comforted Darik to know the wizard had regained his magic.

Soldiers shortly came up the road. Twenty men on horseback led the group, lightly armed with spears and leather armor. Behind, several wagons, pulled by teams of horses. From the way the horses strained, the wagons carried heavy loads.

Markal said, “I wonder—” He shook his head. “No, we haven’t got time. And there aren’t enough to threaten Montcrag. But for how long?”

Whelan sent Scree aloft to search for more soldiers before they returned to the road. The falcon raised no alarm this time, but they proceeded with caution nevertheless.

By now, other roads branched from the Way, leading to freeholds and towns. They passed a man with a handcart and later, a boy herding goats by the side of the road. Darik guessed that much of the risk had disappeared. They stopped in a small village that afternoon, where Whelan sold the camels and bought four horses, figuring they would be better suited for mountain travel. They changed their robes and tunics for jerkins and trousers and boots. Whelan put away his sword and kept Scree covered.

Darik wasn’t as comfortable with a horse as a camel, and the young gelding he rode was more spirited than he’d hoped. He made sure the Tome, as he’d began to think of it, lay in his own saddlebags.

The horses were well rested and made better time than the flagging camels. They left the village and started the long climb into the mountains. Several Veyrian soldiers rode past late in the afternoon, but ignored the companions. Too much traffic used the road this close to the village to draw attention.

They stopped for the night at the foot of the mountain canyon through which the Tothian Way climbed. In the morning they set out again. The air was crisp with a hint of autumn in the air. The seasons changed earlier in the mountains.

A ravine dropped on the right side of the Way, through which a small brook churned. Springfell, Whelan confirmed, the same brook which later flowed across the road itself. The road snaked back and forth as it climbed next to the ravine. Mountains loomed on either side, although they were only a hint of what they’d see later, the others told Darik.

“Look!” Sofiana cried as they rounded a bend.

“Montcrag,” Markal said.

A small castle sat perched against the side of the mountain, as if carved from the rock itself. Indeed, its cool gray colors matched the stone that marked bare spots here and there against the pine trees that carpeted the mountain. If Sofiana hadn’t pointed it out, Darik might not have seen it at all.

The castle disappeared from view a few minutes later as the road passed through a copse of pine. A small road climbed up the hillside from the Way, but Darik would have paid it no attention had he missed the castle.

“Something is wrong,” Markal said. They stopped at the foot of the road.

Whelan nodded. “By now, Hoffan’s men would have spotted us from the Eagle Tower and sent someone to collect a toll.”

Darik nodded. His father had paid tolls to several petty lords through the mountains. In return, these men kept the Way free of highwaymen. Father sometimes argued that these lords amounted to little more than bandits themselves, but Darik’s mother reasoned that it was better to know who robbed you and how much they’d extract.

“Could Montcrag have fallen already?” Whelan asked Markal, but then shook his head in answer to his own question. “Too few troops have come this way yet.”

Markal said, “Where did all those riders go? Surely they won’t leave Montcrag alone. One way to find out.”

They left the Tothian Way, making their way through the trees. The smaller road was a marked contrast to the Way. Weeds sprouted from the packed dirt, and deep ruts marred the surface. The horses picked their way gingerly along the edge of the road. At last they emerged from the trees and got a better view of Montcrag.

Three towers rose on the edge of the castle, providing an excellent view of the canyon and the valley below. The road winding its way to the castle was steep, narrow and exposed. Any attackers would have to throw themselves at the towers or scale forty-foot rock walls. A grassy slope rose behind the castle as an alternative to a frontal assault, but it had to be difficult to circle the castle from over the mountain.

Sheep grazed the hillside beyond the castle, tended by a dog and a boy with a stick. Two men sat in the tallest tower—the Eagle Tower—watching. No flag waved from its height, leaving Darik to wonder who held the castle.

They approached the front gates, heavy iron-bound doors in a space carved between the rock cliff. Above the doors, the castle proper began, with arrow loops and peep windows spacing the stone. Writing had been carved into the stones on either side of the door, although time had worn some of these smooth. Markal studied the writing while Whelan dismounted and approached the door. He pounded his fist against the door.

A slat slid open high on the door, perhaps ten feet over Whelan’s head and a man with a shaggy black beard peered his head out. “So it’s the bird lover, is it?”

Whelan looked up and grinned. “Hoffan!”

“I thought I recognized that swagger. Come back to take my offer of employment?”

“If I wanted to be an outlaw, I’d go into business for myself.” Whelan said.

“So you say,” Hoffan said, still making no move to open the door and keep Whelan from craning his neck. He looked back at Darik, Markal and Sofiana. “You brought Markal the Meddler with you.” He grunted. “I should have known he’d be weaseling around with this nasty business going on up and down my road.” He disappeared.

The door swung open a moment later and the others dismounted and joined Whelan in leading the horses inside the bailey. Inside, several stone buildings huddled against the walls. Two men practiced sword play next to the well at the center of the green.

Hoffan was a large man, just shy of fat. He gripped Whelan in a bear hug so tight that the man’s bones creaked, then did the same to Markal. If the wizard was annoyed by Hoffan’s comments, he didn’t show it, but grinned and clapped the man on the shoulder. Hoffan looked at Darik, shrugged and gripped him in another hug. Darik grunted as the big man squeezed the air from his ribs. Hoffan hugged Sofiana last, showing the girl no mercy.

“Now that you’ve crushed us to a pulp,” Markal said, “We have some important business to discuss.”

Hoffan sighed. “Don’t you always, wizard? I don’t know whether to run and hide when I see you, or pull on my boots and start stomping. And you’re not alone this time. Your friends dropped in night before last. Nathaliey and—what’s that strange man’s name? You know, the one who talks to my sheep?” Hoffan snapped his fingers. “Narud. That’s it.”

Markal said, “That’s nothing. You’d seen him yesterday and he’d have chased your sheep. Barking.”

Hoffan shook his head. “Wizards,” he said in an exaggerated tone of voice.

He led them to his personal apartments, a spartan set of rooms to the side of the keep. They sat on stone benches while a serving man brought flagons of ale.

“Ah, something real to drink,” Whelan said. He took a long draught from the offered flagon.

Darik took a sip. It was too bitter for his taste.

“I have a few words before you start harassing me with your troubles again,” Hoffan said. He wiped flecks of ale from his beard, a growth so thick that Darik half expected the man’s hand to chase out a nesting sparrow. “Your bird friends are devouring my sheep faster than I can steal them.”

“Griffins keep dragon wasps from the mountains,” Markal said. “You know that.”

“So you keep telling me, but I’ve never seen a dragon wasp and I see griffins taking sheep every fortnight. I’d shoot a few well-aimed arrows at the buzzards, but those bird riders would swoop down and that would be the end of me.”

“We saw dragon wasps three days ago,” Markal said. “You’ll be glad for griffins soon enough.”

“Can’t you at least tell them to eat someone else’s sheep for a change?” Hoffan grumbled.

Whelan nodded. “I’ll talk to them.”

Markal told Hoffan of Cragyn’s attack on Balsalom, then said, “Now tell us what you know of the dark wizard’s army.”

Hoffan told them all he knew. For the last week, small groups of men had flowed continually up the Way to the west. Hoffan had four score men under his command and could have challenged any of the groups, but he hadn’t got rich getting his men killed. He’d hoped to lay low until the fighting passed through and he knew which way to direct his allegiances, but earlier this morning ten armed men rode to the doors and demanded that Hoffan declare himself a vassal of the dark lord.

“And what did you say?” Darik asked.

Hoffan shrugged. “My chamber pot needed emptying. It had been several days. I believe those men are presently bathing in Springfell.”

Darik, Sofiana and Markal laughed, but Whelan looked grim, no doubt imagining Cragyn’s full army marching on Montcrag.

“I got the idea thanks to Whelan’s bird friends.” He grinned at Darik. “Ever have a bird fly overhead and drop his load on your head? Now what if that bird is a griffin the size of a horse and flying with several friends? It gets ugly.”

Even Whelan laughed this time. “I’ll definitely talk to Flockheart about that one.”

“Come,” Hoffan said, rising to his feet. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You won’t be staying long, I’ll wager.” He cast a sidelong glance at Markal. “Unless you have other bad news, Meddler.”

“I’ll think of something,” Markal said. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Before they could move, the door burst open and a young man ran in, shrugging into a breastplate. The laces of his boots hung untied. “They’ve come back,” he said, struggling to gain his breath. He laced up his breastplate, then did the same thing with his boots.

Outside, men rushed across the green toward towers and walls, pulling on jerkins and armor. On the hillside above, the boy rounded the sheep and herded them back toward the castle. The man turned to go.

Hoffan grabbed him by the arm so hard that it spun him around. “What do you see and how many?” he demanded.

“Horsemen,” he said, shrugging loose from Hoffan’s grip and lacing his breast plate. “Hundreds of them. They’re coming this way in a hurry.”

Hoffan turned to Markal. “Looks like you found some more bad news for me. Well done.”

Chapter VIII

THREE SOLDIERS ESCORTED KALLIA TO her garden apartments. They didn’t dare touch the betrothed of the dark wizard, but neither did they allow her to deviate. When she tried to veer toward the slaves’ rooms, one took her gently by the sleeve and kept her moving in the proper direction. Cragyn had apparently furnished them with detailed diagrams of the palace before they ever came to Balsalom. She wondered what they would do if she produced a dagger.

Shortly after Kallia instructed her pashas to surrender, Cragyn let open the Great Gates and the enemy poured into the city. True to the wizard’s promise, however, his men and beasts did not immediately attack the helpless inhabitants, but disarmed and quartered the Balsalomian army, then moved to the palace. Hundreds of troops didn’t enter the city at all, but continued west along the Tothian Way. The wizard had discovered her watching his troop movements from the tower rooms and ordered her escorted to the garden rooms.

Guards searched her new rooms before allowing her inside. Much as they’d done with the tower rooms, they removed broaches, knives, ropes, and anything else she might use to hurt herself. One guard stayed inside while the others stationed themselves outside the door. Kallia lay on her pillows and affixed a pouting look on her face. Let her look like a spoiled princess and they might relax their guard.

Saldibar’s pendant dangled from her neck. The poison inside represented release and defiance both, which would mingle in the form of her death. Dragon’s breath was quick and irreversible, its primary virtue, but it was also painful and messy. It was inhaled, and then the poison tore apart the lungs, leaving victims to suffocate on their own blood.

Once, when she was a child, a would-be assassin tried to kill her father at the Harvest Festival. When guards cornered the man, he breathed a vial of dragon’s breath. Mother rushed Kallia from the room, but not before Kallia saw the assassin cough up clumps of pink foam. The incident had haunted her memory.

She had until the marriage tomorrow afternoon to steel herself. Cragyn would busy himself in ceremony, and in the public execution of her brother Omar, and she would retire to her apartments to inhale the dragon’s breath. Or so she thought.

Cragyn proved impatient.

As the sun set over the gardens, two men came into her room unannounced. One of them was dressed in bright metal armor, painted black and gold, more ceremonial than functional. The other was a tall man with a long, thin nose. He wore a purple robe with an amulet of office around his neck. Cragyn’s grand vizier, a military pasha named Mol Khah. She’d never met the man, but his reputation scarcely bettered the dark wizard’s. Kallia sat up on her pillows.

Mol Khah held a red robe and a jewelry box. He tossed them on her bed table. “Put these on.”

Kallia balked. She crossed her arms and tried to look petulant, desperately trying to stall. “I will not. I haven’t taken my supper yet.”

“Don’t waste your time playing games. I will see you dressed, even if I have to strip you naked and dress you myself.” He considered. “A chore that might prove pleasurable.”

Kallia narrowed her eyes. “Very well. Leave the room. Order your dogs out too.”

Mol Khah snapped his fingers twice and his armored escort and the other guard left the room, pulling the door shut. The vizier smiled. “My master would be displeased if anything were to happen because I was careless. I think I will stay. Now change. Your betrothed is not a patient man.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, then stepped toward her, grabbing Saldibar’s pendant still hanging around her neck. He yanked, snapping the chain. Kallia gasped and tried to snatch it back, but Mol Khah pushed her back to the bedding.

“You have no need of that, anymore. Cragyn will appoint ministers to rule Balsalom. Put on the gown, and remember the customs.”

Kallia remembered the customs well enough, even if they were more strictly practiced in the east than in the Western Khalifates. A woman was to remain naked beneath the ceremonial gowns so as not to interfere with the pleasuring of her new husband. She did not intend to give Cragyn pleasures of any kind.

She shook her head. “I will not put on these robes until you leave the room. And if you force me, you will deliver damaged goods. As for what I wear beneath the robe, that shall remain my own choosing.”

He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her crashing into the bed table. The ceremonial gown slipped to the floor, the box smashing to the ground and breaking open at its hinges. Necklaces and bracelets spilled onto the robes with glitters of green and sparkling white. Kallia struggled to her feet, trying to get away, but he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her into the air, where she struggled for air, clawing desperately at his hand.

Mol Khah reached into his robes and pulled out a dagger. He put the blade at her throat, then dragged it down her breast, slicing through her robe and chemise. Still strangling her throat with his other hand, he put away the knife, then threw her to the bed. He tore apart her robes to finish what the knife had started, leaving her naked as a woman raped and robbed and left for dead. Kallia lay on her pillows, gasping.

“My master does not mind damaged goods.” He sneered. “This whole city is damaged. Soft and weak. But Balsalom will change soon enough. As will you. Dress yourself. When you finish, I will summon a maidservant to fix your hair and face paint.”

This time, Kallia obeyed.

Kallia entered the throne room, and all eyes watched. The scarlet robes fit her perfectly, while diamonds and emeralds glittered in her hair, on her wrists and ankles, about her shoulders and along her neck and down her breast. The high collar and emerald necklace covered the bruises around her throat. A white sash around her waist represented her virtue, although she doubted Cragyn would have required such. By tradition, a husband would stain the white satin with the blood of her wedding night, should she prove a virgin, and display it on his door as proof of her purity. In recent memory, however, such pre-marital chastity was rarely expected.

Cragyn sat on the throne with the Scepter of Balsalom in hand. He wore polished black armor, with a tunic draped over the top embroidered with emblems of fertility and words in the old script. Around him stood his ministers, pashas, and viziers, together with an honor guard of thirty men at the door. She saw a few others in the room that she recognized: ministers and guildmasters from Balsalom who would witness her marriage. Somewhat surprisingly, Saldibar stood in this group, and the man’s face clenched into a terrible mixture of hate and dread. Seeing him here dismayed her; she had hoped he would flee the city before the wizard murdered her old ministers.

No other women were present, nobody who would represent her mother in the ceremony. Neither did she see the brother figure dressed in peasant robes with the scythe of harvest at his feet. What kind of wedding was this?

Another strange element were the hundreds of candles lining the walls, each giving off a ghostly blue light. A thick, sweet smell wafted from the candles, filling the air with a suffocating—closeness, was how she would describe it. A feeling that everyone in the room had merged into a single soul, all of them held in the pulsing entity living beneath the wizard’s skin. The ceiling in the throne room crowned the unlit gloom forty feet overhead, but the candle smoke clung to the ground, rather than dissipating in the heights.

Mol Khah released her arm and stood next to his master. “I have brought your bride.”

“Ah, yes,” Cragyn said, beckoning with a finger. “Come stand next to me.”

She obeyed, forcing herself to remain perfectly still in spite of the tremors rising to the surface and the terrible fear in her breast.

“I have had many other wives, concubines, and harlots,” he said, speaking loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Beside their beauty, your appearance is a dunghill.”

A few startled gasps behind her. She bowed her head. “Yes, master.”

“But all of my other wives are dead, and I have decided you will suit my purpose.”

“Yes, my master.”

He balled his fist and opened it. A flash of light burst into the room, drowning the candles, illuminating startled faces, and the clouds of smoke drifting overhead. Two ghostly blue figures appeared by his side. The first, a woman, was dressed much as anyone else at the ceremony, in ceremonial garb, but the second was dressed as a peasant with a scythe by his side.

The presence of the wights was unexpected. The guests shrank from these apparitions, even Mol Khah, his sneer gone.

Kallia drew backward, her resolve fleeing. The man was the ghost of the high khalif, Ahmaad Faal, the former high khalif of Veyre. The woman was his wife Tainara Faal, a woman so greatly loved by her people that some forty people in Veyre had thrown themselves into the sea when she was murdered. Her father had been the khalif Josiah Saffa, a cousin of Kallia’s father.

The eyes of both wights raged with the madness of a spirit who has remained in the land beyond when the Harvester has come to gather the dead.

Tainara’s spirit seized her by the wrist, a chill grasp that sapped Kallia’s strength until she felt she would collapse to the floor. She forced herself to remain steady, staring into the dark wizard’s eyes. The chill spread to her shoulder. Her eyes swam and she staggered.

The spirit spoke in a hollow voice that was only a memory of life. “I give you this woman to your care and keeping. May she serve you well.”

The spirit of the high khalif, her husband, lifted his scythe and swept it at her neck, stopping the blade just as it touched her skin. He nodded his head. “The harvest welcomes her. May her womb be a fertile land for you to plant your seed.” He stepped back and put the scythe at his feet.

Both of their speeches were much shorter than she’d expected, but enough to satisfy ritual.

Cragyn stood slowly, letting the scepter drop to his feet. He reached out his hands and untied the white sash about her waist and laid it over his shoulder. “I accept this woman as my wife.”

Cragyn turned to the wights. “That is all.” He cast another flash of light. For a moment, the wights flickered on the edge of this world and whatever sheol had bound their souls. As they did, they passed through a moment of recognition. Horror spread across their faces, and they opened their mouths to scream. And then the image was gone; the wights faded from sight.

“I don’t believe in long ceremonies,” the dark wizard said.

The wizard turned to address Mol Khah. “To honor my new bride and her reign, impale a Balsalomian for every day since the khalifa assumed the scepter. Let the road from here to the khalifate of Ter be planted with these stakes. Encircle Balsalom with a ring of additional stakes.” He had said the words much as if he’d pronounced a week of celebratory feasting, or just freed a thousand slaves at his own expense.

Mol Khah smiled and bowed. “As you wish, master.”

Kallia’s resolve shattered. “No, please. You promised to spare the city. Kill me if you wish, set me atop Toth’s View next to my brother, but please don’t hurt my people.” She wept.

Cragyn fixed her with a pitiless gaze. “They are my people now. And they have become too soft. Perhaps if you had ruled with a firmer hand, I would not have to take such measures.” He looked at the others in the room, who stood in shock. “The khalifa and I have pleasures to share. Leave us.”

The others fled, even Mol Khah. No doubt the wizard’s own men had seen such horrors before, but the others would surely spread the news. Cragyn’s power would grow with the telling. She saw in their eyes that many didn’t expect her to live until morning. Indeed, she’d begun to doubt that she would.

“Come, my dear.” He took her wrist in a painful grip and dragged her from the room, while she tried to recover her balance.

The wizard didn’t lead her to the tower or her garden rooms, but to apartments he’d chosen on the edge of the palace. These rooms had once belonged to a lesser minister.

Cragyn threw her on the bed pillows, then drew open the curtains and she knew that he’d chosen these apartments only to serve the sadistic monster eating him alive from the inside. The rooms stood on the edge of the palace, overlooking the city. She could hear screams in the streets as loved ones were ripped from their homes and impaled on stakes. Brief sounds of battle raged through the streets, and the smell of smoke filled the air.

Cragyn turned to her. He shrugged off his cloak and untied the tethers on his breast plate, tossing the armor to the floor. “You may submit, or you may resist.” He shrugged. “Either way, I suspect that I will enjoy the night more than you . . . or Balsalom.”

Kallia would resist. How could she do otherwise when her people suffered so? She felt their pain worse than her own.

By morning, she wished she had killed herself when she’d had the chance. But in that respect, she was not alone in Balsalom.

Cragyn left before the sun rose. An old slave woman came to care for her. It was nobody Kallia recognized; the wizard had apparently determined to separate her from everyone she knew. Render her powerless.

The woman studied her swollen face with a critical eye. She used a warm cloth to wipe away the blood from around her mouth. Her touch was surprisingly gentle and Kallia had to remind herself not to hate Veyrians in general. Perhaps some spark of goodness would stay alive. A powerful wizard might live for centuries, but everyone died eventually. Maybe then this dormant spark could emerge and heal the damage Cragyn left behind.

The woman handed her a cup of tea. Kallia took a sip and looked up sharply at the slave, who busied herself cleaning up the torn bedding. The tea had a bitter taste and she thought for a moment that Saldibar had found a way to deliver poison to mercifully end her life. But no, she recognized the taste of willow leaves and savin, and knew the drink for what it was. The apothecaries guild sold a paste that could be mixed into tea to prevent a man’s seed from taking root. Grateful, she drank the tea and poured herself another cup.

Quiet had descended outside her window. The soldiers would be fixing their stakes alongside the Tothian Way for the next twenty miles, impaling those unfortunate enough to live in Balsalom at the end of Kallia’s reign.

After she’d cared for the visible injuries, the slave woman looked at the two men guarding the door. A third man, a minor wizard of some kind, sat on a pile of cushions, smoking a hookah. All morning long, he’d smoked while the two guards stood silently at the door.

“I require privacy to treat the khalifa’s other wounds.”

None of the men moved. The wizard puffed at his pipe. Bubbles rose through the water. He blew a smoke ring, followed by a second.

The slave woman shrugged and turned back to Kallia. “Brave the consequences. When you wake tomorrow to find your members shriveled and useless, you’ll wish you’d listened.”

She proclaimed the words as if she were possessed of witchcraft. The guards shifted uncomfortably, then the senior guard gestured with his head and they stepped into the hallway. The wizard picked up his water pipe and carried it out, then returned for his pillows. He pulled the door shut behind him.

As soon as they left, the old woman drew the curtains, then turned the latch on the door. The soldiers could break the lock, but not without effort and considerable warning. The woman swept back her hood, then stripped a ragged gray wig from her head, revealing a bald skull. She straightened her back, and the transformation was complete. Saldibar stood in front of her.

“That bastard. I’ll kill him for this if I ever get a chance.”

“Saldibar,” Kallia exclaimed, surprised and pleased. She kissed him on both cheeks. “But your voice.”

He shrugged. “Who do you think trained those spies who followed you for so many years?” Saldibar reached out a hand to her swollen cheek and winced. “I wanted to help you in the throne room, but there was something in those candles that had us all drugged. Even the dark wizard himself, I believe.”

“Please,” she said. “There is no hope of rescuing me. Guards fill the hallways and Cragyn might return at any minute. Go, leave the city and keep yourself alive.”

“Rescue? No, I’ve got grander plans than rescue.”

Hope crept into Kallia’s heart. “What do you mean?”

The older man looked unsure of himself. “I am only your servant, khalifa, may you live forever. But I’m grateful that you didn’t kill yourself.”

“No great courage of my own, I regret,” she said.

“Be that as it may, I am grateful. We face an excellent opportunity. I’m assembling the means for a revolt that will cast the dark wizard from our city and destroy his army at the same time.”

She shook her head, hope withering as quickly as it had sprung forth. “More pain and death lies in that path, much as I would like to try. Look at the evils he brought about when we surrendered. What will he do if we resist?”

Kallia continued, “The dark wizard’s men are fanatics, controlled and bought through fear, bribed by feeding them violence. He controls wights, owns the allegiance of dragon kin and their wasps, holds giants under his sway. No, the wizard is too strong for us to fight.”

“But what if the wizard left the city and took the better part of his army? Could we take it then?”

She considered. “Perhaps, depending on what support we can draw. How do you propose to lure him away?”

“I don’t have to do anything. He means to march west. He wants to seize the Way before King Daniel moves.”

“He’s leaving? The entire army?”

“Not all of them, no. Plenty will remain to subdue all but the most ferocious resistance. And he’s left Mol Khah to lead them, a monster in his own right.”

“Yes,” Kallia said, remembering the feel of the man’s hand on her throat. “I’ve seen that for myself.”

“Now,” Saldibar said. “What we need is an army to retake Balsalom.” He sighed. “And that’s where the plan fails. How do we do that? His ministers have taken over the city. Neither of us have any influence.”

Kallia smiled, seeing the answer that the grand vizier had overlooked. “Ah, but you forget who does have power.”

“Who?”

“The guilds. Nobody can break their power.”

Kallia had fought to break their monopolies for years with little success. Without their organization and control of commerce, the city could not function. Neither, she suspected, could any of the khalifates from here to Veyre.

“Yes, the guilds,” Saldibar said, rubbing his hand over his bald skull. “I should have guessed. And much as you’ve fought them, they would prefer your rule to the dark wizard. I can approach Fenerath and propose a truce.”

Kallia said, “Once we retake Balsalom, the people will give their lives to hold it; they’ve seen what Cragyn will do, and if they forget, they can look down the Tothian Way at their family members on stakes.

“And we can test what Cragyn will do with a rebellion at his back and the armies of the Free Kingdoms at his front,” she continued. “With any luck we can consolidate the rest of the Western Khalifates before the enemy even hears of the revolt. Yes, contact the guilds. Arrange a meeting.”

Saldibar replaced the wig and pulled the hood over his head. “I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

She tried to stand and winced in pain. Saldibar caught her arm. She said, “Please do send someone to look after my other injuries. The dark wizard is not a gentle lover.”

Saldibar helped her back to the bed, his face as concerned as any father’s. “Of course, my queen. And thank you for forgiving my weaknesses. I know I have failed you.”

Kallia touched his arm, ignoring the bitter smile on his face. “Saldibar, you have never failed me.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“There is one other thing,” Saldibar said as he turned to go. “My spies discovered who set fire to the Slaves Quarter. No enemy at all, but an ally fleeing from wights sent by the dark wizard.”

Kallia opened her eyes. “Oh?”

“You may or may not remember, but your father had a bodyguard, a barbarian. A good man.”

“Whelan.” Her heart fluttered oddly in her chest, remembering how he had looked at her in her father’s bed chambers so many years ago.

“Yes, I thought you would remember. He belongs to the Brotherhood of the Thorne, specifically to a fanatical band of warriors called the Knights Temperate, and has fled to warn King Daniel about the dark wizard. Or so my spies tell me.”

Kallia knew the sect, although she hadn’t known Whelan was a member. Together with the Order of the Wounded Hand, a band of wizards, the Brotherhood had founded the Citadel. King Daniel was a patron to these strange groups, even lending credence to the teachings of the philosopher who had founded these two fellowships.

“I’ve sent for the man and his companion, a minor wizard named Markal. Perhaps they can plead for help from the Free Kingdoms. Or perhaps,” Saldibar continued, “he will return to help you escape the city. He esteemed both you and your father greatly.”

“Saldibar, that isn’t going to happen. If Balsalom suffers, I suffer. If she dies, so do I. But I won’t leave.” She fixed him with a sharp gaze, a look warning him not to try anything that would contradict this assertion. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my queen.”

Cragyn marched that afternoon. He left a broken city.

Over two thousand men, women, and children sat impaled on stakes surrounding the walls and lining the Tothian Way to Ter. Their screams still carried over the walls, although they began to fade. Hundreds of others had died in the night of butchery that followed the wedding of their khalifa to the dark wizard. Torturers had spent the night with Kallia’s brother Omar and his screams could be heard throughout the palace. By late morning, they’d planted his head on a pike atop Toth’s View. The torturers welcomed the dark wizard; he’d promised them their own guild, out from beneath the corrections guild.

Several thousand more people were led east in chains, including most of Kallia’s army and several hundred slaves. Thousands more might have fled to Horvan or Ter, or one of the cities upon which the wizard’s wrath had fallen less harshly, but Mol Khah’s soldiers guarded the gates and drove back any without legitimate reasons for leaving.

Even the gardens were defiled; mammoths stripped branches from trees to satisfy voracious appetites. Two giants uprooted a four-hundred-year-old olive tree planted when Balsalom was still young, while Mol Khah’s twelfth phalanx destroyed the khalifa’s vineyards digging for gold coins reported buried for safekeeping beneath its vines.

The merchant tower rang its bells to open the Grand Bazaar, but few merchants came and fewer customers.

Balsalom subdued, Cragyn and his army marched west by midday with a blare of trumpets and a great shout of triumph from his army. He left a formidable force behind, including giants and mammoths. Mol Khah, whose enemies called him the butcher of Beltan, after the city he’d razed earlier in the year, stayed to keep Balsalom quiet and raise more troops from the Western Khalifates. He’d brought Kallia to Toth’s View to witness Cragyn’s army issue forth.

“There marches the high khalif of Mithyl,” Mol Khah said proudly. He dwarfed her in height; his sword alone stood to her shoulder when he planted it on the flagstones.

“Mithyl? The entire world?” Kallia questioned, resisting the urge to flinch at the expected blow. “King Daniel and the Citadel would argue that assertion. Perhaps the wizard grows overconfident.”

“By spring, all of Eriscoba will be his. Those foolish barbarian lordlings are no match for Cragyn.”

“Again,” Kallia said, feeling bold and taking advantage of the pasha’s buoyant mood, “the wizard overestimates his own strength. What man can defeat a Knight Temperate in combat? Now imagine five hundred such knights riding in formation. Your army will be put to flight like sheep beset by wolves.”

Mol Khah fixed her with a cold glare. “You have no idea what power the wizard wields or you would not make such foolish statements. Perhaps if Balsalom had resisted rather than falling to its knees, woman, you would have seen Cragyn’s wrath kindled.” He smiled. “Yes, but you will see the power soon enough. Perhaps nine months from now.”

Her stomach clenched. “What do you mean? It was one night. One night is rarely enough for such things.” She turned away, remembering with comfort the tea Saldibar had brewed to prevent such a calamity.

He shrugged. “One night or many, it does not matter. The wizard cannot plant his seed without it taking root. And when the child is born . . . ” He looked out to the marching army and laughed.

Kallia turned away. Yes, well she would see. She would drink willow and savin tea every day until she was sure his seed had not taken root. She would drink so many cups of tea that she would throw up at the mere taste of it.

Mol Khah let his attention slip from the khalifa, and that would prove his downfall. Kallia, who had learned the palace’s secret passages during the paranoid years after the assassinations, made her way that night to a chamber deep in the heart of the palace, where Saldibar had arranged a meeting.

Father had used this room as sleeping quarters on those nights that he didn’t feel safe. It could be accessed by two hallways. The first from a hidden staircase, itself reached by pulling up tiles in the corner of the garden apartments’ second closet. The second came from a building behind the Fountain Court. It was small enough that the light of a single lamp proved sufficient. Ten men plus Saldibar and Kallia crowded the room, sitting on footstools and chairs. She had a representative of every major guild but the corrections guild. She’d dearly wanted their support as well, but the loyalty of their torturers was suspect. A couple of men grumbled that it was too cold this far beneath the ground, but Saldibar glared them into silence.

Fenerath, the guildmaster, looked about the room for a moment, before saying, “And you think we can trust everyone here?” He snorted.

Fenerath had climbed to guildmaster from the weavers guild, a compromise between the powerful merchants and their chief rivals the masons and the wine-makers. Saldibar himself had endorsed Fenerath’s nomination to end an increasingly bitter dispute. But when appointed, the man proved a puppet of nobody, ruining reputations and drying the flow of crucial supplies to any who opposed him. Some accused him of plundering the guild coffers for his own enrichment. Indeed, the man’s ostentatious show of wealth—gold rings, chains, rich robes—did little to dispel this rumor.

“Yes, I have faith in all of you,” Kallia said, in answer to Fenerath’s question. She held out her hands in a pleading gesture. “There are many hatreds in this room, some of them directed at me. But the one thing you all love is Balsalom.” And money, Kallia thought, but didn’t voice this opinion. “I love Balsalom too. More than my own life. I suggest we forget past rivalries to retake our city.”

“Still,” Nabah from the merchants guild said with a shrug. He was probably the second least liked person in the room after Fenerath. The merchants guild was rather fond of using its power and wealth to bludgeon the other guilds. “How can we be sure? What if we have a spy?”

Saldibar said, “Let us hope that we don’t have a spy.” The grand vizier was not liked by everyone either, but all respected him. His presence bolstered this meeting. He raised his eyebrow significantly. “If we do, then every person in this room will be tortured to death.”

A few uneasy glances went around the room as they each tried to guess who might be a spy. Some eyes strayed to Fenerath, while others merely eyed their opponent from a rival guild.

Kallia nodded her agreement with the grand vizier. She could sense them swaying, torn between fear and hatred of what the wizard had done. “Yes, and the spy himself will die as horribly as anyone else. Remember how Cragyn made an example of my brother? He doesn’t trust traitors. And why should he? What kind of man turns against his own city, against his brother, his son, his wife.”

“The first step,” Saldibar said, “is to spirit the khalifa from the palace. Once we get her away from Mol Khah, we can spring our uprising.”

“And then what?” Fenerath asked the khalifa. “Will you flee the city and leave us to win or lose by our own strengths and weaknesses?”

She rose from her seat and put her hand on the guildmaster’s arm, then walked around the room, touching each man on the face or hand and looking them in the eyes. Some met her gaze, others looked awkwardly at their hands or fiddled with beards. If they looked down, she lifted their chins so they could meet her gaze. As she did, she expressed her love for her people with her eyes. She bared her soul, showing them the pain in her eyes and her hope. It was a difficult and humbling task. She didn’t know if she succeeded.

Kallia said, “I surrendered Balsalom once. Never have I made a graver mistake, and never again will I abandon my people. I love this city more than my own life. And if giving my life is what it takes, I will gladly do so.”

She laid out the details of her plan.

Each guild maintained a private army from the watchmans guild to enforce city and guild law and, at annoying intervals, to skirmish with other guilds over property and trade rights. These men were not as well armed as the regular army, but they were disciplined, organized, and great believers in the virtue of Balsalom. Gather them together and you would have an army of a thousand men.

The plan went thus. Saldibar would slip Kallia from the palace while Mol Khah drilled his men in the courtyard. After that, the watchmen would overwhelm the guards on the city walls, and free those men who languished under the corrections guild. They would then surround Mol Khah’s garrison at the palace while the guilds recruited a larger army from the city. Supplementing the watchmen with these new recruits to keep Mol Khah from breaking free, they could then infiltrate the palace through Kallia’s secret passages and destroy the garrison.

But first, they would wait to let Cragyn’s army entangle itself in the mountains. Move too soon and the wizard would simply turn around and be at their throats before they could retake the city.

“And now,” she said, returning to her feet, “will all of you swear an oath? Not to me, but to the people of Balsalom that you will do everything in your power to free them from the dark wizard’s tyranny?”

They rose to their feet and raised both fists to shoulder height. But it wasn’t this gesture of oath-taking so much as the looks in their eyes that gave her the answer she was looking for. That look told her that to a man they would fight and die by her side.

Chapter IX

DARIK STOOD ATOP THE EAGLE Tower next to Hoffan and the others, watching the cavalry approach Montcrag. It was dark, but the enemy didn’t hide its numbers. Instead, it lit its way with torches. About thirty horsemen climbed the road that led to the gates, three abreast, which was as wide as they could get on the narrow road. They couldn’t spread out until much closer to the gates, and that would put them in range of arrow fire.

Darik could see a much larger force making its way up the Tothian Way. There were perhaps two hundred horsemen in this second group, and Darik could see more down in the valley who would arrive soon, although he couldn’t tell from here if they were more horse or footmen.

“Hah,” Hoffan said. “They’ll never mount an assault that way. What, are they going to send their cavalry three at a time to bang against the gates and beg us to let them in? And if they mean to simply starve us out, let them try. I’ve got enough foodstuffs here to last a year or more. One of the benefits of taxing every shipment that passes through.” He shook his head. “We won’t see the Famine Child at Montcrag.”

“I don’t think that’s their goal,” Markal said. “The dark wizard means to pin us in place until he can bring other weapons to bear.”

The big man looked skeptical. “This castle has withstood all manner of siege weapons and assaults. It will survive one more.” He shook his head. “No enemy has taken Montcrag by force since it was built in the wars.”

“The castle is much older than the Tothian Wars. Perhaps a thousand years older.” Markal explained, “The writing carved into stones outside the gates is an ancient version of the old tongue. Magical bindings to the stone. That would explain why the castle didn’t fall into ruins after the wars, when the passes were deserted for two hundred years. The talismans are worn, but still hold power.”

This bit of news clearly surprised the warlord. “All the better, then.” He grinned. “Won’t it amuse the world that the dark wizard was able to conquer the entire east but broke his army against a castle manned by eighty fighting men?”

True to Markal’s prediction, the horsemen stopped just out of bow-shot and waited. Their bath from Montcrag’s chamber pots must have taught them a lesson, for nobody attempted to approach the gates under olive branch.

Hoffan turned to climb down the stairs. “Come, they’ve not caught us by surprise. Let’s prepare for siege.” He looked at Darik and Sofiana. “I can even find use for our young companions.”

Darik had hoped that this use would include sword training, but no, it meant physical labor. While Hoffan talked strategy with Whelan and Markal, he sent Darik and the girl to help the fletcher carry stacks of arrows to the towers, then had them deliver supper to the men in the towers and on the walls. Darik suspected that if battle came, he’d be left with similarly menial chores. Sofiana too, chafed at this work, but Darik remembered Whelan’s comments about how she could shoot the crossbow. She, at least, would see some action.

Whelan told Darik of their plans after dinner. “We leave in the morning. We’ll hike over the mountain that rises behind the castle walls. Flockheart and his griffins live back in the mountains and I hope to convince him to fly us to the Citadel, where I can warn King Daniel and gather the Brotherhood.”

“What about Markal?”

“Markal is staying to defend Montcrag. He’ll catch up with us later if he can.” Whelan must have caught Darik’s concerned expression, for he added, “Don’t worry about the wizard. Whatever happens, Markal will escape. He always does.”

But that hadn’t been Darik’s worry, he realized somewhat guiltily. If Markal stayed, no doubt he would keep the steel book with him. Darik had begun to think of the book as his own, although he couldn’t say why. The wizard had recovered it from the tomb, after all, and the book was wizardry, pure and simple. No business of a sixteen-year-old boy.

Darik turned in for bed early at Whelan’s suggestion. It was nice to sleep on a bed rather than the hard ground or the back of a camel, but he’d have liked to see Montcrag defend itself. There would be no excitement for him, he thought as he fell asleep.

Darik woke in the night to a booming echo. At first he thought it part of his dreams and rolled over in bed. A moment later, another boom. He sat up in his bed.

“Darik,” Sofiana called through the darkness. She slept in the next bed over, between Darik and Whelan. “What’s that?” Genuine fear sounded in her voice.

“I don’t know. Where’s your father?”

“His bed is empty. So is Markal’s.”

Darik climbed to his feet and threw open the door. It was dark outside. A cold wind blew in, a blast so unexpected that he took a step backwards. Yesterday, Montcrag was cooler than the valleys, yes, but Darik was unprepared for this bite in the air.

Another boom sounded, louder now that the door hung open. Shouts sounded from the walls and a fire burned on the far end of the green. He threw on his pants and shirt, while Sofiana hurried to do the same. She grabbed her crossbow and strapped a quiver over her shoulder. Darik wished he had a weapon of some kind, any kind. Together, they ran toward the front gates where the fire burned.

A man intercepted them. “Go back to your rooms. This is no place for children.”

“Children?” Sofiana said angrily. “We’re not children. We have work to do. Move out of our way.”

“No,” the man said, grabbing her by the arm and reaching for Darik. Sofiana held her crossbow outstretched to keep it away from the man. Darik didn’t know whether to keep running toward the tower, or obey. “Come on, then, boy, before I give you a whipping.”

“It’s all right, Traint,” a voice boomed. Hoffan strode toward them from the darkness. “They’re with me.” His voice was worried.

Hoffan led them to the Eagle Tower. At the top, archers fired arrows into the darkness. Whelan was nowhere in sight, but Markal overlooked the battle. The wizard gave them a glance, then turned back to the action below.

The boom sounded again, and Darik saw the cause. A dozen Veyrians bashed at the door with a battering log. Other men held aloft a platform topped by shields, deflecting most of the arrows. Every so often, a lucky shot slipped through the platform and a man fell to the ground, or scrambled backwards with an arrow in his shoulder. But every time that happened, another man ran toward the doors with his shield held overhead until he reached the safety of the battering platform.

Hoffan’s men clumped inside the bailey, ready to fight back any breach of the gates. Whelan strode amongst them, shouting instructions and encouragement. A cauldron of oil bubbled on a fire burning just beyond Whelan’s men, while men turned a spigot on the cauldron and carried buckets of oil to the walls.

Outside the castle, beyond bow shot, a row of torches lit the road leading up from the Way; Cragyn’s army readied a charge for when the doors broke. More fires burned all along the Tothian Way.

“Why aren’t we doing anything?” Darik asked, concerned at the lack of response.

“We could stop them, but as soon as we show our weapons, we lose the advantage. There’s no reason to panic. They’ll never break through unless they find something bigger than that stick to poke at us,” Hoffan said.

“And here it comes,” Markal announced.

Four giants carried an iron-headed ram between them. They pushed aside the men crowding the pathway. Horses snorted nervously and one danced out of the way, only to slide down the slope while the man on its back threw himself clear. Flailing, the horse screamed and disappeared from sight. The giants wore heavy armor and helmets that deflected the hail of arrows that challenged their advance. The Veyrians at the gate hastily retreated with their own battering ram. Another boom sounded, this one louder.

Markal said, “We need more wizards.”

Hoffan pulled nervously at his beard. “Whelan said you’d be enough.”

“Of course he would say that. But what you really need is Nathaliey or Chantmer the Tall.”

Hoffan listened to the ram boom again, then turned to Markal and smiled. “Not enough. The doors will hold.”

“No, nothing can destroy those doors,” Markal agreed. “But they might break the hinges. And if the hinges break—”

A light gathered back at the enemy’s army and Darik saw four men huddle together with a light in their hands. It grew larger until it illuminated their faces, clenched together in concentration. The men wore long robes inscribed with writing and cartouches. Dark wizards. The light spread toward the walls.

The giants roared and smashed their ram into the doors with new ferocity. Darik felt the light wash up the walls, sending a surge of strength through his body. What strength would the magic give the giants, who bathed in its full power?

The Veyrians who’d stepped aside, still holding their ram but no longer protected by the platform, galloped forward, impossibly fast for the terrain and ignoring the swarm of arrows. They threw themselves against the door. The giants bashed again. A scream of stressed iron filled the air. The doors would not hold long under the twin assaults.

“Now?” Hoffan asked Markal. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Hoffan cupped his hands to his mouth and turned toward the men in the bailey. “Now!” The men below shouted to others.

Hot oil and pitch poured from arrow loops and murder holes in the wall. The men and giants below shouted and danced backwards, but others rushed to take their place. Arrows cut them down before they reached the doors.

“Move back!” Markal shouted.

They gave him space. The wizard held out his right hand, muttering words under his breath. A light flashed from his palm to the ground. Pitch and oil ignited in a fireball, and a wave of heat washed up the side of the castle.

Men screamed and scrambled away from the fire. A giant, flames roaring like a torch from his head to his boots, ran toward his army, knocking into men and beast and setting them afire. Two horses fell down the slope, taking riders with them. The giant himself lurched from the path, scorching the grass as he fell.

There was more magic in Markal’s action than a mere spark for oil and pitch. The fire roiled back from the doors toward the enemy forces like water pouring down a hill. The Veyrians had broken ranks when the burning giant ran amongst them, but now they lost all discipline. With nowhere to go, footmen and cavalry fought each other out of the way, knocking people over the edge, burning, and screaming. Some of the cavalry speared their hapless companions on foot to drive them from the path.

At the castle, water poured from arrow loops to protect the gates, but the fire ball continued its way through the enemy.

The castle gates swung open, and Whelan led Montcrag’s defenders on the attack. They drove a wedge through the enemy, killing scores, and sending man and horse tumbling from the road. The Veyrians fled before this attack, turning nothing but their own backs to defend against Montcrag’s swords. Whelan’s men drove the enemy to the Tothian Way before returning.

The fighting had lasted only thirty minutes, but when it ended, burned bodies and battering rams lay in a charred mass before the gates. As many as a hundred more soldiers lay dead along the path and strewn down the hillside. Darik could see none of Whelan’s men among them. A few had sustained serious wounds, but not many. Darik and Sofiana joined the others in a triumphant shout.

“Hah!” Hoffan said when they finished cheering. “So much for the vaunted armies of Veyre.” He clapped Markal on the shoulder so hard he nearly knocked the wizard over, then eyed the man’s withered right hand. Markal staggered under the blow, face completely drained of strength.

“Don’t worry,” Darik offered at Hoffan’s concerned look. “His hand will heal.”

Dawn crept over the horizon. Darik had hoped the victory would send Cragyn’s armies back to the valley, or that they would simply continue along the Tothian Way, leaving Montcrag alone. But instead, Veyrians kept gathering along the Way.

A thunderclap broke the sky. The castle walls shook, throwing men to the ground. Darik staggered backwards and his ears rang. A terrific wrenching sound split the air and the gates burst inward on their hinges. Veyrians rushed up the road from the Way, swords drawn.

Darik looked down at the shattered remains of the gates in dismay. Those doors had stood for a thousand years and yet lay splintered into kindling. He didn’t understand. Markal had declared the doors impervious to assault and nobody had touched them.

Markal answered the question. “The dark wizard.” His face was pale. “He’s here.”

The archers in the tower shot arrows as fast as they could toward the soldiers charging the gates. The man next to Hoffan screamed, an arrow embedded in his neck. A brave enemy archer stood at the base of the Eagle Tower, shooting up at them. Sofiana slipped a bolt into her crossbow, cranked the handle, then coolly leveled the bow at the man and fired. She buried her shot, and the man fell backwards, clutching at his chest.

A steady stream of arrows chopped down the first wave of cavalry, and of the second group, only one reached the green. He was dragged from his horse by half a dozen men and dispatched. By now, however, a perimeter of archers encircled themselves about the outer wall, shooting back at the men above them. They had a decided disadvantage, trying to shoot into the air from an unprotected position, but their ever-increasing strength forced Hoffan’s archers to keep low, and drew away firepower.

A small but growing band of footmen and horse fought their way into the bailey green. At first, Whelan’s men attacked each foe with overwhelming numbers, but soon, the battle broke into a general melee. Now that they were evenly matched, the Veyrians proved their worth. Slowly, the battle turned in their favor.

Hoffan pulled his sword from its scabbard, then turned to Darik. “Can you fight, boy?”

Darik hesitated. No, he couldn’t fight. He remembered his clumsy attack when guildmaster Fenerath took him for a slave in his father’s manor.

“Boy?” Hoffan demanded, sharper this time. He pulled out a second blade, this one shorter, a parrying weapon and held it out to Darik, hilt-first.

“I can,” Darik said, grabbing the sword. He followed Hoffan down the tower stairs. Markal and Sofiana stayed above.

The sword was still too long and it felt heavy and strangely balanced. He’d had training with a rapier as a child, and even a little with the scimitar, but those were stabbing and cutting weapons. This was a chopping weapon, designed to separate bone from sinew. He followed Hoffan onto the green.

The battle was about to be lost. Montcrag still maintained a slight edge in numbers, but they slowly lost ground and men. Some looked ready to flee, although there was nowhere to run. Hoffan bellowed in rage, throwing himself into the fray. The sight of him fighting by their side encouraged his men.

Whelan himself emerged from the rear, fighting into the heart of the enemy forces. His sword glowed in hand. Soultrup cut down any who dared stand in the man’s way. The enemy shrank back and Hoffan started a shout that spread across the green.

Darik still stood next to the bailey, unsure what to do. A man in black and gold spotted him and came to attack. He was taller than Darik and wore a breastplate and helmet and showed a gap-toothed grin as he sized up his opponent. He swung his sword at the boy’s head. Darik lifted his sword just in time, but was driven backwards, jolting his shoulder. He attempted a counterattack, but the man knocked it aside easily. His enemy brought the sword around again, and this time Darik stood on uneven footing and fell to his knee. With a shout of triumph, the man swept aside Darik’s sword and prepared for the killing blow.

Whelan appeared from nowhere, driving the man backwards. Whelan’s second blow broke down the man’s defenses and the third finished him. By now, Hoffan’s men regained the upper hand and sealed the entrance to the castle with more burning oil.

Montcrag’s archers dropped the enemy with a steady rain of arrows. At last, Veyre’s captains ordered a retreat. The green was clear again. Hoffan’s men let out another shout, but much weaker than before. There was no attempt to drive the enemy back to the Tothian Way a second time. It would not be long before Cragyn attacked again. Indeed, the enemy gathered just out of bow shot, organizing into ranks, and bolstered by more giants.

Whelan found Darik. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you stay where it was safe?”

Darik struggled to regain his breath. “Hoffan needed me.”

“He did? Is that what he said? I’ll wring his neck.” He turned to go.

“No,” Darik said, catching him by the arm. “I wanted to help. When everyone else is fighting for their lives, I can’t hide in the corner.”

Whelan considered for a moment, then nodded. “Well said. Where’s Ninny?”

“In the tower. With Markal.”

“Good. Stay here. If you’re going to fight, we’ll get you a proper sword and armor. Oh, and teach you how to hold that thing. You can’t swing it around like a stick.” He ran toward the gates.

Darik stood gasping, struggling against the shakes. The man who’d nearly killed him swam in a pool of blood a few feet away. That dead body could have been his own.

He was stung by Whelan’s criticism, but also hoped he’d crossed a hurdle in the man’s eyes. Darik had hardly proven himself a hero, but he’d stood next to the men and fought, and it was exhilarating. And, Whelan had as much as promised to train him in swordsmanship.

Darik joined the others at the gates. They pulled a cart in front of the door and stacked enemy bodies into a makeshift wall. Almost twenty of Montcrag’s men lay dead, far fewer than the enemy, but Hoffan had started with fewer than a hundred defenders, while the enemy had almost unlimited resources.

Hoffan was giving the order to bring barrels to the barricade when the third attack came. Darik joined the row of pikes bristling through the wagon. He took up a pike and braced himself. Grim faces surrounded him, dirty, wounded, and tired. Some of them were criminals or escaped slaves from the khalifates, and like Darik, knew what awaited them if captured. They’d be led in chains to Veyre and sent to the mines. If lucky.

It started with a fireball against the cart. The cart burst into flames, filling the air with smoke and the stench of burning bodies. The heat drove them back from the barricade, and shouts sounded from beyond the destroyed gates. Arrows flew through the air from walls and through the gates and an instant later three giants tore apart the remains of the makeshift barricade. Footmen and cavalry burst through the wreckage and grappled with the defenders. Veyrian cavalry impaled themselves on the defensive perimeter of pikes, but sheer numbers drove the pikemen back into the bailey.

“The towers!” Whelan shouted.

Darik and the others fought their way to the towers. The archers on the walls stopped trying to keep the enemy from reaching the castle, concentrating instead on protecting the men fleeing to the towers. Upon reaching the towers, the defenders pulled the doors shut and barred them. Darik made his way to the top of the Eagle Tower and joined his companions.

The enemy didn’t immediately assault the towers, but took the lower buildings against the walls, and positioned themselves behind a wall of shields.

The green was unrecognizable from yesterday. The ground was torn and muddy, while dead men and horses lay everywhere. Broken bits of the cart still burned inside the gates. Wounded men from Cragyn’s army hurried to the protection of the buildings before the archers could finish them.

The dark wizard strode through this wreckage. Darik recognized him immediately from his commanding presence and by the swirl of light about his body. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t so much light as something that sucked the light from the sky. Unlike his men, he stood in the open. Arrows flew at him from all around, but they dropped harmlessly at his feet.

“Watch the wizard,” Whelan warned.

“He’s spent,” Markal said. “He used it to break down the gates. No, he has no more magic than I do right now.”

“But the arrows can’t hit him,” Darik protested.

“An illusion of power. He’s wearing a magical cloak, as a shield. Perhaps the wizard made the cloak, perhaps it is a relic like Whelan’s sword, but it is the cloak itself turning our arrows.”

Hoffan ordered his men to stop shooting. Emboldened by Markal’s words, he leaned over the edge of the rampart. “You might take us,” he shouted to the dark wizard. “But it will cost you dearly. Why not continue on your way? We’ll agree not to hinder your men.”

“So you will swear your allegiance to me?”

Hoffan balked. “I didn’t say that. I bow to no man.”

Cragyn laughed. “Then we have no deal.”

Hoffan let out his own laugh, which sounded more confident than Darik felt. “Very well. I promise you will leave Montcrag a shadow of your former strength.”

If Hoffan meant to cast doubt, he succeeded. Some of the attackers murmured amongst themselves. They did, however, keep entering the green.

Hoffan turned to one of his men and said quietly, “Tell the men not to shoot until I give the word. Let the enemy pack the green and every one of our arrows will draw blood. If they storm the towers, we pour burning oil down the stairs. We’ll cut off entry or exit from the green and slaughter them to the last man. Thrice beaten, they won’t attack a fourth time. Go.”

Hoffan’s man climbed down the stairs, emerging on the castle walls a minute later, where he spread the news. Hoffan looked back to Cragyn. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll continue our slaughter of your men. We have powers we’ve only begun to tap.”

Cragyn looked unconcerned by Hoffan’s speech. “I suppose you’re talking about that old fool Markal. Yes, that’s right, I see you up there, wizard. I also know about your meddling in Balsalom. The stench of your weak magic was all over the place like a dog who pisses on every street corner.”

Markal smiled. “Still bitter that we cast you from the Order?”

“The Order? A bunch of old men fretting over power they don’t dare to wield. Following a dead philosopher who was only half a man when he was still alive. And you, wizard, shouldn’t you be hiding behind Chantmer the Tall?”

Markal’s voice grew cold. “You overextend yourself. And you peril your life by maligning the Order.”

“Overextend myself? Peril my life? Look east, you old fool.”

Darik followed the gaze of the others and was dismayed by what he saw. Dark shapes flew in the east, soaring up from the plains toward the castle. Dragon wasps! A dozen of them, ridden by their masters, the dragon kin, who were themselves armed with spears. As they approached, wasp and kin screamed in unison. Wails of despair sounded in the towers and on the walls, while the enemy below shouted.

“The bows!” Whelan cried. “You can bring them down.”

They drew their bows too late. The dragon wasps drew upon them. One of the creatures landed on the walls, knocking an archer from his feet. Its snakelike neck darted back and forth, jaws clamping down on the man’s face and neck. The dragon kin riding this beast jumped from his mount to finish the archer with his spear. Other dragon wasps darted at the men on the walls, knocking some over the edge, and overwhelming others. The archers got off a few shots, but the defense was wild. Back and forth wasps swooped in a series of crazy, high-speed assaults.

The dragon kin might have been human, but their face paint and ragged, dyed hair made them look like demons. One leered at Darik as it swooped past. Sofiana shot at it with her crossbow, but the shot went wide.

As the archers stood to shoot at the wasps, Cragyn’s bowmen launched waves of arrows. Below, Cragyn’s men broke from their defensive positions to rush the towers. Hoffan’s men fought them back for a few minutes, but with the archers on the walls beset from two directions, Veyrians gained the lower levels and fought their way up. Hoffan and Whelan ran down the stairs to join the battle. Markal overlooked the battle with a grim look on his face, while Sofiana shot her crossbow with little success.

Darik froze, torn between staying to help the girl and wizard with his short sword, and going after Whelan and Hoffan. From the ever-closer shouting and clanking of swords below, the battle would reach him either way. Dragon wasps swooped again and again at the walls. Two archers atop the Eagle Tower itself fell to assault, leaving only Darik, his two companions and a single bowman.

From the mountains at their back, a scream, high and inhuman. A moment later, an entire chorus of screams. And then he saw them, coming over the mountains, shimmering white and oh, so gloriously beautiful against the sun. An entire flock of griffins. Head and front legs of an eagle, and back haunches of a lion, they were as big as horses, but graceful as Whelan’s falcon as they wheeled in the air. Each griffin held at least one man on its back, sometimes two, and these men shouted as the griffins swept into battle. Their mounts joined them in another ear-splitting shriek. This time the dragon wasps and their riders lifted up from the walls to meet them.

Markal broke from his stupor. New hope brushed across his face. “Flockheart! He’s come!”

There were only a dozen dragon wasps, compared to twice as many griffins; the wasps and their riders, so fearsome a moment earlier, looked weak and pitiful in comparison. Some of the griffins wheeled immediately at the dragon wasps, while others dove for the green, attacking Cragyn’s men with claw and beak.

Two griffins seized a dragon wasp in the air overhead. One tore at its eyes with its beak, while the other raked its belly with claws. The griffin riders dragged the dragon’s kin from his mount and hurled him to the rocks below. The wasp followed its rider, broken and dead. One of the griffins dropped to the Eagle Tower and Darik and Sofiana instinctively shrank back.

Two men rode the griffin and one slid free, sword in hand. The man remaining on the griffin looked bird-like himself. He’d slicked back his hair like the curved feathers around an eagle’s ears and he cocked his head and eyed Darik before turning to the wizard.

“Flockheart,” Markal said. “You’re just in time.”

The second man, to Darik’s surprise, was Whelan’s brother Ethan. He looked different than when Darik had seen him in the tavern a few days earlier. He wore Eriscoban leather armor, covered with sheets of metal scale. Ethan slid his sword back into his scabbard, hung over his shoulder in the same way that Whelan wore his blade. From its battered, overly polished scabbard, Darik guessed it had seen plenty of battles.

“Well met, Ethan,” Markal said. “How did Flockheart know we needed him? He’d have no news of this battle in his aerie.”

“I met Saldibar’s agents soon after you left. They were looking for you, thinking you Veyrian spies who’d set fire to the Slaves Quarter. We exchanged a few, uh, pleasantries until we properly established identities. I’m afraid I left them somewhat worse for the wear.”

“But alive, I hope,” Markal said.

“Yes, of course. So they brought me to the grand vizier in the Tombs of the Kings and he sent me to catch you. I’ve been riding hard, and I met Flockheart and his flock chasing a pair of dragon wasps who’d stumbled into the mountains and stirred up trouble. So we already rode in force.”

“Where is my brother?” Ethan asked.

Sofiana said, “Down below.”

“As should I be.” Ethan turned and ran down the stairs. Darik took up Hoffan’s short sword and made to follow, but Markal stopped him.

Dragon wasps killed or driven away, the griffins swooped at the attackers, lifting many into the air to tear apart or dash on the rocks. Hoffan’s men fought free from the towers. Victory for Cragyn’s army turned into a rout. Yet again, the Veyrians fled down the hill.

Darik, Markal, and Sofiana made their way to the green, where Darik returned his sword to Hoffan, embarrassed at its lack of use. But the big man hugged him and grinned. “Well done.” He eyed the griffins with a curious look that encompassed both awe and fear. “All those sheep paid off after all.” He turned and shouted instructions to organize his men against the next attack.

“No,” Markal shouted after him. “It’s over. We can’t win, not even with the griffins.”

“Are you asking me to abandon Montcrag?” Hoffan asked.

“No, I’m telling you to abandon Montcrag. The griffins can carry us to the top of the mountain and we can hike to Eriscoba from there. We have no choice. This defeat is just a sting to the enemy, while we’ve lost half our men, dead or injured.”

Hoffan hesitated, then turned and shouted new instructions.

Darik and Sofiana found Whelan before Ethan, but when Whelan heard that his brother was searching for him, he started looking. They found Ethan shortly. The two embraced, then Ethan said, “I’m glad I found you. You’ve got to return.”

“To Balsalom? How badly was the city damaged?”

Ethan’s expression turned grim. “The dark wizard has murdered and carried away thousands of people.”

“And the khalifa?” Whelan asked in a tired voice. Years lined his face and the glint dulled in his eyes. “Did she die easily or did he torture her?”

“Kallia?” Ethan said, a smile coming to his lips. “I forgot to tell you. Kallia is alive. She sent me to find you.”

Chapter X

HOFFAN SENT MEN TO GUARD Montcrag’s entrance, now unprotected by gates, while Flockheart’s griffins carried the others to safety on the ridge. The ridge topped the mountain like a lizard’s bony spine. Cragyn’s men could scale the mountain with effort—that was Montcrag’s escape route, after all—but the griffins could hold back the armies long enough to make pursuit impossible. Some of Hoffan’s men climbed onto the griffins with terror on their faces, clinging to the rider and clenching their eyes shut. Others rose into the air with looks of exhilaration.

Darik gathered his belongings and returned to the green. Hoffan climbed onto the back of one of the griffins, and gave a sad look over his shoulder. Montcrag had never fallen to direct assault. Until now.

Flockheart and his griffin Brasson returned to the bailey green, followed by a second beast and rider. Whelan approached Flockheart with Scree securely in his hands. He’d covered the falcon’s eyes with a leather hood, but the bird still struggled. She screamed, and Brasson eyed the bird with a curious gleam in its eyes. Recognition? Darik had no idea how intelligent the griffins were.

“Boy,” a voice called from the second griffin. A girl sat on the back of this second animal, or rather a young woman, not a girl. About Darik’s age. A thin leather harness looped around the griffin’s neck, then tied to her belt to keep her from falling should she lose her grip; there was no saddle or bridle. She gestured for him to come.

Darik swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves, then slowly approached the griffin. He held out his hand like he might to a strange dog.

“Not like that,” she said. “She’ll take your arm off.” She grinned. “Come on, just climb on back.”

Sheepishly, Darik climbed onto the back of the animal and wrapped his arms around the girl. The griffin shifted its weight. It felt much like sitting bareback on a horse, but it moved like a recently broken stallion. The girl tied the leather strap around his waist, and wrapped it around his legs and pulled it tight at the crotch.

“There,” she said. “You feel secure?”

“No, not really.”

She laughed. “You look all right to me.”

The girl climbed in front and secured herself, then told Darik to hold on. “Ska!” she shouted, digging her heels into the griffin’s ribs.

Darik felt a terrific lurch and they were airborne. The ground receded rapidly and the wind buffeted his face. Darik looked down at the ground, fighting terror.

The griffin wheeled south over the walls before banking sharply. As it did, Darik held on tight, stunned by the speed. The griffin flew as fast as a galloping horse, but smoother. Cragyn’s men looked skyward, shielding their eyes against the sun. Darik flew too high to see faces, but he imagined envy, fear, longing. Now turned completely around, they climbed swiftly toward the summit. His stomach lurched when they hit a pocket of wind and dropped suddenly, before climbing again. The griffin picked up speed.

It took Darik a moment to recover from fear, from the shock of battle, from the change from ground to air. But then he felt it. He was flying!

Darik let out an exulting shout. The girl looked over her shoulder and laughed, a high, joyous sound.

Most of the griffins landed on the ridge to drop their loads before flying back to the castle for a final, brief defense. Darik and the girl, however, continued over the mountain. Whelan and Markal had decided that Sofiana and Markal would continue with Hoffan before breaking west for Eriscoba with Ethan. Whelan and Darik, however, would fly to Flockheart’s aerie, then return to Balsalom.

Trees flew by underneath them. The terrain was rugged and barely passable, except through the air. They followed a small river pouring from a canyon, and flew over a waterfall cascading down the mountainside. He stared in amazement at it all. Occasionally, the girl would turn and point out some feature of the landscape, naming Bestor’s Hollow, and the Sacred Copse. Flying at such speeds made it hard to hear and several times he had to ask her to repeat herself.

After the initial burst of energy, Darik noticed something else. The girl was quite beautiful. She had a smooth face and an attractive pucker to her lips when she leaned into the wind; her eyes sparkled with life. He still held her tightly around her waist, and her breasts pressed into his arms when they leaned into a turn. Her long hair swung free in the wind, brushing through his face like a horse’s mane, and he loved the feeling. She had dark hair like a woman of the khalifates, but her face was as white as cream, like a barbarian’s.

He leaned forward. “What is your name?” She said something, but the wind carried it away. “What?”

She turned around again and put her mouth next to his ear. “Daria. What is yours?”

“My name is Darik.”

She laughed. “Darik and Daria. We could be brother and sister.”

Darik’s sister’s name was Darikia, although he called her Kaya for short, so she wasn’t far off. Brother and sister, however, wasn’t on Darik’s mind at the moment.

They rode for some time before spotting the aerie. It might have been an hour, but it felt like less. Darik didn’t want the flight to end.

The aerie rose from a copse of trees, invisible until they were upon it. It sat in an old watch tower, half-crumbling with age. Ivy gripped the tower, working its way into the stone. The windows in the upper reaches were broken out to accommodate griffins.

“Watch your head,” she said as they swooped toward one of these openings.

Darik ducked and shut his eyes, sure the griffin would miss its entrance and slam into the wall at such speed. It didn’t, but came to an easy stop inside. He found himself in a wide room with a stone floor. A bed of evergreen branches lay in one corner. In another, two small griffins woke as they entered. They rose to their feet and waddled toward them, squawking.

“Yes, I know you’re hungry,” Daria told them. “But you’ll have to be patient.”

She climbed off the griffin, then untied Darik and helped him down. His backside was sore, as were his arms from gripping Daria too tightly. The griffin turned and eyed him.

Daria laughed. “She’s wondering who’s been riding on her back.”

“And no doubt thinking what a poor rider I am.”

“Ah, you weren’t bad. And you didn’t panic when we took off like most people do the first time.”

“Where are the other riders?” Darik asked.

She looked out the window. “They have their own aeries. We’re only expecting my father and your friend, but Brasson took a nasty scratch on his haunches, so Father won’t ride him hard. Do you want to help me rub down Averial?”

The question surprised him. “Yes, very much.”

Daria pulled two brushes with hard wire bristles from the wall. “Averial grooms her own feathers, but she has a hard time with her haunches. Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

She took his hand with the brush and rubbed it with the grain of the fur. Averial’s haunches were hot from the flight. It was exactly like rubbing down a horse, which Darik knew how to do. But he kept his mouth shut, enjoying the touch of Daria’s hand.

“There, you’ve got it. Keep brushing while I get some food for these two before they start pecking at my legs.”

She disappeared from the room. Darik kept rubbing, but it made him nervous to stand alone with the griffin and her fledglings. The younger animals eyed him hungrily, perhaps wondering if he was their lunch.

Daria returned with the severed hind legs of a deer. Not, he noted, one of Hoffan’s sheep, although that might appear regularly in their diet, as well.

“Do they eat mostly deer?”

Daria said, “Deer, rabbits, wild goats, and sheep. Pretty much anything we can catch. Usually, the adults hunt on their own, but we ride to catch food for ourselves, as well. If you want, you can come hunting with me tomorrow.”

“I’d like that,” Darik said, “but I doubt Whelan intends to stay that long. How much do they eat, anyway?”

“Maybe three or four deer a fortnight. More if they’ve been flying a lot.”

As they finished grooming Averial, Daria told him more about the griffins. There were wild griffins in the mountains far to the north, but this particular breed had lived among humans for hundreds of years.

Daria’s father came from a long line of riders and was the leader of those few who still raised and trained griffins in the old way. Like her father, Daria loved her griffins and planned to stay here all of her life.

“How many riders are there?” Darik asked.

“Oh, lots of us,” she said. “Maybe a hundred and fifty. I see other people all the time. Once a month, at least.”

Darik nodded. He’d seen a hundred times that many people in the Grand Bazaar at once, rivers of people that eddied and flowed and could drown you if you didn’t know how to move with the currents. No doubt Daria would be shocked to visit such a place.

“As for griffins,” she continued, “when we have extra fledglings, we usually free them in the mountains. There are several hundred higher along the Spine, where they’ve made aeries. Not exactly wild, but not entirely tame, either. If you’re ever in the high mountains and see a griffin, be careful.”

Whelan and Flockheart arrived about twenty minutes later. Brasson bled from one haunch and Daria and her father tended to his injuries. Whelan unstrapped the saddlebags from its back.

“Give me a hand with this, Darik?” Whelan asked.

Together they carried it down the stairs to the human rooms. “This is heavy,” Darik said as they staggered around the corner. “What’s in here?”

“That steel book. Markal didn’t want to carry it over the mountains, but didn’t want to leave it for the dark wizard either, so he sent it with me. We can leave it here and he’ll come get it later.” He shrugged. “Or we can, if we return first.”

Darik kept his emotions veiled, but inside he was pleased. Perhaps tonight he could get a longer look at it while Whelan and Flockheart talked. But then, there was Daria. He’d like to talk to her more before they left.

“When are we leaving?” he asked Whelan.

“Tomorrow morning, or maybe even tonight, but Markal warned Flockheart that a storm might be coming. The Sea Brothers have begun their battle.”

Every fall and every spring, the North Sea Brother and the South Sea Brother warred to control the ocean. In fall, the colder, northern waters prevailed, and in the spring, the southern waters won the struggle. Rather than accepting the inevitable, the two brothers did battle for several weeks, sending storms west across the plains.

Whelan said, “Flockheart doesn’t want to ride into a thunderstorm. Too dangerous. We might be grounded tomorrow, depending on the weather. We could make a go on foot, but in this terrain and with the Desolation between us . . . ” He trailed off, gnawing at his thumb.

“Worried about the khalifa?”

“Very. But also relieved that she’s alive. But more than that, even, I’m ashamed at my cowardice.”

“Cowardice?” The claim bewildered Darik. He’d seen the man battle at Montcrag with no thought to his personal safety.

Whelan nodded his head. “I’m only delaying my return to Eriscoba by returning to Balsalom. Perhaps I am afraid of death, being killed by Knights Temperate whose loyalties run deeper for my brother than for myself. But more than that, I’m afraid of my brother’s scorn. His hatred.”

“But the Khalifa needs you,” Darik protested. For Whelan, going to the Free Kingdoms may very well mean facing his past, but it would mean running from the larger problem—how to defend Balsalom from Cragyn’s armies.

“She does,” Whelan admitted. “And so we return.” He laughed. “We fly back to danger and yet I feel an overwhelming sense of relief that I don’t have to face my brother yet.”

“That is,” Darik said, “we fly back if the weather holds.” Darik changed the subject. “Whelan, will you teach me how to use the sword?” He looked down to the ground in shame. “I wanted to do more at Montcrag.”

“Montcrag meant everything to that bandit friend of mine. To surrender it to the dark wizard is a sore blow indeed. We all wish we could have done more.”

Yes, Darik thought, but the difference is, everyone else did do something useful. Even Sofiana killed a man. Darik nearly succeeded in killing himself when he blundered into battle with Hoffan’s sword.

“Yes,” Whelan said, seeing the frustration on Darik’s face. “I’ll teach you the sword. But you’ll have to be patient. It takes time, like any other discipline.”

They ate venison stew for dinner. It tasted delicious, nicely seasoned with peppercorn, and thickened with wild carrots and some other thick, bready root. But from the way Daria took her time, Darik suspected the griffin riders ate this particular meal far too often.

“Do you get many visitors?” he asked Flockheart.

Flockheart cocked his head in a bird-like gesture. “A few wizards now and then. Markal every few years, Narud more often. Narud spends a lot of time in the mountains with the animals. Sometimes shows up as an animal himself.”

“Chantmer the Tall came last spring,” Daria said. She wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t care for the griffins much. Just asked a bunch of questions about the Cloud Kingdoms.”

“You’ve been to the cloud castles?” Darik asked, eagerly.

“Nobody’s been there for generations,” Flockheart answered, blowing on a spoonful of soup to cool it. “If you approach, they drive you away. If you reach their lands by stealth, they kill you.”

They finished the meal in silence. After dinner, Whelan took him outside. It was dark, encircled by so many trees around the aerie, and chill. An owl hooted somewhere on the hillside, and a brook bubbled some distance away. It was unnervingly quiet compared to the city. And gone was the all-pervasive sound of crickets. He’d been too busy running the last few days or trying to catch up on lost sleep to notice, but it struck him now.

Whelan groped through the darkness until he found two thick sticks. He trimmed them with a hatchet from the aerie. Daria and Flockheart preferred it cooler than Darik thought comfortable; the fire light flickering through the subsequently open door provided a little bit of light to see by if they stood close to the doorway.

Whelan tossed one of the sticks to Darik. “That man you fought at Montcrag? You did far too much parrying and thrusting. You’ve played around with a rapier, haven’t you?

“My father thought I should be able to defend myself,” Darik said. “My tutor taught me the rapier and the twin daggers.”

“That’s for duels between men with more money than common sense. In battle, you need a different weapon. Most effective weapons kill by brute force, not by fancy, precision attacks. Chop or bash, it’s all the same.” He hefted the club over his shoulder casually, then swung it toward Darik’s head without warning.

Darik jerked away from the attack, but not fast enough. Whelan pulled back on his blow at the last minute, but still gave him a thump on the head. Darik grimaced and dropped his stick, clutching at his head. “Ow. What did you do that for?” Yet, even as he complained, the pain receded. Whelan hadn’t hit him hard.

“We were about to start, but you were standing too close,” Whelan said with a slight smile. “Frankly, I prefer a sword of about this length to a battle axe or mace because it gives me more reach. I’ve already got long arms, so it doubles my effectiveness. My point is, remember how long your opponent’s reach is, including his weapon. Just two more quick lessons and then we can spar.”

Darik picked up his club and looked back inside to see Daria watching him. He felt self-conscious. “Is there any chance we can move a bit further out, away from the door?”

“The light is better—” Whelan started, then saw Daria, who looked away when both of them were watching her. “Ah, of course. You don’t have room to maneuver here against the walls, do you?”

Once they stood out of earshot, Whelan whistled. “Last time I saw her she was no older than Sofiana is now.” He nudged Darik and grinned. “Now she’s the sort of girl who can give you a single look and make your knees wobble.”

Darik groaned. “After my feeble attempts at Montcrag I’m going to look like an idiot, wobbly knees or no.”

“Daria won’t care whether you can sword fight or not. She’ll care more whether you’re kind to her griffins.”

He took a slow swing, which Darik parried easily. Darik swung his own blow, but Whelan danced away and counterattacked, this time harder. Darik ducked to one side.

“I know you hear it all the time,” Whelan said, pressing his advantage, “but it’s true. Act like yourself and you’ll do better with the women.”

“Listen to yourself,” Darik said, feeling more comfortable with Whelan than he had since they both worked in Graiyan’s kitchen. “You must be quite a lover to give your advice so freely.”

Whelan laughed, but there was a bitter edge to it. “Have you ever loved, Darik?”

“Never.” Darik thought about the stablemaster’s daughter Lassa and how she’d tried to seduce him in the hay loft. He’d never loved the girl, but felt only disgust after she’d spurned him when the guildmaster marched Darik and the others naked to the slave blocks.

Whelan said, “Truth is, I’ve always been terrible in love. I’ve only ever loved two women, and it’s ended poorly both times.”

They sparred for a few minutes, Whelan occasionally giving him a bit of advice. Darik already knew about Whelan’s love for Queen Serena, and wanted to ask about the second woman, but remembered the painful conversation as they left the Desolation and waited for Whelan to speak first.

He thought the matter dropped, but at last Whelan sighed and said, “The first love was Serena, of course. I was only seventeen.”

Darik did some figuring. “Seventeen? That means you’re only thirty?”

Whelan nodded, apparently lost in thought. He swung his stick again, knocking through Darik’s guard and clubbing him on the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“Oh, sorry about that.” He paused. “Yes, I’m only thirty. I’ve seen enough to turn me into an old man before my years, I’m afraid. As for Daria, I’ve met her several times with her father. She is shy. She has known few people and doesn’t understand the way the world works. Don’t be the one to teach her, please.”

They battled for a few more minutes, Whelan getting the best of him whenever he wished. Whelan said nothing more, and Darik found himself wondering about the man’s second love. He had a good guess at her identity. Darik had seen the way Whelan worried about the khalifa. That was nothing special. Half the men in Balsalom loved Kallia, but it was a hopeless love, even for Whelan. Ah, but the man had already loved one queen. What was one more hopeless love?

Darik hadn’t thought himself capable of anything but crawling into bed and sleeping until morning, but he woke midway through the night, unable to sleep. He wasn’t thinking about yesterday’s battle, or Daria, or even his sister in Balsalom. No, the thought that crept into his mind was that the steel book sat downstairs where someone could come into the aerie and steal it. Never mind the foolishness of that thought—Darik fully recognized it as such—but he could think of nothing else.

Very well, he thought. I’ll go downstairs and bring it up here where it’s safer. Then I can sleep.

It sounded like a good argument, but didn’t quite explain why he walked so silently down the hallway. He didn’t want to disturb the others. Yes, that was it.

The fire had dwindled to embers, lapping at a log that might burn for another hour before the hearth grew cold. Darik pulled the steel tome from the saddle bag, wrapped himself in the blanket taken from his room, and sat close to the fire. He opened the book.

To his surprise, the picture of the cloud cities wasn’t the first thing inside. Instead, there was a picture of a tower, tall and gray against the sky. Like the other picture, it had been hammered into the metal and painted. And like the other page, the lettering was written on the back.

He thumbed through the other pages, but didn’t see the cloud cities. Had someone come and removed the first page? No, because he remembered that the second page had been a picture of a dragon with its wings spread and fire bellowing from its maw. Had someone reshuffled the pages, then? Markal, perhaps?

He looked at the first page again. He thought at first that the tower was the Citadel, but no, the city over which it towered stood at the edge of the sea. The city must be Veyre then, although he’d heard of nothing so tall that it stood that much higher than any other tower or minaret in the city. The top of the tower was uncompleted with a windlass on top to lift stones.

Darik turned the page to see if he could read the script as he’d done before. At first he saw nothing, just a tangle of strange letters. And then words came to his mind.

“You are looking, my young apprentice, upon the seat of the dark lord’s power. Built and destroyed twice, the Dark Citadel points to the sky in a vain attempt to reach the clouds. When the dark lord has the power to reach the cloud cities, the Sky Brother will—”

All at once the letters swam on the page, breaking the elegant old script and reforming into blocky letters in the common tongue. For a moment, the two scripts struggled, one taking over and the other one writing itself over the top. At last, the newer letters won, writing a single sentence on top of the page. They didn’t speak to his mind anymore, but he could read them clearly.

“Who are you?” the first line asked.

“Who are you?” Darik read aloud, wondering what it meant.

The letters reformed themselves. “Yes, boy, I’m talking to you. Who are you?”

Startled, Darik didn’t speak, but immediately thought his name. The letters swam again.

“Darik, Darik. This means nothing to me. Do you live in the khalifates?”

Well, he had lived in Balsalom, but of course he didn’t live there anymore, as a matter of fact, he doubted—

Whatever hand wrote on the steel sheet was impatient. “Are you alone?”

Darik grew alarmed. The older script demanded his attention, had called him from bed even, but this new language could read his mind. Before he could think, Whelan and Markal flashed into his mind. Outside, an owl hooted, startling him.

“Yes, of course,” the letters wrote out. “You travel with that old fool of a wizard and his friend. So he found the book, did he? In the Tombs of the Kings? I’d have never guessed that one of the old tomes lingered in this part of the world, unfound for so many years. Does Markal know that you read his book?”

And now Darik knew what hand wrote the letters, or thought he did. Terrified, he tried to slam the book shut, but his hands froze on the binding. The owl hooted again, this time closer, a chilling sound. He struggled for a moment, but he couldn’t close the book or tear himself away. In horror, he looked back at the page.

He heard a chuckle in his mind. The letters wrote themselves out, this time changing from blood-red to a darker red, just a shade brighter than black. “Yes, of course he would never let you look at it. And here is why, boy. You will bring me the book, and we will read it together atop the Dark Citadel.”

An image appeared in Darik’s mind. He saw the Dark Citadel rising from the midst of Veyre. It cast a shadow over the entire land, and would soon reach the very heavens. Magic, palpable and inexorable in its desire, stretched from the tower, bringing all of Mithyl under its sway. Who could resist it?

Yes, Darik thought. I will give it to him. Give it away, get rid of the book for good. He looked over his shoulder. He could bring it to the master at Montcrag, be halfway there before the others realized he was gone. He picked up the book and made his way for the door. It was cold outside, but the master would warm him.

He paused at the door, struggling to remember something. The book pulled at his mind even when shut, and soon he found himself turning the handle. He stepped outside and pulled the door shut, then walked through the dark, his feet instinctively knowing the way.

The owl called again, a loud hoot to his left. And then, a massive black shape swooped down from the sky. It struck him hard on the shoulder and knocked him to the ground. Alarmed, he looked up to see the shape diving again. At first he thought it was a griffin, but when it swooped past a second time, he could see its eyes and round face. A giant owl, with horns of feathers. Darik dropped the book and put his hands up to protect his face.

The instant his hands left the book, he knew what had happened to him. Markal had told him not to open the book, but he’d opened it anyway. He’d opened it and drawn Cragyn, who’d nearly forced him over the mountains all night until he put himself in the dark wizard’s power. The wind bit deep, but sweat stood out on his forehead and he felt flushed with fever.

The owl landed about ten feet away. It stood motionless in the darkness. Darik had no idea an owl could be that tall, it stood as high as a man. No, he realized it was a man, not an owl at all. He looked around but the owl was nowhere to be seen. Or were the owl and the man the same person? Darik bent and picked up the book and walked toward the man to get a better look, too surprised to be afraid.

The man leaned against a thick walking stick. His hands, grizzled with age, gripped it firmly. He eyed Darik for a moment, then turned, shambled his way into the trees and disappeared.

Darik returned to the aerie, putting the book away with no temptation to read it ever again, then made his way to his bed. He lay awake for some time, trembling at how close he’d come to betraying his friends and his queen. At last it faded, like a bad dream.

Clouds marred the sky the next day, threatening a late-summer thunderstorm. Flockheart went outside and sniffed at the air for a few minutes before declaring that they would fly. He’d made an early morning excursion to leave Scree, the griffin fledglings, and the steel tome, the latter at Darik’s urging, in the care of another griffin rider who lived nearby. They ate a hurried breakfast of cold venison stew, then saddled up the griffins.

“Whelan is riding Joffa,” Flockheart told his daughter. “If you want, the boy can ride on Brasson with me.”

“He can ride with me,” Daria said, quickly. “I don’t mind.” Her father looked at her with a curious expression and she blushed and looked away, worrying herself over Averial’s saddlebags.

Flockheart turned his attention to Darik, fixing him with an uncomfortable look that was vaguely predatory. Then the moment passed, and Flockheart looked to his mount.

They flew down the mountainside, low to the trees to avoid detection. In a few minutes, they entered the hills, passing over farms and small villages. Faces turned from fields and pastures to stare. Darik waved. A young boy, no older than seven or eight, ran through a pasture, abandoning his goats to wave and shout in excitement. Darik leaned forward to Daria. “You don’t come this way often, do you?”

She shook her head. “Father keeps us in the mountains where it’s safe. Have you been down there? Have you been to the cities?”

“I was born in Balsalom, the greatest city in the western khalifates.”

“You were?” Her voice was full of wonder. “Tell me what it’s like.”

Darik remembered what Whelan had told him last night about Daria’s innocence. “It is filthy and full of people. Some people are slaves, told what they must do and where they must go. Others seek after money every day, ruining anyone who stands in their way. You don’t want to go there.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I would still like to see it some day. Maybe not to live, but to visit.” She grinned. “Do you want to fly?”

“What? I can’t fly her.”

“Sure you can.”

“But what about your father?” Darik asked. Whelan and Flockheart soared ahead, rarely giving a backward glance.

“Oh, he won’t like it. But I’ll be behind you and take over if anything goes wrong. Do you want to try it?”

Darik laughed, a little nervous but excited. “Yes, let’s.”

Averial dropped like a stone to the ground, lurching Darik’s stomach. She swooped upwards just before she hit, then came to a soft landing in an empty field. It took Darik and Daria a moment to switch places. Darik felt too exposed sitting in front with nothing to hold onto but the thin tether, hardly proper reigns at all. Daria checked the cords tying him to the griffin, before securing herself behind Darik.

“Ska!” he shouted, digging his heels into the griffin’s haunches. She jumped into the air with a flap of wings. The ground dropped away below. Darik shouted with joy. The griffin lurched to one side.

“Let up on the tether!” Daria said.

He relaxed his grip and nudged the griffin along. In a few minutes, they’d caught up with the others, soaring a comfortable distance behind.

Daria wrapped her hands around his waist and leaned close. He heard her breathing in his ear as she looked over his shoulder and felt the press of her body against his back. He’d never felt anything so wonderful as soaring through the air atop this powerful beast, with a beautiful, wonderful girl holding him tight.

All too soon, Flockheart turned around and spotted them. He slowed Brasson until Darik and Daria caught up to him, then gestured toward the ground. Daria shook her head in a protest.

“We don’t have time for that,” Flockheart shouted.

Reluctantly, Darik brought Averial to the ground as soon as they found a suitable place. Daria shrugged as they changed places. “My father is distrusting of outsiders. I don’t know why.”

Darik thought he guessed why. Flockheart had obviously seen more of the outside world than had his daughter. “Thank you anyway. Maybe I’ll come back and you can give me lessons.”

She smiled shyly, then climbed in front.

They reached the Desolation of Toth. It looked even more bleak from above than it had from the Tothian Way. Perhaps because he could see just how far it stretched, bleak and gray. A smell wafted from the ground making the griffin snort.

After a few minutes, Averial flagged. Whelan and Flockheart’s mounts, too, lost speed and altitude at an alarming rate.

“What’s the matter with her?” Daria asked, sounding afraid. “What is that down there?”

“Take her higher,” Darik urged. “Hurry. We have to get higher.”

She nudged Averial hard, pulling back on the tether. The griffin drooped lower, failing to respond. Now visibly frightened, Daria leaned forward and whispered to her mount, rubbing its neck, urging it to gather strength. Invigorated by her love, the griffin found new strength and flapped its wings harder. They climbed slowly higher, at last rising so far that the foul stench no longer reached them. Whelan and Flockheart too, rose higher. Breathing heavily, Darik thought what might have happened had he still been riding Averial. They’d have dropped into the Desolation.

Flockheart rode Brasson back to his daughter. “Are you all right?” he asked, face pinched with concern. She nodded wearily, still looking frightened.

They flew east as fast as they could, at last drawing free of the Desolation’s grip. They had made incredible time, much faster than they could have on horse or camel. Still, they had ridden away daylight and the sun set by the time they reached Balsalom. Daria gasped at the sight of the city.

Darik also drew in a sharp breath, but in fear. Fires burned, boiling smoke into the sky. Even from this distance, he could see fighting, and dead bodies littering the streets. But before he could pick out details, they dropped to the ground.

They landed the exhausted griffins in the midst of the Tombs of the Kings. The animals heaved and the muscles on their backs quivered. Darik too felt worn, as if he’d spent the day on a galloping horse. He stepped away from the griffin and breathed heavily. Whelan and Flockheart landed nearby.

“Thank you,” Whelan said to Flockheart. “I won’t forget your help.”

Flockheart said, “How long should we wait?”

“Two days, no more. If you see danger, flee. We’ll find our own way back if necessary. Hunt your griffins only at night. There might be wasps in the city.”

Whelan grabbed a satchel from the saddle bags. He slung Soultrup over his shoulder, and buckled a smaller sword around Darik’s waist. “Let’s go.” Darik made to follow, staring at the smoke pouring from the city.

Daria touched his arm to get his attention. “Be careful, Darik.”

He turned belatedly. His worry about his sister and the city had overcome any other thoughts. “I will. Thank you.”

They turned. Balsalom’s walls beckoned.

Chapter XI

KALLIA DECIDED THAT THE TIME had come to retake Balsalom the same day that Cragyn’s forces assaulted Montcrag. The dark wizard hadn’t left Balsalom undefended. On the contrary, he left hundreds of his best troops, giants, and several mammoths. What worried the khalifa, however, was the bombard. Mol Khah set it up on the west side of the city and spent the better part of a day testing it on the Tombs of the Kings.

His men, most of them Veyrians, sweated as they assembled and loaded the bombard, and not from the heat. They feared the tombs and the wights they worried might hide in the crypts and catacombs hidden beneath the sand. Mol Khah brought Kallia to the tombs to watch the destruction. She was not afraid of the dead kings.

Kallia remembered her tutor taking her to the tombs as a child. “Foolishness,” Gustau had told her all those years ago when she asked why the tombs had been built. They’d ridden atop sedan chairs carried by slaves, but even the modest effort of walking amongst the tombs had soaked Gustau’s robes with sweat. Perhaps if he’d eaten less and walked more, he wouldn’t have found the trip so arduous.

“What do you mean, foolishness?” she had asked.

“The kings tried to hide from the Harvester. They built towers and mastabas and wrapped them in spells, made traps and secret passageways for their spirits to escape while the Harvester slept. And should they be discovered, they buried themselves with treasure to bribe their freedom.” He snorted. “All the treasure did was attract grave robbers.”

Kallia didn’t know whether Gustau knew what he was talking about or not. She suspected there was some truth to it, but certainly that wasn’t the entire story. The tombs had captured her imagination in any event. Remnants of the old city. The vast expense of the tombs hinted at wealth rivaling the khalifates.

And now, Mol Khah showed off his new toy by destroying these tombs. The siege weapon—Cragyn’s Hammer, the pasha called it—took several hours to assemble. It consisted of two thirty-foot iron troughs, bound together with iron hoops. Half a dozen giants and twenty men hoisted the upper half of the weapon onto the lower half. Two blacksmiths heated the hoops to expand them, then slipped them around the troughs and doused them with water. When finished, the weapon looked nothing more than an enormous iron pipe sitting on a carriage, the cart also built on the site.

“So what is it?” she asked.

Mol Khah smiled in that wolfish way of his. “Watch and you’ll find out.”

Men busied themselves about the front end of the weapon, but she stopped paying attention. Her father once had a man at court who spent years building a massive ballista that could fire arrows powerful enough to cut through three men. It could hurl its missile over a city wall. But it proved difficult to load, prone to break-downs, and thus of limited effectiveness. Yes, several of these might do damage to massed troops, but in most cases massed troops didn’t line up for the two or three days necessary to put the ballistas together.

A terrific explosion thundered across the plain. Black smoke bellowed from the end of Cragyn’s Hammer. An instant later, something whistled overhead, then struck the obelisk behind them. Black stone sprayed outward; the obelisk teetered for a long moment, then collapsed to the ground, with a cloud of dust.

“It works!” Mol Khah exulted.

“What happened?” she asked, overwhelmed by its power.

“Magicks beyond your comprehension, woman.” He clenched a leather-gloved fist in triumph. “No castle or city wall can stand before Cragyn’s Hammer.”

No, she thought with mounting concern. Nothing could. And that included Balsalom. Mol Khah wouldn’t leave the weapon unguarded. If she moved tonight, a sizeable garrison and this weapon would remain outside the city to cause mischief. It had taken long enough to put together the infernal weapon that he might well leave it here until the time came to move it west along the Tothian Way.

Mol Khah spent the rest of the day shooting his weapon, rejoicing like a child with a new toy. It took two hours after every use to clean out the tube and ready it for another shot. The iron balls cast by the weapon demolished some of the most beautiful monuments in the Tombs of the Kings.

Afterwards, Kallia retreated to her rooms and considered. One of Saldibar’s spies, an old slave woman who came to empty her chamber pot in the morning, passed along the news of a second army of several thousand men and horse marching west from Kilgalah. They would arrive in a few days. Saldibar didn’t know if they would bolster Balsalom’s garrison or continue west to join Cragyn, but Kallia didn’t dare let them draw close enough to throw themselves in the fray. No, she would have to risk Cragyn’s Hammer, hoping Mol Khah left insufficient men to guard it.

After she took dinner, Kallia opened the curtains and lit a single candle, the signal to act. And then she waited, counting the bells from the merchants tower. It was eight bells. Two more hours.

The city was quieter than a few days earlier. Mol Khah’s men had released all of the crickets in the palace. They silenced street musicians in the city, even going so far as to destroy instruments and banish them from Balsalom. Cragyn’s army craved silence. They had not yet, however, quieted the guilds’ bell towers.

Nine bells chimed and her heart began to pound. Another hour and Saldibar would come for her, the signal would go out to begin the revolt. Her stomach churned in anticipation. Once things happened, they would happen quickly.

Mol Khah had allowed her use of the tower apartments again. The garden rooms kept her from seeing the city, but they also stood amidst dozens of other rooms: apartments, kitchens, state rooms and servants’ quarters. But the tower rooms sat on the fifth and sixth level of a tower with a single entrance to guard. Here she would stay until Cragyn’s pasha summoned her.

She waited impatiently. Too soon, the door opened. She turned, half-expecting to see Saldibar come early. Instead, Mol Khah stood in the doorway, a long scimitar in hand. Blood clotted the blade.

“Come,” he ordered. “Quickly.”

Kallia’s stomach clenched. “What happened? What are you doing with that sword?”

He strode to where she sat next to the window and grabbed her by the arm. “Assassins, you fool. What did you think? Two men from Ter, angry that the master killed that wretched brother of yours. The second man is confessing everything on the wheel right now, the first, regrettably, did not live that long.” He dragged her toward the door “There might be others inside the palace. You’ll be safer in the garden rooms.”

So it wasn’t Saldibar’s blood staining his sword, as she’d feared. But this coincidence ruined everything. The revolt would begin, but she would be left inside the palace. And Saldibar, rather than leaving her to die, might foolishly call off the attack. Mol Khah would savage the city.

“No!” she said, pulling away. “If there are assassins, I’m better off here.” She made a quick decision that she knew she might regret. “The garden rooms are riddled with secret passageways. It’s more dangerous.”

He eyed her with a sideways glance, hesitating. In the distance, the merchants tower rang. She counted. One bell, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Eleven. One extra chime, unnoticeable unless you counted. And throughout the city, men did count. The signal had come, the revolt began.

Mol Khah decided. “No, I’ve got a hundred men guarding the garden rooms. Secret passageways or no, and you will show me where these are, all of them, you will be safer below.”

He dragged her away, and her heart sank. He led her down the stairs, where two armed men joined them. From here, the dark wizard’s vizier led her to the garden rooms. A second frightening thought crossed her mind. Mol Khah’s men would be on the lookout for more assassins. He would station someone in the tower rooms to see if anyone came. And someone would. Saldibar. She had to warn him.

A desperate idea came to her. Twenty or thirty men stood outside the doors of the garden apartments, ready to protect her from assassins. She counted them quickly in her mind.

As Mol Khah threw open the door to her rooms, she let panic slip into her voice. “No! Don’t kill me!”

“What?” he snorted. He glanced back at his men. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Yes you are,” she cried, struggling against his grip. She appealed to the men standing outside the doors. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s bringing me here so an assassin can find me and kill me. Then he’ll claim he tried to prevent it.”

The soldiers shuffled nervously at her theatrics. None would act, but that wasn’t her intent.

“Let me go!” she cried, striking at Mol Khah’s face with her free hand. And then, as she had hoped, his temper flared.

He jerked her around and threw her to the floor. She made no effort to protect herself, but let her face slam into the flagstones. Her vision blanked for a moment when her head hit.

“I’m not going to kill you!” he raged. He dragged to her feet and threw her toward the bed pillows. Lights swam in her head. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”

He turned to storm away, but she said, “Wait, please.” He turned. Blood trickled from her nose, running down her lip. “Tea. Please, have someone bring tea for my head. Medicinal tea, please.”

Mol Khah grimaced and clenched his teeth. She could see that he wanted to strike her again. “Very well,” he said at last. He slammed the door behind him.

She turned and looked at her surroundings. As she’d feared, and this had necessitated her plan, the room was stripped of furnishings, including candles, lamps, or anything else that might provide light. It was almost completely dark in the room, once they shut the door. Saldibar would reach the tower rooms within the next few minutes and panic when he didn’t find her.

Kallia waited anxiously for someone to bring her the tea. It came a few minutes later, and she was relieved at who brought it to her, not an unknown physic, but a servant girl.

She’d seen the girl before. Her name was Chloye. The girl’s mother’s sister had lived in Kallia’s father’s harem; both women were purchased from a caravan of slavers. Chloye had bright red hair, attesting to her Eriscoban heritage. She set down the tea and the burner and brazier on which to cook the healing herbs.

“Never mind that, Chloye,” Kallia said, rising to her feet as soon as the door shut behind them. They were alone in the room.

“But khalifa—may you live forever. Didn’t you send for me?” She glanced around, clearly frightened by the darkened room.

Kallia put her hand on the girl’s arm. “I have no time for that. Please, listen carefully. What I’m about to do, you must say was an accident. It is important. Can you do that?”

Chloye eyes widened in fear. She shrank back as if afraid that Kallia meant her harm. The khalifa picked up the brazier, carried it to the bedding and tipped it over on the blankets. Flames spilled out, nearly stifling in the blankets before catching hold. Kallia waited while the flames spread. Chloye looked terrified, but said nothing.

When the fire jumped to the curtain, Kallia threw her wash basin on the bedding, dousing some of the flames, then cried out, “Help! Fire!”

Men rushed into the room and attacked the fire with cloaks and swords. It had grown too large for simple measures, choking the room in smoke. Men ran for buckets of water. Others dragged the two women into the hall. Mol Khah came striding down the hallway, alerted to the news. He saw Kallia and drew his sword.

“It was an accident,” she pleaded.

He eyed her for a moment, then glared at the serving girl. “Well?” he demanded of her.

The girl shrank under his glare, and Kallia thought she would be betrayed. What a fool she had been to take such a chance.

At last the serving girl looked up. “I’m sorry. I tried to put in the herbs and tipped over the crucible, and then I couldn’t put it out in time, so the khalifa—”

Mol Khah pushed them aside in disgust and looked into the room. Kallia, surprised at the girl’s initiative, squeezed her hand in gratitude.

An oak beam crashed from the ceiling, scattering flames through the room. A soldier cried out, pinned in the smoke and fire. Mol Khah ignored him, but shouted instructions to the men arriving with buckets of water. Kallia slipped back from the chaos, then turned and ran.

She met soldiers in the hallways, running toward the fire, and shouted at anybody else she saw to run and help. Let the confusion spread and attract people as long as possible. When she reached the tower rooms, three men met her with drawn swords.

“What are you doing?” one of them demanded. “The pasha said—”

“Never mind what he said,” she said, panting. “There is a fire. He wants everyone to help.”

The man who’d spoken looked at her suspiciously. They made no move to leave, but put away their swords. “Fire? What kind of fire?”

She ran to the window and threw open the curtains. “That kind of fire, you fools.”

From the tower, they could see across the gardens, where smoke poured from two of the windows. Men and women rushed through the gardens with buckets of water, throwing them through the windows. Some staggered backwards, overcome by smoke. There was not yet any organization to the efforts in the gardens, unlike the order Mol Khah had imposed inside the buildings. Convinced at last, the soldiers turned and ran. Kallia stood panting for a moment.

“Well done khalifa—may you live forever.”

She turned to see Saldibar standing behind her. How he had climbed the stairs past the guards, indeed, where he had hidden while she ordered the men down to the fire, she didn’t know.

“Where did you come from?

“I can’t tell you all of my secrets. Look, there’s no way we’ll get out of the palace that way. Come. Five more minutes and Mol Khah will discover something worse than a fire.”

They hurried from the tower, making their way toward the gardens. A soldier spotted them, and recognizing the khalifa, rushed to intercept them.

“You!” he shouted at her. “The pasha—”

Before he could finish, Saldibar sprang forward, pulling a knife from his robes. The man grabbed for his sword, shouting in alarm. But before he could bring his weapon to bear, Saldibar plunged his knife in the man’s gut, then rammed it underneath his rib cage. The man stared in wide-eyed surprise, opened his mouth, and slumped to the ground. Saldibar pulled out the knife and they ran. Kallia’s stomach turned at the sight of the soldier still twitching where they’d left him.

Saldibar led her to a statue of a winged horse, overlooking the rose garden. Kallia had sat astride the horse as a young girl, and pretended that she was riding to the cloud castles, escorted by a flock of griffins. “Help me,” Saldibar said, leaning his weight against the statue.

She pushed, and to her surprise, it rocked onto its side, revealing a dark gap underneath. They redoubled their efforts, and the statue tipped over. A staircase dropped into the ground. Lights flickered below, men with torches.

Kallia and Saldibar climbed down into the catacomb, while the men pulled on an iron handle on the underside of the winged horse, pulling it back into place. They stood underground.

She looked at the passageway through which they walked. It stretched ten feet overhead and six feet in width. “No wonder assassins find it so easy to infiltrate the palace.”

Saldibar looked embarrassed. “I built the staircase and hid it beneath the statue myself. But the passageway is far older. Part of the old palace. Come.”

She followed, but her interest still wasn’t satisfied. “What old palace?”

“Syrmarria also had a palace on this site.”

“But I was always told that nothing remained of the old city but fragments of the old wall and a few broken towers,” Kallia said.

“Nothing remained on the surface, no, but many of the old roads and foundations lay buried beneath the rubble. Balsalom was built on top of this rubble. When I excavated the statuary garden for your father, my workmen discovered this passageway; I ordered it covered at first, realizing that it led in and out of the palace and provided a risk to the khalif. But when I explored these catacombs, I discovered their true origin.”

He might be right. Kallia saw side doorways, some blockaded by rubble, others opening into dark holes. They entered what looked like a courtyard, partially excavated, with wooden beams propping up the ceiling.

They traveled by torch light for several minutes before emerging through a door into a small house. A man sat on the floor, weaving a rug. When they stepped into the room, he sprang to his feet, leaving his loom. It was Fenerath, the guildmaster. Somehow they’d climbed in elevation until they’d come against the back wall of a house.

“Hurry,” he said. Fenerath opened a chest on the floor, retrieving a nondescript brown robe that he tossed to Kallia.

She looked down at her robes of fine silk embroidered with geometric designs and knew she would be recognized immediately if she wore these clothes. The men turned their backs to give her privacy while she changed. But she still felt unclean from what had happened the night she had married the dark wizard. It reminded her too much of when Mol Khah had torn her old clothes from her body. So instead, she simply pulled the robe Fenerath gave her over her other clothing. They went outside.

The sound of battle filled the air. They stood in the midst of the Weavers Quarter, three hundred yards from the wall on the north side of the city. Men fought on top of the city wall with swords and maces. The Veyrians in black and crimson had the upper hand, better armed and equipped and commanding the better strategic position. Men from the watchman guild streamed up the stairways to the wall, but many were armed only with truncheons or short swords. And Cragyn’s men didn’t panic, but gathered into tight clumps that drove back the watchmen.

Four men battled a giant on the other side of the street. The watchmen were armed with pikes, but the giant swung a cudgel and kept the men at bay. He knocked one to the ground, then finished the man with a single, crushing blow. Three more men joined the fight, but another giant came running down the street.

The road on which they stood led directly to the palace, sitting atop the hill, where it could overlook the city. Several small battles raged in front of the palace gates. The garrison inside had already discovered the revolt and grappled with the watchmen, trying to force them out of the way so they could get into the streets. Scores of watchmen rushed to plug the gates, but more Veyrians joined the battle every moment; unless the watchmen secured the walls soon and brought reinforcements, the enemy garrison would break from the palace and the battle would end in defeat.

A roar sounded in the distance. She recognized the sound immediately. Cragyn’s Hammer. So they hadn’t taken the siege weapon; it battered at the walls.

All around, she saw evidence that her plan failed. There were hundreds of watchmen, even people from the city who’d gathered old weapons and kitchen knifes to overthrow the hated enemy. But they had no leader, and in the face of Veyre’s overwhelming superiority in discipline and arms, the revolt was doomed. She saw the looks of horror on Fenerath and Saldibar’s faces mirrored on the walls and the streets, on the faces of the people holding Mol Khah’s men inside the palace.

She knew what she must do. The time had come to stop hiding, to stop letting others sacrifice their lives while she kept herself safe. She stripped off the brown cloak that Fenerath told her to wear. Gathering her strength, Kallia ran toward the men at the palace gates. Behind her, Saldibar cried for her to stop.

Guardsmen looked up from their fighting as she approached. Murmurs of recognition passed through the combatants on both sides. Kallia grabbed the scimitar of a fallen man and pushed her way into the men at the palace gates.

Saldibar caught up with her, and took her by the arm. “You can’t do that. You’ll be killed.”

When she answered, it was as loud as she could speak. “I am going to live or die with Balsalom. Now move out of my way. Hold the gap!” she cried to the men ahead of her. “Don’t let them through.”

Shouts passed through the group. News of her presence passed to the walls, to the battles in the streets. Resolve stiffened all around her. Saldibar looked at her with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

She meant her words, pressing toward the front of the battle. But the guardsmen moved to block her from the fighting. She shouted for them to let her past, but they refused to obey.

Kallia had no illusions what would happen if she reached the fighting. She had been trained in swordsmanship, and had learned enough to know that she would be quickly overwhelmed by a larger, better-trained opponent. And should she reach the fighting, she would be attacked immediately.

Mol Khah stood on the other side of the gates, snarling instructions to his men in the palace courtyard. The gates hadn’t been built with more than cursory defensive strategies. The road sloped steeply over flagstones, treacherous footing for horses mounting a charge.

Cragyn’s pasha cleared his men out of the way to bring something from the back. Mammoths. The beasts trumpeted in near panic at the din and the fire at their back, goaded toward the palace gates. In the darkness, it was impossible to see how many. Kallia didn’t have enough men to hold the gap against those beasts, and both sides knew it.

But at last, the battle on the city walls turned. Balsalomians took control of towers, and from here, hundreds more guardsmen poured onto the walls. Better arms and armor fell into their hands with every fallen Veyrian. Soon, sheer numbers overwhelmed the enemy. Victory secured, the guardsmen came down from the city walls to bolster Kallia’s force, fighting through the skirmishes continuing throughout the city streets.

Mol Khah moved enough men out of the way to march his mammoths. He had eight or ten that she could see, heads and trunks covered with armor, tusks capped with iron crowns. Mammoth drivers shouted and drove their beasts forward with handheld iron goads. The beasts lumbered toward the gates.

The Balsalomians blanched, and a ripple passed through the men in front. If they gave, the battle would be lost. Hundreds of well-trained Veyrians would fan through the city in phalanxes and cavalry units to crush all opposition.

But it was a critical time for Mol Khah’s forces, as well. The fire she’d set had served more purpose than a mere ruse. It still burned on the edge of the gardens, boiling smoke into the air. The enemy had turned his attention away from the fire and to breaking out of the palace before it was too late. Which meant, however, that if he didn’t break out, the fire might be too large to contain and burn the entire palace to the ground.

“Hold them!” Kallia cried. “Hold them!”

The cry passed through the men. “Hold them!”

Spears lowered, Balsalomians stood in the way. The mammoths trumpeted and charged toward the gap. The beasts were upon them.

Chapter XII

MAMMOTHS SCATTERED KALLIA’S MEN LIKE the wind scatters leaves. Breaking from the darkness, they swept guardsmen out of the way with iron-tipped tusks, trampled screaming foes beneath their feet. Men attacked with spears and swords, but these were gnats against the beast’s thick hides. Mol Khah’s men stormed into the gap left by the mammoth’s charge.

“Hold them!” she cried again.

Her words stiffened the men in the mammoth’s path. The lead beast met a solid wall of spears. It drove into them, enraged by the stinging attacks all around it and swinging its head. Crushing the men in front, the mammoth stumbled to its knees, a spear plunging into its right eye. Still fighting through the gates, the other mammoths slowed at this new obstacle. One of the mammoths further back trumpeted in rage and stormed past the others, and Kallia saw that the Veyrians on its back had been speared and knocked free, leaving the beast riderless. It tore through the ranks, widening the wedge.

“Kallia!” one guardsman shouted, raising his sword overhead. “For the khalifa!”

He charged at the mammoth, then plunged his sword into the creature’s underbelly. The mammoth lurched to one side, sweeping the man away with his trunk and crushing him underfoot. Emboldened by his display of courage, other men swarmed over the mammoth. It bellowed in fear and confused pain and fell.

Another mammoth broke through the ranks, but its rider slumped to one side, dead. The other mammoths fell where they stood, taking many with them. Mol Khah’s men poured into the wedge cleared by the mammoths, attacking furiously to further open the breach.

But Kallia’s men had held the line until reinforcements arrived. The watchmen had freed those remnants of Balsalom’s army not yet led to Veyre in chains. These newcomers bolstered Kallia’s forces with courage and discipline, and many of them were well armed, with weapons seized from the prison garrison. Although weakened with hunger, they fought with a ferocity that stunned the Veyrians and watchmen alike.

Kallia’s forces drove the enemy back inside the palace courtyard. She thought for one, amazing moment, that they might win the battle outright.

“The gates!” Mol Khah shouted.

The enemy surged in a final, desperate assault, driving Kallia’s forces outside the courtyard. The gates swung shut, and those few Balsalomians still inside withdrew to avoid being trapped. A few minor skirmishes continued on the streets, and fires burned in the Slaves Quarter, but they had won. The city was theirs. Kallia’s men let out a great cry.

Victory had come at a terrible price. Hundreds lay dead on the streets and the city walls. Others had died throughout the city, including many noncombatants, slaughtered in their homes. But had the battle stretched into the night, Mol Khah would have destroyed half the city, she was sure of it.

Saldibar found her outside the palace gates. He looked ready to scold her, but she grabbed the older man in an embrace and laughed. “We did it!”

Saldibar’s robes were soaked with blood. He held a scimitar in hand, nicked and stained. He nodded grimly. “For now, yes, but we still need to take the palace.”

Cragyn’s Hammer fired again to the west. Kallia said, “And the siege engine. How many men guard that thing?”

“Maybe three hundred. They are well armed and have fortified their camp in the Tombs of the Kings.”

Kallia eyed the rising sun, “We’ll take the Hammer first, then the palace. If they destroy the city walls, we’ll never hold Balsalom when the dark wizard returns. Gather the pashas and the captains of the guardsmen.”

By nightfall, Balsalom raised some four thousand men. Kallia guessed they had four days before Balsalom was attacked again, so she sent men to comb the city, hoping to put together twenty thousand more. These would be untrained and used only as a last defense should the city walls fall. Kallia had only to remind them what had happened when Syrmarria fell at the end of the Tothian Wars. She knew the story from her tutor and the old books in the library.

Syrmarria had stood for a thousand years on the east end of Aristonia. Its wealth was legendary. It was said that the khalif of Syrmarria bathed in asses’ milk every morning, and never drank twice from the same golden goblet. While the bulk of Toth’s army savaged Eriscoba west of the mountains, Syrmarria withstood a siege, protected by a wizard named Memnet the Great. After four months of siege, the enemy broke into the city by subterfuge, threw open the gates and let Toth’s army pour into the city. For eight days, the enemy sacked Syrmarria, murdering, raping, plundering, and finally burning it to the ground.

She spread this story wherever she went, hoping to stiffen resolve against a similar fate.

The enemy’s bombard pounded the city walls the next day. The walls stood the first several bombardments, but weakened by late afternoon. If they couldn’t silence the weapon, it would open a breach by the time Cragyn returned and if that happened, the dark wizard’s forces would overwhelm the city.

Kallia met with Saldibar, guild representatives, the three surviving pashas of her army, and four captains of the guardsmen. There was a surprise waiting for her when she reached Fenerath’s Hall, the guildmaster’s manor.

She recognized the tall man immediately. “Whelan.”

He smiled and she sensed something behind that smile: pain, worry, fear, but also relief. “We heard you’d died.”

Kallia smiled. “I’m still very much alive, although the dark wizard will soon wish he’d killed me when he had the chance. So, have you returned as my friend, or as a spy?”

Whelan looked pained. “I never spied against you, my queen. Only against the dark wizard. We needed to know how much he’d infiltrated the city.”

“Of course.” She drew him forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome back to Balsalom.”

Whelan introduced his companion, a boy named Darik. He looked slightly familiar, although she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before. The boy was awed by her presence, and blushed furiously when she kissed his cheeks. They took their seats around Fenerath’s dining table, while the man served them wine. Fenerath and the boy exchanged startled looks of recognition, and she thought she saw a flash of rage in Darik’s eyes, but neither of them said anything.

Kallia said, “Saldibar told me you were in the city the night of the fire in the Slaves Quarter. I’m glad he could bring you back in our time of need.”

“I never wanted to leave, but other duties called. We traveled with a wizard from the Order, who has gone to warn King Daniel.”

“And will the Free Kingdoms send aid?” she asked. “Or will they leave us to suffer the dark wizard’s wrath?”

“We’ll send help, but first we must drive Cragyn from the mountains. He has taken Montcrag already. He is marching on the Teeth.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Kallia rose to her feet, taking another sip of wine before leaving the goblet on the table. She sensed Whelan’s discomfort, but didn’t dare release him from his obligation. Balsalom couldn’t afford to wait for King Daniel to fight other battles.

She continued, “So what happens come spring, when our rebellion fails for lack of support and King Daniel’s only eastern ally collapses? Will he send his apologies to the slaves laboring in Veyre’s mines?”

“My queen,” Whelan said, rising also to his feet. “I swear I will raise whatever support I can. But while the dark wizard marches west, we must first protect the Citadel.” He shook his head, clearly torn by conflicting obligations. “But if he returns, we will raise the largest army Eriscoba has seen in generations and crush the enemy between our forces.”

Kallia sighed. He had changed nothing, avoided committing the Free Kingdoms until they were safe. She didn’t know whether or not he had the power to make such commitments in any event. No, that was wrong. It was how he carried himself, and how he spoke about the intentions of the Free Kingdoms that told her that he was someone important to King Daniel. And he had influence with the Brotherhood of the Thorne, that much Saldibar and Ethan had confirmed.

Kallia made her way to his side and put her hand on his arm. She caught startled glances from the others that she would be so familiar with the barbarian. She remembered the look of devotion in Whelan’s eyes that time in her father’s bed chambers, a look she had interpreted as love. Certainly, she couldn’t read that in his eyes now. And why should he love her? She was the weakened khalifa of a city about to fall, and if he were looking for a beautiful woman, he could find hundreds of others who would interest him more. And he knew that she had wed the dark wizard and been defiled by his hand.

“Whelan,” she said, dropping all pretense from her voice. “If you say you cannot do any more, I will believe you. Thank you for returning.”

A boom sounded to the east, reminding them of their purpose. She turned to the grand vizier. “Saldibar, how quickly have they reloaded the Hammer?”

“It has fired every two hours, my queen.”

“By the time it is readied again, we will be upon it. That will be dawn. Until then, we will ask for a parlay from the palace garrison. We’ll promise free passage to the Tothian Way if they surrender.”

“Will they do it?” one of the captains asked.

“Perhaps. They have little choice, with the fire still burning.”

Fenerath smashed his hand to his fist. “And if they surrender, we show no mercy. We kill them all.” Others around the table murmured angry consent.

“No,” Kallia said. “If they surrender, we give them safe passage to the Way, just as we promise.”

Fenerath protested, “But khalifa—may you live forever—think of the Balsalomians impaled outside the gates. And thousands more sent east to slavery. Men in this room lost brothers last night in battle. What mercy does the enemy deserve?” Again, angry assertions of support rippled through the room.

“They deserve no mercy, but we will give it to them anyway. That’s what makes us different than our enemy. When cities across the khalifates see that we made an oath and kept it, they will know that we don’t fight the dark wizard merely to establish Balsalom atop the Iron Throne.”

“Perhaps,” Fenerath said. “Or perhaps they will think us weak.”

“How is it weak?” she asked. “Is it weak if we prove we can cast off the dark wizard’s army? Is it weak if we crush the enemy’s greatest pasha and send him slinking from Balsalom in disgrace?”

Fenerath rubbed his chin, and she could see that she’d swayed him at last. Others nodded and she knew she had them, too. “And now, Whelan, my pashas, we need a plan to capture Cragyn’s Hammer.”

Together, they worked out a strategy. Whelan had friends hiding amidst the Tombs, he said. When he told them who, the room tingled with excitement. Griffins had not been seen in Balsalom for decades; griffin riders were powerful allies. Already, her faith in Whelan proved itself.

They roused Mol Khah to a parlay. Rain drizzled from the night sky, aiding the enemy’s efforts to put out the fire. At last, Cragyn’s general appeared on the tower overlooking the gates. Kallia stood in the midst of her bodyguards, who would throw themselves in the path of attack. Hundreds of other Balsalomians surrounded the palace.

“Come to end this foolish revolt?” Mol Khah shouted down at her. “Very well, I accept your surrender.”

Kallia forced a smile to her lips. The smile came with effort. She remembered how he had violated her, preparing her for the dark wizard’s rape. “No, to demand your surrender. Throw down your arms and I will permit you safe passage to the Tothian Way and instruct none to raise sword against you until you stand on your own lands.”

“Yes, I believe that.” He let out a harsh laugh. He no longer looked as powerful and confident as he had a few hours earlier. She had tricked him and pinned him between a raging fire and men thirsting for his blood. “And tell me, oh wisest of queens, why I should trust you?”

“You don’t have to trust me. You can cook in the fire if you prefer. I’ll build another palace. But I have made a promise, and I keep my oaths.”

Mol Khah shook his head. “I have no need to surrender, whether you promise me safe passage or not. You are the one in the weak position, woman.”

“Yes? How so? I would be interested in hearing.”

“Consider,” Mol Khah said. “Even now, dragon wasps fly west to tell the master of your treachery. When he hears, he will burn Balsalom to the ground. No two stones will be left standing on top of each other. Your very name, Kallia, will be a curse word for five hundred years.”

“Perhaps,” Kallia said, fighting the chill his words gave her, “Although I doubt that the dark wizard will return to find us unprepared. But tell me, favored pasha of the evil one, how will this help you? You will be dead.”

“We can hold out for weeks. You even lack the forces to take Cragyn’s Hammer, if my ears tell true. And if you can’t take the Hammer, I know I can sit and wait for my master to come.” He grinned, and this time, he did not appear to be bluffing. “And all the while, I will poison your water.”

Kallia had not considered this. The Nye ran through the palace gardens, providing it fresh water before it supplied the fields beyond the walls. Poisoning it would severely punish the city.

She shrugged. “We have wells.”

“Ah, but how will you replace the hostages we hold?”

Mol Khah turned and made a gesture to someone behind him. A woman screamed in the palace courtyard, begging for mercy. Kallia stared in alarm at Mol Khah, who watched the scene impassively. A moment later, something flew through the darkness, catapulted over the palace walls. The woman, still alive and flailing her arms.

She sailed over the heads of the Balsalomian forces, landing hard on the paving stones. Men rushed over to help, some turning away ashen-faced when they saw the result. Kallia pushed her way through the crowd.

“Chloye,” she whispered. The girl who had lied about the palace fire for her sake. The impact had killed her instantly. Kallia turned back to Mol Khah, wondering what could turn a man into this monster, with no feelings of mercy whatsoever.

Mol Khah saw her reaction and drew obvious pleasure from it. “A fitting punishment for a slave who burned your palace to the ground. I thought you would be grateful. Or do you have a confession to make, woman?”

Kallia said, “You have sealed your own doom. Prepare your soul for the Harvester. Tonight we destroy you.”

After Darik and Whelan left Daria, they had made their way through the Tombs of the Kings into the city even as the battle raged for Balsalom. But by the time they reached the Grand Bazaar, men and women, slaves, and wealthy merchants all came into the streets, shouting in joy and praising the khalifa.

Relief washed Whelan’s face. “Let’s go to the palace. I have to find the khalifa.”

“You go,” Darik said. “I’ll meet you there.”

Whelan raised an eyebrow. “Be careful. Graiyan will still think you a slave.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Darik made his way to the Bakers’ Corner to look for Kaya. A fire burned from two of the bakeries. Thick flour dust hung suspended like mist outside Graiyan’s house. Sacks of flour lay in front of the open doors to the kitchens, covered with hoof prints and mud and spilling their contents onto the ground. He hadn’t meant to come this close, as he was still a runaway slave after all. But worry about Kaya overcame his fear, and he walked through the doors, mouth dry.

Darik didn’t find dead bodies strewn about the house, as he’d feared, but neither did he find anyone inside. Indeed, the entire Baker’s Corner was deserted, save for a pack of beggar children he chased away from looting one house. The fighting had driven everyone away, and he guessed they would return soon. But he couldn’t dare wait any longer.

He had found Whelan waiting for him outside the palace gates. Whelan led him to the guildmaster’s house where they met with the khalifa and her viziers. Darik was awed by Kallia’s presence. He’d seen her before, when his father was invited to celebrate the Harvest Festival at the palace. But then he had been too young to recognize the wisdom and beauty that made her the greatest ruler in all the khalifates.

Darik had spent enough time with Whelan to recognize the struggle raging through the man while the viziers and guild representatives spoke with the khalifa. Whelan was overjoyed that she was alive, and would have given his own life to protect her, but his duty to the Brotherhood and King Daniel was greater. Darik found it inconceivable that something could command a man’s loyalties more than the khalifa.

Darik had carefully avoided Fenerath, the guildmaster, afraid that his rage would undo him in front of Whelan and Khalifa. Instead, he had suffered the man’s presence, swearing to himself that he would regain his family honor. Then, he told himself, he would return to Balsalom and demand Fenerath’s apology.

After the conference ended at the guildmaster’s house, he and Whelan slept, then made their way through the Gates of the Dead at dawn, into the Tombs of the Kings, turning south away from the Veyrian encampment. A ring of people slumped on sharpened stakes about the city, crows and vultures feeding on the dead bodies. Darik avoided this carnage, afraid to find his sister among the dead.

“Remember this when your resolve fails,” Whelan said. “If the dark wizard wins, he will line the Tothian Way for a thousand miles with such victims.”

They made their way through the tombs, looking for Flockheart and Daria. “Can I ask you a question?” Whelan said. “What did you think of Mol Khah?”

The question surprised Darik. “My impressions? I don’t like him, of course.” He shook his head, stomach turning at the memory of the girl thrown through the air to die when she hit the street. “But that’s not what you mean, is it? Mol Khah had an arrogant self-confidence, given the situation. I thought it strange.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Why so confident? He might have been acting, but I don’t think so. No, he knows something, or thinks he does. But what?”

Darik shrugged. “No secret wizardry or weapon, or else he would have used it. He must expect something or someone to rescue him before Kallia overthrows the palace.”

“You might be right. But here—” he said, changing the subject. “Isn’t this where we left Daria and Flockheart?”

Darik looked around. They stood between two facing mausoleums. “I think so.”

“Darik! Whelan!” Daria called behind them. She stood at the entrance to one of the tombs, its front eroded. Darik caught movement in the darkness of the tomb. Griffins?

They embraced her in turn. “The griffins,” Whelan said. “We need them.”

“Oh,” Daria said. “My father saw some antelope and went to snare one for the griffins. He didn’t dare fly them.”

“How long ago?” Whelan asked.

“Two hours. He said it might be mid-morning before he returned.”

“Ah,” Whelan groaned. “Mid-morning? That’s too long. I’ll have to get along by myself. Stay here with Darik and tell your father where I’ve gone.”

“I can fly,” Daria protested. “I fought at Montcrag.”

Whelan’s voice was gentle, but firm. “I know you can. But without your father, I can’t risk your life.”

Daria was just as sure. “But the griffins are in my care. I won’t let you fly Joffa unless I come.” Her lips tightened.

Whelan sighed, and Darik could see him wavering. “Very well. Darik, stay and tell Flockheart when he returns.”

“I’m coming too,” Darik said.

“Two men on one griffin? No,” Whelan said.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Darik said. “I’d ride the third griffin.”

“Oh, no,” Whelan said. “You can’t ride.”

“He can ride Brasson,” Daria said. “Brasson has survived more battles than any man. I’ve seen Darik ride. Averial trusted him well enough. Brasson will trust him, too.”

Whelan sighed again, looking from Darik to Daria. “Very well. Don’t get yourselves killed. If either of you or the griffins are wounded, fly away. Be careful. We are mostly a distraction.”

Whelan lifted his finger. “Ah, I know.” He pulled a carved wooden whistle from a string around his neck and gave it a short blast. It let out a high, shrieking sound, not unlike the cry of a wounded bird. The griffins cocked their heads and eyed him quizzically. Whelan handed the whistle to Darik.

“What’s this for?” Darik asked.

“I use it when I’ve lost Scree in the trees. It’s his signal to return to my fist. If you’re in trouble, blow it. The whistle will be easier to hear than a shout in the chaos of battle.”

He turned toward the tombs. Darik put the whistle around his neck. Daria gave him instructions.

“It’s different flying a griffin in battle. Brasson knows what to do better than you do. Once you close or decide to flee, give him his lead. He’ll know when to attack and when he’s overpowered. However, if there is something in the sky, and that is unlikely today, he may get anxious to make battle. If you see that you are overwhelmed, don’t engage, but fly. A full grown griffin, Brasson especially, can outrun anything but the swiftest bird.” She smiled. “Not many birds will attack a griffin.”

They climbed on the back of the griffins, leaving the saddlebags behind. It felt much different sitting alone and Darik had a moment of panic, remembering the lurch of the animal beneath him, but imagining himself alone and in battle, swinging his sword about like an oaf. He tied himself to the tether.

Whelan told Daria the plan, again warning her about unnecessary danger. And then they were off, soaring north, with the sun rising to their right. Balsalom stretched below them. Smoke churned from the palace on the far side of the city. Cloud castles gathered overhead.

Darik tried to steer, but Brasson ignored him, following Whelan and Daria. Brasson was even larger than Averial, with powerful muscles and an effortless wing stroke.

Mol Khah’s garrison entrenched itself amongst the tombs just west of the Gates of the Dead, with Cragyn’s hammer pointed at the city walls. Even from the sky the Hammer was impressive, a metal tube stained black from fire. Men scurried about the opening, packing sacks down its mouth. He could see the damage in the city walls where the bombard pounded. A few more shots would open a breach.

Kallia’s men gathered behind the Gates of the Dead, ready to surge out when they got the signal from the walls. There weren’t as many Balsalomians as Darik hoped. The Veyrians, however, looked at least three hundred in number, and had positioned themselves behind a wall of broken stones gathered from the tombs.

The griffins made two passes over the enemy camp to draw the enemy’s attention. A few Veyrians launched arrows into the air that fell well short.

Whelan raised his arm and brought it down on the third pass, giving the signal. They dove from the sky, griffins screaming. Darik held on in sheer terror, fighting the urge to squint his eyes shut. He reached one hand for his sword, then thought better of it and simply hung on.

Whelan and Daria scattered men in front of them, then swooped back in the air. But Brasson, under less guidance, dipped lower. Darik felt a lurch and heard a scream and then Brasson rose and followed the others. Darik looked down and saw Brasson with a man in its talons, one gripping the man by his neck, the other clenching a leg. Back paws scratched at the man’s armor.

With the extra weight, Brasson took longer to gain altitude. Arrows whizzed by, one of them sliding over Darik’s shoulder. The man struggled, making the griffin lurch to one side. At fifty feet, Brasson dropped the man, who fell screaming to the ground.

Whelan wheeled around and shouted. “Not so low!” He gave the order to attack again.

Darik nodded, but he noticed that the enemy scattered more quickly this time. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Gates of the Dead open and the khalifa’s army pour out. The enemy did not yet see this new threat.

The griffins rose back into the sky, and as they did, Darik saw a cloud of dust north of the city. Darik pointed to the north. Whelan frowned, then gestured for the others to follow him to investigate.

Their work below had done its job. Kallia’s men rushed from the gates, driving into the disorganized Veyrians. Balsalomians scrambled over the barriers, scattering the enemy. Darik turned back to the commotion north of the city.

An army marched along the Way. Darik thought at first they might be from one of the other cities revolting against Cragyn. But no, there was no way that they could have heard already and sent aid. But neither could Mol Khah have sent for help so quickly. The grand vizier’s spies had spotted an army several days away, making its way west. But nothing so close. Perhaps Cragyn’s march through the Western Khalifates had disrupted Saldibar’s spy network, or some of his spies had turned.

They flew in low, and Darik saw his fears confirmed. They wore the black and scarlet of Veyre in the front, while rows of camels lumbered further back in the army, ridden by men in gray robes with black and gold bands about their heads: Kratian nomads. No wonder Saldibar’s spies had failed: the Kratia lived on the southern deserts. They wouldn’t have reached the Tothian Way until earlier this morning.

Sinuous shapes rose from the army to meet the griffin riders. Dragon wasps. Fifteen or twenty of them. The dragon wasps rushed to attack.

Whelan and Daria spotted them at the same time, and turned to flee. The griffins could fly fast, but it took them longer to bank and turn than the wasps. By the time they turned around, the griffins had flown completely over the new army, and were surrounded by dragon wasps.

Chapter XIII

THREE DRAGON WASPS SET UPON Darik and Brasson, dragon kin on their backs. Brasson leaned to one side, but one of the dragon kin jabbed his spear as it flew past. A sharp pain bit Darik in the shoulder.

Brasson lurched to one side, and grabbed the wasp by the neck with its talons. The creature struggled to free itself while the kin pulled his spear around to jab into Brasson’s underbelly. Darik drew his sword, leaned over with one hand on the tether, and knocked the spear away. The man snarled and jabbed his spear at Darik instead. Darik ducked away. The spear jabbed his shoulder.

The pain in his shoulder throbbed when Darik twisted away. He released the tether and grabbed at the spear to wrench it from the other man.

The dragon kin had only a tenuous grip on its mount and Darik’s pull wrenched him from his saddle. The man struggled with the spear, while Darik tried to let it go, hanging half way over the saddle. Darik grabbed for the tether, both the spear and his new sword falling to the ground. He hung upside down beneath Brasson, only the tether holding him in place.

Also no longer holding on, the dragon kin grabbed at the wasp’s head. It snarled and snapped its jaws, still trying to free itself from Brasson’s talon’s. The man fell to the ground with a cry.

Darik didn’t see where he fell. He was fighting for his life, trying to get himself back on top of Brasson, but he flailed underneath. His face scraped against the griffin’s back claws. The tether held his waist, but it wrapped his chest and cut his air. He tried to pull himself up, but the tether spun around and pinched his hand.

Brasson fought his own battles. The griffin cast away the dragon wasp, the creature crippled by talon, claw, and beak, then turned hard to avoid two more wasps at his haunches. Brasson dropped twice to get Darik back on its back, but there were too many attackers.

At last Darik gripped the tether with both hands where it crossed over Brasson’s back and pulled himself up until he sat in the saddle. Brasson sped away, outdistancing the dragon wasps. Darik looked over his shoulder.

Whelan and Daria were in trouble. Whelan’s mount was younger and not as powerful as the others; three dragon wasps clung to its back and side. Whelan had killed or dismounted all three riders and slashed at one of the wasps, but his griffin dropped under the weight of its attackers. He fell into the city, and friendly troops ran to finish the wasps when he landed.

Daria, however, had been driven north of Balsalom and the Tothian Way, and was beset by a dozen dragon wasps. She tried to gain open space where Averial could spread her wings, but the wasps drove her this way and that. Instead of fleeing for the city, she tried to climb higher, into the clouds.

“Ska!” Darik shouted, digging his heels into Brasson’s flanks. Brasson saw Averial under attack and screamed in rage. Dragon wasps snaked their necks in surprise at this new threat, then raced to intercept him.

A wasp met them head on, but Brasson cast it out of the way with its beak. The dragon kin on its back threw his spear, but it flew wide.

“Darik!” Daria cried.

Blood stained her face and ugly gashes marred Averial’s flanks. She pointed in the sky and he could see why she was climbing. Floating overhead was a cluster of cloud castles, each standing atop a single, massive cloud. From this close, some of them looked strikingly like Montcrag perched on the edge of the cliff.

Racing to protect his mate, Brasson scattered wasps in front of him. Freed momentarily, the two griffins climbed; Daria swung her sword, striking one wasp across its leathery wing. Below, a dozen wasps gave chase. Their only hope was the cloud castle.

Giant windmills on the end of the cloud churned a strong wind, and when the griffins flew into this current, they fought to fly straight, while wasps tore at their flanks. At last, however, the winds grew too fierce for the smaller wasps and the griffins continued alone; the wasps circled below, waiting for them to come down again. The two humans ducked their heads and hung on tight.

And then they crested a cloud, and Darik got his first, wondrous glimpse of the Cloud Kingdoms up close. The cloud stretched for several miles from one side to the other. Clouds bulged around the end, but from above, the rest of it looked like the ground, with rocks and dirt, and plowed fields. No other buildings stood on the cloud, except for the three windmills and the castle that jutted from a rocky promontory about a mile from the edge. The entire cloud made him think of an island, only an island sat in the middle of the sea, while this floated on a sea of sky.

The scope of the magic required to build these Cloud Kingdoms took his breath away. If it took the blood of thousands to bind the Tothian Way to Mithyl, what had it taken to lift kingdoms into the sky? He couldn’t even imagine who had such power.

Other cloud castles floated nearby. Darik saw six others, some larger or smaller, some with buildings and houses among the fields, but all floating at about the same level, windmills churning. Darik thought of the steel tome and its diagram of windmills.

Darik and Daria landed in a field and climbed off the griffins, breathing hard. While Daria turned her attention to Averial’s wounds, Darik touched the ground. It felt solid enough. Fog clung to the ground at ankle level in places, but other parts were clear.

The fields were corn and barley, lined with hedgerows, all of it incredibly green. A few sheep grazed quietly, paying no attention to them or their griffins. He saw nobody tending fields or animals.

They were discovered. The gates opened on the castle, and a cavalry rode forth. Dozens of white horses and white-armored riders. The gates issued forth not at ground-level, but some fifty feet above ground. The horses leapt from the gates and galloped across the sky.

Darik turned to Daria, amazed. “The horses can fly.”

“Winged horses,” she said, wonder in her voice.

The horses sped rapidly in their direction. “Are the griffins all right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She took Averial by the tether and instructed, “Hold Brasson.” She continued, “I’ve never seen a winged horse, but Father told me of them.”

Both horse and rider shimmered in pure white. The men were armed with white shields and gleaming swords or painted white lances. When they drew near, the griffins struggled to fly, but the two humans kept them on the ground. The cavalry circled overhead, then landed with a flurry of neighs and nervous prancing.

One man rode his mount to face the two companions. He wore a white helmet with sweeping wings that drew back from its crest. He removed the helmet to reveal a young man with white hair and a clean-shaven face. Drawing his sword, he addressed the two companions.

“In the name of Collvern, Lord of the High Kingdom, and his magistrate of justice, I place you under arrest. Throw down your weapons.”

Kallia had watched the three griffin riders with growing elation. They’d driven the enemy from defensive positions. The Veyrians didn’t spot her men charging from the gates until they drew within fifty feet. Some turned to fight as captains screamed for them to fall into position, but many simply fled. Balsalomian forces overran the bombard within the first ten minutes of battle.

Kallia stood on one of the towers overlooking the Gates of the Dead. Of all the defensive towers in the city, these were the oldest, dating from before Balsalom itself, when this was another city. Syrmarria itself had been destroyed in the wars, but the gates and the walls on this side had been intact enough that the founders of Balsalom had simply incorporated the old stone into the new defenses. These towers had been strengthened over the years and connected to the garrison quarters behind them.

Because the gates were shorter than the gates on the north of the city, and the guild towers blocked her view of the Tothian Way, she never saw the new army, never knew anything was wrong until Whelan’s griffin screamed into the city with dragon wasps attacking it on all sides.

Whelan brought his mount down near the Gates of the Dead. The dragon wasps kept attacking when he landed, but Balsalomians with swords and bows drove them away. Whelan’s mount bled heavily; he didn’t stop to care for the griffin, but ran to the tower where Kallia stood. Kallia and Saldibar hurried to meet him.

“Pull back,” Whelan gasped. “A huge army is riding toward the tombs. Several thousand horse and footmen. And camel riders.”

Kallia realized her mistake. Mol Khah had been smug, she’d noted, but her worry had not been another army, but that Cragyn himself would send help. She had known that if Balsalom couldn’t take the palace before the dark wizard returned, they would have no hope of holding the city.

Saldibar’s face paled. “Impossible. Reinforcements are several days away.”

“Not that army,” Whelan said. “Kratians, from the south and riders from the Sultanates. The gates. We have to close the gates.”

Saldibar turned toward the gates, but Kallia held his arm. “Get our men inside first.”

“If they reach the open gates,” Saldibar protested, “we’ll never stop them. Some men must be sacrificed.”

“We won’t leave our men to die.”

Saldibar said, “Please, Khalifa. Close the gates.”

She looked at Whelan. He looked torn, but at last he shook his head. “We can’t abandon them. Give me a horse and I will lead a sortie to protect the retreat.”

“Yes,” Kallia said, relieved and frightened at the same time. For Saldibar was right. If an army breached the gates Balsalom would fall.

Whelan groaned. “The griffin. I can’t leave him untended. I have to look after his wounds.”

Kallia opened her mouth to protest, but had seen him ride down on the magnificent animal. It was more than a dumb beast.

Whelan said, “And my friends. I have to find them.”

“Your friends can care for themselves. I know a man who rode once with the griffin riders. I will send for him and he can look after the beast,” Saldibar said. “Kallia, go to Toth’s View and tell Pasha Boroah.”

They went their separate ways. Kallia hailed a horseman, who stopped in amazement to see his queen. She sent him from the horse and galloped toward the tower, which stretched above the north side of the city. She reached the tower in a few minutes, and gave the news to Boroah, who sent messengers and blew trumpet messages to assemble more men to guard the Gates of the Dead.

She stood in the tower next to Boroah. He was a large, older man with a bushy growth that spread from his sideburns to his mustache. He wore a blue turban and rubbed nervously at his smooth chin as he surveyed the battle. Most Selphan stayed in their traditional trades of money lending and silver working, but Boroah had risen amongst the ranks of fighting men, winning their increasing respect. Cragyn had deemed him too old to ship east to Veyre, but perhaps he had been overly hasty in his assessment of the man’s battle-worthiness.

The rain began to fall again. Overhead, jostling amidst the storm clouds, cloud castles positioned themselves over the battle. Kallia wanted to shake her fist at them, watching as if this were some jogu ball match instead of a battle for a great city teetering on destruction.

Whelan rode from the gates with his cavalry and headed north to intercept the enemy. The Balsalomians abandoned their attack on Cragyn’s Hammer. Saved by fortune only, the enemy in the tombs overcame their confusion and moved to retake the bombard. Kallia groaned, seeing victory snatched away.

Kratian camel riders howled like winds from the desert, riding hard to meet Whelan’s cavalry. And to the right flank, men of the Sultanates on fast desert horses, wearing flowing robes and carrying long, graceful scimitars. For a moment, the two sides met, and then the newcomers, several times as strong, pushed Whelan back. Kallia bit her thumb, wishing she rode among them instead of sitting up here, useless. At last, Whelan turned his forces to flee.

Whelan’s delaying tactics had only bought them fifteen minutes, but it was enough. If the Veyrians at Cragyn’s Hammer had been better organized, they might have better pressed their new advantage; as it was, Kallia’s footmen reached the gates safely, as did Whelan’s cavalry. Archers on the walls drove the enemy from the gates.

One of the men standing next to Kallia let out an alarmed shout. Pasha Boroah cursed. Kallia followed their gaze and her heart sank.

Mol Khah fought his way from the palace. His troops savaged the thinned positions guarding the palace. Had she kept adequate forces outside the palace, had she owned such forces, Mol Khah would have exposed himself. Instead, his men cut through the defenses and pressed toward the Great Gates. She had no forces with which to contain him. The nearest reinforcements were on the other side of Balsalom some five miles distant, and they were needed to stop the assault on the Gates of the Dead. Mol Khah fought his way west, ready to open the Great Gates to destruction.

And had the new army on the Tothian Way pressed its attack, that is exactly what would have happened. But she noticed an amazing thing from her perch atop Toth’s View. Instead of turning from the Tothian Way toward Balsalom, the enemy army continued west, toward the mountains. Even the Kratian camel riders and the cavalry rejoined the army once they’d freed Cragyn’s Hammer. She could see the small force that had guarded the siege weapon dismantling it.

Pasha Boroah saw this lucky stroke of fortune at the same time that she did. Trumpets blared to order men from the Gates of the Dead to the Great Gates.

Pursued only by the remnants of the small force that had guarded the palace, Mol Khah’s garrison reached the Great Gates about fifteen minutes later. They seized the gate towers. This fighting raged below Toth’s View; the enemy could capture the khalifa and Boroah had Mol Khah not more pressing needs. His army threw open the Great Gates.

No doubt Mol Khah expected to see a friendly army, either at the gates or approaching quickly. What he saw instead was the empty expanse north of Balsalom, with only the tail end of his ally visible on the Tothian Way.

By now, Balsalom’s first reinforcements arrived from the Gates of the Dead. Mol Khah’s men met this new threat in the only way they could. They turned to fight, but even from where Kallia stood it was apparent that the sight of their allies fleeing had broken their spirit. Archers on the walls drove Mol Khah’s men back from the gates and slaughtered them in the gate towers.

Men on horseback drove a wedge through the Veyrians. Mol Khah stood by himself, shouting for his men to stand by his side. A man rode his horse at the pasha, but Mol Khah caught him across the breast and knocked him to the ground. A second man jumped from his horse to wrestle the pasha to the ground. Mol Khah rose a moment later and nearly decapitated the man with the force his blow. Two others fell before the pasha’s scimitar and Kallia feared that the battle would turn on the strength of his fighting alone.

But his army collapsed around him. Kallia’s guardsmen and the remnants of her army, only a ragged force that morning, had become a real army. They put Mol Khah’s men to the slaughter. The pasha found himself surrounded by twenty or thirty men, all pressing in to attack him. He threw down his sword and raised his hands. The surrender spread from the pasha to his men until there was no more fighting.

In the tombs, the enemy army carted away Cragyn’s Hammer. One victory had eluded Balsalom. But they had won the most important. Men seized Mol Khah and tied his hands behind his back.

Boroah turned to her with a wide grin. “Oh khalifa—may you live forever—shall we kill the mongrel?”

She shook her head. “No, I prefer to see the look on his face when he discovers that the dark wizard values his siege engine more than he values the life of his grand vizier.”

She kissed the grizzled old Selphan on both cheeks.

That night, every cricket in the city fell silent. Instead, the sound of baying hounds filled the air while the people huddled frightened in their beds. Always, the sound came from only a few hundred feet from the listener. Throughout the night, the Harvester feasted on the souls of the dead, of which there were many.

Chapter XIV

MARKAL’S MAGIC WAS A SHADOW of Chantmer the Tall’s, but none understood the old ways like Markal. He read not only the common tongue and the ancient forms of the old script, but knew more cartouches than any wizard or scholar. Few suspected the depth of his knowledge.

Few suspected Markal’s knowledge because none knew his age. Even wizened old Narud was only a child when Syrmarria fell to Toth’s army. But Markal remembered the glory of that greatest of cities, and the slaughter that followed its destruction. Survivors had founded Balsalom, which had grown into its own power over the centuries, but Balsalom was nothing to Syrmarria and the rich lands of Aristonia.

Markal remembered those lands from before Toth turned Aristonia into the Desolation. Markal had studied with the Crimson Path before that order’s destruction, including Memnet the Great, who alone had defied Toth. Markal remembered when Toth built a tower to the sky to battle the Sky Brother.

Markal had seen Cragyn’s tower in his mind—the Dark Citadel, Chantmer the Tall named it—and he recognized the similarities. As for the dark wizard, Cragyn was a child by the reckoning of wizards, eighty or ninety years old, and would have no memory of King Toth or his tower. So why did he build this tower so much like Toth’s?

Because of Markal’s preoccupation with the Dark Citadel, he had overlooked the steel book he’d found in the Tombs of the Kings. He’d thumbed through the first few pages, seen diagrams of cloud castles and archaic siege engines, together with maps of long-vanished countries, then put the book away. The book would prove useful, he thought, perhaps containing a clue about the fate of the Lost Kingdoms, but it would have to wait.

Cragyn’s men didn’t follow Montcrag’s survivors into the mountains, perhaps afraid of griffins or wild stone giants, but more likely wishing to fortify Montcrag and forge west. Taking the castle had cost the dark wizard dearly: several hundred dead and wounded by Markal’s estimation. If each castle in the mountains cost the dark wizard as much, his army would be a shell by the time it reached Eriscoba.

To say nothing of the Teeth.

The Teeth were three towers built so long ago that nobody knew their true age. Markal thought that they predated the Tothian Wars by at least eight hundred years. Built of white granite, and protected by a tangle of magical spells, the towers were to the western passes what Montcrag was the east. But Toth had encircled the three towers with walls to form a powerful new castle to guard his new road thrusting through the mountains, and the castle could hold a much larger army than Montcrag.

A man named Lord Garydon held the Teeth. Garydon swore allegiance to King Daniel and kept the western passes free of bandits—for a fee, of course. But Markal didn’t trust Garydon’s shifting loyalties and couldn’t be certain the man would defend the Tothian Way against so powerful an army as Cragyn’s.

“Hurry up old man,” Hoffan shouted at him. “Moss is growing in your beard.” Surprisingly cheerful after the fall of his castle, the warlord stood at the rear of his men, who hiked a deer path along the spine of the crag rising to the mountains.

Markal followed Hoffan, joking with the men in the back, but kept one eye on the sky. He thought it unlikely for wasps to dare griffin country but wanted to be careful.

Ahead, Hoffan and Ethan struck an immediate friendship. Ethan was like his brother Whelan in many ways: strong, loyal, and murderously adept with the sword, but also fiercely independent. Those traits made the two men natural leaders of the Knights Temperate, who shared those traits. If King Daniel hoped to drive the dark wizard from the Free Kingdoms, he would have to command the loyalty of such men, and that meant forgiving Whelan.

Dark clouds gathered to the east, piling against the hills and slowly creeping up the mountains. A storm was coming. As of yet, however, the air in the mountains was clear and cool, with a hint of autumn. They stood at the cusp of two forests, the hardwood of lower elevations and the pine forests up ahead.

Markal noted a familiar sparrow chirping at every turn of the trail. The bird was following him, flying from its branch to soar to another tree or a rocky clearing as soon as he passed. Narud trusted birds more than humans, and Markal wondered if the bird was a messenger from the Order, but when he stopped to see if the sparrow had anything to say, it merely cocked its head and waited until he left, then darted ahead to repeat the process. Markal considered and then rejected the possibility that the bird was one of Cragyn’s spies and ignored the nosy little fellow.

The mood of Montcrag’s defenders improved as they climbed. There was something invigorating about the mountain air. Sofiana and Ethan shot a mountain goat and the men dressed it for dinner, starting a camp fire as soon as it grew too dark to travel.

A dream woke Markal during the night. In the dream, Darik hunched over the book from the tombs, while a blue light glowed from its steel pages. Markal floated over the boy’s shoulder. A face looked back from the steel page. Cragyn. Dreamily, Darik stood and walked toward the door, stepping into the night air.

Markal woke. He wondered what the dream meant. Jethro the Martyr, founder of the Order and the Brotherhood, had trained his followers to interpret dreams. “A dream is a window to the soul,” Jethro taught. Markal wasn’t sure if he agreed with the statement, some dreams were no more than random nonsense, but there were times when Jethro’s words rang true. This was one of them.

The interpretation came in a burst of insight so clear it stunned him that he missed it before. The Oracular Tomes. Was the book one of them? Didn’t scholars refer to leaves of hammered gold and brass? Why not steel?

References to these mystical books began in the cartouches carved in stone pillars and monuments that survived the war, throughout the khalifates and Eriscoba. References began some fourteen hundred years ago if Markal’s estimation was accurate. Oblique mentions and even direct quotes persisted into early forms of the old tongue. The Oracular Tomes, if they truly existed, imparted knowledge that gave power to create life and matter, to control death, to build mountains: in short, the very powers of the five brothers to create Mithyl itself.

As for their number, early references mentioned three tomes, later references five. By the time of most references, some three hundred years before the Tothian Wars, the tomes had long vanished. He only had one clue as to their fate, a fragment that had survived the burning of the libraries. It named the destruction of three tomes, naming them the Tome of Creation, the Heart Tome, and the Shadow Tome. The first of these was taken by the Sky Brother, its apparent author, the second destroyed by fire salamanders, and the third—the Shadow Tome—lost at sea.

But the last two tomes, including the Tome of Prophesy, had not been destroyed, according to the writer, merely lost. Yes, Markal had thought at the time, but lost for so long was as good as destroyed anyway. Now he wasn’t so sure. According to ancient writings, the Tome of Prophesy could show the future and control the weak minded or the young. It also changed words and pictures, sometimes appearing a meaningless jumble to the untrained eye. That might explain why he’d not thought the book special upon first glance.

A hooting owl startled Markal from his thoughts and he climbed to his feet. A horned owl from the sound of it. His ears picked out a bear snuffling on the hillside some two hundred yards above them.

Bits of the bear’s blurry thoughts grumbled into his mind. Peoples. I smell peoples. No good peoples, no good stings on their hands. And then a new thought crossed its mind. Peoples. Food. Good food, sweet and salty food. Peoples food.

The wizard turned his own thoughts at the bear before it caused mischief. No good food here, friend. Only stings. Nasty, sharp stings from peoples. Find berries down the mountain, black, sweet berries. No stings in berries.

Markal turned his attention down the mountain, but heard nothing there except a skunk licking the salt from a leather glove dropped by one of Hoffan’s men. Bats clicked overhead, searching for insects.

Hoffan’s men camped against a hillside beneath the protection of pine trees. Men snored, some stirring in the strange environment. Markal searched out Hoffan and Ethan and woke them.

“I’m leaving. Don’t ask where or why. I can’t tell you.”

Hoffan grumbled as he sat up in his bedding and yawned furiously. “Even a blind dog can sniff his own butt, I suppose.”

Markal blinked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Hoffan yawned again, looking confused. “Damn it, wizard, I don’t know. It’s dark, and I’m still half asleep.”

Markal laughed and turned to Ethan, who had wakened instantly, much as his brothers could. “I’ll meet you at the Citadel. If you reach it first, do what you can to soften the king’s heart.”

“What is all of this, wizard?” Hoffan asked. He yawned again, but the haze began to fall from his eyes. “You act decent enough most of the time, and then you skulk off in the middle of the night like any other wizard.”

Markal clapped the man on the shoulder. “Could be worse, highwayman. There’s a bear on the hill. I could have smeared honey on your face to make up for the times you’ve stripped me of every last shekel, dinarii, and guilder when I passed Montcrag. I daresay some wizards would have been hard pressed to pass on such an opportunity.”

“I’m not afraid of bears.” Hoffan snorted and lay back down. “Hell, I’m half bear myself. That fellow on the hillside might just be my cousin.”

Markal left the camp, slipping into the darkness. When he reached the ridge, he crouched to his knees, summoning the proper incantation. This time, vows of the Order, don’t fail me.

There were three components of active magic, that is, the magic greater than the ability to speak to animals and such. The first element was knowledge, and Markal knew more of the chants and incantations than anyone. He knew when it would be better to use the spells developed by each of the old orders: the Crimson Path, or the Seven Crippled Wizard Knights, or other, more minor orders. There was a difference between the right spell and the almost-right spell. This knowledge compensated for his other deficiencies.

The second component was life force. The Order of the Wounded Hand drew life from their own hands, which shriveled and blackened after use. Other orders had drawn life force from animals, or grew hugely fat before casting magic, fat they burned off in a riot of energy, leaving flaps of skin behind. An evil wizard, of course, used human life; it was said that King Toth burned alive a hundred thousand children to bind the Way. Cragyn often drew magic by impaling his victims on spikes.

The final component of magic proved to be Markal’s weakness. Because good orders of wizards didn’t have as much power as dark wizards—what was a withered hand to murder and torture?—they drew strength from their convictions. Wizards like Chantmer the Tall and Nathaliey Liltige believed so strongly in the precepts of Jethro the Martyr that it made them powerful indeed. Such passionate belief also blinded them, Markal believed, while a more practical man or woman might be ultimately more effective. Alas, at times like this, he wished he had more faith in the Martyr’s teachings.

He whispered in the old tongue, “A Manth Sever, nurjoro puissant urs anach aguil flok, me pasht veltra khah.” By the Wounded Hand, I draw the strength of the bear and the wings of an eagle to speed my journey.

Power flowed through his veins. He arched his back and groaned. At the last moment, a niggle of doubt crept into his mind and much of the power bled uselessly into the air. It had been this bleeding of power that had drawn wights in Balsalom. Markal’s hand burned with pain, then grew cold. It withered.

The wizard might have turned into a giant eagle, had his faith been greater, or even a bear, had he not been so weak. Still, his bones hardened, his heart surged and a shout came to his lips. He bounded up the hill. Raging with heat, he tore off his clothes and cast them behind him. Branches and rocks scraped at his body and tore at his feet, but he paid them no attention. Darkness didn’t bother him, for he felt the path beneath his feet.

Over the hills and mountains he ran. When cliffs blocked his path, he scrambled directly up their faces with his good hand and his toes. Startled deer bounded out of his way. He frightened a dozing rabbit, running it down and passing it on the trail. His skin burned with fire.

A griffin aerie loomed to his right. Even with his keen eyes, he might not have seen the old tower where it stood in a small clearing, if not for the cry of an owl in that direction. It occurred to him that he could travel even faster on the back of a griffin, and he veered toward the aerie.

The tower was like many in these hills. They predated the Tothian Way, when other roads snaked their way through treacherous valleys, avoiding giant country. The towers were short stone buildings, no more than a hundred feet high in most cases, to guard against bandits. But when Toth slew the giant king and drove the other giants north, then built the Tothian Way, the towers fell into disuse. During the wars, griffin riders adapted them into aeries.

Markal knew instantly that something was wrong. A jumble of clothing sat in front of the doors, which hung wide open. The contents of a broken chest lay scattered around the clearing. A fire still burned in the hearth. He listened but heard nothing, and crept forward to investigate.

The clothing was not clothing, or at least, not merely clothing. It was a young man lying face down on the ground. The wizard reached down a hand to his face, but the magic fever burned so strongly in him that he couldn’t tell whether or not the man was still warm. Markal smelled animal blood, and followed the scent to a dead griffin that dangled from the window of its aerie.

Inside, more destruction. Dragon wasps had come while the griffins slept, and while they’d killed at least one of the beasts, a dragon wasp lay dead in the room. A second wasp was alive but torn and dying fast. It let out a hiss when it saw Markal, but didn’t crawl its way to the doorway. Someone had ransacked the rooms below, then left. Cragyn, looking for Darik and the book.

A whisper caught his ears and he froze. He crept to the window and listened. Something or someone moved through the trees, silently hunting in the darkness. Dark magic flowed from the trees like blood from a wound, polluting the air around him and Markal fought the urge to flee. Instead, he crouched by the window, waiting. The magical force flowed past, searching, but not for him.

And Markal might have escaped detection had he not done something stupid. Instead of letting the enemy pass, he sent a tendril of thought, the barest query of magic.

The dark wizard, searching for the tome. Yes, it was him. Markal recognized his magic immediately.

He could hardly believe Cragyn had grown so powerful. Markal remembered when Cragyn had approached the Citadel as a boy seventy years ago. Young and earnest, much like Darik was now, his only follies were the kind that could be excused by youth. Cragyn was a studious boy, ahead in his reading and memorizing the ancient learnings with astonishing speed. If he had a fault, it was his overly keen interest in spells to bind wights. Such spells had brought the destruction of other wizards, but Cragyn swore he would be careful. Alas, years of proximity to wights took their toll and Chantmer had discovered him tinkering in the dark arts and cast him from the Order.

Afraid because the dark wizard had grown so powerful, Markal withdrew, but not in time. A rope of thought struck faster than a coiled snake. He staggered back from the window, clawing at Cragyn’s attack, but not before he was detected.

Markal turned toward the door in a panic, but the enemy burst into the bottom of the tower, speeding up the stairs. Markal returned to the window, eyeing the thirty foot drop to the ground. The door behind him opened.

Cragyn wore a dark cloak, and shadows wreathed his body so thick that they foiled Markal’s keen eyesight. He bared his teeth and smiled. “Markal. Whatever happened to your clothes?”

Markal jumped. He hung in the air for a long moment, flailing against the night air, the ground impossibly far below him. And then he hit, trying to roll. It knocked the wind from him. He regained his feet, magic still coursing through his veins. Cragyn landed beside him, light on his feet, hands grabbing for his shoulders. Markal leapt over the ground like a hunted deer, but the dark wizard stayed right behind, his power much stronger than Markal’s waning energy.

And then, impossibly, Cragyn stopped the chase. Markal raced ahead, leaving the man behind. He veered toward his goal—Flockheart’s aerie—and kept running.

An hour later, the magic faded, while he was still far from his goal. First he felt a burning in the lungs, then he began to stumble over the occasional tree root, and then his muscles trembled when he slowed to hurdle some obstacle. At last he collapsed to the ground with a gasp. The last of the magic fled. He couldn’t move, his muscles seizing up. If the dark wizard still hunted him, he would find Markal helpless. At last Markal struggled to his feet.

Why had Cragyn turned away? Markal could think of one possible reason, and it gave him hope. Perhaps as powerful as the dark wizard had become, he still bound his magic to a single site, some center of power.

King Toth had kept his magic in a box of souls, together with his strongest wights. Memnet the Great had kept his power in a glass sphere about the size of a fist. When the time came for him to pull from his reserves, Memnet would isolate himself, then draw what he needed.

Few wizards ever bound so much magic that they could store it, but the dark wizard might be one of them. He might have turned away, afraid that Markal’s flight was a ruse to draw him away from his power.

Yes, Markal thought. He might have stumbled onto Cragyn’s vulnerable spot.

Dawn crept over the mountains, and he still had three or four hours to go, barring another spell. But the way his heart thrashed about in his chest, using another spell might kill him. Now that he’d stopped burning with the magic fever, his naked body shivered in the cool night air. If only he was a greater wizard, he’d already be there. Markal continued by foot, gaining strength.

When he came upon Flockheart’s aerie, his heart pounded for a different reason. Two griffins lay dead in front of the tower, together with half a dozen dragon wasps. Cragyn had been here, too. One rider, face hidden, lay crushed beneath his mount. The battle had cost the dark wizard greatly, but he had won. The door to Flockheart’s tower hung from its hinges and debris lay strewn about in front of the building.

Sparrows chattered noisily from the branch of a tree, gossiping about the battle. “Yes, yes, yes,” one excitable fellow chattered. “Yes, the big people are going to war again. Yes, yes, lots of fighting. Big fighting. Yes.”

Markal turned, irritated. “The chattering beak tempts the snake,” he told them.

Chittering in surprise, the birds flew away. The wizard grinned in spite of himself, pleased that he’d remembered the common bird proverb. Like most such adages, it was utter nonsense. A snake was stone deaf, as any creature smarter than a sparrow could tell you.

He made his way to the clearing, afraid of what he would find. Much to his relief, the dead rider was neither of his friends nor Flockheart or his daughter. He didn’t recognize the griffins either.

Markal made his way through the tower. Thankfully, no more bodies. Indeed, the saddlebags were gone, making him think that they’d already taken the griffins to Balsalom before the battle. Flockheart had some fledglings, and these too were gone, perhaps removed to some other location. Cragyn must have drawn griffins from towers he’d attacked along the way. So the question was, had Darik taken the book? Why would he? If Markal was any kind of wizard, he’d have never left the book with Whelan and the boy without knowing its true nature first.

He found a shirt and some trousers and a pair of Flockheart’s boots, but the latter didn’t fit. Ah, well, his feet were tough enough. The skin on his blackened right hand began to slough off. It would hurt like hell for the next two days. This had been no mean spell.

The sun rose, promising a glorious late-summer day. It belied the scene of death in front of him. Others would have to give peace to this scene; he hadn’t the time. He scanned the trees, pondering the best way to cross into the Free Kingdoms.

“Did you lose something, wizard?” a voice said behind him.

Startled, Markal turned around. An old man with an oak staff stood at the edge of the clearing. He had a beard that was so white that it had a bluish tint, and an ancient face as lined as the mountain crags. It alarmed Markal that he hadn’t heard the man approach. Only a wizard had the power to do that.

“Are you friend or enemy?” Markal demanded.

The man chuckled. “If I were with the dark wizard, you would no doubt be laying in a pool of your own blood. By the Harvester’s bones, I thought you’d fallen asleep. I’ve rarely seen a more careless fellow.”

Markal grinned and forced himself to relax. The old man didn’t look dangerous, and that fact alone alarmed him. “So what were you going to do, old man, thump me over the head?”

“Old man? And I suppose that among the Order of the Wounded Hand, a man old enough to remember the Tothian Wars is not reckoned as old?” He shrugged. “Such is the curious way of wizards, I suppose. Men and women powerful enough to petrify their bodies in eternal youth, but feeble in the mind.”

“And you are not a wizard?”

The old man shook his head. “Not a wizard, no.”

“Then what, then who are you?”

He lifted his oak staff to point at the sparrows still chattering in the trees. “I’m the friend of those poor creatures you frightened just now. The friend of all birds and trees and animals who live beneath the attention of man.”

Markal nodded. “So you hide your destiny, magical man who is not a wizard? Very well. Yet, you know much about me. Who am I that my ways concern you?”

The old man lowered his staff. “You concern me little, except that I have something of yours that you carelessly let slip from your hands.”

Markal stepped forward eagerly. “You have it?”

The old man lifted a hand. “No closer, please. Yes, I have it. Your young friend looked into its pages one too many times and attracted unwanted attention. I trust if I give the book to you, you will be more cautious next time?” He reached into his robe and removed the steel tome. The Tome of Prophesy.

“Yes, I promise.”

“Very well then. I will hold you to your promise, Markal of Aristonia.”

The old man dropped the book and stepped back a pace. By the time Markal picked it up and looked up to thank his benefactor, the man had gone. He stared for a moment, wondering. A surviving wizard from the Crimson Path, perhaps, who’d lived the last four hundred years perfecting his arcane crafts? He must be powerful indeed, to keep himself and the tome hidden from the dark wizard.

Markal would seek him out later, should he get the chance, and find out what he knew about the book and the rest of the Oracular Tomes. For now, he had to reach the Citadel and warn King Daniel.

A bird screamed from the sky and Markal looked up to see Whelan’s falcon. He held out his good left hand and Scree circled for a moment before coming to his wrist. He grimaced as the bird dug its talons into the skin.

“Left you alone, did they?” he asked. The bird cocked its head and watched him, perhaps surprised that he could speak to it. No, Whelan would never leave the bird alone. It must have been staying with the griffin rider laying outside Flockheart’s tower.

“We need an understanding, you and I,” Markal said. “I have none of your equipment. None. So you’ll be unhooded.” He nodded. “Fly away and I’ll leave you to the eagles. They’ll make short work of you. Do you understand me?”

“Fly!” the falcon said. “Fly west! Mountains!”

Markal clenched his eyes shut. Falcons, hawks, eagles: why was it they had to scream everything? “Yes, we’re going west. Settle down and we’ll be all right.”

The wizard made his way across the mountains over the next few days, making sandals from birch bark. The falcon hunted fowl and marmot, which they ate raw. While his companions battled Mol Khah in Balsalom, the wizard fought snowstorms atop Mount Rachis. He hadn’t planned to go so high, but had awakened one morning in the middle of a giant’s thrackmole. A thrackmole was a strange game where giants chopped down trees and stripped off their branches, then took turns casting these trees as far as they could.

Markal had been dreaming of pleasant days, rather than the curse of the Dark Citadel that overshadowed his sleep in lower elevations. He’d dreamt of walking through his mother’s herbal gardens, before the war turned his home into the Desolation. Mother pointed out foxglove, and fontinel, and groning berry, telling him the healing power of each.

Markal woke to something crashing through the trees. A trunk five feet in diameter smashed down near his head. He scrambled to his feet to see six naked, hairy stone giants pitching trees at each other across a ravine. If a tree sailed toward one of the giants, he wouldn’t step clear, but let the tree knock him to the ground. More giants squatted around a fire further up the ravine chewing on bones and making an awful ruckus. By the Brothers, he’d slept soundly!

He slipped back down the ravine and circled to the north, which led him higher, and toward Mount Rachis. Scree flew down to meet him a few minutes later. If autumn came early in the mountains, winter came early atop Rachis, the tallest of the Dragon’s Spine. They slept in a cave that night while a storm raged outside, snowing them completely in. The cold bothered Scree little, and the snow not at all; as for Markal, wizards have ways to keep warm.

The weather improved as they circled Rachis and dropped down the other side. Pine gave way to hardwood. He crested a hill and got his first view of the valley. Below lay Eriscoba, beautiful and green and prosperous. Towns and castles dotted the plains, and in the distance, he saw a gleam of gold cast by the setting sun. The Citadel, the greatest fortress in all of Mithyl. Its outer walls were lined with gold leaves brought by thousands of pilgrims. Since the destruction of Aristonia, nothing had been so beautiful.

His breathing tightened when he remembered how long it had been since he’d stood atop that tower. He’d left Eriscoba with Whelan. Had it really been three years?

He heard the winged horses before he saw them, a whisper of sound on the wind. Markal looked up to see a company of winged knights riding down from a cloud castle that had drifted overhead while he daydreamed about the Citadel.

Markal cursed his carelessness. He threw a hood over Scree and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. The riders spotted him and shouted.

Chapter XV

THE PALACE HAD SUSTAINED HEAVY damage in the fighting. Mol Khah had let it burn at his back while he fought his way through the palace gates. Only the rain had put it out. Kallia’s garden rooms and the throne room were completely destroyed, together with most of the servants’ quarters, and into the scholars’ corner, including the library. Books that had survived the burning of the library of Veyre during the Tothian Wars perished, a loss that pained Kallia greatly. The damage would have been worse but for a few Balsalomian scholars trapped inside the palace with the presence of mind to carry hundreds of volumes to safety.

Mol Khah had surrendered, but he remained unbowed. “Cragyn will turn your name into a curse,” he promised her again. “For a thousand years, children will wake in the night, screaming for their mothers after hearing tales of Kallia Saffa.”

“Maybe so,” she replied. “But nobody will remember Mol Khah, second-rate henchman of a second-rate wizard.”

They’d led him to the dungeons to join his men. Kallia ordered the dungeons cleaned of the filth Mol Khah’s men had carted in to rot with her men, refusing advice from her ministers to let them bathe in their own excrement.

Kallia flushed revenge from her mind and turned her thoughts to Balsalom. The people needed to believe that normalcy had been restored, that their queen was strong enough to fight the dark wizard. She set men to clear rubble from the palace, while Saldibar organized a second crowning ceremony. She took up residence in her tower rooms, catching needed sleep late that night.

There was a knock on her door the next morning. She sat next to a window overlooking the city signing decrees for Saldibar. Life returned slowly to the streets. Kallia nodded to her servant girl who opened the door. Whelan stood at the doorway, and she rose to greet him.

“Did you find your friends?” she asked.

Whelan shook his head, frowning. “I found Flockheart in the tombs, but we can’t find his daughter or Darik.”

“Killed?”

“No. The dark wizard’s army traveled in such haste that they didn’t bury their own dead. Surely, if Darik and Daria were killed, someone would have found their bodies by now.”

“Captured, then?”

“Perhaps. I hope not. Better that they die. Still, I’ve got a feeling that they’re alive, so we’ll keep looking.” He cleared his throat and looked at his boots. “Kallia, may I speak with you frankly?”

She gestured for her servant girl to leave the room, but Whelan lifted his hand and said, “Perhaps she should stay. You are a married woman, now.”

Kallia eyed him coldly. “I am the wife of no man. Tashana, you may leave.”

Whelan looked relieved and waited quietly until the girl drew the door shut behind her. “I spoke to the dark wizard’s general a few minutes ago.” He unstrapped his sword and lay it beneath the cricket cage, as was the custom in Balsalomian homes, then he and Kallia sat on the rug opposite each other. “He is a vicious, stubborn man and not afraid of torture. In fact, he dared me to do my worst. He said something, however, that concerns me. Something about the dark wizard’s child.”

Yes, of course. Much to her fear, Mol Khah was right about one thing. She’d gulped gallons of Saldibar’s tea to salt the field where Cragyn had planted his seed, but still it took root. She hadn’t thought he would impregnate her, coming in the last few days of her cycle. But her courses were three days late.

“Yes,” she said, “it is true. It was not my wish.”

“No, of course not. The question is,” Whelan said, “what to do about it. A physic or herbalist can give you poisons to root it out, but they are dangerous things. Bearing his child lends legitimacy to the wizard’s claim over Balsalom.”

She rose to her feet, pouring him a goblet of fine Chalfean wine. He sipped politely; they preferred ales in the Free Kingdoms. “And if I keep the child, what then?”

Whelan said, “Declare the marriage to the dark wizard forced and thus invalid, and marry again, quickly, and with an ally. Then, conceal the child for a time, and lie about its age.”

“And Mol Khah?”

Whelan shrugged. “Saldibar will suggest that we kill him before he talks too much. I say lock him in solitude, or shrug off his statements as the ravings of a madman.”

His plan held a certain appeal. “No,” she said at last, “it will never work. I could not deceive my husband, and defiled, no prince or khalif would have me, political gain or no. Otherwise, I might approach the khalif of Darnad, see if he would join our revolt if I married his son. He once wished such an alliance.” She sighed, turning to look out the window. “Perhaps if I had Marialla’s beauty, he might overlook these flaws.”

Whelan put down his wine and looked in her eyes. “I heard what the dark wizard said about you.” He rose to his feet and sat closer.

She blushed. Yes, that she looked like a dunghill. “You did?”

“Yes, and it is a lie.” He sat far too close to be proper and took her face in his hands. The trembling in his hands alarmed her. But there was a raw power in his face and a strength in his shoulders that made her heart pound.

Whelan pulled away, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But Kallia,” he protested, “your beauty is not a concern. There might be petty khalifs who are afraid of the dark wizard’s claim, or reject you because he defiled you. I wasn’t thinking of that sort of husband, but someone from the Free Kingdoms.”

She smiled. “Are you talking about yourself, oh great warrior of the thorn?”

He recoiled. “Oh, no. Of course not. I would not presume such a thing. But what of King Daniel’s brother Ethan? He is with Markal in the mountains, but if I can find Flockheart, we can bring him back to the city instead. You can wed him then.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, disappointed and a bit confused.

Whelan must have misjudged her expression, for he continued in a hurry, “Prince Ethan is a good man, wise and kind like his brother. His brother, the king, that is. He would be a good match.”

“You may be right.” She looked Whelan directly in the eye. “Now let me speak boldly with you, Whelan. I know my marriage will be largely for political reasons, but I can’t simply marry Ethan just like that. I’ve met the man once.”

“He is a good man,” Whelan said. “Kind and decent. Strong in character.”

“But I want something more. I won’t marry a stranger and simply take my chances.” She smiled. “I haven’t had the greatest fortune with marriage.”

He stood and walked to his previous seat, taking a nervous swallow from his wine. “If that is your wish, my queen, I will obey it. But if so, you’ll face the unpleasant task of bearing the dark wizard’s child more-or-less openly, or poisoning it like some vile weed.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t say that I wouldn’t marry for political reasons, simply not political reasons alone. But what if I were to marry the captain of the Brotherhood of the Thorne, the greatest group of fighting men in all of Mithyl? The other brother of King Daniel. For Balsalom, that might be the best alliance of all.” She watched for his reaction, heart beating swiftly. She rose to her feet and went to the window.

Whelan watched her in surprise. “Who told you? Ethan?” He followed her to the window. “He said he wouldn’t tell you who I was.”

“No, Saldibar told me, but he only confirmed what I’d already guessed. There is no reason for you to hide secrets from me. I believe in you and trust you.” She put her hand on his arm and felt him tremble. “Come, Whelan, you know that few things would rally the Brotherhood to Balsalom like an alliance between us.”

He let her hand linger on his arm before tearing away. “No,” he said. “It is impossible.”

“I see.”

He turned quickly, and took her down-turned face in his hands to compel her to see the sincerity in his eyes. “No, my queen, you don’t understand. It is not you. I have dreamed of hearing such words from your mouth. I am disgraced among my order, and hated by my brother, the king. He has sworn to kill me should I ever return to Eriscoba.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?” Whelan asked.

“I have known for three years that Daniel banished one of his brothers. Since it happened, in fact. Once Saldibar told me that you were a brother of the king, I quickly guessed that you were that brother. When I knew you as a boy, you meant to return to Eriscoba, to take Sanctuary to atone for your sins and join the Brotherhood, did you not? And so I guessed that you only returned to Balsalom because you finally told your brother and he banished you in a fit of rage and grief. Did I guess correctly?”

“You guessed correctly.” He lowered his head for a moment, before picking his glass of wine off the floor and taking another sip. “These things shame me greatly. Even when I suffered in Sanctuary Tower I was still too cowardly to confess to my brother that I had broken his trust.”

“But King Daniel must also be shamed by his own anger.” Hope rose in Kallia. “He too has suffered from the rift between you. He will welcome you back, I am sure of it.”

“Even if you guess correctly, there is more than that, my queen,” Whelan said. “There is the Brotherhood itself, the oaths I’ve made.”

“Oaths of chastity?”

He shook his head. “No oaths of chastity. But let me explain, Kallia. When Serena and I committed our crimes, we were children who didn’t understand the consequences of our actions. Now I am centered and know my strengths and weaknesses. I must marry a woman with that same knowledge, who also knows the crooked path to the Thorn Tree, the path that Jethro the Martyr walked in his last days.”

This was a trifling concern. “So I will learn this crooked path.”

“Kallia, my queen. Almost I believe you. I desperately want to believe you.” He sighed. “Kallia you would do anything, say anything to protect Balsalom. The city is your true love. You have no idea what the path to the Thorn Tree means, or you wouldn’t suggest it so lightly. And my oaths aren’t discarded so lightly, either.”

Whelan turned to the window. “But I will swear this. If I don’t find my companions today, I will return to Eriscoba and the Free Kingdoms and beg the Knights Temperate to defend Balsalom as if it were the Citadel itself.” He turned to go.

As Whelan stepped through the doors, she almost stopped him, abdicated her power to follow him on the crooked path, or wherever this man wished to go. For she did not so much wish a political alliance, she realized, as an alliance with Whelan. Alas, she let him go.

That night, the grand vizier re-anointed Kallia in an official ceremony. Cragyn had taken the Scepter of Balsalom, emblem of Balsalom, wrought from the blackened iron of the star stone, but Saldibar found a diamond tiara with a red ruby at its crest in the vaults below the palace, and placed this on her head. Saldibar lay Mol Khah’s black and crimson helm at her feet and proclaimed her the Jewel of the West, and the Hammer of Veyre. The people crowding the banquet hall, the largest unburned room in the palace, let out a great cheer, hope rising in their faces.

It was, she thought, much as Whelan had said. A marriage vow between herself and her people. There wasn’t room for anything else.

The Story Continues In… The Free Kingdoms The Dark Citadel (Book #2)

Afterword

MICHAEL WALLACE WAS BORN IN California and raised in a small religious community in Utah, eventually heading east to live in New England. An experienced world traveler, he has trekked through the Andes, ventured into the Sahara on a camel, and traveled through Thailand by elephant. In addition to working as a literary agent and innkeeper, he previously worked as a software engineer for a Department of Defense contractor, programming simulators for nuclear submarines.

To receive notice when Michael’s next book is released, use this form to sign up for his new releases list. This mailing list is not used for any other purpose: bit.ly/10ZDLZ2.

The Complete Dark Citadel Series

Book #1: The Dark Citadel

Book #2: The Free Kingdoms

Book #3: The Golden Griffin

Book #4: The Warrior King

Book #5: War of Wizards

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BLADES OF MAGIC: BOOK I

Terah Edun

Chapter I

SARA FAIRCHILD STARED WITH HARD eyes at the three men and two women who surrounded her. They had cornered her in an alley. But only because she wanted them to. She was having a bad day, might as well end it right. Feet planted firmly in the dry dirt, she called out to the group arrayed in a semi-circle around her, “Nice day for a fight, isn’t it?”

The woman to her right wore a raggedy scarf around her hair and her ears were covered in at least five earrings per lobe. She glared and said, “You think you’re funny, girl?”

Sara watched as the woman spit into the dirt before her in disgust.

“Your da was a disgrace,” the woman continued. “You’re just like him. A coward.”

“And a cheat!” said the man directly in front of her. He nervously fingered a blade in his hands. It was a poorly crafted one. That Sara could tell from five feet away. She stood in front of him with her back up against the wall. She wasn’t carrying her sword, but she did have one fine long knife at her waist, a dagger on her thigh, and a baton she’d lifted from a city patrolman in her right hand.

“Is that so?” Sara said, directing her voice at the man in front of her, “And what, pray tell, did I cheat you of, Simon Codfield?”

Her tone was level. Even surprised. He shifted warily. He was nervous even with four of his friends to back him up. When the people standing with him began to look at him oddly, he stiffened his back. Simon licked his lips and said, “Cards. I know you had an extra ace in your belt. Admit it now and we’ll only beat you two ways until Sunday.”

She tilted her head. “And if I admit it later?” Even he couldn’t miss the derision in her voice.

“We’re trying to go easy on you,” said Simon Codfield, his voice dipping into desperation. He might be a liar as well as a thief, but he was no fool. Sara knew the only reason he and his crew had followed her into this alley was because if he didn’t accuse her, he would have to take the fall for losing over forty shillings in a card game that had only started on a bet of five. She knew and he knew that he didn’t have forty shillings to give. That was one month’s pay for a dockworker, never mind a ne’er-do-well like Simon who hadn’t worked an honest job a day in his life.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you drop those trousers of yours? Then we’ll call it even,” said the thief lord in charge of the west district of Sandrin. She turned to face the man who had spoken. He rubbed a hand over his two-day-old beard with a grin.

Sara brought up the long knife in her left hand. “Why don’t you drop yours, Severin, so that I can cut off your balls for you?”

Anger flashed in the thief lord’s eyes. Anger and passion. Sara smiled. She wasn’t joking. If she got close enough to him, she’d make him a eunuch without batting an eye. Simon Codfield gulped and took a step back. He knew she wasn’t playing around.

But Severin was new. He didn’t believe the reputation she had acquired on the streets. More’s the pity for him. He thought he would be in for what a man like him considered a little rough play—disarming a pretty girl of a simple knife. Maybe getting a few scratches and bites for his troubles.

She couldn’t wait to show Severin just how wrong he was.

Sara chuckled. “I’m feeling generous today. You lot can back off and slink back into whatever hidey-hole you crawled out of. Or I can show you some manners.”

Either way they chose, this would end soon. She had less than fifteen minutes to grab some meat pies off a vendor and get home. Sara Fairchild was seventeen years old. Almost a woman grown with the talent of ten swordsmen and the fierce determination of a lioness cornered. But even she quivered at the thought of being late to her mom’s dinner table. Hell had nothing on Anna Beth Fairchild’s anger.

“Well? Which is it going to be?” said Sara impatiently. “I don’t have all night.”

Severin chuckled while raising his hand. The brass knuckles on his fingers were still sticky with the blood from the last poor sod he had beaten into the ground. You didn’t get to be thief lord by playing nice. She grimaced. She hated those types of weapons. They were crude. Designed to provide the most damage to a body in the least amount of time. Which meant beating a person bloody until their head split open and the bones in their face were broken. There was no finesse about the brass knuckles and nothing clean about the kill. It was quite the opposite of the grace of her favorite weapon—the sword.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” Sara said.

“It should. You’ve got too much pride,” he taunted back.

“For a woman? Or for a Fairchild?”

Severin looked at the man who stood next to him. Then he jerked his head to a lackey while issuing an order. “Get her, Rube.”

Rube moved forward without complaint, every step he took jangling the rusty chain of metal links intertwined between his fingers.

Then Severin turned back to her and answered her question of why she had too much pride. “For both,” he said.

Then there was no more talking, because Sara was facing off against a menacing Rube. A lumbering giant, Sara had a feeling he was Severin’s muscle on the docks when the thief lord was cheating sailors out of their hard-earned coins. She’d heard stories about the lumbering giant. Here, in the rapidly darkening alley, as she faced him down with just a knife and baton, she could see why he was intimidating. To most people. But not to her. Because Rube moved with a slow gait. Not the careful precision of a trained fighter, but with the bulk of a man who didn’t know how to use his weight to his advantage.

She smiled. That was too bad for Rube, because she did.

Keeping her back to the wall, Sara Fairchild danced forward on light feet with her baton at the ready. She wasn’t going to kill Rube. He was the dumb muscle—she could see it in the placid cow-like gaze of his eyes. Severin gave the orders and he followed them. She didn’t kill attack dogs like him. She killed the owners that made them kill.

Rube swung the thick metal chain out with the strength of an ox. The chain snapped forward with enough speed to crack open her head like an egg, if she had stood still. Instead Sara was already moving forward with the speed and dexterity of a warrior trained by the very best. With a swift grunt, she jumped up onto Rube. The force of her momentum as well as weight knocked him back flat on the ground. She was careful to keep her balance and fell with him until she landed atop his waist in a straddle. He sat up with a roar of anger. Wasting no time, she brought her baton down with a harsh crack, infusing it with just a hint of battle magic. It was enough to make the baton take on the weight of twelve of its kind. So when Rube fell back this time, he fell hard.

As Rube’s body crashed into the packed dirt with a loud thump, she jumped up and landed behind the remaining four thieves with ease. Turning so that her back was now to the opposite wall, she smiled.

“Who’s next?”

They looked down at their unconscious muscle man, then back up at her.

Severin snarled, “Kill her. I don’t care about her loot. I want her pretty throat cut from end to end.”

Simon looked ready to bolt. But even as she watched his comrades ease up on her warily, she pitied them. They were in a tough position. The thieves’ code meant if one of them ran and the others found them first, they wouldn’t be outcast; they’d be killed on the spot by their thief lord. Simon couldn’t run on the off chance that one of his group survived their encounter with her. But she could tell that he didn’t want to stay and face her, either. She could have told him to run because no one would survive this encounter if they didn’t turn tail first, but she didn’t. This was his fault anyway. Who runs up a forty-shilling wager on their thief lord’s tab and doesn’t break for the hills the moment they lose?

The woman with all the earrings said, “I’ll give her a red throat from ear to ear with pleasure, Severin. This one is getting on my nerves.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at the cocky broad.

She shrugged her shoulders. “If you think you can take me, then come on.”

Instead of a chain, the woman came at her with a wickedly-sharp curved blade. A modified scimitar, really, Sara thought as she dodged back from the first thrust.

As Sara watched the woman swing wide again she thought with a calculating eye, But she has no form. A blade like that should have a proper mistress.

“Come on, you whey-faced coward!” shouted her opponent. Anger emerged in the rapid tic of her eyelids as Sara dodged another blow easily.

Sara sighed, “If you insist.”

In the blink of an eye, she changed from defensive to offensive. She moved forward with her knife at the ready. Sara had no plans to spare this woman. She had insulted Sara’s father, and she carried something Sara wanted.

That scimitar is mine, Sara thought with some glee.

The idea of possessing the blade was a nice bit of sunshine in the spiral of darkness that was her life since her father’s execution.

She shifted the knife in her hand so that the blade rested almost horizontal to her palm. She wasn’t going to stab the woman. She was going to slash her throat. With a silent move, Sara came up under the woman’s broad chest as her opponent swung the scimitar wide for another attempt at a killing blow. As swiftly and silently as a cobra, Sara slit her throat only to quickly dodge to the side to avoid the red spray of blood. Sara had gotten into a lot of scuffles over the years. Many of which had ended up with her opponent dead. She’d learned early on to avoid all evidence of such fights on her clothes. It didn’t please her mother if she came home with her tunic stained red with blood.

Even when Sara explained that battle magic was in her nature, just as it had been in her father’s, her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Sara wasn’t sure if it was getting the bloodstains out of her clothes, or the practice from which the stains originated that revolted her mother so, but she did her best not to remind her mother of their family’s preferred occupations of fighter, hunter, and killer.

As the second body fell, Sara watched it with detachment. She would gather the scimitar when she was through with the others. She shifted back into readiness when she heard a shout from behind her. To her surprise, it wasn’t the remainder of the thief lord’s people coming at her, although she had the sneaking suspicion Simon was hedging his bets until the last possible moment, but rather Severin himself who came for her this time.

Teeth bared in a fierce expression, he came for her with his fist upraised. The brass knuckles on his hands were coming at such a fast pace that she knew it could be a death blow. But Sara wasn’t stupid. Her cold execution of the woman was more than desire for the scimitar; it was wary calculation. She’d angered Severin enough to startle him into action. Unfortunately for him, she was aware at all times of the area around her, including the space’s limitations and usefulness. Just before his fist connected with her face, she darted to the side. He had no time to correct his movement. He ran forward, straight into the wall, and his right hand smashed into the stone with a sickening crunch that made even her wince.

His screams lit up the alley. She knew the bones of his hand were probably broken in multiple places. Served him right for trying to kill her. She watched the thief lord as he sat back on his knees cradling his hand at his waist and sobbing. She had no sympathy for him. She just wondered if she should kill him now or wait. Then the only other woman of the thief lord’s crew made Sara’s decision for her. She swung an old piece of wood filled with nails and jagged metal at Sara’s head. Sara smirked, dodged the attack, and then stepped forward directly into the woman’s space. They were nose to nose, with their breath mingling in the air surrounding them. But only for a moment.

The woman dropped the makeshift weapon from trembling fingers and fell backwards. Not in a move to save herself, but because Sara had already given her a death blow. Smoothly, Sara leaned down to pull her knife out from where it rested in the woman’s heart and stepped back. Seconds later, the life passed from her opponent’s eyes. Sara turned around to see the sniveling thief lord had gained a backbone. Severin had stood up and he now held out his sword with his working left hand. A tremor of pain ran across his face, but he didn’t falter. She felt some admiration for him at that moment. Fighter to fighter. It certainly wasn’t compassion, but he wouldn’t expect that anyway.

She could see that from the look in his eyes he had determined his fate. A thief lord couldn’t rule with a useless hand. He could die by her knife or die after one of his men put a knife in his back. It made no difference to her. But she would allow him this first move. It was the honorable thing to do. With an enraged shout, he came at her with his sword upraised. With an expressionless face, she ran at him. They passed each other in the alley. One serene. The other finally at peace.

The thief lord’s body fell to the ground with a similar wound to the scimitar owner’s—a gariish red smile. Sara grabbed a fallen cloth from the ground and cleaned her knife off. After sheathing the knife where it belonged at her waist, she turned to stare at the man who had started it all. Simon Codfield stood there in the alley, trembling. She wondered what he was thinking. Sara had watched as he held back while she took on the other four, waiting in the shadows like a true coward.

It had been a cold but calculating move. Which was why he was still standing last of all.

He held up his hands as she watched him. “Now, Sara, you know I didn’t mean all those things I said, don’t cha? If I hadn’t told them what they wanted to hear, they would have killed me for being a piss-poor card player.”

She raised an eyebrow. She didn’t see how this was her problem.

He began edging sideways. Away from her and toward the mouth of the alley—to escape.

“Simon,” she said softly.

He halted with a wary eye toward freedom. “Yes?”

“Do you remember what you said to me three months ago?”

“Th-three months ago? That was a long time back, Sara.”

“But surely you remember,” she prodded. “After all, you lived in the building two streets over. In fact that day was special. My mom had just given your wife some cod-liver oil for your baby.”

“Oh, oh right! Yeah, she was colicky that day. Beautiful girl, my Sarah,” he said nervously. “You know she was named after you right?”

He was dodging the question.

“She was named after her grandmother—don’t change the subject. Now, do you remember what you said?”

He stilled like a rat in a trap. He knew he’d been caught. She knew she had him right where she wanted him. Like she’d planned all along. Sara could have played a game of cards with any man or woman in the tavern that night. But she’d chosen Simon. A terrible player and lousy sport, quick to pull a knife and accuse another of trickery. At first she’d let him win to get his confidence up. When he started to think he couldn’t lose, then she took him for all he was worth. She watched now as understanding lit his eyes.

“This was a set-up,” he blustered. “You did this on purpose.”

“Yes,” said Sara. “Now, one last time: What did you say to me three months ago?”

The poor man raised his chin. His fists clenched at his side as his knuckles grew white from the tension. But he knew no matter how far he ran or how fast he was afoot, she would come after him. She wouldn’t stop until he was dead. Her determination was in her eyes. Everyone knew: Sara Fairchild tolerated no one’s belittlement of her family.

He said reluctantly, “I said ‘Your father is a disgrace to this empire. Be glad his blood soaks the land.’”

“Yes, that was it,” Sara said softly, “As a father yourself, you should know this, Simon Codfield—there is no greater love than a daughter bears for her father.”

Before he could move or protest, she threw the dagger that was attached to her thigh and it pierced his throat. He fell to the ground like all of his friends. She walked up to stare down at his body. Sara tilted her head to the side as she noticed that she’d been off by a millimeter. The dagger hadn’t pierced his jugular. As the blood seeped from the wound to pool beneath his head, she knew he’d be dead within a minute. He couldn’t speak with the wound to his throat. As his fingers twitched with the death throes of a man who could barely move, she shrugged and picked up the scimitar at her feet. After wiping it down, she wrestled the scimitar’s carrier off the dead woman’s back. Hefting it carefully, she swung the sheathed scimitar along her back.

By that time, Simon Codfield was dead, and she retrieved her dagger from his throat, careful to wipe the blade down on his tunic before putting it back at her thigh.

Without breaking a sweat, she had taken them all on and won.

As she sprinted down the alley with her newly acquired scimitar in hand, her well-trained ears caught the groan of the lone thief still left alive in the alley. The muscle man would live to tell the tale of Sara Fairchild another day.

Chapter II

SARA HAD ONE THING ON her mind while she ran through the streets of Sandrin: getting home quickly. She desperately hoped that the telltale sign of blood wasn’t on her clothes. She’d done her best to avoid blood splatter, always killing cleanly and from a distance, if possible. But blood had the strangest ways of falling. It could splatter, it could spray, or it could shoot out. You never knew which way the blood would flow until the second before you killed a person. Sometimes not even then. She’d grown used to blood ever since her father had taken her to her first executioner’s gallows. She had been twelve. They had executed a man, convicted of raping a child, by guillotine. The fierce joy of the crowd had been unsettling for a still young Sara. But her father had spoken to her long and hard after the crowd had dispersed. He had explained the man’s crime. Had explained that the child the executed man had hurt had suffered for a long time and then died at his hands.

“That was why the crowd gloried in his death as a rightful passage. It righted the wrong he had done,” her father had said in his grave voice.

Sara had understood her father’s explanation. The death hadn’t bothered her as much as the crowd’s adulation. But even while she stood in her leather boots on the cobblestones stained red with the blood of past executions, it hadn’t been long before she became fascinated by the blood and the sport that went into the killing of one single man.

As far as killings went, that one was tame. But it was the first time that she had seen a person killed alongside her father. The first time Sara had seen life’s blood flow from someone’s veins. The first time she’d seen a head separated from a body. But it wasn’t the last. Because fighting and blood was in her veins. She was a Fairchild, and, more importantly, she was the daughter of Vincent Fairchild, one of the empire’s premier commanders and the man responsible for the most wins in the imperial games for the last fifty years. Before her father had been a commander in the army, he had been a gladiator without peer. One whose tenacity in the ring, ability to defeat the fiercest foe, and calmness when faced with death had beguiled even the most jaded spectator.

As Sara flew down the streets of Sandrin, she thought it was ironic. Ironic that her father, so feared in the arena, had gone placidly to death. Had not resisted the empress’s men as he was led to slaughter.

Then she laughed cruelly. “But that was my father. Honorable in the gladiatorial games and honorable in his death. But there was no honor in why he died. There is no honor in desertion.”

She nearly spit the last word out as she rushed by the meat pie vendor so fast that she didn’t see it. She smelled the pies but couldn’t stop. She ran. She ran to escape her past and to be removed from the present. She ignored the shouts of cart vendors, of a guard whose horse she startled, and of the urchins still playing in the streets. She ran with tears streaming down her face until she got to her doorstep on a quiet street. Breathing hard, Sara looked down at the pail of water that her mother had left at the door for the stray dogs. She knew she must look a fright. But she couldn’t let her mother see her tears. Every day, Sara defended her father’s memory against foes seen and unseen. She fought in duels in alleys and kept her chin high in the streets. No one could tell her why her father had deserted his empress’s cause. She had the scary feeling that even if they could, nothing they said would ease the pain of a daughter whose father had fallen in her eyes.

But still she did her best to keep those worries from her mother’s doorstep. Never letting her know what people whispered behind their backs. Sara made sure to never let her mother get a hint that her daughter was floundering. Because under Sara’s fierce exterior hardened by battle scars and training, was a young woman facing the harsh backlash of a father’s damned legacy alone. She would never let her mother down. Not like her father had.

Sara took a deep breath, splashed water on her face, and wiped away the wetness on her sleeve. Then she opened the door to the smell of baking bread and the sounds of a home where laughter was long gone.

She quickly shut the door behind her and took off her new scimitar to lean it against the wall. Next she took the knife, dagger, and baton from their secure holds on her waist and legs. Those she placed on the ‘weapons table’ her mother had set up. It was the only house rule her mother had in regards to battle magic and the family tendency to fight: No weapons carried to the dinner table. She did, however, allow a long blade in the kitchen for defense and gave Sara her blessing to keep her favorite blades in her room.

“Sara?” called her mother, “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Sara called as she hastily grabbed a cloth from the chair to rub her hands.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“Coming, Ma,” muttered Sara.

She hastily trotted into kitchen, where her mother had set up a rickety wooden table on top of the upside-down washing tub. Seeing the set-up made Sara sad. Not for herself, but for her mother. They had come a long way from their days as the family of the preeminent gladiator and then commander of imperial forces. When her father was executed, the magistrate’s court had stripped her mother of all the land he held in his name as well as his pension from his years as a gladiator. All as further punishment for his unnamed crime.

Like being dead wasn’t enough, Sara thought miserably.

Whatever her father had done to be charged with desertion, then execution, had far-reaching consequences until this day. Her father had died months ago. But Sara and her mother still suffered daily for his crimes. From the torment Sara endured on the streets to the fact that her mother couldn’t retain a job as a wind dancer anymore. None of the companies would hire her. Doors were shut in her face and none had reopened with time.

Her mother looked up from where she knelt praying on the floor. A smile lit up her beautiful face. Smiling herself, Sara walked over to kiss her on the cheek.

“Did you get the meat pies?” whispered her mother.

Sara froze. “I—oh no, I forgot, Mother. I got caught up in some things.”

“Games with your friends?” her mother said happily. She desperately wanted Sara to have a normal life. A normal sense of identity. But that had long since gone.

“Yes, with my friends, Ma,” Sara said as she leaned back against the wall. She didn’t want to lie. But she didn’t want to tell her the truth, either.

My friends deserted me the moment my family lost prominence, Sara thought bitterly, Every last one of them at the fighters’ school wouldn’t give me a nod or speak to me anymore.

Sara knew that wasn’t entirely fair. After all, it was she that avoided the gladiatorial halls after her father’s execution, but neither had they made an attempt to see her outside of the school walls. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of her former friends in months. It stung.

Her mother nodded, then moved over to sit on the bench. She patted the space beside her for Sara to seat herself and they ate a dinner of peas and fresh-caught fish in silence.

As she finished her meal, Sara asked politely, “The bread is for the morning sales?”

Her mother nodded. “The baker was kind enough to let me fill some orders for him on the wharf in the morning. It should be a good day. I can get five to ten shillings for that. If I give him two shillings for acquiring the permit, we can keep the rest.”

Sara didn’t say anything to that. Five or ten shillings would make a difference in whether or not they kept a roof over their head. But it would only stretch so far.

Sara nodded. “May I be excused?”

“Yes,” said her mother, “but one moment, Sara.”

Sara looked at her mother patiently.

“I don’t want you out on the streets. Getting into fights. It’s not good for you.”

“I wasn’t in a fight.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Sara Fairchild,” her mother said. “Your father tried the same thing. I could see through him just as I can see through you now.”

“Well, Father lied about a lot of things,” Sara snapped as she stood up abruptly and rushed away.

Only the quiet gasp of her mother behind her halted her retreat. The greatest fighter in Sandrin was barely able to control the emotions that rushed through her. Only her family could get her this worked up with just a conversation.

Sara laughed bitterly. Only my mother could ever make me retreat in a battle.

Slowly she exhaled and unclenched her fists.

Turning, Sara said, “That was wrong of me, Mother. I’m sorry.”

Her mother shook her head. “I just want you to be safe, Sara.”

“I am safe. I’m the best fighter in this city. I tested out of all the grade levels at the fighter’s academy and I’ve never been bested in a duel.”

Her mother bit her lip as she looked at Sara wistfully. “Your father said the very same thing to me when we started courting.”

Sara stared back at her. “What did you say to him then?”

Her mother whispered the words to her: “That I’d never forgive myself if he died before I did.”

Sara felt a tumult of emotions rise up in her chest.

Her mother shook her head sadly. “He made me a promise then and there to end the fights. He knew how much our life together meant to me. That’s why he became a commander in the empress’s army. He was supposed to be safe. With hundreds of soldiers between him and his fiercest opponent. Instead, he became his own worst enemy.”

There was nothing Sara could say to that. It was true.

But she knew what her mother wanted to hear.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll be safe. No more fights,” she whispered to her mother.

Her mother nodded her head in thanks.

Sara cleared her throat and said a sentence it pained her to say. “Tomorrow I’m going to the fisherman’s district. To see if I can find a job as a fishwife.”

Hope and sorrow warred in her mother’s eyes. Sara was the best fighter in the city. She could best anyone she came up against. Just like her father. But because of her father she was barred from entering purse-winning tournaments or even fighting in the gladiatorial games. For too long she had tried to scrounge at the card tables for easy pickings. Now, they had no choice. She might have won forty shillings from Simon Codfield tonight, but he’d barely had ten in his pocket. The rest he’d promised on ‘credit.’ She learned to never trust credit; it was bloody hard to collect, and besides, dead men paid no fines.

Now she and her mother were close to starving and every bit of money she was able to get was going to rent. Sara had no choice. She wouldn’t take to stealing coins. She wouldn’t. Weapons from a duel was fair play. But taking another man’s purse was not. So she needed to do something to keep them fed. If that meant a Fairchild working in the fishing docks, so be it. They looked at each other—in accordance for once.

“Goodnight, Mother,” Sara said quietly.

“Goodnight, dear,” her mother replied.

Sara went to the door and collected her weapons and the bucket of water from outside. She need to clean and polish all of them before she went to bed tonight. After trudging up the rickety ladder to her room in the loft, she sat down on her small bed and tugged off her boots one by one. Then she carefully took each weapon and cleaned it of blood, polished it and sheathed it for the night. Only after the weapons were clean did Sara tend to herself. As she climbed back down the ladder, she had an easy view of what passed as a kitchen nook for them. It was really all one room with a small recess for a cooking pot and then her mother’s ‘room’ cordoned off with a string and cord. But it was home, and Sara smiled to see a steaming kettle in the hot coals. On the bench, next to the kettle of steaming water was some lavender soap.

Tossing out the bloody water from her weapons’ cleaning, Sara quickly scrubbed down the bucket with lye and put the scented soap and hot water into the tub for a wash-down. The scented soap was a luxury. It was one of the few luxuries they had, and Sara knew it was from the last of her mother’s stash. She’d given it to Sara as a way of making amends. Her mother didn’t like confrontation. Sara didn’t like confrontation with her mother. Anyone else, she’d confront and rip to shreds gladly. But not her mother. She stood in the kitchen as she cleaned her body of the dust, the dirt, and the few flakes of blood that had managed to land on her skin. Then Sara dressed, tossed out the dirty bathwater, and knocked on the wall next to her mother’s private space to give her a silent hug. Nothing needed to be said between them.

All was forgiven.

That night as Sara curled up in her blankets, she heard chittering coming from above her head.

Turning to her side, she called out, “Come here, you blasted ball of fur.”

She waited for a moment.

“Chrimrale, here now. I know you’ve been fed already. Mother may dislike you, but she wouldn’t let you starve,” grumbled Sara.

The next moment a light gray ball of fur, almost impossible to see in the darkness, landed on the blankets near her hand. It quickly skittered up to her chin and curled into a ball in the curve of her neck.

“That’s better,” muttered Sara as she dozed off.

That night Sara dreamed about what it would be like to walk onto the fishermen’s wharf and beg for a job. She knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Chapter III

THE DAY DAWNED WITH THE loud squawks of the feral chickens outside. Sara heard them in her dreams long before she roused from her bed. After five minutes, she couldn’t take it anymore. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up, tense, in her bed. Chrimrale was already gone before she opened her eyes. She knew she wasn’t late for the open call at the fisheries. That happened at dawn. The cold in the air and the lack of the rooster’s crows told her the sun’s rays hadn’t broken the darkness covering the sky yet. Those feral fowls were diseased mangy beasts that prowled the street like a pack of wolves, pecking any feet that ventured close, and generally making a racket when they thought they could get away with it.

But they were singularly good at one thing. Telling time.

When you couldn’t afford a sundial or a mage’s water clock, you had to depend on your internal clock or that blasted rooster that crowed at the first blush of dawn like clockwork. Sara suspected he was the only reason that the neighbors that complained about them constantly hadn’t caught all of them and wrung their diseased little necks. She knew her mom despised the hens, as well.

She quickly snatched on her trousers and tunic with the boots coming on right after. Standing, she patted her pocket to make sure the slip was still there. But there was no rustle of paper through cloth. She quickly stuck her hand in to check. Then Sara groaned aloud while looking around. Of all the things to go wrong this morning, losing her work permit hadn’t been on the list. She knew it was on a little slip of parchment paper. She tore apart her room to find it. She tossed her straw-filled mattress on the floor up against the wall first, then she searched the smelly pile of laundry that had such a strong odor that she wrinkled her nose while she held each piece of clothing up to shake it for any bits of paper to fall out. Quite a few things fell, none of them parchment. Desperation began to set in. She started looking in the corners of the room. Twenty minutes had passed before her eye spotted a crumpled blue garment on the edge of the mattress.

And Sara remembered. She had worn that linen dress once and only once. When she’d gone to the magistrate’s court a week prior to register as an itinerant laborer—a person free to work in different menial occupations throughout the city. Diving for it, she snatched the offending garment off the floor and shook it harshly. She hated dresses with a passion. They were useless for riding, dangerous in sword-fighting, and more complicated than a double-action crossbow when she was trying to dress quickly.

“Found it!” she said triumphantly as she picked up the paper that had fluttered to the ground. Strapping on her knife and dagger, she jumped straight from the loft to the ground floor.

“Sara Jane Fairchild!” was her mother’s screech as Sara raced out the door.

“Sorry, Ma, I’m late!”

“I don’t care if the hounds of Hell are on your tail…” was all Sara heard before she hastily shut the front door and raced into the streets. She felt freedom. Freedom from her mother, their small apartment, and the weight of memories. Slowing down at the corner, she grimaced at the lack of weight on her back. She was used to having her sword strapped there. Her father had given her the sword a few years ago, imbued with the gift to grow with its owner. But city ordinances prohibited swords in certain parts of the city and the fisherman’s wharf was one of them. Why, she had no idea. But she didn’t want to be kicked off of the job on her first day because of it. So she only carried two weapons instead of three.

Checking the security of the knife at her waist and the dagger at her thigh, Sara waded into the early morning crowd. It was still dark, but she could see the sun’s rays begin to peek over the tops of buildings as she walked by. Beggars were already setting up shop on the busiest of street corners. Away from the routes of the city watchmen, those corners were prime territory. Only the earliest of risers or the fiercest could claim them. Because of what you did, you tried your best not to annoy the city watchmen too much. She’d known a man thrown in a jail cell with no food and dirty water for two days, all for annoying a merchant who called the city watch. He’d been told that if caught a second time, he’d lose an ear. Sara considered that lucky. You could work without an ear. Thieves lost their fingers.

She walked by the baker where the scent of bread already wafted in the air, then she changed directions to cut through the meat market. Next to the baker’s district, the meat market was one long street where all of the butchers displayed their wares. Before her eyes, wooden doors were pushed back to reveal small box butcheries with enough room for a cutting board and all the meat for the day being arrayed on the high table behind the owners. She passed plucked ducks with their heads still attached, a whole leg of lamb ready for spices, and a man whose blood-free stall specialized in fertilized duck eggs. There was something here for everyone.

But Sara hadn’t come to shop. And she certainly didn’t love a leisurely stroll through a street that smelled like raw meat and had hordes of flies at all times. This just happened to be the fastest way she knew how to get to the fisherman’s wharf without ducking through the jeweler’s market. She avoided the jeweler’s market because it came with its own set of problems that weren’t sensory-related. She didn’t mind fancy baubles; what she did mind were the muscle heads that guarded each shop, challenging her to a duel every time they spotted the famous Fairchild daughter.

She’d beaten three of them in fair hand-to-hand fights before she started killing her other opponents to deter them from challenging her again. Surprisingly, her fights to the death hadn’t actually discouraged any of her eager adversaries. In fact, it only urged them to challenge her more. Everyone wanted the reputation of defeating or even killing the best duelist in all of Sandrin. Sara never tired of defending her family’s honor, but she wasn’t an idiot. If she took on challenge after challenge, day after day, sooner or later she would fall.

So she now avoided the areas where she knew the challengers would be waiting. Including the jeweler’s market. She was also careful about who she took on in a fight. Unless they were backstabbing bastards like Simon Codfield—then they deserved to face her and atone for their wrongs. With a sigh of relief for her poor nose, Sara exited the butcher’s market. She stopped on the street corner to watch the sun rise in front of her. The golden rays spread like a gentle touch across the vast ocean and lit the water with hues of pink, red, and orange. The sound of the waves lapping at the edge of the beach came to her ears and for a moment all Sara wanted to do was go out to the edge of the water to stick her feet in. She felt her heart lift from the quagmire of worry. The beach brought back memories of family picnics near the surf.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. I can listen to the lapping waves as I work, she thought optimistically.

Heart lighter, Sara turned and walked to the fisherman’s wharf. Hoping for the best. But ready for the worst. She wasn’t a Fairchild for nothing. She had her family’s instinctual wariness embedded in her bones. She always looked for danger, for obstacles, and for challenges. It wasn’t really something she could turn off anyway. Her father had taught her how to watch the people on the streets. To see them for what they were. To realize that an old crone who crouched at the corner of the gold merchant’s stall might not be so old or so womanly when the caked layers of makeup on her face were wiped away to reveal a young man ready to thieve. To see that a brawny city watchman and his small partner might not be so mismatched as they appeared upon first glance. One could sprint after the suspects quicker, faster, and with more dexterity while the other could beat to a pulp an entire group of men without batting an eye. A match that worked to equalize their strengths and negate their weaknesses.

She recognized and catalogued faces, appearances, and strengths like other women catalogued shoes, hairstyles, and the latest fashions. Sara could tell a person’s physical strength with enough certainty from a few feet away that she almost never misjudged her opponent. Which was why when she walked through the door of the head fisherman’s office she almost turned right back around and left. Almost. She needed the money more than she needed to stay out of trouble. They needed the money.

As she stood behind a person already there on business, she studied the medium-sized man who sat behind a large wooden desk that sagged under the weight of the coin purses and stacks of paper in front of him. When he looked up, she shuddered. Not because he had a cruel scar bisecting his face into the ruin of his right eye, but because out of his left eye shone pure evil. This was one man she wouldn’t mess with. There was bad and there was evil. Men like Severin, the thief lord who hadn’t been able to finish an argument without using his fists, were bad.

She knew this man was worse, much worse than Severin just from the glance she had given him. As she waited for the seated man to finish his business with the patron in front of her, she studied him. Sara could tell that the seated man was cunning from just looking at him. But cunning and evil were two very different things. Reluctantly, she dived into her gifts. She needed to know where he treaded the line. After all, being maniacal wasn’t a crime.

She confirmed the hint of malice in his eye when she opened her mage sight to take advantage of the powers of the battle magic that raged within her. She only used a spark of the powers, as it was dangerous to tap into the whole of her battle magic. Sara became virtually unstoppable when using the full force of her gifts. Battle magic was unique among the mages in that it affected their mental states. Battle mages had a nickname she despised, because she shivered in fear whenever she heard it. It was like hearing the death knell and knowing that it was coming for you. The word? Berserkers.

The berserkers, or battle mages, were infamous upon the fields of war for being kill-hungry and virtually unstoppable. Sara had never gone berserk and she never intended to because she refused to go to war. She wasn’t stupid. There would be no better way for a battle mage to trigger the terrible gift, than to be surrounded by blood and enemies everywhere they turned.

I don’t know how my father managed it, she thought to herself.

She shook her head as she thought it over, No, actually I do. He went to war, but he never served on the front lines. He never exposed himself to the temptation to dive into a reign of blood and death. As an officer and as a commander, he was safe.

But still, like the ghosts that haunt a child’s bed, the idea of becoming a person unable to control their emotions and being filled with a ravenous urge to murder filled her with dread. Which was why she only used her battle magic sparingly now. She didn’t want to wrestle the dark demon of desire and rage like so many in her family had. She’d heard stories about her ancestors from her father. He had even spoken occasionally about using battle magic in the arena as a gladiator. But one thing he continuously warned her about was that being a battle mage and being a berserker were two wholly different things. You could be one without the other as long as you practiced control. But once you went berserk, you stayed in that state until you died.

Sara knew that in time she wouldn’t have a choice about using her gift of battle magic. If she didn’t use it, it would use her. So she did what she could to placate the urge to kill. She tapped into her gifts slowly and siphoned off some of the power each day. It was part of the reason she had been in that alley the night before and had taken on Simon and his crew. She had no choice. It wouldn’t drive her to be berserk, but not using the gift was just as bad because it could drive her mad.

This time when she tapped into the gift to assess the power and potential threat of the man before her, the power was just enough to get her eager to drive a knife through someone’s skull, but not enough to make her go out and kill someone that very second. Battle magic could do that. It had done that. She knew of a great-grandmother who had killed six men in her village before she’d been shot down by a storm of arrows from the local guard. Battle magic made the Fairchilds fierce, unpredictable, and deadly. But it was also a gift that she and her ancestors had to treat carefully. For the sake of all those around them.

But the more positive side of battle magic was that it allowed its bearer to see a person’s intent and divine their true self with it. It was like opening a window to a person’s soul every time she used it. Which is why she tried to use it only as much as required while in Sandrin. That and fact that she didn’t need to use battle magic. She was good enough to defeat the city-bred idiots on her own. Her training and honed skills allowed her to win against the most skilled opponents in duel after duel. If she had to tap into battle magic, it would only be because she needed to drain the build-up or if she was in trouble. The kind of trouble where she was surrounded on all sides by opponents and needed to make a river run red with blood to get clear.

Staring at the seated man’s aura was enough to make her wary. The tight warp of the colors and feel of the strength coming from him told her he was dangerous. Perhaps devious. But it didn’t make her cautious enough to turn around and leave. She had come here for a reason. She was going to accomplish it one way or another.

In her mind, Sara thought quietly, besides, once I’m done signing up for fish cleaning duty, I’ll probably never see him again.

It didn’t bring her much comfort. She had a tendency to attract trouble of the worse kind. So far she’d been able to handle anything that came at her. But she knew, just as every warrior did, that one day she would meet her match. She just hoped today wasn’t that day. She really needed a job. Then she was forced out of her reverie by a lackey standing in the corner shouting, “Next!”

The office was too small for the desk and the man who sat behind it, let alone the addition of another man screaming in her ear while a third person tried to push past her as fast as they could. She stepped aside when the pushy man snapped, “Move, woman!” He hadn’t bothered looking at her. She turned around and gave the rude man a shove out the door. She gave a harsh glare to the lackey who had managed to make her eardrums ring. It had him gulping in his little corner.

The man behind the desk hadn’t moved. She turned to see him staring at her with his arms clasped in front of him and a patient look on his face. Patient like a spider enticing a fly into his web. She stepped forward unafraid. Taking out the work permit, she slapped it down on his desk as she said, “Sara Fairchild, reporting for work in the fishery.”

Curiosity sparked in his eyes. But he didn’t touch the paper.

“You don’t look like a fisherwoman,” he said quietly.

“How does a fisherwoman look?”

He sat back with a creak of his chair. “The ones I work with? Older. Compact. Hard-nosed and tired. You are the very opposite. A fresh, young lily ready to bloom.”

“You seem to have a very uniform group of workers, then.”

He ignored the quip to look down at her hands as he said, “Still there’s something different about you. My daughters are beautiful like water lilies. You remind me of the deadly beauty of a water moccasin instead.”

Sara lifted an eyebrow, “I’ve never really considered venomous snakes beautiful.”

“Ah, but you see my dear, the beauty for these creatures is in the swiftness of their bite. The silence of their movements until they strike. They flow through their environments like ghosts until least expected,” he said.

“Like those creatures you are strong. I have no doubt you are swift, cold and calculating as well,” he continued, “In addition, you have the calluses of a seasoned warrior and the weapons of a woman who knows how to use them. So, did I guess rightly?”

She said nothing.

He smiled and sat forward. “So tell me, what does a mercenary want with my fishery?”

“I’m no mercenary,” she said, bristling.

Mercenaries were one step below foot soldiers, who were leagues below the officer’s command her father had held. To call a Fairchild a mercenary was to say they were the mud beneath your feet.

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain,” she said in a stone-cold voice.

His lips thinned in displeasure. “Then I don’t believe I have any use for you.”

She bristled. “I came here for a job.”

“I don’t have any openings for mercenaries-turned-fisherwomen. Get out.”

The man in the corner came forward and flapped his hand at her. Motioning for her to leave like she was a fly that had landed on his dinner plate.

Sara bared her teeth at him with an irate look. He went back to his corner.

“Wait!” she cried to the man at the desk. “I came here to work. I promise you I can clean and gut the fish like any other woman on your payroll. I’m good with a knife and fast with a hook. However many fish you need cleaned, I can do it.”

“As I said,” the man said coldly, “I’m not interested in another fisherwoman. What I could use is a woman who can handle herself in a fight. Can you handle yourself in a fight, miss? What did you say your name was?”

Sara stiffened. “Fairchild. Sara Fairchild.”

Recognition didn’t flow through his eyes. Not everyone knew who she was.

Reluctantly, she answered, “Yes, I can handle myself in a fight.”

“Now do you want the job?”

She almost walked out on him. Sara wasn’t opposed to fighting for contract, but the magistrate’s court had been clear. She couldn’t fight for money or work as a guard, brawler, or gladiator within the city of Sandrin. Legally.

She raised her chin, “What kind of job are we talking about?”

He smiled—a shark’s grin.

“Something you’ll be very good at. I promise you.”

She shifted uneasily.

Sara heard another person step into the room behind her and she gripped her knife quickly.

“No need for that,” the man behind the desk assured her. “You work for me now. We’re like family here.”

Sara almost spit in his face at that. But she held back.

“We’re not family,” she said flatly while turning to keep a wary eye on the person standing behind her. She could sense his threat was minimal even before she looked him in the face. It was in the hesitant way he walked. Like a timid man.

“This is Ezekiel Crane. He works for me,” said the man behind the desk.

Sara almost smiled at the man’s last name. It was apt from what she could see. Like an unsteady crane on stiff legs, he loitered in the doorway.

The pale, long-legged man startled at hearing his name from his boss’s lips. He nodded at her uncomfortably but didn’t look his boss in the eye. Instead his gaze focused on the floorboards beneath their feet while his unkempt brown hair flopped into his eyes, as if by ignoring the man sitting in front of them, he would go away.

“Ezekiel,” said the boss, “this is our new watcher. Show her the ropes.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ezekiel in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Now get out,” said the man coldly.

Ezekiel backed out of the office so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet.

Sara wasn’t going anywhere until she found out more about the job. The man didn’t intimidate her.

“A watcher?” she said, looking down at her new boss.

He seemed fairly annoyed that she still stood there.

But he spoke. “A guard of sorts for my new…collection.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirmed.

“And payment?”

He let out a booming laugh. “My, you have a set of brass balls on you, don’t you?”

“The only reason I’m doing this is if I’m paid. And paid well.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Twenty shillings.”

“Ten. A day.”

“That’s robbery,” he said coldly.

“It’ll be my neck in a noose if I’m caught,” she said while nodding at the paper she’d dropped on his desk. “That work permit only covers the fisheries, and I doubt your collection is housed there.”

He smiled. “So it isn’t. Eight a day, Ezekiel will pay you, and you’ll get out of my office now.”

“With pleasure.”

She followed Ezekiel into the morning sun.

Chapter IV

SARA FOLLOWED BEHIND EZEKIEL, WHO didn’t say a word as he raced down the gangway as fast as his long legs would carry him. Which was pretty fast. Sara had to run to catch up. When he hit the ground at a dead run and looked like he had no intention of stopping, she got frustrated.

“Hey, wait up!” she yelled.

He only picked up speed as he ducked around a corner so fast that she almost lost track of him.

She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had a job to do. Losing the only person who could tell her how to do that job wasn’t on her list of things to get done today.

Well, this is the perfect time to try this out, then, Sara thought.

Sara was a proponent of always being prepared. No matter where she was, she knew she had a weapon on her of some kind. If she didn’t have her knives or baton at her waist, or her sword on her back, then a last resort could be the hair ties binding her long curls. It wasn’t the best weapon in the world or the most useful. But in this situation or the capture of runaway thieves, it was perfect.

So Sara grabbed the hair tie with weighted stones that she used on her bouncy black curls and loosened the stones that kept it from unraveling. Pulling the whole thing from her hair with the long string she’d double-wrapped to keep it from slipping, she whirled it overhead like a slingshot. Then she sent it flying at his legs. The weight stones whirled around and around until they wrapped around his legs and sent him tumbling face-first into the ground with a grunt.

She walked up to him as he rolled onto his back, and, with some wiggling, sat up.

Dazed, Ezekiel looked down at his legs and then back up at her. “You could have killed me.”

“I didn’t,” she said brusquely as she cut the ties from his legs. It would be easy enough to make a new one.

“You fighters, nothing but muscle, the lot of you,” Ezekiel said as he glared up at her from the ground.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“Maybe?”

She set her teeth in a line, sorely tempted to punch the spindly little scholar in the mouth. But she eased up. Realizing that was just what he would expect.

Then Sara spoke. “What if I told you I speak three languages, know more about ballistics than you, and…”

She paused. He didn’t look impressed.

“…and can name all Sahalian rulers from first to last?” she continued defiantly. She was hoping to impress him with her knowledge, though she hadn’t the slightest clue why she cared at the moment.

He looked thoughtful. She could guess why—most Algardis citizens didn’t bother learning the name of the current ruler of Sahalia, let alone her ancestors.

Ezekiel rubbed his jaw. “All thirty-six of them?”

She smiled, a rarely present set of dimples appearing on her face. It was a trick question. “All thirty-eight of them. Including the lost emperor.”

Then a grin came across his face. The fastest way to a scholar’s heart was through knowledge—she knew that firsthand.

“Not many know about the lost emperor,” Ezekiel admitted from the ground, “or the twin rulers, for that matter.”

“Not many care,” she said flatly. “I do.”

He rubbed his shins with a pained expression. She waited to see what he would do.

I might have been a little hasty, she thought. Maybe it’s up to me to extend the olive branch of peace.

“Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” she admitted.

He swallowed. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself.”

There. We both apologized, Sara thought in relief.

He adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and tried to stand. He winced when he tried to put weight on his left leg and it failed. Grabbing his hand in her own, her dusky skin contrasted with his much paler flesh as she pulled him up until he could stand.

“Sorry if that hurt.”

“If?”

She glared.

“Apology accepted,” he hurriedly stated.

She nodded. “Now, where are we going?”

He sighed. “The warehouse for the artifacts is this way.”

“This way where?” Sara knew better than to follow anybody to an unknown location. The first rule of battle was to know your surroundings. The second rule was to be prepared for anything.

Ezekiel looked over at her, truly confused. As if he couldn’t fathom why she was being this difficult. He’d obviously never been cornered in an alley with only a rock to defend himself with. That had been in her younger days. Before she’d learned to always keep a blade on her. Now her opponents would be hard-pressed to get the drop on her at any time. But that didn’t mean she’d let down her guard.

“Well?” she demanded.

Ezekiel raised a finger to point at a gray building in the distance. It sat on a rocky outcropping and looked generally very dreary even in the early morning sun.

“There,” he said. “We’re going right there.”

She nodded and proceeded forward.

When she was about to pass him and he still hadn’t moved, she reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him along ahead of her. There was no way he was going to walk behind her.

“You know you’re very pushy, right?”
She glanced over to see if he was mocking her. He looked completely serious. And completely annoyed as he moved a few inches to the left to get out of her reach.

She snorted. Not answering his question and not pointing out the fact that he’d have to be at least five more feet away from her to keep her out of grabbing or stabbing distance.

“So,” she said, “what are these artifacts?”

He bit his lip and then mumbled something.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” she said. She wasn’t sorry, and her voice arced up in irritation to show it.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before he clearly stated, “Objects that Cormar has procured from mages across the realm. He keeps them in a magically-sealed warehouse. I’m their curator. You’re their guard. Okay?”

She gave him a glare that had him inching further to the left.

Softening the look, she said, “Look, if you drop the attitude, I won’t hurt you.”

He stopped dead between the fisherman’s wharf and the warehouse.

“What you mean is as long as you’re not in a bad mood and I do exactly what you say you won’t hurt me.”

She turned to face him. “Did I say that?”

“No, but that’s what you meant.”

“No,” she contradicted. “I meant what I said. Drop the attitude, because I didn’t force you into this crappy job. In fact, I’m pretty sure Cormar back there forced us both into this crappy job.”

He muttered, “Not so crappy.”

“Watching artifacts all day isn’t crappy?”

“It’s better than cleaning fish guts, which is what you came for,” he shot back.

Her back relaxed and then she grinned. She liked that he stood up to her. Maybe he had a spine after all. Besides…he had a point.

“So, Ezekiel, what’s so important about these artifacts?” she said, turning back to the warehouse.

He started walking beside her again.

“Some have special powers. Others have yet to be studied. They’re all valuable. To all kinds of people, which is why Cormar needs a watcher skilled in fighting to stop anybody who tries to take them.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. They had reached the entrance to the warehouse. He slid a key into a normal-sized door and walked in first. She followed closely behind and looked around to see an open space filled with rows and rows of waist-high benches. As she walked forward she saw that each bench had multiple objects arrayed on it, each object was spaced a few even inches from the next. They ranged from beautiful opal necklaces to giant mechanical constructions whose purpose she couldn’t surmise. Looking around, Sara continued walking forward.

“Is this everything?” she said turning to see that Ezekiel had remained standing near the front two rows.

“Yes,” he said back. “Everything we have is here on these benches.”

“How many artifacts do you have?” she asked.

He looked up and did a quick calculation out loud. “Two rows of ten benches that are full. With five artifacts a piece for those. Then there are also two partially-filled benches because of the danger the artifacts pose. That’s another seven. So one hundred and seven artifacts now.”

She nodded sharply while proceeding to walk to the end.

As she walked away, she heard him add, “But we get more and more each day, you know.”

Judging by the two minutes it took her to walk from front to back and then five minutes it took her to jog the perimeter, she thought it would be easy to keep an eye on the artifacts. Half of the warehouse, towards the back, wasn’t even full. The good thing about the warehouse was that it had an open layout—easy to see clearly in all directions at once and giving her the ability to spot intruders. The bad thing about the layout was that the benches would easily get in the way if she had to fight someone, and there was nowhere to get a tactical advantage.

She sighed and walked back to Ezekiel.

“Anything I should know about these artifacts?”

“Like what?” he said, holding up a magnifying glass to look at a bug made of solid gold with emerald eyes that was sitting in his hand.

“Like is there anything in here that will react if I touch it or breathe on it?” she said tersely. It was a valid question. Mage objects had the bad habit of killing their owners.

“Um, there’s a pygmy statue about four benches back that way,” he said as he motioned with the magnifying glass. “It’ll turn you to stone if you spit on it and rub it with your thumb, but that’s it, I think.”

She stared at him.

“All right, then. Security question time. Has a mage tried to break into the warehouse in the last week?” she said, spitting out rapid-fire questions. “In the last month? What would they want to acquire first?”

“No, no, and everything in here is priceless.”

“You’re not helping,” she pointed out.

“You’re not asking the right questions,” he retorted.

She clenched a fist and held back from wringing his neck.

“All right,” she said tersely, as he continued to play with what she thought was a beetle. “Is the warehouse protected magically?”

He looked up at her with a smile. “Ding, ding, ding! Right question there. The answer is yes. This building has some of the strongest wards I’ve ever seen. No mage, no matter how powerful, could get through those doors.”

He is a very weird man, Sara decided privately.

Then Sara thought about what he had just said and what he had conspicuously left out.

“You said ‘mage,’” she said slowly.

He nodded patiently.

“What about common thugs?”

He said, “There’s no mage ward known to man that can bar a common human thief. Why? Because there’s no magic in them to detect.”

She cursed a blue streak.

He continued, “Which is why we need you.”

She changed her original question in light of this news. “Has anyone tried to break into the warehouse in the last month?”

“Three street thugs in the past week, two trained art collectors in the past two weeks, and one very determined thief three times over three weeks,” he said. “Cormar took care of that last one himself.”

Her stomach sank. That was a lot of break-ins.

“And what did Cormar do with the thieves who broke in before that?”

“The watcher before you took care of them.”

She was afraid to ask. “Where is that watcher?”

“In the city morgue. Died last night of multiple stab wounds,” he said, looking at her as if the question was dumb.

Sara groaned. She supposed it was. Why else would they need a new fighter unless the old one was dead?

The death bothered her, but she was practical. Fighters died. She could handle that and handle herself much better than whoever they had previously hired anyway. She was sure of it.

Then Ezekiel said, “There’s a cot over there, a supply closet with materials on the far wall, and a food allowance. You can move a few things in, but don’t bring your family.”

Sara froze. The position had come about so fast that it had never occurred to her that they would need her for more than the daylight hours.

She turned around, muttering, “I can’t do this.”

For the first time Ezekiel stopped fiddling with his golden beetle. As she walked toward the door he reached out a frantic hand to latch on to her upper arm.

“Wait,” he shouted.

She gave him a hardened glare and he let go of her hastily.

“Please,” he pleaded, giving her his full attention. “What do you mean you can’t do this? You promised Cormar!”

“I promised him nothing. I thought this job would be a few hours a day. Now you’re saying I have to live here,” she snapped. “I can’t do that.”

He looked at her and shook his head. “If you leave, he’ll blame me.”

“He won’t if you find a replacement,” she said.

“Where am I supposed to find that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the mercenary’s guild?”

He grimaced. “They don’t like me there.”

“Why?”

“It’s confidential.”

“Confidential enough to get your ass kicked if you walked through that guild’s doors?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“What in the world could you have possibly done to piss off the entire mercenary’s guild?” she said.

He pushed his falling spectacles up the bridge of his nose and glared.

“Never mind, I can take a guess.”

He sniffed.

She said, “Look, I want to help you. I do. But I can’t be here all day and night. I can’t live here. I have a family of my own.”

My mother, she thought silently.

He started trembling. “What am I going to do?”

“Not my problem,” Sara said, walking toward the door.

She heard a clatter from behind her. She turned around to see that Ezekiel had knocked a small acorn off of a bench. It bounced and rolled until it stopped in front of her feet. She bent down to pick it up gingerly. In her hands it had a warm muted glow of amber. It was very pretty.

She looked up to see Ezekiel kneeling on the floor as he sat back with a look of pure resignation on his face. He looked like a man who knew he was going to die and had accepted his fate.

Sara let out a breath slowly and grimaced.

“Two days,” she said.

Ezekiel’s head snapped up. “Two days?”

“I’ll help you for two days. We’ll go to the mercenary’s guild tomorrow and get a replacement.”

Her voice was firm.

“Think Cormar will accept that?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but he won’t really have a choice. I only took this job for the money. But it’s not worth it to leave my mother alone. I’ll find something else.”

Ezekiel looked a tad doubtful, but he didn’t question her. He was probably too grateful that his imminent death had a stay of execution to pester her.

“Now,” she said, “why don’t you get back to doing whatever it is you do here?”

He nodded and stood.

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“I’m going to check the exterior perimeter for weak spots in the mage field. Then I’m going over every inch of the walls to see how those thieves were sneaking in.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

Sara smirked. She doubted he knew what she was looking for.

“Ezekiel?” Sara said.

“Yes?”

“Catch!”

She threw the amber acorn to him and watched as he caught it after a few fumbles. Just before he caught it, the priceless artifact almost hit the floor. Again.

Chapter V

“STAY INSIDE,” SARA TOLD EZEKIEL. She took a calm breath and strode out the door. Her back was stiff and her gait was sure, but inside she was quaking with doubt. This was the first time she had deliberately flouted the law and her mother’s rules at the same time. Come hell or high water, for the next two days she would defend this warehouse with her life. She would just have to send a messenger home to her mom saying that she had agreed to work the overnight shift. But she hoped to the gods’ own lives that her mother never found out what she was really doing. She wouldn’t survive that confrontation, she was sure of it.

Sara shook her head to clear her mind of the grim thoughts. With a wary hand on her knife, she paced the exterior of the building, checking for obvious entrances, holes in the wall and damage put there by thieves. She saw none while she paced around all four sides. She noted however that the building was built of some kind of thin metal sheeting. Small, rectangular windows were interspersed regularly high up near the ceiling. Sara could tell in a glance that they were much too small for anyone to climb through, and besides, they were clearly sealed shut. The entire building had four walls, a peaked roof, and stood in a long, rectangular shape. The only entrance was the one she and Ezekiel had entered through. Even the magical protections surrounding it were impenetrable. Which left only two explanations. They had gotten in through the roof or through the front door.

She stepped back from the front entrance until she had a clear view of the sloping roof. She couldn’t see much from here, but she had feeling that five sets of thieves had known something that she currently did not. Sara paced around the walls one more time. On this circuit she looked for a tear or irregularity in the roofing structure. Halfway down and on the ocean side of the building facing away from the fisherman’s wharf, she found it.

It wasn’t all that obvious, if you weren’t looking for it. But she was.

Sara grunted in satisfaction while she kept her eyes on the small metal pole protruding from the sloped roof. It was no bigger than her hand but she had the feeling it was strong enough to hold the weight of a person climbing up the walls. Excited, she trotted back to the front and into the warehouse. As she sprinted between the benches to see if her theory of a hole in the roof was true, she stopped cold. She felt something weird. Like a presence that her instincts were telling her not to ignore. Not the mention the fact that her curator was gone. She knew Ezekiel would have never left the artifacts alone, not of his own volition. If he’d been forced to leave through the front door, the man should have at least known enough to scream and catch her attention. She would have come running.

So Sara carefully assessed the rows in front of her. Nerves alive, she looked for what her eyes couldn’t see. She opened her ears and sharpened her hearing. She heard the pants of muffled breathing in front of her.

“Might as well come out,” she said. “I know you’re here.”

Then the cloak fell. A man stood in front of her. Ezekiel stood in front of him with a sharp knife held at his throat. The man was gripping him tightly. Sara quickly spotted one other man with his back turned to the three of them about six rows back.

“Nice trick,” she said. She carefully took in the situation. She wondered if she was dealing with a mage, but she didn’t think so. Her battle instincts told her she was dealing with a normal man. Those instincts were almost never wrong. However, there was something magical about him. Narrowing her eyes, she realized it was the pendant around his neck. It was giving off an aura of old magic. She was impressed.

Haven’t seen one of those before, she thought.

It was an object of residual magic and imbued with a specific gift. In this case, the ability to cloak the man and his compatriot in a mobile sight shield. The problem with objects like that was that they could only accomplish one thing. They could do it perfectly but nothing else. Which meant the man hadn’t been able to muffle the sound of his breathing like he would have if he had been a true mage with a sight and sound shield.

She took out her knife and wished she had a sword at the moment. Screw the wharf rules.

“Who are you?” she said tightly.

“Not important,” said the man in a relaxed voice with an inflection that indicated an educated background.

She said through gritted teeth, “It is to me.”

He stared at her with cold eyes. “Edgar, it’s time to go.”

He wasn’t talking to her that time. The man in the back startled and turned around. When his cape moved, she saw a rotund belly, several chins, and thick, squinty eyes. Not a threat.

“Already?” said Edgar in a whine.

“Yes,” said the man tightly.

“But there’s so much here.” Edgar clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.

“Get what you came for and let’s go,” said the man with his knife at Ezekiel’s throat as he stepped forward. He was watching Sara warily.

She mirrored his actions with a thin smile.

He raised an eyebrow and pressed the knife down on Ezekiel’s throat. A thin red line of blood appeared and dripped down. The curator of the artifacts whimpered. She halted.

“I would stay where you are.”

They faced each other resolutely. From behind them all, Edgar whined again, “Is this about her? Kill her.” Her eyes flickered to Edgar. He sounded like a child.

The man’s face hardened. He apparently didn’t like Edgar’s tone any more than she did.

“But don’t kill the curator!” Edgar hastily said. “We need him.”

“Do you, now?” Sara cooed with a smile. She had her in. The man in front of her realized Edgar’s mistake at the same time she did. He couldn’t kill Ezekiel even if he threatened him. Which made Ezekiel’s position as a human shield improbable.

She ran forward with her knife in one hand, her dagger in her other. He tossed Ezekiel to the floor with a curse in order to meet her head-on with both of his knives in hand. They came together in a clash of slashes, kicks, and whirls. She tried to slit his throat with her knife in her right hand while keeping out of reach of his longer knives. She was successful in the latter, thwarted in the former. So they circled each other warily as Ezekiel coughed on the floor. Too late she noticed they were moving toward the back of the warehouse. Closer to his partner, Edgar. When she looked around out of the corner of her eyes to locate the rotund man she noted that he was plastered against the far wall and edging to the door. Not a threat. But still he was stealing something out of their warehouse.

She called out, “Ezekiel, stop him! He’s getting away.”

The curator’s head popped up from between the benches and he looked around warily. He spotted the man leaving the building. “You’re joking, right?”

He ducked back down. Sara rolled her eyes and exchanged swift slashes with the man in front of her. Neither of them seemed to be gaining the advantage.

“Fine,” snapped Sara. “But he’s taking your statue.”

Ezekiel leaped up faster than she would have ever given him credit for.

By that time Edgar was swiftly walking just past the hiding spot Ezekiel occupied. When the bespectacled man spotted the golden statue in the fat man’s hands, he let out an inhuman shriek. “Not the statue of Tirsaman!”

With a yowl, he launched himself at the thief.

Sara lifted a surprised eyebrow. “Not exactly what I had in mind, Ezekiel.”

Ezekiel wasn’t paying her the least bit of attention. He was wrapped around the fat man’s body as they struggled for ownership of the golden statue.

Then her opponent grabbed a round candlestick complete with a build-up of wax from a nearby bench. He threw the heavy object at her. It nicked her on the cheek and she felt the drip of blood down her skin.

“Got your attention now?” taunted the man.

“Fully,” she said with a snarl.

Sara jumped high into the air, knife at the ready. The man dodged back to avoid her. But it had never been her intention to stab him. The leap was just to get him to move back. When she landed directly in front of him, he had nowhere to go with a bench against his back. She swiftly twisted and kicked him high in the face. His head snapped back with an audible crack. His body fell into the bench behind him with a crash.

She stood over her dead opponent and said, “Do I have yours now?”

Turning Sara saw Ezekiel still rolling around on the ground with the fat man. They moved like two snakes in the grass, each one trying to yank the statue from the other’s hands. Then Ezekiel got some strength from where she didn’t know and yanked the statue back with a triumphant sound. When the man beneath him tried to take it from him, Ezekiel banged him atop the head with it. Twice.

When the man stopped moving, Ezekiel slowly stood up and began rearranging his clothes with a yank of his hand.

“Did it feel good?” said Sara dryly.

Ezekiel blinked at her. “What?”

“Overpowering him.”

He looked back down at his unconscious opponent and back up at her. “Actually…yeah.”

His voice was full of surprise and wonder.

He puffed up his chest. “I did pretty well, didn’t I?”

She raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “For a man who has clearly never fought in his life? Yes.”

That backhanded comment didn’t seem to deter him.

“What have you got there?” she said as she watched him turn the statue back and forth in his hands.

“The statue of Tirsaman,” he said, walking over to a bench further away.

“What does it do?”

Ezekiel mumbled something she didn’t hear. Sara decided that checking on their living opponent was more vital at the moment. She went over to the fat man to feel for a pulse and patted him down for any weapons he might have concealed on him. When she found none, she grunted and hauled him up by the arm to drag his limp body over to a corner. It was empty except for one lone chair.

Then she walked over toward the door, passing Ezekiel along the way.

“Well?” she asked.

He looked up at her and back down at the statue without answering.

“Now would be a good time to speak up, Ezekiel.”

“It’s classified. Boss’s orders.”

“Classified knowledge from the watcher who’s supposed to be guarding it and just killed someone who wanted to take it from his collection?”

He grimaced and adjusted his necktie.

“Fine,” she said, throwing up her hands and striding to the door.

“Where are you going? You promised you wouldn’t leave! Two days, you said.”

She didn’t turn around or stop walking. “I meant what I said. Unless you’re going to tie that fellow up with air, we need some rope to bind this gentleman, and I saw some right outside the door.”
“Oh.”

In short order they had the man gagged and bound to the only non-magical chair in the room. When he was trussed up in the corner, she removed his friend’s body and hauled him outside to throw in the ocean, then set about helping Ezekiel right the overturned benches near the front. Those two hadn’t known how to fight, but they had certainly left a mess in their wake rolling around like mud wrestlers.

“Thank you,” said Ezekiel as they put the final artifact back in place.

“You’re welcome,” said Sara as she dusted off her palms.

“It supposedly has the ability to make anyone or anything into a god,” said Ezekiel.

“Excuse me?” said Sara. She thought she had heard him incorrectly.

“The statue of Tirsaman,” he replied, shifting back and forth on his feet. “That’s what it does.”

She turned fully to Ezekiel then. “You want to repeat that? Slowly? You have a statue that can turn a person into a god sitting in your dank warehouse?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted with a sniff. “Or, well, that’s one of the things it supposedly does. There have been rumors and legends for years. But not any proof.”

I guess he had to tell someone, rules be damned, and I’m the only one here, she thought with irony.

“How?”

“That would be the one hundred-shilling question,” he said. “No one’s quite sure. It didn’t exactly come with instructions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever tried using it?”

“Not with any noticeable effect.”

She felt some relief. She really didn’t need any working human-to-god changing statues on her watch. She looked over at the unimposing figurine. It was only a statue in the sense that it was vaguely human-shaped. It was more of a vertical blob with odd ridges and bumps, as if it had been subjected to an intense heat and parts of it had melted off.

“Well, where did it come from?”

“The boss found it in a salvaged ship off the coast.”

“And you know it is what you say it is because…?”

He stiffened in anger, like she had insulted his dead mother.

“It’s my job to know.”

“Right,” she said before wandering off.

I wonder just how many of these artifacts are just salvaged junk, she thought to herself, It’s obvious from the thievery though, that enough people believe they’re real. Regardless of whether the artifacts are the real deal or not, these idiot thieves will stab me for the remote possibility that they could claim ownership of a god-turning statue.

Then the front door banged open with a gust of wind, and she whirled and threw her knife straight at the intruder’s head.

Cormar’s head.

Frantically Sara watched as the knife sailed forward with deadly accuracy. Fast and sure, it was unlikely to miss. She didn’t have any compunctions about killing the man. Just because he hadn’t done anything wrong yet, didn’t mean he wouldn’t in the future. She was almost never wrong about her instincts.

As she watched, Cormar didn’t duck down. He didn’t have time. Instead he stopped the knife cold. With ice. Sara watched in disbelief as icicles formed on her blade in mid-air until the hurtling knife fell to the floor with a clunk, weighted down by the sudden formation of frozen water around it.

The only sound in the warehouse after that was bated breath as everyone waited to see what Cormar would do.

After all, she had just tried to kill her boss.

Chapter VI

THEN CORMAR’S VOICE BROKE THE silence. “Well done, Fairchild. I knew I did right by hiring you.”

Sara strode forward. On edge still. She’d never seen weather magic used so quickly or skillfully. Weather mages were laughed at by most of the mages skilled in any sort of magic useful for defense or tactics. Fire mages and even stone mages had better defense systems in place. After all, how was a gust of wind supposed to stop a man coming at you with his sword at the ready? It was a running joke among battle mages that weather mages were good for two things: a farm and dying in spectacular fashion. But she had just found out how they could turn their skills to the battlefield. Thoughts flowed through her mind at the implications for tactics but now wasn’t the time.

A few steps later, she stood over her knife and looked down in disapproval. It was useless as it was. Not only was the blade covered in ice, but the whole thing had frozen to the floor. She couldn’t even get to it to pick it up.

“I don’t suppose you can reverse this,” Sara said, looking up at the mage who had captured her blade.

He stood with his hands in his pockets and his corner lackey at his side. “Already done.”

She looked back down and saw that he was true to his word. Her blade lay in a damp pool, free of ice. She reached down to pluck it up and almost dropped it. Only the training drilled into her by instructors over the years that a warrior never let go of their weapons kept her from doing so. The knife hilt was like touching white fire. A cold so bitter that it felt like her fingers would be frozen to the hilt within a few seconds.

Ire flashed in her eyes. Amusement flittered in Cormar’s eyes as he said, “Cold, isn’t it?”

She didn’t bother responding. Just raised a hand with knife in place and smoothly pushed it into her sheath at her waist. It took everything in her power not to grimace at the biting cold that had overtaken her fingers, but she managed. She wouldn’t show weakness in front of this man.

“I’m impressed,” he said as he walked forward slowly. “But then again I’ve been impressed by you since I met you. A young woman with the skill set of the fabled warriors. From a family darkened by the deeds of her father.”

Her head snapped up.

“Oh yes, I know who you are now, Sara Fairchild,” he said, waggling a finger. “I know about your father’s desertion and subsequent execution just over half a year ago. I make it a point to know everything there is to know about my employees, you see. When you walked out of my office, I made sure to get that information as soon as possible.”

“You’ve been a busy man,” Sara said stiffly.

“Shocked, my dear?”

“Unimpressed would be a better word,” she said.

He stilled. “Someday that smart mouth will get you killed.”

“Not by you.”

There was nothing he could say to that. He may be a weather mage with a touch of ice, but she was a battle mage with the fury and fighting power of ten men.

Then he cracked a smile. “I like you. I don’t like many of my employees.”

Ezekiel shifted behind her nervously and Cormar spared him an irate glance.

“How did those men get into my building?”

Sara wondered, how did he know about the other fellow? I already disposed of the body.

Then she realized he must have spies watching the building. After all, it would be too much trust to expect a man like Cormar, who she suspected was much more than he seemed, to leave his prized artifacts in the hands of two employees. Even if he’d known one of them for a while.

“I d-don’t know,” stammered Ezekiel.

I need to do some snooping on my own, she thought as she listened to their conversation, What kind of weather mage and evidently wealthy collector works as a fishery manager? None that I’ve ever heard of. This has black-market racketeering written all over it. That I knew already. The question is, is it the kind of racketeering that you can get away with by paying off a tax collector and city watchmen with a hefty sum to look the other way or the kind that will bring the empress’s guards down on their heads?

Sara knew that the answer to that question lay in whether or not Cormar had a bunch of junk stored here. Or genuine artifacts.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sniveling worm,” said Cormar. “But since you answered…”

Uh-oh, thought Sara, This doesn’t sound good.

Suddenly the front door burst open and gusts of winds like a gale burst into the building. Cormar lifted his hand and Sara unsheathed her knife. He was up to no good. But he wasn’t focused on her, she soon noted. The gusts of winds blew past her and captured Ezekiel in their cold grasp. The curator rose above his beloved artifacts in the middle of a furious wind tunnel. Sara felt cold settle in the pit of her stomach as she watched the winds whirl around helpless Ezekiel, who was spinning like a top in their hold.

“Please, Cormar!” she heard Ezekiel shriek.

Please, what? She wondered. Please don’t torture me like a sadistic bastard?

People had accused Sara Fairchild of being unemotional and detached throughout her entire life. In her mind, those were good things. An emotional fighter was a dead fighter. But even she wouldn’t watch while a man was tortured…unfairly. If he had been a prisoner of the state she wouldn’t even have considered intervening—after all, that was a whole different matter. But this was a personal vendetta.

Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed that not a single artifact moved. She realized then that Cormar had impressive control over his gifts. It took skill not to send small objects like the medallion and dress laying on the bench just feet away from them flying. As he targeted Ezekiel and Ezekiel alone, she thought about what to do.

Sara looked around desperately and spotted the area of the roof where she knew the metal pole rested on the other side. She raced over and noted nothing out of the ordinary. The roof was whole and no entrance showed to her eyes. She became agitated. Even as nervous as she was, the only sign of stress appeared in the tic of her lower lip. Her sharp eyes never wavered from their target. Ezekiel was screaming now. She cursed. The secret entrance wasn’t where she thought it was. She almost turned away when she noticed something odd on the ground. Every single one of the regular benches had five artifacts of various sizes and shapes on top. Always five. Never more. Except the lone bench below the spot she’d noted outside.

She came over and quickly looked at the six objects on the bench. Evenly spaced out, only one sat where she’d expect the thieves to drop down through a hole in the roof. The object was a large, round egg the size of her head and made of pale golden amber. It sat on a pedestal of jade and looked no more out of place than any of the other objects on the bench. But she had her suspicions and she acted on them. Hands trembling because she didn’t know what she was picking up, Sara lifted the egg and the pedestal from the bench gently. As she did, a magical field she didn’t know existed lifted as well. Looking up with hope in her eyes, Sara spotted a man-sized hole now visible in the roof. From the hole spilled a rope, and she knew she had her second entrance.

The egg had been some kind of illusion device. Whirling quickly, she called out, “Cormar! I found it. I found the way the thieves have been getting in. Let Ezekiel go.”

Cormar looked over at her from where he stood. Irritation lined his face when he spotted the hole in the roof. “So you have.”

To Ezekiel he snapped, “See! The watcher found the entrance. Why didn’t you? You’ve been on my payroll for weeks. One might wonder if you planned this all.”

Ezekiel was too dizzy to say much. All Sara heard from his mouth was, “No, no, no,” over and over again. She put the egg down and strode forward. This had to stop. Fortunately, Ezekiel chose that moment to throw up and the waste rained down on the floor. Cormar took a step back and pulled a cloth from his pocket to wipe away a speck that had landed on his shoulder. With a cold look up at Ezekiel, he stopped his wind tunnel. Ezekiel dropped to the floor with a thud.

Sara raced forward to help Ezekiel sit up while Cormar wrinkled his nose at the stench now atop his artifacts.

“Are you all right?” she asked the dazed curator as she pushed him up by his back.

“What?” Ezekiel said, his head lolling to the side. He clearly wasn’t coherent yet.

She looked up at their boss as he walked past them without a word.

Cormar picked up the egg and jade pedestal she had hastily set down and studied it.

“Well, well. A refraction egg. Haven’t seen one of these on the market in a good two weeks,” Cormar said.

Cormar looked over at the man standing beside him. “Wainwright, didn’t I bid on an egg like this at the auction just last month?”

His secretary quickly stated, “Yes, sir,” while pulling a notebook out of his pocket.

Shifting through the papers, Wainwright elaborated, “Thirteen days ago, sir, at the Giles Manor auction. It was described as a pale amber egg with an attached jade base. Bidding started out at two hundred shillings. We lost out at five hundred and fifty-six.”

“So we did,” said Cormar with a Cheshire cat smile. “Well, it seems that I’ve gotten my little prize for free.”

He set it back down and came up to his watcher and curator.

By this time Ezekiel was sitting up on his own and she had stood. Her face was like stone. The man was a snake.

“Ezekiel, see that you catalog my new possession, seal that damned hole, and get two new benches set up,” said Cormar.

“Benches?” said Ezekiel weakly while shrinking behind Sara.

“Yes, I have a new shipment coming in tonight.”

With that Cormar walked out of the door whistling.

Sara and Ezekiel looked at each other, then they started at the sound of muffled shouting that came from across the room. The fat man was awake.

Wainwright came back through the door, looked at their prisoner, and then looked at them. “Cormar says he’ll send someone for the thief.”

He left.

Sara had a feeling that whomever they sent wouldn’t be good for the fat man’s health. Apparently neither did the fat man, because the sound of his muffled cries grew louder and he began banging his head against the walls of thin metal.

Ezekiel stared at their unwelcome guest. Then he looked back at the now-visible rope hanging from the ceiling.

“What?”

Ezekiel wheezed, “You honestly think that fat man climbed down that rope?”

He has a point, she thought while looking up. It’s nothing but two twined cables with knots tied in. He never could have managed the climb.

“One thing at a time,” she murmured. “Let’s get that entrance closed and then we’ll find out what our friend knows about the statue.”

Ezekiel nodded. As she walked away she heard, “Thanks. For stopping him and possibly saving my life.”

She turned back and nodded. “Any time. Now are there building materials in that supply closet?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good.” she replied. “I need a fire starter, some rope, fabric, and a piece of the building’s sheet metal.”

He looked at her oddly.

“Do you have all that?” she said impatiently.

“I’ll check,” he said, hurrying over to the large cabinet built in the back. It looked big enough to hold at least two of the benches inside, so she suspected the supplies would be pretty extensive.

Ezekiel opened it with a yank of the thin metal door and poked his head inside.

She went back to studying her new project. She had an idea. She just hoped it would work.

She heard him shout something. “I have everything but the fire starter!”

“Fine,” she called back. “I can do without it.”

“Wait…this fabric has holes in it.”

“Not good,” she yelled back. “There’s nothing else?”

“No.”

She thought about it. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra shirt with you?”

There was silence. Then he said reluctantly, “Near the front door in my satchel.”

She trotted over and saw a red bag on the ground. Quickly she grabbed the shirt and got to work with her knife back near the thieves’ entrance.

“Okay,” said Ezekiel as he began rummaging in the cabinet. She heard him grab a few things and then yank on something. Seconds later, the sound of a crash came to her ears, with a startled yowl echoing after that.

Before she could turn, he said, “I’m all right.”

She cracked a smile.

He came over with a piece of thin metal that was two times bigger than the hole above. It was perfect. He set down the rope on a nearby bench while handing the thin metal over to her.

Taking it, Sara grabbed the rope and set to work.

It was unconventional, but she had seen it done once. If she could recreate it then they were off to a good start. She wrapped the rope around the square metal sheet and then tied two sailor’s knots in it to keep the end from unravelling. Then she grabbed the shirt she had sliced the sleeves off of. Taking the main part that was left, she carefully sliced holes into the four corners of the cloth and slid the opposite end of the rope through them. Finished with that end, she tied it off with another sailor’s knot. Carefully, she held the loose fabric in her right hand and conjured a ball of battle fire in her left hand. Holding them up side by side, Sara resized the ball based on the amount she estimated the interior of the fabric could hold upon expansion.

Ezekiel asked over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see. Grab a piece of dry wood for me.”

He scrambled away and brought back a short stick— it looked like a remnant from one of the benches.

“Put it down next to my right hand, please,” she said.

She was concentrating on her task. This was the hard part.

She gritted her teeth, realizing her mistake. She couldn’t hold two flames and the piece of wood at once. Ezekiel shifted nervously behind her.

“When the spark rises, I need you to catch the flame,” she said.

Putting down the fabric and grabbing some flint from her boot, she struck it once, then twice, then a third time against the metal.

The spark was enough for the flame to rise and she quickly hissed instructions to Ezekiel. “Now!”

He moved the wood up and it caught the natural flame that she needed. She put the flint on the floor and reached back toward him to grab the flaming piece of wood from him. It was slow burning, which was good.

Caution in her voice, she spoke to Ezekiel. “Now step back.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

Hand steady, she moved the natural fire closer to the mage fire. It was a trick her father had taught her and one he had used in the arena against his magical opponents. A mage’s fire could be created in such a way that it mimicked everlasting fire with one key difference: It was extremely combustible. What she was about to do was dangerous enough, that she knew of battle mages who had blown off their own limbs trying to mimic her father’s trick.

Nervous sweat began to bead on her brow as she imagined her hand ending in a stump. She hadn’t actually done this herself before. Just watched him do it numerous times with ease.

His voice came back to her then, Remember, Kitling. Steady and sure. Don’t flinch and you’ll control the flame.

She gave a deep breath and lit the mage fire in her left hand with the natural fire in her right. The bright blue ball of mage fire became encased in the flickering flames of red. It was gorgeous to watch as they melded together to become the purple fire known as a battle inferno. It was the size of a child’s ball in her hand, but she knew they could be made large enough to take out an entire wagon if needed. This time she just needed it to do one simple trick: burn hot enough to solder the thin metal sheeting to the roof.

“Here,” she said to Ezekiel, breathing slowly.

“Here, what?” he said, “You don’t want me to take that ball, because if I do we’re likely to die, and, well, you know that’s a very pretty fire, but I’m not so good with fire. Are you sure that’s…”

“Stop!” she snapped. He was rambling and sounded like he was about to faint.

“I just need you to take the burning wood from my right hand,” she said tensely.

“Oh.”

She saw him reach over hesitantly out of the corner of her eye and take the burning wood that was starting to make her eyes tear from the proximity to the smoke.

“I’m just going to put this in some water,” he said.

She wasn’t paying him any mind. As he ran off, she carefully picked up the fabric with the rope tied to it with a free and steady right hand. Then she moved the ball of battle inferno to the edge of the knotted fabric. As she let the fabric drift through her fingers, she heard Ezekiel come panting back.

Concentrating on her task, Sara let the purple ball of flames in her hand drift into the center of the fabric as the corners of the shirt rose from the magical heated air next to it. She was careful to keep the temperature of the battle inferno low, timing it to blast just like she would if she was targeting it to hit a city wall. Not a moment sooner. Her heart beat fast. Hoping it would work. Praying to the gods that she had done it right. Then the fabric rose above the ball like an inflated circle and she smiled.

“Perfect,” she said, pleased.

Moving away, she watched as the fabric, inflated by the heat of the battle inferno in its center, floated all on its own. Slowly the contraption rose until the metal sheet tied to the end of the rope rose as well. When it was a few inches off the floor, Ezekiel asked, “What is it?”

She said, “A hot air balloon.”

He adjusted his glasses to get a better look at the balloon floating to the top of the ceiling.

“Are you directing it?”

“Slightly. It’s natural for it float high in the air like that. As it rises it will continue to do so vertically unless a sharp wind changes its course. I’m just making sure the battle inferno keeps rising up toward where I want it to go.”

“Hmm,” was Ezekiel’s answer.

They watched as the balloon floated through the man-sized hole and then the metal sheet clattered against the roof itself, unable to fit through the hole.

“And I assume this was also part of your plan?”

“Of course,” she said. “Now’s the fun part.”

“Fun part?” Ezekiel said suspiciously as she exploded the ball of battle inferno with no warning.

The sound of the explosion however was not a part of the plan. It boomed louder than anticipated and only grew louder as the building they were in acted like a resonator and the thin metal sheeting all around them echoed the blast.

Sara saw a glass mirror two benches over shatter before she crouched down in agony alongside Ezekiel with her hands clasped to her ears.

As they rose minutes later, Ezekiel said, “Was that part of the plan?”

She grimaced in pain. “No.”

He grumbled and then looked up. “Well, at least it worked.”

She stared up at the ceiling where the heat of the blast had fused the metal sheet to the roof itself. It was ugly, but it would do.

Chapter VII

AS THE RINGING IN HER ears stopped, Sara heard their captured thief’s cries. He sounded worse off than before. She sighed. “I think he needs attention.”

“Don’t we all,” muttered Ezekiel.

He adjusted his spectacles. “I’m going to take care of that mess of glass towards the back. You take care of him?”

His words were cautious, even tentative. Sara realized he didn’t know where he stood with her. Which was fine, because she didn’t know where he stood with her. Ezekiel was interesting but not her problem. Not right now.

She nodded. “Sounds good.”

Turning, they went in opposite directions. When she got to the fat thief she cut the rope from his mouth none too gently. She stared at the red blood running from his eardrums, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She wasn’t a healer.

When his mouth was free, he began shouting. Louder and louder. The problem was that his words were incomprehensible.

“What’s wrong with him?” shouted Ezekiel from the back.

“I think his eardrums burst from the sound,” she yelled back. She watched as the man in front of her babbled. He was reading her lips though she could tell. And he understood. Which meant he wasn’t crazy. She cut the rope binding his arms to the chair. He didn’t move at first. After a moment he raised his shaking hands to his ears. When they came back to his face, shining with blood, he wept.

She sighed in irritation. She wasn’t heartless. He was deaf because of her. Well, her and being tied up right next to the metal wall where the acoustics had blasted into his ear.

But she wasn’t necessarily sorry about it. When you entered into someone else’s domain of your own volition and did so in direct contradiction to their wishes, you put your life in their hands. In other words, what he had done was wrong and now he suffered the consequences. But she was getting heartily tired of his sobbing.

She snapped her fingers directly in front of his face. She was trying to break his attention away from his morbid fascination with the glistening red blood on his fingertips. It worked.

He looked up at her with snot running down his lips and tears dripping down his cheeks.

“What have you done to me?” he shouted in a voice three times louder than necessary.

She took out a knife and held it in front of his face as a warning.

“Shout again,” she mouthed slowly, “and I’ll knife you.”

He trembled and hate sparked on his face. But he was silent.

Ezekiel said, “I’ve got an idea.”

She didn’t turn from her prisoner. Even deaf and bleeding, she didn’t trust him.

“What?”

He reached into his red satchel and brought up some parchment, a quill, and some ink. “Let him write it out.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Here,” he said, hastily putting the materials down and grabbing a loose piece of wood that rested on the wall. Carefully he placed the makeshift table in the fat man’s lap and put the paper, quill, and ink within reach of his hands.

“Start talking,” mouthed Sara at the glaring man.

He didn’t have much of a choice. He did what she said.

He began to write out why he was there.

“We came for the Tirsaman statue.”

“Why?” said Sara.

“Who are you?” wondered Ezekiel.

The man flickered indignant eyes up at Ezekiel as he wrote, “Who am I? The great Ezekiel Crane notices no one else.”

Sara looked over at Ezekiel quizzically. “Sounds like you have a fan.”

Flustered, Ezekiel opened and closed his mouth like a fish while he watched the fat man scribble faster.

“I am Ras Stold, purveyor of fine goods.”

“Thief and charlatan,” murmured Sara.

He glared at her. “Rare items acquirer for the wealthy.”

“Let’s add black market racketeer to that description,” she said in amusement.

He began to scribble again. “Your employer is no better than me.”

“I don’t contest that, but I doubt Cormar is stupid enough to break into an opponent’s warehouse and get caught doing it.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“Let’s get back to the point,” Ezekiel said hastily before they could continue their word war. “You know me how?”

“You are the premier treasure hunter on this side of the empire,” scribbled the man. “I have heard of your exploits.”

“Treasure hunter?” scoffed Sara as she looked at a blushing Ezekiel.

“That was a long time ago,” said Ezekiel, pleased. “But do go on.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I was here to acquire the statue and give it to a buyer,” he wrote.

“Which buyer?” Sara demanded.

Before he could write out the details, the door opened and in walked a stranger. She didn’t recognize the man. He was big and brawny, with a shaven head and tattoos of the islands on his cheeks.

Sara turned and glared before Wainwright walked in right behind the bigger man.

“We’re here for him,” he said with a sniff.

“We were just getting somewhere with him,” complained Ezekiel.

Too late Sara elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Really?” said Wainwright. “I don’t believe that’s part of your job description. Your job is to catalog the artifacts and keep them safe. Was that not clear?”

Ezekiel paled.

“Crystal clear,” replied Sara.

Wainwright gave her a sharp look but refrained from comment. To the muscle man behind him, he snapped, “Get the thief and let’s go.”

His companion began walking forward and Ras began screeching and scribbling.

When the man reached him he gave up trying to get words on the parchment, thrust the makeshift desk off of his lap, and tried to run. “Tried” being the operative word. Sara hadn’t cut the ropes binding his legs to the chair, just the ones along his upper body. He fell to the floor with a nasty whump and began to crawl away like a slug, screeching all the while. It took no time before the thug Wainwright had brought with him grew tired of the sound and clubbed him sharply about the head.

Sara watched silently, unmoved, as the thug carried the unconscious man from their warehouse. Wainwright followed behind him with one last snide remark. “The new benches need to be done. Tonight. Shipment comes in less than three hours. Get to work.”

When he left the warehouse was silent for the first time in quite a while.

Sara rubbed the back of her neck. “Remind me again why I agreed to stay for two days?”

“Because you want to know why Ras, the thief, lied as much as I do,” said Ezekiel absentmindedly.

Sara turned to see he was crouched on the floor. “Excuse me? What in the demon’s breath are you talking about?”

Ezekiel stood slowly and turned around. In his hands, he held the parchment the thief had been scribbling on. It was wrinkled and had blood smears on it.

Ezekiel looked up from the words on the page to her. “He wasn’t after the statue of Tirsaman for himself.”

“Well, yeah. He told us that.”

He held out the parchment to her and said, “Read it.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is says?” she said coldly.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question her. “It says: ‘All right, all right, I’ll tell you. We came for the statue but only to trade it for something else. Something more valuable that the mercenaries have.’”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So he and his partner came to Cormar’s warehouse to steal a statue in order to trade it with the ‘mercenaries’ for something else?”

He nodded eagerly.

“Nope, I didn’t agree to stay for that,” she said flatly. “A wild goose chase is not worth my time.”

Ezekiel’s shoulders drooped so fast you would have thought she’d insulted his most prized possession.

“But it’s a mystery! What object is worth death, torture, and giving up a priceless artifact to get it in the first place?” he said, almost pleading for her to understand the significance of his find.

“A mystery that isn’t worth my time. You have forty hours before I’m out of here. In the meantime this warehouse needs to be spotless, the shipment needs to be received, we might have to thwart more thieves, and we have to get a replacement to agree to take this daft job. That’s more than enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

He spluttered. “Well, yes, I guess so.”

“Good. Case closed.”

Ezekiel’s mouth was stuck in a pout, but he didn’t bring it up again that night. They got to work putting together the two benches needed to house ten more objects before the dawn rose on a new day. By the time they had finished, the sky had started to darken.

Sara got up from the workbench where she had been sawing through extra planks in case Cormar got another shipment in and cracked her back. Stretching, she twisted her arms to loosen them and walked around. They had been hearing the slow shuffle of feet and excited chatter of the workers leaving the fishery nearby for the last ten minutes. She went to the door to head one off.

“Where are you going?” Ezekiel called out from where he was busy nailing the last plank onto a nearby bench.

“To catch a messenger,” she said as she walked out the door.

Spying dozens of young boys alongside their older mothers, she whistled sharply to catch the attention of one. A towheaded boy looked over at her. She stepped just a few feet away from the warehouse door. Far enough that he could be sure she didn’t plan to grab him and whisk him inside, but close enough that a thief couldn’t sneak by behind her back. She tossed a shilling in the air and the flash of bronze in the sun’s rays made up his mind.

He trotted over to her.

She flipped the coin between her fingers as the urchin watched her warily from a distance.

“Whadda’ya want?” he called out.

“A message. Nothing more,” she said. “One coin for delivery near the meat market. Two more if you return with something with you.”

He shifted while indecision warred on his face. Urchins had to be careful about whom they took jobs from. Not everyone in the city would treat them right, especially depending on the message received.

“What kind of message?” he said

“Nothing bad. Just news to my mom,” she reassured him.

He sniffed. “Yeah, all right. What do you want back?”

She smiled and tossed the coin alongside a home marker to him. The small trinket would lead him straight to her doorstep.

“My sword.”

He caught them in the air deftly, pocketed the marker, bit the coin, and spit onto the road. “Back in an hour.”

“See that you are.”

He turned to leave and she cleared her throat. “The message.”

He turned back with an irritated look on his face. As if he were doing her a favor.

“All right, lady, what is it?”

“Tell her I’ll be gone for one night and a day more,” she said. “And don’t mess it up.”

He left at a quick pace down the road. She wasn’t angry with him. His attitude was his protection. She hadn’t missed the fact that he’d been one of the few without a dam by his side. She doubted it was a coincidence. Sara went back into the warehouse.

She spotted Ezekiel straightening the benches for final placement, and she went over to help out.

“Your message in a bottle went okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Looking over at her curiously, he asked another question. “Why did you come here?”

She looked up at him. Waiting on the second half of that question to drop. With Ezekiel there was always more, it seemed.

“To the fishery, I mean,” he explained. “A fighter like you. Skilled and smart, you could get any job you want. There are numerous guilds in the city that would take you on.”

“You didn’t hear what Cormar said?” she said snidely.

“I guess I wasn’t paying attention,” he said softly with a hurt look in his eyes.

She snorted and looked away. A minute later they finished and she went to lean against the wall near the door.

As Ezekiel puttered around with his artifacts, she spoke up. “You’d be surprised.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around as he said, “By what?”

“How many guilds won’t hire the daughter of a deserter. Fighters are a superstitious lot. Wherever I applied, they said desertion must run in the bloodline. Never mind the fact that a Fairchild has never, never before betrayed their ruler.”

He spoke in a measured tone. “So your father was a deserter? Why?”

She shifted unhappily, but for the first time Sara didn’t hear derision in that question. Anyone else who had asked had done so with the gleeful hint of a person only too happy to poke salt into the wound. Ezekiel was just curious. Almost in an academic way.

“Tell you what, Ezekiel. You answer my question, I answer one of yours.”

He turned around with a fur cap in his hands. “All right. So…”

“No.” She held up a warning finger. “You already had your turn. I told you about the guilds. Now you answer my question.”

Wariness crossed his face. “What’s the question?”

Ah-ha, she thought internally. Now that the tables are turned, someone isn’t so open.

She leaned on the wall and said, “What did Edgar mean when he called you a treasure hunter?”

Chapter VIII

SHE’D GIVE HIM CREDIT. HE didn’t flinch or evade the query. He faced it head-on.

“I was an old city excavator for a long time. Mostly graves,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t have much of a choice. I studied for years as a historian of ancient Emres society and Algardian culture.”

Then he gave a self-deprecating smile. “If you’re not aware, being a curator is not the most profitable occupation. Even before I finished my studies, finding a patron to help me was almost impossible.”

Her interest was piqued, as was her confusion. “I understood about half of what you just said.”

“It’s not really important,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Just know that the war changed my fortunes. Soldiers and mercenaries began looting. They would come across new finds in the countryside. When they traded it to a wealthy buyer, everyone involved in the transaction from the soldier to the estate manager needed to know its value. That’s where I came in.”

Outwardly, Sara waved a flippant hand. Inwardly, she flinched. Up until now, she had successfully avoided thinking about the civil war going on in the ‘countryside’ by pushing it out of her mind.

Countryside, she thought ruefully. If I wasn’t in Sandrin, I wouldn’t think it so far away. In truth? This civil war is supposedly devastating the entire northern half of our empire. But as a citizen of Sandrin I don’t feel it. People go, soldiers come back, and life goes on. At least that’s what we’re supposed to think. But how do you go on when your father doesn’t come back? Or worse, he comes back in an urn?

Sara shivered and snapped out of her thoughts. She wasn’t going to let dark thoughts about a war she’d never see or experience ruin another moment of her day.

With sarcasm in her tone, she said to Ezekiel, “All right, fine. But what’s an Emres?”

“Nope, now it’s your turn,” he said with a devious smile.

She leaned back against the wall. “Well, well, well. Our curator isn’t a pushover after all.”

He blushed red but didn’t back down.

Sara rolled her eyes and said, “Repeat the question, please.” It was said a little stiffly. She knew what the question was, but she needed another a second, another minute, another moment of time where she didn’t have to answer another’s person inquiries about her personal life. But she owed him this answer. A Fairchild didn’t forget their promises.

Ezekiel looked at her as if he sensed the tension in her tone. Still he asked the question. “Why would your father become a deserter? He was commander of the imperial forces on the war front. A renowned fighter. Even I had heard of the great Commander Fairchild, and as you have probably surmised, I’ve never been the type to venerate fighters.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” she said dryly. She thought about their first conversation outside of Cormar’s office. It had started with him falling to the ground because of her and had ended with him gaining a healthy respect for her knowledge of dragon rulers but not necessarily for fighters as a whole.

Without pause, Sara answered. “I don’t know why he deserted.”

She held up a hand to forestall his protests.

“I honestly don’t,” she said, “but I do know my father was the most honorable man I knew. He would never abandon his command. Not unless he was forced to for the greater good of his men.”

The pain of her words was evident in the tone even if her face was expressionless.

He nodded. “I’m sorry. It must be hard not to know how or why your father chose that.”

She looked away, her mind off in the distance before she snapped back to the present.

“It is and was. I guess it always will be. He chose to be a military commander. Under his leadership were the mage companies, the empire’s soldiers and three of the premier mercenary companies in the land – including both the Corcoran guard and the Red Lion guard. But because he chose to serve so far away I’ll never know. I’ll never know what he died for, what was going through his mind in those last few days or even how he died.”

Ezekiel looked at her. “What do you mean how he died?”

She looked at him. Irritation grew on her face.

“I wasn’t trying to dig the knife into your pain or even get in a question that time,” he said, walking forward with both hands upraised. “I really mean it. How can you not know?”

She humored him. “Because the military didn’t tell me,” she said.

He frowned. “But it’s public record. The Empress’s forces are required by imperial law to notify families of the officers about how they died—on or off the field of battle. Often it’s more of a question if they can ever really know for sure if the body was too badly damaged for complete analysis. In that case, they would tell you something like he perished in the first charge of the battle of whatever. But this, this is a question of how could they not know? Especially if they executed him.”

As usual he talked too much. Slowing down, Ezekiel asked, “Did you ask them?”

“My military contacts weren’t very receptive to our inquiries,” she said tensely. “Even getting my father’s ashes back was a battle, and we had to pay to get them transported here ourselves.”

Ezekiel looked the most upset she had ever seen him. “Do you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know,” she said. “How can you ask that?”

He said, “It’s not an easy matter for most people to learn their family member was hanged, drawn and quartered, or dismembered on a wheel.”

“I want to know. I need to know.”

He nodded. “Then I know a way you can find out.”

Her crossed arms fell to her sides. “Tell me.”

He looked away. “The mercenaries keep all the records for the imperial guards. Death records. Benefit records. Even deployment records.”

She scoffed. “Why would they have the imperial files?”

“Because of the war,” he explained, going over to his satchel. “The Empress has had her armed militia deployed upon the field of battle for months now. Everything she’s got is there—from her palace guard to the city watch. She needed protection and to keep the capital city of Sandrin secure, so she outsourced the work of her missing men.”

Ezekiel stopped and dug deeper in that red bag of his.

“Go on,” she urged.

“Got it,” said Ezekiel, holding up a sheath of papers in the air in excitement. He began thumbing through while Sara watched in mounting frustration.

“Ezekiel!” she shouted. It was the first time she had lost her cool. The first time he turned to look at her and was able to see emotion on her face. Predominantly frustration, but there was some excitement in there.

“Right,” he said with a delighted smile that he couldn’t hide plastered on his face. “It’s the mercenaries. He outsourced the work of the city guard, the imperial guard, and the garrison staff to the mercenaries. One company in particular controls every single piece of military paperwork—the Corcoran guard. They would know how your father died.”
She stared at him. “Then the Corcoran guard is who I’m going to see.”

She turned to leave.

“Wait!” Ezekiel said, running to stand in front of her. “Where are you going?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“All right, stupid question,” he muttered, “but what do you think you’re going to do when you get there?”

“I would think it would be self-explanatory.”

He shook his head. “You can’t just walk into the mercenary guild’s headquarters and ask to see the private files of their most elite company.”

She said, “They’re my father’s files, and if they won’t give them to me, I will take them.”

“You and what army?” he snapped.

Anger crossed her face and he stepped back.

“I’m just trying to help. They’re not going to like you walking in there and demanding their information. You certainly won’t just walk back out. You think you can take on at least five other battle mages by yourself? Because you’re not the only one, you know.”

She said, “I can try. If I don’t, my father’s memory is nothing.”

He shook his head. “What if I said I had a plan to get you those files?”

“How?”

He rattled the sheath of papers still in his left hand. “This is how.”

“I’m listening.”

He let out a slow breath. “Mind if we clear the doorway?”

She looked at the door inches from his back. Then she walked over and sat down on a bench they had used to rest supplies on. He hurriedly sat down opposite her with his legs on either side of the bench. Putting the sheath of paper in the middle between them, he launched into his explanation.

“This is documentation from Cormar stating I have the legal right to acquire and hire a new mercenary for the protection of his warehouse.”

She picked up the paper in interest. Not reading it but noting a gold seal in the corner with an anchor and the pole of the fishery’s wharf on it. Cormar’s seal.

“He was looking for a new watcher before you walked in his door this morning,” he said hurriedly. “I was supposed to go this afternoon, but then you showed up. The hiring form is good for two days. We could go to the guild tomorrow just as planned.”

She pulled up a leg and rested her chin on her knee as she watched him with wary eyes. “I don’t understand how this helps me find out about my father’s death.”

He nodded. “I guess I wouldn’t either if I’d never been through the mercenary guild’s hiring process.”

She said, “So why don’t you tell me how that goes?”

“It’s simple,” he explained. “A nobleman, business owner, or caravan chief will usually go in looking for a mercenary with a specific skill set. The guild itself has the documentation on thousands of men and women spread throughout Algardis and some in the far kingdoms. Many of them don’t even live near here. What the guild does is match the preferences of the hirer with a specific mercenary. If the hirer needs the person immediately, the guild will assign someone within the city.”

She stared at him. “How do you know all this?”

“I took a temporary job there once,” he admitted.

“You?” she said with surprise in her voice.

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, in my experience with one caravan leader, he was looking for someone to journey with his crew through the winter vales in the north for two months and the guild rounded up the most likely candidates. Those with experience with deep snow, caravan beasts, and long but slow journeys. They also looked for someone who could be away for long periods of time.”

He continued on in excitement, “We had all of that information on file. Every candidate’s personal life and professional history is there. From their weapons specialties to the location of their domiciles is in those records.”

She stared at him. That was all fine and dandy, but she needed him to get to the point.

“But here’s the important part,” said Ezekiel, realizing he had gone off on a tangent. “The documentation for each mercenary is in the same room as the death records. Partly, I think, because mercenaries tend to die fairly often.”

She blinked. “So we get into the records room in the search for our candidate and find my father’s file instead?”

“Yes!” he said. “Well, except we really do need a new candidate to replace you, so it’s a two-birds-with-one-stone kind of thing.”

“I like how you think, Ezekiel.”

“It’s a pleasure to be of service, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, sure.”

She sighed. “I guess you came through, curator.”

He nodded.

Then something distracted her. The sound of steps outside echoed with her enhanced hearing. Sara stood up abruptly while pulling her knife from her sheath.

There were two sets of boots walking this way. No voices. Yet.

“What?” Ezekiel said.
“Shhh, I heard something,” she said, staring at the door.

Then Cormar strode back in with the grin of a happy man on his face.

It was the most disturbing thing she’d seen that day. No man like him should ever be happy. And if he was, she feared for whoever had just made his day. She doubted they had survived the experience.

But still she relaxed. Although she was honestly getting quite tired of him barging into the warehouse throughout the day.

Behind him Wainwright came through the door, tugging on the reins of two braying pack mules.

Sara almost felt sorry for him. He seemed to do everything for Cormar except fetch his lunch and she doubted he was that highly compensated for his work either. Cormar looked around and gave a grudging nod. “Good work.”

“Thank you, Cormar,” said Ezekiel respectfully.

Sara said nothing. Cormar didn’t seem to mind.

She watched as Ezekiel went to the pack mules that occasionally shifted and brayed. Each had a wooden crate atop its back.

“Sara, can you help me?” Ezekiel asked as he stood on one side of the crate.

She came forward, careful to take her knife out only when she was on the far side of the mule and out of its eyesight. She knew that the quickest way to scare an animal was to pull a blade in front of it. She put a hand on her side of the rectangular crate and called out to Ezekiel, “Brace yourself. I’m about to cut the rope.”

From the mule’s other side she heard him speak. “I’m ready.”

She smoothly cut the rope holding the crate in place.

“Got it,” she heard Ezekiel say with a grunt.

A moment later: “Maybe not.”

“Sara!” was the only thing she heard before the sound of him falling over with the crate on top of him came to her ears.

But it wasn’t Sara who saved Ezekiel from falling. She came around the mule’s front to see Ezekiel balanced inches above the ground with the crate atop his chest. There was a wind tunnel beneath his back holding him up. It had stopped the crate from shattering on the ground, but by doing so it had also done something far worse. The wind tunnel was forcing Ezekiel to bear the weight of the crate on his chest and the tip of his throat. He couldn’t move out from under the weight or from atop the funnels of wind beneath him.

His face was turning blue.

“Cormar, stop! He can’t breathe!” she frantically shouted.

Sara saw Cormar light a cigar out of the corner of her eye. “He should have thought of that before he almost destroyed my new artifacts.”

She growled in frustration and rushed forward. Quickly she stuck her knife in her belt, not her sheath as she grabbed the edge of the crate and pulled with all of her might. It came off of Ezekiel’s throat and his airway opened up. He began gasping for breath frantically. She kept tugging. She needed to get it off his chest, and Ezekiel was worse than useless as he lay like a crab stuck on its back with legs flailing in the air.

Flailing is good, she thought to herself. If he wasn’t moving, I’d be worried he was already dead.

With a harsh yank and grunt, she took the full weight of the crate from atop Ezekiel by bracing her feet harshly on the ground and tapping into her battle magic. This time she was boosting her strength, just as she would if she was whirling a mace above her head or throwing an opponent to the ground. It worked.

Staggering back as the load grew lighter in her arms, Sara stood up straight and carried the crate, which was twice her size, a short distance away. Setting it down on the floor as if it was as light as a feather, she stood and glared at Cormar.

He stared at her with fascination in his eyes as he puffed rings of smoke into the air. “Well done, Fairchild, well done.”

He’d been testing her, she realized. He had to have known the crate weighed more than a grown man. Cormar wanted to see what his new watcher was made of. She couldn’t fault him for his logic or his actions, but by the gods, she wanted to rip out Cormar’s throat. The man just rubbed her the wrong way. She knew part of that was her instinctual need to kill when she dipped into her gifts, but she didn’t think her instincts about his persona were wrong. There was something off about the fishery manager turned collector. He ignored the hate in her eyes and turned to Ezekiel. As Cormar let his wind tunnel dissipate as if it was never there, Ezekiel fell to the ground again. This time he just laid there coughing.

Sara didn’t move. Not because she wasn’t interested in Ezekiel’s well-being, but because she wasn’t certain she could keep herself from strangling him for taking on such a larger load than he could handle. If she had known it was that heavy in the beginning, they would have found another way.

Finally Ezekiel rose to his knees and stood. Wainwright waited next to the second mule’s head.

Cormar said, “I do believe you have one more load to carry.”

Ezekiel turned to look at the second mule with something akin to despair on his face.

“I’ll get it,” said Sara.

She came forward and grabbed her knife from her belt. As she passed Ezekiel, she gave it to him. “Here, cut the ropes on the other side and try not to stab yourself while you’re doing it.”

Ezekiel said nothing. He just did as she asked. She hoped it wasn’t so heavy this time. She was already letting her hold on her battle magic diminish. She knew the power was affecting her mood and she was getting dangerously agitated. She might snap at Ezekiel now, but if it got too much worse she could end up taking off his head.

She bore the brunt of the lighter crate with a slight grunt and smoothly set it down.

“Not so hard, right?” said Cormar as he walked out the door.

Ezekiel and Sara just watched him with dark eyes.

Wainwright grabbed the first mule’s lead without a word and followed his boss into the evening air.

Chapter IX

SARA AND EZEKIEL LOOKED AT each other and then back down at the crates on the floor. Ezekiel grabbed a crowbar leaning against the wall without a word. As he got to work trying to pry open the crates, she watched. After a few minutes, she came forward. “Here, let me help.”

“No thanks, I got it,” he grunted.

She stepped back.

After a second time where he nearly fell on his bum, she snapped, “Really? Because it looks like you’re failing.”

He turned and said, “Well, not all of us are super humans.”

The crowbar was clutched tightly in his hand as he breathed heavily.

“Do we have a problem?”

“No, no problem,” he said with a caustic laugh.

“I think we do,” she insisted.

He gave her a glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll still get your mercenary file for you. There’s no need to take pity on me now.”

“Pity on you?” she said, genuinely confused.

He dropped the crowbar with a thud. “It’s obvious you think I’m weak and incompetent and…”

“Hold up,” she said, raising a hand. “Is this about what happened with Cormar?”

He shrugged. “You handled yourself well and hated that I didn’t.”

She was still lost. “Hated that you didn’t? Because I didn’t come to help you up?”

“No!” he shouted. “Well…yeah.”

She stared at him in astonishment.

His face went blank. “Never mind.”

His back turned away and hers stiffened. She didn’t want to do this. Not now. But silly as it seemed she felt that she owed him an explanation.

“Look, Ezekiel,” she said quietly, “I didn’t come because I was afraid.”

He laughed while still facing away from her. “Afraid? Of Cormar?”

“Not of Cormar. Of myself,” she said.

He turned around. “What?”

She twisted her lips and looked off in the distance. With a sigh she focused back on him. “How much do you know about battle mages?”

“That they’re badasses that take no shit from anyone.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, that’s true. But that’s not all of it.”

He shifted on his feet and crossed his arms as he asked uneasily, “What else is there?”

“A lot,” she said with a rueful laugh.

Then a pounding knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Ezekiel nearly jumped out of his skin. She quickly strode forward and snatched the knife from where he had left it atop the other crate.

“Stay there,” she said when she passed him.

“Wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else,” he said. She didn’t miss the sarcasm in his voice.

A second knock echoed through the door.

“Who is it?” she called, wary of another intruder.

“The messenger,” she heard shouted back at her. The voice was coming from a young male who had just hit puberty. She could tell by the crack in his voice that hadn’t adjusted yet.

She yanked the door open and stared into the face of the boy she’d sent off hours ago.

With the glare of a drowned rat, he thrust out the sheathed sword that he carried impatiently.

“What took you so long?” she said, exasperated.

The urchin glared at her. “You had people in and out of here like a doxy doing tricks all day. I had to wait until that last man left. I ain’t about to mess with Cormar and his men.”
Sara grimaced. He had a fair point.

“Did you speak with my mother?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” she said. Getting words out of urchins was like trying to pull teeth. She pushed out of her mind how similar she was at that age, or still was.

“She said ‘don’t get into no trouble and bring home raspberries,’” he said.

Sara felt some relief. Raspberries was the code word between her and her mother that all was fine at home. It worked because neither of them could afford to buy such a rich fruit from the market themselves and therefore would never bring it up in casual conversation.

“Here’s two more coins in payment and a third for your trouble,” she said, handing him the bronze shillings.

He nodded. “Good doing business with you.”

“Yeah,” she said.

As he turned to leave, she asked, “Hey, kid, if I need you again, whom do I ask for?”

He yelled back without stopping, “Rascal near the fourth garrison.”

She rocked back on her heels and shut the door.

“So where were we?” she said as she quickly checked the condition of the sword and its sheath. All was well.

“You were about to tell me everything you know about being a battle mage,” said Ezekiel as he sat down on top of the crate with his legs crossed.

She buckled her sword in place on her back and for the first time that day, she felt right. Having it rest along her spine was the most comforting feeling to her. As a fighter, she knew that she was ready to take on all opponents now.

She sighed. But I’m not sure I’m ready to take this on. Telling someone about her gifts and what they meant was the hardest part. Because they never understood. Not really. Looking over at Ezekiel, she hoped he would be the first person to at least try.

“Battle mages have innate gifts that work with our natural skills,” she said. “Our powers enhance our body and to some extent our weapons, rather than the area around us. Unlike a weather mage who can call on the elements like wind and rain, or a fire mage who can call heat and flame, our gifts aren’t really outwardly focusing.”

She paused and looked at him. “You with me so far?”

He nodded. “You have intrinsic gifts—they enhance your already formidable body and skills rather than something else.”

“Yes,” she said with a quick nod. “We can make ourselves stronger, faster, and even harder to kill through our powers. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

“One point,” he said, interrupting.

She raised an eyebrow.

Nervously, he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you’re essentially cheating in any fight or duel you commit to, then.”

“Offense not taken,” she said dryly, “and any battle mage will tell you you’re dead wrong.”

“If you’re enhancing your body and your skills with your power, I’d say I’m right,” he objected. “It’s like a runner in the coliseum games taking valierum to enhance their speed. It’s a plant that when crushed and chewed pushes up their adrenaline to allow them to out race their…”

She cut him off with a frown. “I know what valierum is. If you’d let me finish I’d tell you why you’re wrong.”

He shrugged. “By all means, do.”

She snorted. “Well, any battle mage would tell you that we could use our gifts to defeat any opponents we come across in every fight. But we don’t. Why? Because the battle mage who does that will die a very early death.”

His attention perked up. She could tell he didn’t like being wrong, but he probably liked learning new information even more. “What do you mean?”

“Battle mages who tap into too much power on a continuous basis are overrun by an overwhelming urge to kill. It’s what makes us such effective fighters. Even in the small fights I’ve had in Sandrin, I get a high from defeating an opponent. The feeling of euphoria is greater still when I kill that person. When I use my gifts in conjunction with my fighting skill, the euphoria becomes overwhelming,” she explained.

His eyes were wide. “Your own gift is drugging you in order to make you use more of the power? That’s really cool. Like a fight or flight instinct but set permanently to fight!”

“It’s worse than that,” she said. “Eventually battle mages reach a point when they use so much power at once that their mental state permanently changes. They become berserk and are forever known as berserkers from there on out.”

“That’s what you were afraid of?” he said softly while leaning forward. “You were afraid you were going to become one of those berserkers?”

“I was afraid I was getting close,” she said. “Every berserker’s turning point is different. Mine could be as simple as fighting three goons in a row on the same day. I don’t know what it will be, but I know the turning point can vary based on who you are. If you’ve lived your whole life as a fighting slave, then of course it would take more to tip you over into that state.”

“They would have a higher tolerance point,” he said.

“Right. My father certainly did,” she said. “His whole life he used his gifts in the gladiator arena. He fought men every day. But he didn’t go berserk.”

“Maybe you inherited his resistance.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but then again there’s no one else to ask. Berserkers don’t live long, and they’re not very communicative once they’ve reached that state anyway.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Berserkers fight without ceasing from the moment they change over,” she said. “I’ve never heard of one living more than a few days after they go into that state.”

“Wouldn’t they be invincible, though?” he said.

“Against another battle mage, no,” she said. “But even against a regular human, a berserker can be brought down by a normal weapon. The problem is that it would take an extraordinary human to do so.”

“Then how?” He left the question hanging.

She answered. “The ones I’ve heard of turning always changed in the middle of war, surrounded on all sides by the enemy. There’s power in numbers.”

He nodded. “If they killed dozens, then…”

“There would still be dozens more to face,” she finished. “Do you understand now?”

He swallowed loudly. “Yeah, I do. That’s an immense weight to live with.”

She nodded. “One more reason I want to know how my father died and if possible to get back my family’s journals.”

“What journals?”

“My father and his father both wrote down their exploits. My father carried both wherever he went. They were never returned to my mother, and I intend to find out why. The shame of desertion is one thing. But to keep this from us is outright cruel.”

Ezekiel nodded and knocked on the wooden bench in a nervous tic before getting up.

“So,” he said, standing and stretching, “how about some dinner?”

She grinned. “I think we have some boxes to unpack first. Besides, at least one of us needs to stay here to guard the artifacts.”

“Yeah, true,” he admitted, crestfallen.

“Which means you should be going to get the food,” she said.

He nodded. “What do you want?”

“Whatever the tavern next to the fishery is serving,” she said, fumbling for her coin pouch.

He nodded and waved her off when she tried to hand him a few coins. “I’ve got it. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today.”

“Thanks.”

“Besides,” he said with a grin as he backed out of the door, “it is your first day on the job, after all.”

“And second to last,” she shouted as he exited.

When the warehouse was empty except for her and a bunch of artifacts, she looked around.

“Better check the interior perimeter,” she murmured to herself. She did a quick jog around the sides and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Staring at the new shipment in the front, she checked the balance of her sword on her back just in case, and then grabbed the crowbar to pry each crate open. With her own strength, careful to not use even a hint of her battle magic, she pried the top off of each crate. She had used her gifts before because she had to. To shift the weight of the crate off Ezekiel and get the heavy box to the floor without damaging the contents inside. Cormar seemed to expect it as part of her job after all.

They were packed to the brim with straw, and she couldn’t see any of the ten new artifacts that they supposedly held.

Setting the crowbar down, Sara went to the heavier crate first. She was careful to remove the straw from the top section-by-section and set it aside until she could see the five objects nestled in the depths. They didn’t look like anything remarkable and there was no shipment manifest that she could see. To her practical eye, the most useful object was a ship’s oar finished in dark teak. A very expensive wood from the isles, and one she wouldn’t expect an oar to be made out of. But she didn’t pick it up. She didn’t pick anything up. She remembered Ezekiel’s caution the first time around when she’d asked about the warehouse’s artifacts. If one little statue could turn her to stone, she hesitated to think what these new ones could do.

Sara turned to look at the contents of the other crate when she heard the door open behind her. “Back so soon?”

She was speaking to Ezekiel, and out of reflex she had gripped the tip of the sword sheath that sat at a sixty-degree angle on her back, the handle poking out just above her left shoulder. Gripping the hilt allowed her to steady the weapon and draw the sword at a moment’s notice. And she was very glad she had.

Because from one moment to the next, she heard the whoosh of a sword carving through the air—straight for her neck. Sara ducked and rolled. As she came up on her feet with a bounce in her step, she drew her sword and faced her enemy. Three people had come into the warehouse. All three carried swords and every single one’s face was covered. They were big and brawny enough, though, with their forms outlined in black leather, that she knew they were men.

Sara didn’t speak. There was no point. It was clear they were after one of Cormar’s treasures and just as clear they would kill her to get it. Silently, she ran at the first and didn’t even bother exchanging blows. She cleaved that person into two without any effort. The body fell behind her and she watched warily as she stood between the two remaining thieves. Sword upraised, Sara prepared to take them on.

They didn’t waste any time and came at her in unison. The one on the left lowered his sword to strike a death blow while the second came in high to distract her from her opponent.

Frustrated, Sara ducked closer to the one in the left, reached out, and kicked him with a burst of battle strength that sent him flying across the room. It wasn’t enough to kill him. Just enough to get one opponent out of her hair while she dealt with the other one. Turning with a harsh grin, Sara put her remaining opponent on the defensive. She came up with a cross-slash that was inches from his chest before he jumped to the side and she was forced to turn to keep him in her sights. Their swords met again and again as they danced across the room. She heard her other opponent rise up before long and hoped she could finish this one off before the other engaged with her.

Dancing forward, Sara feinted right to trick her opponent into leaving his side open to her blade. It didn’t work. She started to gain some respect for this one. He was smart. But not smart enough. She saw eagerness flash in the man’s eyes as he pressed forward. That together with the almost silent steps she heard behind her told her they were trying to trap her between them.

Sara quickly dove to her left, out of range of both of their swords, and ended up on the ground with her back to the crate. One opponent was coming from her left. The other from her right. She caught the blade of her opponent on the right with her upraised sword in a jarring clang that had both of their hands vibrating from the clash. But she couldn’t stop the sword on her left with an already occupied blade. So she surged up and twisted at lightning speed using her gifts. She knew she was using too much battle magic, but she had no choice.

Slipping her sword out from under the other, she managed to bring up her blade as her opponent fell forward. It didn’t really matter whom she killed first. So, with a yell, Sara cut off the head of the opponent who now stood on her left and turned immediately to face the remaining one. For a moment they stared at each other, then both started running straight toward the other with swords extended horizontally in front of their bodies. Without stopping, she jumped over his sword aimed at her chest and front flipped in the air. By the time she had turned, he was already turned around, and coming at her again. He was too close for a sword fight. So she bounced straight up and grabbed for his hair, intending to bring him to his knees. Her hand grabbed the face mask on his head instead and tore it off in her descent.

Damn, I forgot he was wearing that, she thought.

It only made her madder. She whirled again and grabbed a head of hair before he could get away. With a wrench of her arm that made her wonder if she had dislocated it, she yanked him around so fast that they had moved in a circle before he realized it. With a scream, she thrust his face forward until it connected with the sharp corner of the crate. Heaving up twice more and slamming it back down assured the end of her final opponent.

She dropped his smashed head with an exhausted sigh and let go of her battle magic. She was still on edge, but not over it.

Then the door banged open and Sara whirled around with blood all across her clothes, her sword hilt clenched in her fist, and a look of fury on her face.

Ezekiel stood in the center of the room. Astonishment written in the lines of his face as he gasped. “What in the seven devils happened to you?”

“What do you think?” Sara said as she let the point of her sword rest on the floor for the first time since she’d removed it from its sheath.

Chapter X

TWO PLATES OF HOT FOOD steamed in his hand as Ezekiel took in the bloody mess with his mouth agape. Three bodies in various conditions met his eyes. An upper torso lay against one crate comically, arms splayed as if he was trying to raise himself up. A head had rolled close to the doorway and the face of one man had been completely obliterated. He gulped, put down the food, and quickly said, “Excuse me!”

As Sara watched, emotions dulled, he ran back the way he came and threw up outside while standing just inside the doorway. She heard his wretches from where she stood. That and the smell of the fish stew he’d brought effectively snapped her out of her blood haze. At least enough to get her mind to calm down as it recognized Ezekiel as a non-threat and everyone else as dead.

Sara watched curiously as Ezekiel walked past the plates of food to the cot where she was supposed to sleep. He ducked his head with a splash into a large barrel standing nearby and came up quickly with his head soaking wet.

Dripping, he turned around.

She said, “Feeling better?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“You realize that’s the water we’re supposed to drink out of, don’t you?”

He turned to look at it and back at her. “Sorry. Shock.”

“You’re refilling it.”

He nodded still dripping as he looked around. “Tough business, being a watcher.”

“It’s a tough life no matter what you do,” she said quietly.

He looked at her. Trying to keep his eyes from wandering to the pieces of body littered around the warehouse. She could tell because he would flinch every time he caught sight of one.

“Never seen a dead person before?” she asked.

“Not like this,” he said with a shudder. “If Cormar tore pieces off of someone, he would do it privately.”

She nodded. She could understand his shock, then. She’d been seeing pieces of bodies scattered to the wind since she was a toddler and her father fought in the arena. When she’d come of age, she’d started practicing with her own practice dummies, then trainers, then human partners, and finally simulated kills with pigs before she’d been picked to do the real thing in the militia training corps.

“Well, tell you what,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and…um…I’ll try not to faint at all the bloody corpses.”

Before she could speak, he hurried to say, “I mean…I would help you clean up. It’s just…”

“The sight of the bodies makes you faint,” she said wryly. It was a common excuse from her friends outside of the training school when growing up.

That or, “Eww, why are you covered in blood?”

He nodded.

She said, “Its better if I clean up these bodies first, then.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“There’s no point in rinsing myself of blood if I’m going to get drenched in it anyway.”
He gulped and nodded.

“But first I’ll take care of my weapon,” she said as she moved the sword that rested like an extension of her arm. Grabbing a cloth from a work bench she came to the bucket and wiped it down with some water. Making sure no trace of her opponents rested on the blade or hilt, she sheathed the sword.

Then she grabbed the legless torso with a grunt. Heading out the door, she said, “Don’t think me using that water gets you off the hook for refilling that barrel,” she said.

“Of course not!”

She heard the guilt in his voice.

Coming out to the cliff overlooking the sea, Sara halted for a moment. She took stock of her senses and her surroundings. The smell of blood rose in her nose, the heaviness of the corpse in her arms made them cramp, and the stiff sea air blew across her face, which stung from cuts she’d endured in the fight. With a grunt, she threw the torso over the cliff wall. “So long.”
Then she did it again and again and again, until every piece and body part had been removed from the warehouse.

When she came back inside, she saw a pale-faced Ezekiel scrubbing the blood off of the floor.

She stopped and said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He avoided her eyes. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can eat.”

A practical man. She liked that.

Without another word, Sara got down on the floor alongside him and scrubbed.

By the time they finished, her hands felt cramped and she could tell with a glance that Ezekiel’s soft skin had been rubbed raw.

“Help me dump it,” she said as she walked over to their water barrel. “We’ll go together to the well and refill it in the morning.”

He nodded as he came over.

She glanced into the barrel and quickly away. The stew of dirty water, blood, and bits of body parts reminded her too much of what she had just done. She didn’t regret killing those men; after all, they would have killed her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be reminded of it.

With a grunt, she and Ezekiel hoisted the barrel up and placed it on the wheeled mover’s cart that rested nearby. Both of their hands guiding it, they walked the barrel outside.

When they came back in, she dug into her fish stew with gusto. Ezekiel was more hesitant, but even he dug in when his stomach growled loudly enough for her to raise an eyebrow.

“So what was it this time?” he asked as he finished.

“This time?”

“The thieves—what did they want?”

“They didn’t say,” she said shortly. “But I know this—Cormar owes me double for what I’ve been put through in just one day.”

He snorted. “Good luck in getting it out of him.”

“Well, he did say you were in charge of payment.”

He shook his head wryly. “He’d kill me the moment he learned I gave you one shilling more than he said.”

Cormar will probably kill you anyway, she thought silently. The man doesn’t have the greatest respect for anyone and he particularly dislikes you. Besides, no matter how useful you are, psychopaths like that don’t tend to be reasonable.

The thought unsettled her. But Ezekiel was a grown man, one who could make his own decisions. He’d gotten himself into this contract with Cormar and he could get himself out.

“So how about some cards?” Ezekiel said as he sat back.

She stood up abruptly. The feeling of camaraderie the gesture exhibited was too much. Even if she wanted to accept his offer, she had a rule: Don’t become friends with dead men walking.

“Or, you know, we could do dice.”

She sighed in irritation. “Neither. Let’s just unpack the artifacts and call it a night.”

“Whatever you say,” she heard Ezekiel murmur as he went to put the plates by the door.

She took the bloodied lids from the crate outside.

As she hauled them out the door, she said, “I’m going to split this. You can use it for firewood later.”

Ezekiel nodded stiffly as he walked to the first crate. There was brain matter splattered on the side, but she didn’t think he noticed. He was probably consumed with his precious new finds.

Sara went outside, picked up an axe she had noticed lodged in a tree stump earlier, and took out her lingering battle rage on the wood. At least that’s what she told herself. She refused to think that one of the dozen feelings rioting through her might be hope. Hope that she had found a friend, a new ally. Hope that she wasn’t alone anymore with her back against the wall. But she knew that hope was futile.

As she wiped the sweat from her brow in the cool night air and took another swing at the wooden planks, she thought, Hope didn’t help me when my father disappeared for four days and no one knew anything. Hope didn’t help me when they knocked on our door and said he was arrested for desertion. Hope certainly didn’t help me when everyone I knew spit in my eye the moment they learned the truth of my father’s actions.

By the time she was done, her fingers were sore, her hands stiff, and her mind was clear. She felt better. Talking things out on anything had never done much for her, even as a kid. But she’d always been able to out run and out fight her emotions. It was the only way she knew how. Running hadn’t been an option this time, but smashing some wood to smithereens had.

Standing straight, she swung the axe back for one final whack. This whack was designed to lodge the axe back into the stump of the tree trunk the way she had found it. Dusting her hands off—a futile effort, she knew—Sara stacked the new firewood where it would be within easy reach and went back inside. She was startled to see that Ezekiel had already finished unpacking and had pushed the empty crates against the wall by the door.

“I didn’t know so much time had passed,” she said.

Ezekiel grunted from where he stood over the new benches. “Two hours.”

She walked over to him. “What have we got?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. She had learned that he never had nothing to say about his baubles. Which meant this was just his way of showing irritation. She let it pass. She was done placating his feelings today. It was exhausting. She could wait him out.

True to form, it didn’t take long before he cracked.

“A few interesting things. What I liked most was an Emres tablet with some very interesting inscriptions.”

She murmured, “Sounds cool.”

He turned and nudged his spectacles up on his nose. “I thought you didn’t know what Emres was.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “If you’re going to be an asshole, I can leave.”

She turned to go. He reached out a hand that stopped just before it grabbed hold of her shoulder. He apparently remembered the last time he’d grabbed on to her and could have been set afire by the look in her eyes.

“Wait,” he said, dropping his hand hastily. “I’m sorry.”

She turned to him. Waiting for more.

“That was nasty of me,” he said, contrite. “I’ve been having a rough day.”

She frowned.

“As have you!” he hastily added.

She crossed her arms.

“Are you seriously going to make me carry this entire conversation?”

“Maybe,” she grudgingly admitted.

Then they both chuckled.

“The Emres society was around during the first fifty years of the Algardis Empire. It was a cult that revered a dragon.”

“And the tablet?”

“Maybe insight into why they did so,” he said with excitement.

“Why wouldn’t they?” She was a little confused. Dragons weren’t necessarily revered in the present time, but they were certainly respected. And back at the founding of the Empire, a lot of humans had wanted nothing more than to be taken back to Sahalia with their dragon masters.

He shrugged. “Lots of reasons. No one likes to be beholden to another, and dragons were particularly nasty masters. The question is, during the forefront of a revolution, why would these humans of the Emres society be the ones who held out?”

This topic was drifting dangerously close to a history lesson. She shifted uncomfortably.

He noticed her boredom.

“But I do have something else very interesting. In fact, I think you’ll like it” said Ezekiel. “It came in the other crate.”
He pointed toward the other bench that he’d set up across the room. When he began to walk across the room and saw that she wasn’t following, he begged. “Come on. You really need to see this.”

She wasn’t so sure, but she dropped her crossed arms and followed reluctantly.

When he stood over the five artifacts on the bench triumphantly, she raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

From left to right sat a huge conch shell, a peeling bow and arrow set, a diamond necklace, a leather cat-o’-nine-tails, and a cloak of patchwork design. The first one she dismissed as a novelty, the second looked nonfunctional, the third was gaudy, the fourth wasn’t to her taste, and the fifth looked like it would fall apart at any second.

She looked at Ezekiel wondering what he knew that she didn’t. Her skepticism shone in her eyes.

“They may look old,” he said. “But trust me—some of this stuff is worth its weight in gold.”

She looked and decided to play a game. She would pick the one which she thought was the most worthless. She was a horrible judge of value, so whichever that one was would clearly be the one that was most valuable. Or she’d proved it was all a bunch of junk.

“The conch shell?”

“Well, no not that one,” he said with a frown. “To tell you the truth I think they picked it up in salvage by mistake.”

“The diamond necklace, then,” she said dryly. You couldn’t go wrong with extravagant jewelry.

“Well, it’s cursed. So no,” he said with a shudder. “And not the kind of curse that you would wish on even your worst enemy, either.”

“That’s some curse,” she said. “How about the cat-o’-nine-tails?”

“The what?”

She gestured at it. “The whip? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of one? Everyone has.”

He cleared his throat. “You mean everyone who thinks fighting to the death is a sport?”
She grimaced. “Fair enough, let’s move on.”

“Wait! What does it do?”

“Shouldn’t you be telling me that?”

He shook his head. “This particular whip is famous for who owned it, not how it was made.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“It does exactly what you think. The tail end of the whip is split into nine heads so that when a person is lashed it inflicts the most pain. Most of the time it’s used for public flogging, but I’ve known lads that enjoy it…with limits.”

He blinked. “Why would someone enjoy using that?”

“Torture, fun, what have you,” she said.

“Fun?”

“Look,” she said, uncomfortable, “why don’t we talk about why you brought me over here? What exactly is it that you thought would excite me?”

He looked like he wanted to prod her more. She put on her most stubborn face.

“Fine,” he sighed, and then picked up the worn crossbow set. “This is it.”

She looked at it in amazement. “Really? It’s falling apart.”

Scandalized, he said, “This is one of the only crossbow sets still intact from the original war to establish the empire!”

“It certainly looks old enough.” Her disdain was palpable.

He stared at her astonishment. “It’s close to two-hundred years old.”

“Definitely old enough, then.”

When he clearly was about to have a meltdown, she said, “But in nice condition. Shouldn’t it be rotting in the ground by now?”

He groaned aloud. “The crossbows of the first battle were forged by Mitas, the fire mason with gifts from the gods.”

“The gods?” She couldn’t halt the laughter that escaped.

“Your reverence is charming,” he said dryly.

She shrugged. “Sorry, I just never thought they messed with mortals.”

“They don’t anymore, but they did in the beginning.”

“So this Mitas crossbow is special because of its historical relevance?”

“It’s special because it still works.”

She stared at the bow and arrow in his hands. The wood was splintering, the leather had worn away until it was nothing but stiff strips along the bow and the string on the handle looked thin enough to snap.

“Does it?” she said.

He stiffened. “All right then, I’ll prove it to you.”

He began to string the bow. “Don’t,” she warned. “I don’t want you poking your eye out with that damned string. It could snap right in your face.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” He kept tightening the string.

She began to get worried. “I’m serious, Ezekiel.”

“I’m serious too,” he said. “It’ll work. Now, if you’d step back, please?”
She didn’t budge. “You’ve proved your point—put it down.”

He looked directly at her. “I haven’t yet and I’m going to do this. So please step back. The bow will work. But my aim might not be so good.”
She wasn’t going to force him to unstring the crossbow. Fighting over a weapon was how people got stabbed or shot and she feared he would be the one laying on the ground bleeding.

“If you must,” she said as she took a step back to just behind his left shoulder.

Sara watched as Ezekiel brought the crossbow up and aimed. With a practiced eye, she saw to her surprise that he had good form. Ezekiel the curator actually knew what he was doing. Too bad he was using a crossbow that was likely to seriously maim him. Then Sara watched in astonishment as the splintering wood of the loaded arrow transformed; what had looked like raised splinters in the middle of its shaft were actually carefully concealed hinges. The hinges spread out in the middle of the arrow and the thin wood slats on either side arced upward into a sort of diamond shape.

What a strange arrow, she thought. It was clear that the arrow was built to do this and the crossbow was built to handle it, but what exactly it would do after that, she had no idea.

Ezekiel took a deep breath and let his arrow fly. She was surprised to say the least, when it not only flew true to its target, the front door, but also exploded the door into bits when it blasted straight through the center and sent shards of wood splinters flying back toward them.

They both ducked instinctively and then rose.

Ezekiel let the crossbow rest in front of him.

She said, in echo of their conversation earlier, “Did you know it was going to do that?”

“Not exactly,” he said faintly.

She clapped a hand on his shoulder in commiseration. “By the time this day is over, we’re going to have to buy Cormar a whole new warehouse.”

Chapter XI

EZEKIEL LOOKED QUEASY AT THE thought.

“Well,” Sara said while eyeing his crossbow in speculation, “it’s not bad for a two-century-old weapon.”

He snorted and carefully put it back on the bench.

“I think I need to create a new door,” he said ruefully.

“I’ll help,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“No thanks needed. If I left it to you, the door would probably fall flat on the ground in seconds.”

He glared. She grinned. They went to work. By the time an hour had passed, Sara’s back was aching from hammering nails and they were both exhausted. Standing back, she stared at the finished product.

“Good enough,” Sara declared.

“Finally,” murmured an exhausted Ezekiel.

Throwing his hammer into a pail of nails, Ezekiel grabbed a towel and wiped off his face.

“So how does this work?” Sara asked.

“What?”

“The overnight shift with you and your watcher. What did you do before?”

He looked at her blankly. “They left and I stayed.”

“And Cormar allowed that?”

“Cormar killed each one after the first infraction.”

She whistled. “All right, I can’t stay up for six hours straight on top of the day we’ve just had, but neither do I think you can handle watch on your own.”

Before he could bristle, she held up a placating hand. “No offense. Just facts.”

He shrugged. “Can’t really say I was all that good at it before.”

She nodded. “I’ll take the first four hours. You rest. Two hours before dawn I’ll wake you and you keep an eye out. I’ll be right by your side, so you can nudge me if you hear anything suspicious.”

He nodded eagerly.

“Keep in mind the suspicious part,” she said while testing the balance on her sword. “Don’t wake me up if you hear a rat skittering.”

“Of course not,” he said indignantly as he walked to the cot.

She smirked as he laid down to rest and she leaned against the wall for the first watch. They switched shifts as promised and the day dawned with no incidents.

As Sara got up, she looked over at Ezekiel, who was blinking like a sleepy owl. “Don’t get tired on me now. Today’s the mercenary guild day.”

“I know,” he said as he stretched his muscles.

With a yawn, he said, “So how are we going to do this? I think the mercenaries are more your forte than mine.”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a grin. “I’ve got a plan. You just help me lock up this warehouse tight. We need to be in and out in an hour.”

Interest sparked in his eyes, but he thankfully refrained from asking the questions that he clearly was dying to know the answers to.

Hoping her non-existent plan would form on their way over, Sara carefully called up her mage gifts. She didn’t do this particular spell very often, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Laying her hand on the cold metal wall, she pushed her gift into the building itself. She was layering her power on top of the gifts that Cormar had had other mages previously imbue it with it. It wasn’t a complicated spell, just a dangerous one.

Opening her eyes, she said to Ezekiel, “You wouldn’t happen to know if Cormar plans to come back around anytime this morning, would you?”

Of course he’s coming back, she said to herself. He showed up three times in one day yesterday. It’d be too much to ask that he stay away from his precious artifacts for more than a few hours.

Sara heard Ezekiel say, “Yes, actually, I do.”

She turned an impatient gaze on the man who loitered by the door.

“Well, do you plan to enlighten me?”

“No, I was going to let you stew for a few more minutes.”

“Ezekiel!” She could feel her power slipping as she lost her concentration.

“He won’t be by until mid-afternoon,” he said. “Today’s the black market lords’ meeting. They’ll have to decide who will take over the west thief lord’s district, actually, so he might be away until mid-afternoon. Severin, I believe was the thief lord’s name. Nasty man died in an alley fight, apparently.”

“Did he now?”

Sara turned her attention back to the wall and gathered her power for the burst. “When I say ‘go,’ run out of the building as fast as you can.”

“Are you going to blast us to smithereens again?” he asked.

“Something like that,” she said, turning a wry glance on him.

He paled and raced toward the door.

“Don’t go through yet!” she shouted.

“Why the hell not?” he shouted back, inches from making his exit.

She sighed in irritation. “What I’m about to do will lock both of our physical signatures into the building. After I do it, the only way to get back in to the place without dying will be for a person to be with one of us. Since you’ll be alone, you’ll need this coded to you to get back inside.”

“Oh,” he said. “What happens if I don’t have it?”

“I’ll tell you later. Get ready, but don’t move out that door until I say so.”

She looked at him fiercely and he nodded. As she turned back toward the wall, she noted with amusement that he was bouncing on his feet like a runner about to take off in a sprint, straight for the door.

Sara turned her concentration inward and counted down in her thoughts. Each count was set off by a distinct pulse as she thrust her battle magic into the heart of the warehouse.

Five. Pulse.

Four. Pulse.

Three. Pulse.

Two. Pulse. She hurried to grab a piece of Ezekiel’s aura and tied it together with her own. Setting her battle magic countdown to the last pulse, she knew she was no longer needed inside the building.

It would spread like a shock wave.

Whirling toward Ezekiel, she started running and shouted, “Now! Get out.”

One. Pulse.

He needed no further warning and shot out of the building like a rabbit. By the time she’d crossed the threshold, he was halfway to the fishery.

She stopped five feet from the doorway and screamed his name. “Ezekiel, come back!”

He didn’t stop until he felt flat on his face. When he got up and turned around to look, she thought his nose was bleeding, but she couldn’t tell for sure. She waved a hand to summon him back and turned back toward the warehouse from where she stood. Using her mage sight, she saw the whole building pulse brilliantly with a wave of color, the blue of her own battle magic, and a dark, muddy brown that she assumed was Ezekiel’s essence. The wave subsumed the whole building and came together like a bubble closing on the center of the front door.

As the bubble closed, a panting and bleeding Ezekiel came to rest by her side.

Breathing hard, he rested his hands on his knees and looked at the door. “What did you do?”

“Sealed the building to anyone, magical or mundane, except us.”

“You can do that?” he sounded mildly impressed.

“It’s an arcane war tactic,” she admitted. “And not usually sanctioned in civilian life.”

“Why not?” he said, standing up. “It’s just a residence protection shield, right?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s known as death’s touch.”

He opened his mouth and closed it flatly. “You put death’s touch on a warehouse?”

“Yes,” she said, not sorry. “Anyone else who touches that door and tries to get into that building will die immediately.”

She turned to walk down the path. Ezekiel followed behind her stumbling, “Anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Including Cormar?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not going to like this.”

“Nope.”

“Think he’ll touch it accidently and die anyway?” Ezekiel sounded hopeful.

“It’s a spell with a distinct feel; any mage worth half their salt will know what it is. There’s a warning keyed to the door, too. It’ll give off a light buzz and a feeling of dread will overcome the intruder. If that doesn’t stop them, then they’re idiots.”

“Right,” Ezekiel said, shouldering his backpack and they waded into the street. “So, where’d you learn how to do it?’

“My father.”

“Your father sounds like he was awesome.”

“He was,” she said with a smile in her voice.

“So what’s the plan?” he said as they dodged a rather shady looking lump of fur, teeth, and dirt.

“We get in, get the files, hire a replacement, and get out before midday,” she said simply.

“I knew that,” he whined. “I meant how do you plan on getting in through the mercenary guild’s doors? You basically said you’re persona non-grata amongst the fighters, and, well, they don’t really like me anymore.”

That statement set off warning bells in her head.

They had turned on to a street heading east. She stopped abruptly and slammed a hand into Ezekiel’s chest. Pushing back until he stumbled against the wall behind him, she stared up into his face.

“What are you doing?” he gasped. He didn’t look panicked, just shocked. It probably helped that she hadn’t pulled out any weapons or threatened him. Yet.

Passersby flowed behind her as her dark orange eyes met his helpless brown ones.

“I need to know exactly why they hate you so much and if they would recognize you on sight,” she said tensely.

He spluttered.

She cut him off. “No ifs, ands, or buts about it, Ezekiel. This plan to infiltrate their compound and get the files will not work if you don’t come clean. What’s more—I will not risk getting thrown into the stocks for not knowing that you’re a wanted criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal,” he squeaked.

She narrowed her eyes at him as the wind whipped her long black curls, currently pulled back into a ponytail, into her face.

He stared at her with a cross look.

She wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. And she would if he didn’t speak up soon.

“Ezekiel,” she snapped, “I do not have all morning.”

He pursed his lips and said, “I might have stolen something from them.”

She let him go and stepped back. That was it. They were parting ways. She didn’t need this.

But still she didn’t move as his pleading eyes met hers.

“What did you steal?” she finally asked.

“A playbook,” he said guiltily.

“What kind of playbook?”

“The kind that lists all military troop movements across the empire.” His voice was quiet as he looked around nervously.

She stared at him as if he was a man possessed. No one was that stupid. No one.

“What in the seven gods did you want with a military playbook?”

He fell back against the wall with his shoulders slumped. “I told you I was hard up for cash a few years back. I sold it to the mages.”

A million thoughts were running through her head at the moment.

“That’s treason. You know that, right? Giving the playbook to the Kade mages is treason.”

He stuck his lower lip out. “I never said I gave it to the Kade mages.”

“Excuse me?” she said, staring at him aghast. “Why would the empress’s mages buy a playbook of their own troops’ movements?”

“Because it’s like I said before,” he said flatly. “The empress is resource poor. She’s hired militia and mercenary personnel to fill a lot of empty slots. Empty slots that include officer positions on the warfront. Let’s just say the empress’s mages aren’t too happy about that. They don’t trust the mercenaries one bit.”

She let out an irritated sigh. “Tell me one thing.”

He looked at her hopefully.

“Why aren’t you dead? You live in the same city from where you stole the bloody handbook, and from what you’ve told me, the mercenaries would recognize you. You worked there for some time, after all.”

“Might recognize me. I was only there long enough to case the place. A few weeks at most. Besides…the mercenaries never caught me stealing their precious handbook. I was too good. I just happened to leave at the same time it disappeared, so they suspected me a little more.”

“Why would you do that?” Her voice sounded mystified.

He shrugged. “I had other problems at the moment.”

“More problems than a thousand mercenaries raining fire and brimstone down on your head for stealing their intelligence?”

“You could say that.”

She stepped back. “My, my. Ezekiel the mysterious thief.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, the mercenary’s guild has the same turnover rate as the silk weaver’s hall.”

She got the reference. Silk weavers were notorious perfectionists and the head of the silk weaver’s hall in Sandrin was excessive in that trait. A lot of young lads and ladies went into the trade and left weeping in the first week after bearing the brunt of her harsh teachings. Which meant Ezekiel had probably left his job at the same time as half a dozen other mercenary staffers.

Focusing back on the present, Sara wished she had a new partner go in with her. But they didn’t have time, and there wasn’t anyone in this city she trusted to help her anyway.

“Fine, let’s just try to avoid anyone who recognizes you.”

He nodded quickly. “Easily done. I worked in the supplies and maintenance department. We’re going to records. It’s on the other side of the guild hall.”

She had a bad feeling about this. But they were too far in and she needed her father’s records too much to turn back now. They kept going.

Chapter XII

SOON ENOUGH THEY WERE JUST outside the central plaza of Sandrin. It was so named not because it lay directly in the center of the city, but because it was the largest plaza in the capital city and housed the organizations central to the city’s governance.

As she entered the plaza from the people’s street, Sara walked up a long ramp until she reached the pinnacle of the incline. While standing on the broad marble pathway, she looked down at the apex of power. The plaza was a rectangle-shaped depression in the ground with a promenade of columns to the left and right. Beyond the columns the stairs arced up from the base toward the triad of power in the empire. On the right was the mercenary’s guild, an imposing structure with towering colonnades. Directly across from it and to the left was the magistrate’s court. Staring straight ahead, Sara watched the morning sun light the palace of the empress in red, gold, and orange rays.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Ezekiel.

“Stunning,” said Sara with a voice like stone.

Ezekiel caught the tension in her voice. “What is it?”

She stared down at the base of the stairs to where a single pole with chains lay in the distance.

“This is where they proclaim traitors to the empire,” she said. “This is where my mother and I heard the citywide pronouncement that my father had been executed for his crimes.”

Ezekiel was silent. For a moment longer she took it all in. Then they turned to go along the broad pathways to reach the petitioners’ entrance to the mercenary guild.

When they got there, a normal-looking man with a helmet on and a bored expression in place said, “Name?’

“Sara Fairchild.”

“Occupation?”

She was silent for a moment.

“Occupation?” he repeated impatiently.

“Fisherwoman,” Ezekiel exclaimed from beside her while studiously avoiding looking up. With his head hanging down and his shoulders slumped, he looked like a depressed stork. But the lackey didn’t question him.

“Purpose for entering the mercenary’s guild?”

“Hire of a new watcher for the fishery,” she said.

He nodded and scribbled it down. Then he handed her two medallions on a rope. One was painted red. The other red with blue stripes.

“Here, this will grant you access to the guild records room for hiring purposes. Nowhere else. If you are found without those medallions or outside of those areas, you will be detained.”

The way he said “detained” made it sound a lot like “tortured and killed.”

He looked down at her impatiently. “Got it?”

“Got it.” She was quick to confirm.

“The red one is for you, as the primary party responsible. The man with you is your charge. If he gets into trouble, it will be on your head. Do you understand?”

Still Ezekiel didn’t look up.

“Yes,” Sara said.

“Yes,” squeaked Ezekiel.

The man said, “Put them on now. Yours first, and you put his over his head.”

She didn’t ask why. She knew why. It was a military tactic used on prisoners. The medallions were objects called symbiotic rings. The wardens liked to make sure prisoners behaved well. Each prisoner wore one that was linked to the others about their necks. If one prisoner was punished for a transgression, they all felt it. But the symbiotic rings had an even more sinister purpose in their design. They could be used to kill. Ezekiel was now beholden to her. Anything he did wrong, she would suffer for from the moment she put that medallion around his neck to the moment they left the mercenaries’ headquarters.

Her hands didn’t tremble as she put them on.

The man watched her carefully. Satisfied, he nodded her through the gate. Sara stepped forward into the training yard and marble halls of the empire’s most famous guild. The hall of men and women with the power and the skills to protect the empire. She knew that more battle mages resided under this one roof than resided in the whole of the rest of the empire. It was awe-inspiring and terrifying. Not the thought that she could meet more people like her. She already had. No, the thought that had her quaking in her boots was the fact that if something went wrong, she might have to face two or more battle mages in a fight to get out of here.

“It won’t go wrong,” she whispered to herself.

“What?” said Ezekiel, coming up by her side.

She amended her statement. “I said it’s time to go.”

She didn’t move.

“Do you know where the records room is?” she finally asked.

“Right,” said Ezekiel guiltily. “I forgot you’ve never been here before.”

I wouldn’t say that, she thought in her mind. But now wasn’t really time to reminisce about the past. She just hoped she didn’t run into anyone she had known. Ezekiel wasn’t the only one with a past they wanted to avoid.
She cleared her throat. He started moving. They quickly exited the training field through a side door and weaved in and out of packed hallways to get into a long line for the records room. When they finally reached the front after a half-hour of waiting, Sara was eager to get inside.

She presented her medallion and the request to hire a mercenary for a local assignment to the older woman in charge. The woman had the battle scars of a soldier who’d seen the field firsthand. With a lick of her thumb, she scrolled through a book as she worked.

“You’re in luck,” she told Sara. “We’re just about to send a company out, but the Red Lion garrison is still here and can do some freelance merc work for you.”

“Great,” said Sara as Ezekiel unsuccessfully tried to hide behind her. She got the feeling he knew this woman just as well as he had the medallion man. She’d seen the flash of recognition cross his face before he ducked down.

“What hours are you looking for?”

“Twenty-four hours a day, with three one hour breaks daily plus a temporary person to rotate in once every two weeks for our primary watcher’s two days off.”

“Hmm,” murmured the woman. “I think we can do that.”

Opening the drawer next to her she took out three chips—two red and one green.

“Give these to the man inside,” she said strictly, pointing her thumb at the ajar door to the records room. “He’ll give you the files for the men and woman that fit your specifications.”

Sara nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” said the woman as she waved them inside.

As they walked through that door, Sara breathed a sigh of relief. They were in. That was easier than she’d thought it be.

Ezekiel caught her arm and pointed off to the right when she turned to look at him. A man stood at podium with a bunch of baskets filled with the assorted chips in front of him. Walking over to him silently, she handed him the three that she had.

He took the green one and held it up first. “Let’s start with this one. You’re looking for a temporary worker?”

She nodded.

“How many days or hours?’

“Two days every two weeks to relieve our primary watcher. The shift will be for the full twenty-four hours with three one-hour breaks each day.”

He scribbled that down and dropped the chip in the green basket. “Okay.”

He picked up the red chips next. “And these. You need two mercenaries as watchers?”

She shook her head impatiently. “One.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How many hours? How many days?”

“Twenty-four hours, seven days a week, with two days off every two weeks.”

He nodded. “That’s why she gave you two. Mercenary Guild policy states that our workers get one day off a week if based locally.”

She started to protest, but he interrupted. “Those are the rules, or you can hire two mercenaries with split shifts.”

Sara and Ezekiel exchanged glances. Then Ezekiel stepped forward to take over negotiations.

“What if we had one guy that worked for one and a half weeks with a day off every eleven days?” he asked the young man, eagerly leaning forward.

As she backed away from the conversation and hurried to disappear in the meandering crowd she heard the mercenary guild official say, “Well, that won’t work because…”

After she slipped into the crowd, Sara looked back and forth. Hoping to see a sign that said “Death Records” in bright lettering. No such luck.

After twenty minutes of circuitous walking, she almost gave up and went back to Ezekiel. He should know exactly where it was. But then an old woman tottered up to her. Small and hunched over, she looked like an old crone. Her white hair spilled out of a small bun and spectacles perched on her nose haphazardly. But on her breast was the patch of the mercenary guild. She worked here.

“Sweetie, can I help you?” said the old woman while leaning on a cane and peering up at Sara hopefully.

“Well,” Sara said nervously. “I don’t know.”

The woman reached out with a pale hand spider-webbed with blue veins and patted Sara’s hand. “Don’t be shy. I’m here to help our patrons.”

Sara nodded and decided to go for it. “My father died and I just wanted to see his records.”

She left the sentence hanging. She didn’t want to give the woman too much information but she did prefer to give her a bit of the truth. After all, it was easier to lie if you didn’t actually tell a lie.

“Ahh,” said the old woman, lighting up. “The death records room. It’s just over here.”

As she tottered away, Sara followed behind at a slow pace. The woman said to Sara over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.”

“Thank you,” said Sara, truly touched. The woman didn’t know it, but that was the first time any representative from the military or the mercenary guild had mentioned her loss and her father’s execution in the same sentence. If she had known she was speaking of a Fairchild, she probably would have held her tongue.

They push through the crowds and the woman turned right abruptly to walk through the tiniest doorway Sara had even seen. The top of the door barely reached her throat. The words inscribed above the door were at her eye level.

“Todeszimmer,” she said aloud. Room of Death.

No wonder she hadn’t been able to find it, with the crowded nature of the records room this small doorway was hidden. Stooping, Sara ducked inside to follow her helper.

“And here we are!” said the woman with a wide smile as they entered a spacious room with a ceiling that vaulted high above them.

“Thank you,” said Sara appreciatively. “I never would have found it on my own.”

“Of course, dear. Of course,” the woman said, beaming. “Now what did you say your name was? The files are in alphabetical order and I can find your father’s death records very quickly with his family name.”

Sara hesitated and then prepared to lie, “It’s—”

“Madame Sanze!” shouted a young man from just inside the doorway.

Startled, Sara turned to see him just as the woman nodded.

“Michael needs you,” said the boy who couldn’t have been a decade old yet. “A man in front is being horrible and wants only one mercenary when he must have two. Michael says customers are more likely to come back if we don’t have to call in the guards on them.”

“Oh, poppycock,” said the old woman, tottering quickly away. “So many cheap bastards these days.”
Sara blinked at the kind old woman’s language.

Just before the woman disappeared into the crowd to deal with Ezekiel, she turned and said, “I’ll be right back, dear. Michael, you stay with her.”

The little mercenary in training nodded and looked over at Sara with a stubborn look.

“I will stay with you.”

Sara gave him an uninterested look. “How old are you? Seven?”

He stuck out his bottom lip. “I’m eight and a half.”

As if that made a world of difference. She hated kids. Luckily, they tended to be afraid of her.

“Well, I’m going to look for those records,” she said. She waited for fear to silence him into submission. A minute later a sound that she didn’t want to hear came from his direction. The sound of refusal. Not the silence of a child afraid to reproach her.

“You can’t!” she heard his shout from behind her. “Guild rules.”

Damn, thought Sara. All kids except for this one.

She thought about it for a minute before turning around to look at him. She just wanted to get this over with—maybe they could strike a deal. “If I look, you can watch.”

He shook his head quickly, not falling for it.

“I’m getting Madame Sanze if you do that,” he retorted.

She snorted. “Madame Sanze said you’re to stay with me, so you’re not going anywhere.”

He opened and closed his mouth, flummoxed. But he couldn’t refute her logic. She almost felt bad for taking advantage of an eight-year-old. Almost.

“Don’t worry, kid,” she said as she walked over to the storage shelf with a metal F hanging above it. “I won’t do any harm to your files.”

She began thumbing through files of stacked parchment paper, looking for the one most important to her.

Glancing behind her, she saw the boy standing in the middle of room with his arms crossed and the glare of death on his face. It would have been funny if she wasn’t in a hurry.

Murmuring to herself, she said the names aloud. “Faine. Farst. No, that’s too far.”

And then she found it. Her eyes lit up as she pulled the only record with the label Fairchild on it. Quickly she cast a sight shield so that the human boy wouldn’t suspect anything and grabbed the file folder labeled Farst as well. Opening the Farst file, Sara dumped the entirety of her father’s record inside with not a moment to loose.

Madame Sanze came in at just the moment Sara dropped the sight shield and turned around.

The old woman cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes in speculation at Sara.

“I told her she shouldn’t touch the records!” Michael exclaimed.

Sara quickly smiled and waved her hands. “I just thought it would be faster for me to grab the Farst file while you dealt with that customer. With it being so busy out in the records room and you being so kind to me, I thought the least I could do would be to help out.”

Sara held her breath tightly, wondering if she had laid the sugar on too thick. She also wasn’t sure if Madame Sanze, a mage, had seen her conjure the sight shield. If she had, the jig was up. If she hadn’t, then Sara would live to see another day.

Slowly, Madame Sanze nodded. “Well, if that’s all. Farst, you said?”

“Yes,” said Sara, smiling so brightly her teeth hurt.

She walked forward, hoping the woman wouldn’t raise the alarm. As she passed a glaring Michael, two other guests ducked into the death records room through the small doorway.

“Is this the death records room?” asked a grieving woman whose eyes were red, tears still dotting her cheeks.

Madame Sanze leapt into action. “Yes it is, you poor dear. Can I get you some tea?”

Sara escaped out the door and into the main records room. With no time to lose, she caught the eye of Ezekiel standing next to the door and jerked her head to indicate they should leave.

Getting out was much easier than getting in, and as they rushed through the halls, he pointed to a small courtyard. “We’re meeting our first watcher here.”

“First?” she murmured, clutching the records labeled “Farst” tightly in her hands.

He nodded. “The second will show up on shift relief day.”

“Right,” Sara said, distracted by the thoughts racing through her head.

Five minutes later, their leather-clad mercenary arrived and Ezekiel announced, “The quickest exit’s through the training yard.”

“Great, let’s go,” murmured Sara.

They came down the stairs to see dozens of men and women battling opponents on mats, in sand, and on rough terrain. It was quite interesting to watch, but Sara was too worried about getting outside in one piece to be fascinated with their training methods.

“Hey, girl,” shouted a man.

They walked faster.

“Sara,” shouted the man. “Sara Fairchild, I’m speaking to you.”

Ezekiel and Sara froze.

They had no choice.

“Oh shit, that’s the captain of the Corcoran guard,” Ezekiel said.

Every man and woman in the training yard had turned to look at them. They all were sweaty from their workout and carrying some sort of weapon—she spotted swords, staffs, glaives, and throwing stars in just one glance.

Sara looked over at Ezekiel, surprised. “You never curse.”

“First time for everything,” he whispered as he looked over his shoulder to confirm.

“Don’t turn around,” she snapped.

“Too late.”

She snorted as they turned to watch the company captain approach.

When he reached them he towered over Sara, and she realized that she knew him. From a long time ago, before her father had died, actually. He looked different. Where he had been spindly like Ezekiel before, the captain now had muscles stacked on his abs and his forearms bulged. She could tell because he was shirtless. She was looking because he was more than likely going to be the first person she had to kill to get them out of here.

Too bad he was a battle mage. That would make this first fight a lot harder.

She edged forward until she had stepped in front of Ezekiel. She might not be able to take them all on, but she could at least give the curator a fighting chance to run. Their new hire stood off to the side with his arms crossed, unimpressed.

When the red-headed captain with green eyes met her defiant orange ones, he grinned.

Think I’m amusing, do you? Sara thought to herself. I’ll show you funny.

Then he looked around at his gaping mercenaries and said something she didn’t expect to hear. “At ease! Get back to your practice, you lazy lot.”

Quickly the staring men and women began sparring with their opponents again or training with their weapons. Some of the mercenaries were good enough to fight their partners and watch their captain at the same time. Sara felt mild envy at that, but she kept her focus on the man in front of her.

“Can I help you?” Sara said coldly.

“Barthis Simon,” said the captain. “I’m the captain of the Corcoran guard.”

“We know,” piped up Ezekiel from behind her.

She didn’t turn around to Ezekiel. Neither did Captain Simon spare him a glance. He kept his eyes firmly pinned on hers.

She nodded.

“I’ll be honest, Fairchild. I’ve heard of your exploits on the streets and know of your sterling record in the training school. I don’t believe in superstitious nonsense and I’m looking for good mercenaries to have my back in the war.”

Her back stiffened. A mercenary was offering her a job. He had to be joking. Fairchilds never took merc gigs, and for good reason.

Stiffly she said, “What are you asking me?”

He watched her with a calm demeanor. “I’m offering you the chance to join the finest mercenary company in the empire. If you take the offer, you’ll be fighting beside two seasoned battle mages, including myself, and will become a Corcoran.”

She didn’t want to insult the man, but there was no way she would join the mercenary guild with either company. She had problems with the two separate mercenary companies of the Red Lions and the Corcoran for entirely different reasons. But mostly she knew that she couldn’t leave her mother. She couldn’t leave the city of Sandrin. And she wouldn’t tarnish the family honor any more than it already had been.

Files held tight in her hand, she said, “I’m going to have to decline.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to accept your pass so easily. You have a little more than twelve hours to think it over. If you want to join us, my company is leaving out of the city through the west gate at dawn’s rise. Be there and we’ll fill out your paperwork then.”

He turned and left to go over to a practicing mercenary pair.

She watched as he laid into the men without pause.

“You call that a block, Smith?” the captain yelled, swiftly grabbing the staff and upending Smith on his bum. “I’ll show you a block!”

“Wow,” said Ezekiel.

“What?” Sara said as she watched the captain demonstrate some impressive talent.

“I wish I had that kind of luck,” he said.

She turned and looked at him in amazement. “I’m not taking the offer. Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded and they left, their new watcher trailing behind them.

After leaving the medallions at the front, Ezekiel asked, “Why wouldn’t you join? Decent benefits and square meals.”

She gave him a cutting look. “Family and honor.”

“Family and honor don’t put food on the table,” he muttered.

She ignored the comment as she said, “Besides, why now?”

“He told you.”

“No, he told me what I wanted to hear. An honorable place in an honorable company, but there’s more to it than that,” she said testily. “None of the fighters in this city wanted me in their ranks. Why now? Why right after we came to the mercenary guild?”

“I don’t know,” said Ezekiel as they emerged on the steps that descended into the plaza. “But at least you have what you came for.”

As they walked down the steps, she murmured, “At least there’s that.”

She shaded her eyes from the blazing morning sun as they crossed the central plaza and came up the stairs to exit into the city opposite the south entrance to the imperial palace.

Turning when they reached the peak, she said, “Well, I guess this is it.”

“What’s it?” said Ezekiel, oblivious.

She watched him with amusement. “This is goodbye, Ezekiel.”

He turned to look at her with wide eyes. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “I suppose it is. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Remember, you go in first and open the warehouse’s door,” she said. “Once you do that, the death’s touch spell will falter and it’ll be like it was before.”

He gulped and raised his hand as if to embrace her before dropping it just as quickly.

“Goodbye, Ezekiel,” she said softly.

He looked as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind.

He backed away slowly, waving his hand as he followed the new watcher back to the warehouse. “Goodbye, Sara.”

When he tripped and quickly righted himself, she was careful to hide a grin.

Sara made her way home slowly with a bag of coins for her service in her pocket. Her mind was awhirl with thoughts. Concern for Ezekiel, relief that they had made it out, and wary anticipation for what the records of her father held for her.

When she walked into the front door, she did as she always did—put her weapons on the side table and called out to her mother.

“Mother?”

As always, her mother answered, “In the kitchen, dear.”

With a smile Sara came forward, happy to see her again. She couldn’t see her puttering around at the fire and thought she was in the nook reserved for their makeshift table. Just before Sara turned the corner, she felt her battle instincts warn her. But she didn’t drop into a crouch or duck back out the door. No matter what was on the other side of that corner, her mother was definitely there.

So she warily took the next two steps and turned to view the kitchen nook.

To her surprise, three people stood there—two alive and one dead.

The dead person was her mother.

Standing upright with stiff posture and pasty skin, her mother wasn’t alive. Sara stared at her mother’s neck as horror filled her mind and tears filled her eyes. A red grin of death gaped on her mother’s throat where her head had been almost severed from its body. It was still attached by grisly muscle and bone. As well as the force that Sara could feel emanating from the necromancer standing behind her mother with dead eyes.

Sara took it all in. She could see his arm on the back of her mother’s head. She knew that he was using his gift of death magic to control her mother’s body and her vocal cords. In effect, causing the dead woman to speak out to her living daughter. He had even accessed her mother’s memories to know just what to say to Sara to get her off-guard.

What a special touch.

Chapter XIII

BESIDE HER MOTHER’S DEAD BODY and the necromancer who controlled it stood a man. A man she didn’t know, but she did recognize something about him. The metal badge he wore on his lapel was shaped in the figure of male lion with its paw raised to strike. Sara knew that the rampant lion was the badge of the Red Lion guard. A mercenary company that was based out of the ancient city of Baen to the west and only loosely affiliated with the Corcoran guard. Affiliated in the sense that they both paid dues to the mercenary guild, that is. They were more like rival businesses.

Sara still hadn’t spoken. She stood frozen. Waiting for this nightmare to end. For her mother’s body to not stand there in such a grisly display in the midst of their kitchen with two strange men behind her. For once, Sara Fairchild wished she could just dream away her current life. She hadn’t broken when her father’s ashes had been handed to her. Hadn’t broken when everyone from the lamp lighter to the carrier had turned their backs on her and her family. As they said it was shameful that she and her mother had elected to stay in Sandrin and not retire to the countryside in shame.

Whatever that meant, Sara thought ruefully. Who retires from shame?

She had held her head high no matter what. When things got bad, she didn’t wish away her situation, and when the whispers of the family’s shame had only grown louder, she had taught the naysayers a thing or two about respect. Her father had done one thing wrong in his entire life. One. He had paid with it with his life. In Sara’s mind, that didn’t entitle the crowds of Sandrin to mark her entire family and her father’s legacy as one to be smeared. But at this moment she couldn’t help it. She wished her whole life was dream. That she would wake as someone else. With parents whole and alive. At this moment she would give anything for wishes to be reality and dreams to come true.

For the moment, silence reigned. The three in front of her eyed her standing before them and she watched them, until she couldn’t take it anymore. The stench of blood in her home became overwhelming.

“What do you want?” she cried out.

The Red Lion guard member smiled. “Those files in your hand will do.”

Sara felt shock hit her system. Shock that her mother was dead before her eyes. Shock that was rapidly turning into rage.

She dropped the file on the ground with a weighty plop. Then she unsheathed her sword with a quick jerk and ran straight at him with a war cry. They wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together after she was done with him and his necromancer. But Sara got the second biggest shock of the night. Because the necromancer wasn’t the only mage standing with her mother. The man who had spoken raised up a hand and splayed his fingers. As he did so, her body became rigid and stopped obeying her commands. First her arms snapped outward, and then so did her legs. Her body made a cross shape with her arms spread to either side of her straight torso. When she tried to move, her muscles trembled and strained as if they pressed against a great weight and were losing the battle. She kept trying to move unsuccessfully, until a sharp pain arced through her body. The kind of pain that came when a body over-exerted itself or she hurt a muscle trying out a new weapon she hadn’t used before.

She screamed at the sharp arc of pain that ran through her taut muscles.

The man laughed.

Sara forced herself to stop screaming. She took in deep breaths to regulate the pain and to gain control. He had caught her by surprise once. He wouldn’t do again. She stared at him as she felt him command her body to rise in mid-air. Trying to figure out his trick. Searching her mind for clues to what his power was. Every mage had a signifying trait. Abilities that were unique to their particular gifts. Some traits were easier to discern than others. His were subtler, but in that subtlety was a revelation. Very few mages could command a person’s body to do as they wanted, and less could move that person around without using a natural element for their bidding like the wind tunnel Cormar had used on Ezekiel.

He’s a rithmatist, she realized.

A mage with the ability to both control minds and move objects around through telekinesis. The combination was a fairly impressive one. As she struggled to move, Sara tried to process all she knew about the rithmatist’s ability. She felt her muscles bunch and twitch in her arms and legs. They should be moving, but nothing was happening. Nothing was working. The only part of her that he’d left unfettered was her mouth and she couldn’t talk him to death. Not to mention the fact that she still hovered spread-eagled in the air in front of the man with no apparent effort on his behalf. That was what scared Sara.

Some mages made big displays of their magic. Calling in fierce winds, igniting roaring fires, or even creating objects out of thin air. But this foe was quiet. He was assessing her and she knew he found her weak. Why wouldn’t he? It was his quiet strength that made him so powerful.

But at the same time, she realized, it makes him vulnerable. I see it in the gloating of his eyes and the boredom of his face. He is overconfident.

She obviously couldn’t move, but that wouldn’t stop her. Time and again she’d faced opponents on the training field. Opponents two times her size, with longer swords, with swifter feet, and sometimes better defenses. Each time her father had said, “Look for their weakness. There you will find your way in.”

She knew that even if she called on her battle magic at this moment, it would be a useless endeavor. A battle mage who couldn’t move was as defenseless as a babe in swaddling.

She watched with hate-filled eyes as he sauntered up to the files on the floor beneath her feet and picked them up. It was then that she had a brilliant and desperate idea.

With nothing to lose, Sara called out to the beast that hid in her loft. Like a demonic curse, the chattering voice of her pet immediately responded. Her mother had hated the thing and had tried to kill him more than once with her broom. Which was why he lived in the rafters. She heard his squeaky voice and she commanded him with a scream, “Chrimrale, attack!”

The rithmatist looked up at the rafters with incredulity on his face. He didn’t think that anything that was lurking up there on the thin beams could do him damage. He was wrong. Chrimrale was fast. Too fast for the rithmatist to grab a hold of him with his magic. The flying squirrel didn’t hesitate and launched like a squirrel out of hell straight at the rithmatist’s face. With a yowl, the man fell back while clawing at the demonic squirrel whose claws were latched onto his face. He couldn’t fight a mad, demonic squirrel, and keep Sara bound in mid-air at the same time. The rithmatist’s concentration broke and Sara fell to the floor in a crouch with her blade still in hand. With a snarl, she stood up just as the man threw the flying squirrel from his face with such force that Chrimrale smacked against the far wall with an agonized squeak.

But the squirrel hadn’t sacrificed himself in vain. His opponent was blinded by the blood streaming into his eyes. Sara could tell from the way he was stumbling backward with one hand to his face and the other in front to ward her off. Too bad for him—his talents were useless if he couldn’t see his target. Moving fast, she took off his head with her sword. But she didn’t have time to turn to the necromancer and finish him off before she heard him give a command that froze her heart. He did the one thing that she couldn’t fight against.

He ordered her own mother to attack her.

Sara fell back under the assault from the dead body. Her mother’s head flopped around in a gruesome display with congealed blood smearing on both of them as she grabbed on to Sara’s limbs. As she was forced back against the wall, Sara couldn’t breathe from the stench of death in her nose. What was worse was that her sword lay useless between them, its owner unable to force herself to bring it up and stab the blade into her dead mother’s body.

Horror filled her mind. Besides, how do you kill the living dead? I doubt stabbing it will do much good, and the body’s practically headless already.

Sara sobbed as the lifeless body desperately tried its best to kill her. And yet she was still keenly aware of her surroundings as they struggled. She couldn’t do much with the sword in close quarters, so she dropped it as she quickly grabbed her knife from her belt. She knew that the weapon wouldn’t do much good with the dead, but there was one more person alive in this home. She pushed her mother’s body back with a jolt of strength and quickly threw the knife at the necromancer with all of her might. The aim was true. It flew straight for his head with enough force to pierce his skull directly between the eyes. He fell to the floor, as dead as she was sure Chrimrale was, and her mother’s body tumbled back to the floor, lifeless once more.

Sara slid down the wall to her knees and sobbed. But she didn’t do so for very long. She heard booted steps coming up the side street minutes later. She didn’t know who they were, but it couldn’t be good. Sara rushed up the loft ladder to grab her remaining weapons and thrust everything else hastily in a bag. As she jumped down to the main floor, she had only moments to spare. She knew she needed to get out of here quickly. But she would be damned if she would leave her mother on the floor for strange men to desecrate her remains once more and trample through their home.

So Sara gave her mother the only burial she could. She grabbed the files and stuffed them in her shirt so that she had two hands free for any fights. One to hold her sword and the other to grip the scimitar on the back, if necessary. Then she grabbed the lamp full of kerosene from the stove and tossed the lit missile to the floor. Fire immediately spread in all directions. With her home burning in the night, Sara fled to the only other place she knew she would find refuge.

As she fled into the night, she was careful to keep to the dark shadows as she made her way to the fisherman’s wharf. When she came to the warehouse, she didn’t know what to expect. Her only hope was that Ezekiel would be there. Looking over her shoulder, she waited tensely until the door creaked open. She knew the warehouse had mage protections on it and the new watcher would probably rely on them as his primary protection. He would be wrong to do so, but on this night she was glad he was a fool. He opened the door, and with barely any effort, she disarmed him then forced him to stagger back into the building.

Ezekiel stood to the right with his red bag slung across his shoulder and a large piece of wood in his hands. It looked like he had been preparing to leave before he had thought to fight.

She gave him a wry glance even through the pain of her memories. “What were you going to do with that?”

Ezekiel looked at her, opened his mouth a couple of times, and then looked back at the wood in his hands.

“Club you with it?” he said helplessly.

“What do you want? I though we left you at the plaza,” said the disgusted mercenary she had at sword point.

Sara gave him a glare. “Oh, good, you recognize me. I wondered why you were fool enough to open the door.”

He stopped talking then.

“Sara, what are you doing? Here? At night? I was just about to leave. Mark is all set with his training now…”

His voice trailed off as he got a better look at her appearance. Particularly the blood splattered on her clothes.

“What happened?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Tell your friend to take a walk,” she said harshly, dropping her sword tip from the mercenary’s neck.

Ezekiel glanced over at the new watcher. Then he said, “You heard her. Check the perimeter in the back of the building.”

Without protest, the new watcher left.

“Now, Sara. Tell me,” Ezekiel said firmly.

She took a deep breath. “They ambushed my mother. Killed her in her home.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say our home.

She was on the verge of tumbling over into a darkness so deep she didn’t know if she could ever rise from it. From the worry on Ezekiel’s face, he could see it, too.

“What? Who killed her?”

“The Red Lion guard.”

Ezekiel asked, “Why would they do that?” Confusion reigned on his face.

“I don’t know,” she shouted, waving her sword about and pacing.

“Okay, calm down.”

She gave him a look filled with death.

He shook his head. “You can’t think like this. You have to calm down. Deep breaths. We need to know what threat we face.”

“We,” murmured Sara as she breathed in and out. The one word validated her choice to come here. To seek help.

“We,” echoed Ezekiel firmly, looking at her with compassion and anger in his eyes. He didn’t approach her. He wouldn’t dare do that while she had her bloodied sword at her side, but she could tell just from looking at him that he felt her pain.

“What did they want?” Ezekiel asked.

She reached inside her shirt and pulled out the file. She threw it down on the floor in disgust. “My father’s death records.”

He looked at her horror. “For a guard to come after you so blatantly, there must be something in there they don’t want found.”

He gestured at the file. “May I?”

She nodded. “What do you think you’ll find?”

“Something that links your father to the Red Lions, and maybe something more,” Ezekiel said.

“What about the Corcoran guard?” Ezekiel asked as he reached down to pick up the scattered papers.

“What about them?”

“Was it just attackers from the Red Lion guard?”

“Does it matter?” she said tightly. “They’re all mercenaries.”

He quickly shook his head. “Those companies hate each other. They’re the fiercest rival guards of all the mercenaries. I shudder to think what it would be like to have them on the same battlefield. In case it wasn’t clear, I’d be really surprised if they were working together. So if you saw the guards from both groups together, it’s really bad news for us.”

“It was just the Red Lion guard and his pet necromancer.”

“Which means for now we can hopefully trust the Corcoran.”

She started pacing again as she asked, “What else do you know?”

“Well,” said Ezekiel as he thumbed through some pages, “who’s Farst?”

“What?” she said, distracted.

He waved a page with a death certificate labeled Cabel Farst in large black letters.

“Oh.” She remembered with a wave of her hand. “I stole that to cover up taking the Fairchild file. Look for anything that mentions Vincent Fairchild, my father, instead.”

“Right,” Ezekiel said. “Well, now I know your father was the commander in charge of all the mercenaries on the field of battle.”

She turned to him. “That could be important.”

“I daresay it has to be,” he said as he scanned the file. “As is this.”

She stopped pacing and waiting as Ezekiel began to read aloud. “‘The Red Lions found a temple two miles west of the battlefield, four days before the great battle. Commander Fairchild ordered an investigation.’”

“Why is that important?” she said.

Ezekiel looked over at her. “It says here that he ordered the investigation be opened a day before he was accused of desertion and five days before he died.”

Sara’s mouth tightened in anger. “Then in addition to my mother’s death, the Red Lion guard had something to do with my father’s.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Is there anything else in there?”

“Just a certification of execution,” he said uncomfortably. “Do you want to see it?”

“Just tell me,” she said quietly. “How did he die?”

“By hanging on a low-rising hill,” he replied.

She nodded and turned away to hide the moisture in her eyes. She didn’t want him to think she was weak. She wasn’t weak, and she didn’t have time for tears.

Clearing her throat, Sara said, “What else?”

“An officer signed the death certificate and personally transported your father’s body away for cremation. Officer Matteas Hillan.”

“What about all those other papers in there? That file is stuffed with dozens of single sheets that even the inclusion of the Farst file couldn’t account for,” she said numbly. “Did they rip my father’s journal apart and stuff them in the file?”

When she turned to look at Ezekiel, she saw his face the palest she had ever seen it. “What is it? Did you find the journal entries?”

“No,” said Ezekiel. “They’re blank.”

“What’s blank?” she said.

“All of the rest of the papers,” he said helplessly as he held up blank page after page.

Mouth agape, Sara quickly walked over. “How can that be? You said the mercenaries kept meticulous files.”

“And they do,” assured Ezekiel.

Turning, he grabbed the sheath of papers belonging to the man called Farst that he had set aside. He thumbed through page after page before holding them out to her.

“Look at them. All of these pages are filled. Here’s Farst’s military service record. His honors. His death certificate. His next of kin and even his personal notations.”

Sara stared in disbelief. “Then where are my father’s?”

Ezekiel looked at her and back at the files he held in his hands. One set of files was practically empty of anything. The other bursting with knowledge.

“I don’t know.”

Sara stepped back and set her bloody sword to rest on a nearby bench. Always close at hand.

“None of this makes sense.”

“You’re telling me,” said Ezekiel.

Sara thought aloud. “Why would the Red Lion guard come after me? What do they want with my father’s files? There’s nothing in there. Why is there nothing in there?”

She paced and thought.

“Maybe it’s whatever he was investigating,” offered Ezekiel. “Maybe they thought he had some information on the temple and had put it in his journals.”

“But the journals aren’t in there!” shouted Sara.

“I know,” said Ezekiel. “But they don’t know that.”

“The question is where are they,” said Sara as she paced some more.

Ezekiel muttered so low that she almost didn’t catch it, “Well, where were they last?”

She turned to him as hope sparked amidst the anger raging inside her. “On the field of battle.”

Ezekiel quickly said, “Well, I’m sure they’re not there now.”

“How do you know?” demanded Sara.

“I don’t,” spluttered Ezekiel. “But that was months ago.”

Sara shook her head in irritation. “My father kept his journal close to his heart…always. If he went to his execution willingly, then he had it on him. He knew that the mercenaries were contracted to handle all death benefits. As such they would remove all of his possessions and transport them back to his family. At least they were supposed to.”

“I can see that, but how do you know he went willingly?” ventured Ezekiel.

“Because he had honor,” spat out Sara. “Unlike these damned mercenaries. And besides, if he hadn’t gone willingly there would be a trail of dead bodies from the battlefield to the capital city in his wake.”

Ezekiel couldn’t dispute that.

“So he had the journal on him when he died,” Ezekiel prompted her.

“Which means this Matteas Hillan would know where it is now,” Sara said fiercely.

Ezekiel was silent for a moment before he admitted, “He might.”

“Then I need to find him,” Sara flatly. “Before the Red Lion guard does.”

Chapter XIV

“NO OFFENSE TO YOUR AWESOME planning skills, Sara,” Ezekiel said, “but you have no idea where he is.”

“But we know someone who might,” said Sara darkly.

“We do?”

She looked toward the door. “Our new watcher is a Red Lion mercenary.”

“That’s true,” Ezekiel said, coming up to stand beside her. “But it’s a large company. He might not have any idea who Hillan is.”

“And he might be his best friend,” said Sara calmly.

Ezekiel nodded and looked over at her with a pained expression on his face. The kind of expression that said he really hoped she wasn’t going to kill someone.

“Look, I’m just going to talk to him,” she explained. “If he’s amicable, nothing unsavory needs to happen.”

Ezekiel narrowed his eyes while crossing his arms. “And if he’s not?”

Sara turned her dark gaze on him. “I’m going to find out what happened to my father whether you help me or not. Whether this man is willing to tell me or not.”

“All I’m saying is don’t put the cart before the horse, and don’t kill a Red Lion guard and bring the whole company down on your head in retaliation,” he said flatly.

She cocked her head. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

A frustrated look crossed Ezekiel’s face. “This is nothing to joke about.”

“I’m not joking. I killed a rithmatist and a necromancer on the same night. They should fear me. I’m not sure the necromancer had anything to do with the Red Lion guard, but the rithmatist did, and they’re certainly aware he’s dead now. So I need every piece of information that I can get before I leave this city. Got me?”

Ezekiel nodded reluctantly.

“Can you call him in?”

Ezekiel unfolded his arms and walked to his door to stick his head out. She paced away and back before the new watcher came back in.

As he walked through the door, the mercenary took in her agitated state. She knew her clothes, stiff with blood, didn’t help matters. His hand tensed near his weapon, but he didn’t stop Ezekiel from closing the warehouse door.

Standing between Ezekiel and Sara, the man was silent. She didn’t move toward him because she knew it would be taken as an outright threat.

Instead she spoke from where she stood. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some information.”

The man’s face turned to stone. “Is that why you hired me? For information?”

Sara tensed. “No, actually. Some interesting developments have recently come to light tonight, though, and I believe you’re just the man to help shed more light on them.”

He turned to her fully and said, “I don’t know you. Why should I help you?”

Sara was tempted to kick him in the shin and bring him to his knees with her knife at his throat. But she restrained herself. Barely.

Ezekiel read the tension in her body and quickly stepped around to face his new watcher.

“Because we can pay you. I can pay you. Mercs like money, right?” he said.

The man spared him a glance. “How much money?”

“Enough to make your next week one to remember,” said Ezekiel.

The man cracked his knuckles and then slowly relaxed. “Now we’re talking.”

Sara took a step forward and the mercenary quickly pointed a warning finger.

While looking at her he said, “But you stay where you are. No offense, but you look like trouble.”

Sara shrugged. “None taken.” She was.

She caught Ezekiel’s eye and gave him a thankful nod.

Out of his bag, Ezekiel fetched a coin purse, which he handed over to the mercenary.

The man hefted the purse in his hand, checking the weight of the coins without peering into the bag. The bag obviously weighed enough because the mercenary looked up, satisfied.

“Ask away.”

Sara swallowed tensely. “Do you know a Red Lion mercenary named Matteas Hillan?”

“Yes,” said the man. “What do you want with him?”

“Just some information,” Sara replied.

“About him or from him?” questioned the mercenary.

“Why?” Sara asked with a lifted eyebrow. “You his lover?”

The man snorted. “No. But I ain’t going to send a fellow mercenary to his death, either.”

“How touching,” Sara said, “Most mercenaries don’t have any loyalties. If they do it’s tied to their coin purse.”

Her eyes flickered to the heavy purse he now held in his hand.

He glared at her but didn’t respond.

“Do you know where Mercenary Hillan is now?” Sara asked.

“Still deployed in the battles to the east,” he answered.

“Under what commander?”

“Kansid for now.”
“Why ‘for now?’” Ezekiel quickly interjected.

The mercenary spared him a glance. “Changeover in leadership in three days when Captain Simon of the damned Corcoran guard takes over.”

He barely restrained himself from spitting to the side at Simon’s name and Sara suspected the restraint was only because they weren’t standing on a dirt floor. Meanwhile, her eyes lit up at the news.

Then she frowned. “Why would that matter? The Red Lion guard doesn’t serve under Corcoran captains. They’re two different mercenary companies.”

The man hooked his thumb in his belt. “New rules from the mages. I heard they got tired of the different leaders of the companies. Wanted a smoother rank and file structure to boss around. What they’re going to get is their asses handed to them when the mercenaries revolt.”

Ezekiel muttered, “Can’t say you’re wrong about that. You mercenaries really hate working together cross-company.”

Sara mumbled. “So from now on the Red Lion guard and the Corcoran troops are going to be led by one man?”

The mercenary nodded. “Captain Barthis Simon.”

“And Mercenary Hillan will stay deployed under Simon’s command?” she demanded.

“For the next two months, yeah,” said the mercenary in front of her. “He has no choice. Can’t leave until his company does. They’re due back in Sandrin a little over six weeks from now.”

Sara nodded. “Thank you. That’s all I needed.”

And it was true. She knew what she had to do.

Ezekiel said to him, “Would you mind hanging out in the back of the warehouse? We’re through for tonight.”

The man jangled his coin purse. “No problems here. Can I take the cot?”

Ezekiel glanced over at him with a disinterested look. “Yeah, have yourself a nice rest, too.”

The man walked off, content.

Ezekiel walked up to Sara. “I know that look.”

“What look?” she said, feigning innocence. It was hard to accomplish when she was covered in blood and still carrying her sword.

“The look that says you have a plan.”

Sara dropped the pretense and looked at him seriously, “I do.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“I don’t want to involve you any further in this, Ezekiel.”

“Because you don’t trust me?” he asked with a sharp look.

She nearly cursed aloud. “Of course not. I just don’t want you to get hurt. If the Red Lion guard came looking for you to get to me, I would never forgive myself.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, “I have my own hideouts in the city.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

She hesitated and then said with fire in her eyes. “I’m going to join the Corcoran guard.”

“To find Hillan,” he said unsurprised.

“Exactly,” she replied.

“It makes sense.” She could hear the reluctance in his tone. But, to her surprise, no condemnation.

She nodded. “If he’s serving on the edge of the war front, then there are very few ways for me to get out there. The regular military would never take me on but the mercenaries are hard up for good people that also happen to be battle mages.”

“There aren’t that many of you in the empire,” he said ruefully. “Looks like all two dozen are going to be fighting each other for this stupid war of the mages.”

Sara shrugged. “I’ll get in and get out quickly. I just need to ask Hillan a question after all. Getting there will take a couple days, add a week for incidents, and I should be back in Sandrin.”

“Where the Red Lion guard is waiting to kill you?”

She shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of them as soon as I get back with my father’s journals and secrets in hand. They won’t get away with what they did.”

For a second, a hate so furious crossed her face that Ezekiel took an involuntary step back.

“You need to focus on getting to that information and Hillan before they do,” he said, “Retribution will come after.”

She stared at him and let out a slow breath. “You’re right.”

As she calmed, an anxious look crossed his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

Reluctantly, he said, “What about your gifts?”

“What about them?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You. Your powers. People trying to kill you. Need I spell it out?”

He was talking about her battle rage, she knew.

“I’ll handle it,” she said with defiance.

“And if you can’t?” he asked, “If you go berserk?”

“Then I’ll die fighting like every single one of my forefathers. Fighting for a cause or fighting for one man, it makes no difference. But if I don’t do this, Ezekiel, I will regret it for the rest of my life. Regret not knowing what my father uncovered and what the Red Lion guard would fight so hard to hide.”

He swallowed so deeply that she could see his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand.”

“Hey!” said the mercenary. His abrupt shout was so loud that they both startled.

This entire building is like a giant amplifier, Sara thought as she remembered the blast that busted Edgar the thief’s eardrums.

Turning, Ezekiel and Sara looked to him.

“What?” she called out.

“You got any water?” he said.

Ezekiel and Sara looked at one another.

“Yeah,” she began to answer.

Ezekiel looked up at the roof and whistled.

In a dry tone, Sara said, “You forgot to refill the barrel, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Ezekiel with an awkward shuffle.

“Well?” shouted the mercenary.

“No!” they both shouted back simultaneously.

She couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. After a minute Ezekiel joined in.

After their laughter had died down, Ezekiel looked at her. “You should get cleaned up.”

She hesitated. “It won’t matter much. I’ll be in the streets fighting men until dawn.”

He looked at her strangely. “Why would you do that?”

“There’s nowhere safe to go. I don’t have any place to hide, and the taverns are the first place they’d look.”

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“I highly doubt it. It would make sense to find a place to bed down for the night.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward. “You’re wrong that you don’t have a safe place to hide for the night.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“My home,” he said.

Hesitation crossed her face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said flustered. “I just…can’t imagine you with your own place.” She was lying through her teeth, but she couldn’t tell him her anxiety lay somewhere else.

He shrugged. “I sleep here most of the time. Can never be sure the mercenaries won’t duck out. Some do even when I’m here. But tonight I’m leaving it behind. It’s not my job, Cormar or no Cormar.”

She nodded. “You trust the new watcher to guard the place?”

“Cormar came by this afternoon. I explained the situation with you as well as the fact that I need to live my own life now. I don’t think he really expected you to stick around. But he put the fear of the gods in that mercenary over there. I think he’s got him fairly spooked.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“That he’d skin him alive if he didn’t stay overnight and make sure nothing happened to his artifacts,” Ezekiel said blithely.

They began to walk out the door.

“Sounds like Cormar,” she said.

Ezekiel turned around as he pulled the door shut. “See you in the morning!”

The mercenary was already walking to the front as Sara saw out of the corner of her eye. “All right.”

Ezekiel shut it tight and they walked into the night.

As they hit the streets, Sara said, “I made sure no one followed me when I came and I know no one knew I’d taken on this new job.”

“Aside from that street kid,” muttered Ezekiel.

“Yeah,” said Sara as they weaved through the streets until they came to a small one-story home next to the tavern.

Ezekiel quickly opened the door. “It’s small, but it’s home.”

“Thank you,” Sara said, preceding him in awkwardly. Her sword was at the ready, but the room was tiny enough that she could perceive no threats with a quick sweep of the room.

Ezekiel stood at the door for a moment staring at her before he snapped out of it. “I’ll go ask for some hot water from the kitchen.”

Sara turned to him in surprise. “Thank you. I’m grateful.”

“No problem,” he said, ducking to grab a bucket that lay just inside the door and pulling the door shut with a creak when he left.

Sara’s mind flashed back to her own home, now in flames, when she saw him leave with that old bucket. It was the kind they had had just outside their door.

“Wood slats, metal nails, and a wide brim,” Sara whispered to herself with a slight tremble of her mouth.

She wouldn’t cry. She’d cried once for her mother, and she was through now. She straightened and turned to look around. If possible, this place was smaller than the room and loft she and her mother had shared. Shelving lined the walls at face height and she saw a couple of plates and broken cups sitting on the undusted wood. A pile of blankets on a mattress served as his bed and a small fireplace lay on the opposite side of the room. In its pit sat the remnants of coal and wood burned to ashes long ago.

Shame began to curdle in her breast. Sara felt a pain so strong that she almost winced as the realization struck her. Ezekiel clearly led a threadbare life with nothing but the most basic necessities. And yet without hesitation he given away his coin purse to that mercenary for her.

“I should have tortured the man instead,” Sara said with regret. In her mind, if she had, the money would still be in Ezekiel’s hands.

Then the door creaked and she turned quickly to face the threat.

Ezekiel’s head poked in, the bucket held in front of him. “It’s just me.”

He stumbled in with the heavy bucket and a bar of soap in his other hand. “I hope this is okay.”

“It’s fine,” she quickly said.

He stepped back. “Well, I’ll just go to the tavern for a bite to eat. I’ll go for twenty minutes and bring you something when you’re through.”

Before he could leave she called out his name. “Ezekiel.”

He turned around. He heard the heady mixture of emotions in her voice. “Yes?”

“I promise you—I will pay you back for every coin you’ve given me, every kind word, and every assistance.”

He looked at her with a small smile. “No need.”

She shook her head fiercely. “There is every need. You’ve sacrificed so much for me. Your time, your money, and even your safety. I am in your debt.”

Ezekiel opened the door and prepared to leave. As he did, he said, “Sara Fairchild, you’ve saved my life twice over. The debt is already paid.”

With that he slipped into the night and Sara stared at the door with wonder on her face. She couldn’t imagine what she had done to deserve such kindness in so short a period of time. Shaking her head to clear the thoughts, she unfastened the sword sheath from her back and put the weapon on the ground. She felt automatically for the dagger on her thigh, but it seemed that she’d lost it somewhere along the way. The band that held it place was gone. But her knife at her waist still remained. She unbuckled the combination belt and holster that held it and unsheathed the knife.

Putting the smaller weapon right at her feet, Sara carefully slipped the shirt over her head. She winced at the cut that burned on her back. It had probably been there for half the day without her noticing. Then she slipped off her bloodied pants. Undergarments came next, and with the deliberate slowness of a woman dealing with the after effects of a stressful day she washed every instance of blood from her body and then scrubbed her skin raw. In particular she scrubbed to remove the memory of her mother’s dead flesh clawing her own.

When she was done, she rooted around in Ezekiel’s cupboard until she found a patched but clean shirt and some pants. Putting them on, she set to work cleaning her weapons by turning her old shirt inside out and wiping it down with the used bath water. By the time she was finished and they were shining, Ezekiel had returned. Holding a candle, he held out a piece of bread with dark brown stew in it.

“Fish and mutton stew,” he said.

Gratefully she took it from his hands as she sat cross-legged on the floor. “You are a gift from the gods.”

He sat cross-legged across from her. “So my mother told me.”

They spent the rest of the night, which wasn’t more than three more hours, talking and scheming. Sara didn’t want to admit she couldn’t sleep because she feared more attackers coming. She knew Ezekiel was exhausted and humoring her. The one time she had insisted he had to go to work on the morning he’d brushed it off and said, “I’ll be fine.”

When the hour struck five in the morning, Sara rose with a tired shrug of her shoulders and fastened her weapons to her waist and back.

“It’s time for me to get to my new job,” she said teasingly.

“And it’s time for me to go to mine,” he said.

Standing at the door they shared a hug and Ezekiel whispered into her hair, “Good luck, Sara Fairchild.”

She squeezed his waist and left without a word. Afraid that if she turned back she might do something quite uncharacteristic of herself—like cry.

Chapter XV

SARA HURRIED TO THE MEETING point for the Corcoran guard. She didn’t deviate from her path or go by her burned out home even though she wanted to. She knew that the easiest way for the Red Lion guard traitors in the city to capture her was for her to return to her normal hunting grounds. They had probably put watchers on her home just in case she returned. It was what she had been trained to do, after all.

As the sun rose, Sara peered out of an alley while standing in the shadows. She was assessing the situation. Even though she had already decided to join the guard, there was no reason to walk into the situation blind. It could be a trap with the captain of the Corcoran guard in league with the Red Lions. She wouldn’t know unless she saw enemy troops amongst the rank-and-file of the Corcorans.

Her breath caught in her throat as she eyed the huge group of men and women that composed the Corcoran guard as they lined up to leave through the city gates. Most were mounted on warhorses. Some looked like they would walk though. Most of those walkers were very tall with long legs. The kind of legs that looked like wood splints and told her that they weren’t human. The thin legs that she suspected were thin tree roots, told her that she was looking at the fabled tree folk of old.

Then her body tensed at the sound of a massive trumpet coming closer. Minutes went by as she waited for the Corcoran guard to start to move out. She thought it had been a signal, but not one person made the effort to pack their things and hurry along. Then she realized why. The ground began to thump with the sound of something massive moving closer. She looked down and saw the tiny pebbles around her feet thumping in alongside the sound. Then her eyes truly widened in amazement—atop massive beasts of gray skin rode more guards. The beasts had sinuous trunks and were hairless from their noses almost to the tips of their tails. Taking them in, she knew they were animal and not kith, inhuman creatures with mage powers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t just as rare as the sentient tree folk that lumbered alongside them. Her father had called them elephants. Sara looked at them and named them machines of war. They lifted their long trunks and loudly trumpeted in the wind, as if announcing their dominion over the earth that trembled beneath their feet. The sound didn’t so much as startle her. But what it did do was block the sound of feet approaching behind her.

Before she knew it the tip of a sword was at the back of her neck and the blade was forcing her to walk into the sunlight.

“Easy does it now, lass,” said a man with a deep voice.

She tried to halt their forward movement, but he only pressed the blade harder into the soft skin just below her hairline. She was practiced in numerous ways to kill a man. With the stern grip on the weapon behind her, she feared he knew the easiest way to kill a soldier from behind as well. All he had to do was push his blade forward sharply and it would sever her spinal cord from her brain. Giving her an instantaneous but merciful death. The trouble was that she didn’t want to die. She had so much to live for. So much to fight for. Dying at the hands of the Red Lions was not at the top of her list.

“Who are you?” she asked insistently. “Did the Red Lion guard send you?”

A sharp laugh came from behind her. “Now why would those red pissers do that?”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Only the Corcoran mercenaries call the reddies that.”

“Well, you did happen to find the whole of Corcoran guard. Would you expect a watcher for our troops to be anyone else?” said the gruff voice in slight amusement.

Sara took that as a sign that he might not want to kill her. But when she tried to step cautiously to the side, he corrected her just as quickly.

“Be a good girl,” he said. “No tricks now.”

Back stiff, Sara walked into the open area.

When she had walked ten steps and a group of Corcoran mercenaries twenty feet away turned to eye her curiously, the man behind her said, “Now spin around slowly, girl, hands out from your sides.”

She did as he asked and heard him comment, “That’s a nice set of blades you got there.”

She smiled. She liked a person who could appreciate a fine weapon. She’d known when she’d first eyed the scimitar that it would be worth the trouble of keeping it.

“Thank you. You worried I might use them on you?”

She heard his grunt before he said, “When a girl carries a steel-forged blade and a knife of a well-known trainer, I would fear that indeed.”

She bit her lip to halt a retort, somewhat impressed that he recognized the marksmanship of both her blade and her knife.

“Now,” he said cautiously, “why don’t you tell me why you’re spying on my crew? No tall tales now. I can sniff them out.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying or telling the truth. She’d met mages with weirder powers.

Before she could speak another voice rang out, and it was one she recognized. Captain Simon said, “This is Sara Fairchild, and she’s here to join your crew.”

Sara spun to see the captain walking up to them both. She knew that she had to make this act good. She wanted into the guard, but she didn’t want on the front lines. She needed to find Hillan, not make a target of herself. There was only one way to make a mercenary despise you on the first day: act like a brat. An entitled brat would never have been accepted as one of their own. She was sure of it.

“Is she, now?” said the man with an assessing eye.

At the same time Sara spluttered, “I am not here to join his unit. I will test for my position in the first division.”

Squaring her shoulders, she continued, “I know the mercenary code. Everyone who enters faces a test. A test of skill to determine where they shall rank and what unit they shall serve in. I do not belong in this man’s unit. I belong with the first division.”

Turning to the now silent gentleman in front of her, she said, “No offense.”

He gave her an amused look. “I’m not sure you could handle being in my crew even if I allowed it.”

Sara stiffened. “I have no doubt I could beat every man and woman that serves under you with my eyes closed.”

“Could you, now?” he replied with an interested look in his eyes.

“I could,” confirmed Sara, patting her knife handle confidently.

Then his eyes dulled as if that simple gesture had disappointed him. “Blades don’t make a warrior girl. Seems you’ve yet to learn that.”

Before she could respond, laughter exploded all around her from the mercenaries loitering nearby. Sara gave them an angry look.

Then the captain interjected while waving a fist for silence. Everyone shut up.

To Sara, he said in a measured tone, “If you won’t take my commands, then why are you here?”

Unease filtered through Sara. For the first time she wondered if her plan to find Mercenary Hillan was in jeopardy. She was on a mission to find her father’s last exploits, but she also refused to sacrifice her pride in her family and the training she had studied since childhood. There was a reason her father had been commander of the entire military operation and not just a cog in the wheel, as Captain Simon was. Her father had been equal to the mages and sat on the military advisory panel that had decided tactics for the mercenaries, imperial soldiers, and mages as a whole.

But she also was aware that to save her father’s place in history, she needed to do more than fight well. She needed to solve this mystery. So she didn’t back down. Instead she blustered her way through like a headstrong woman with too much pride. She acted like a real mercenary would, or least how a prideful young warrior should—confident in their prowess and assertive of their place.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Sara said. “I am here to join the Corcoran guard, but more than that, I want to be assigned to the first division. The first division are the fiercest and proudest of your men. They are on the frontlines and don’t hide behind the other divisions. I want to be in the first charge.”

Simon smiled and then he said coldly, “That position is earned.”

“I am no common mercenary, and I assure you I have earned it by…”

“By doing what?” the captain interjected firmly. “By being born a Fairchild and a battle mage?”

Sara felt her stomach turn. “There is nothing wrong with being a Fairchild.”

“I agree,” replied the captain. “But there is everything wrong with being a young woman too confident in her skills to know she is at the bottom of the totem pole. No matter what family she was born to.”

Sara felt a hot flush run up her spine. They had no idea what she had gone through to get here. Before her father’s death and now after her mother’s. The one thing she had never expected was a challenge to her fighting abilities.

Well, expect the unexpected, she thought grimly. Isn’t that the motto of the mercenaries?

The hot flush running up her spine, a mixture of anger and confusion, only grew when the gray-bearded man standing beside the captain said, “Your father had the same problem.”

She turned to him. “Confidence?” The one word was spit out with rancor.

“Pride,” he said. “And that was his downfall.”

“You don’t know a thing about my father.”

The gray-bearded man’s eyes turned cold. “On the contrary, I know everything. Seeing as I trained him from a wee lad.”

Sara’s mouth dropped. Then she realized how wrong she had been. This had been the test, the test that all mercenaries who came before the Corcoran guard were subjected to, and she had failed.

“Yes, girl,” said the man curtly. “I am Amadeus. I am Commander of the First Division.”

“But,” Sara stammered, “why didn’t you say so?”

“Because, child,” he said gruffly, “every man and woman who is a part of my unit began as one thing…a common mercenary. And you have a lot to learn before you can be that.”

Amadeus turned on his heel and left.

Sara stared at his retreating back before the captain’s clearing his throat had her turning toward him. She felt a mixture of pride and shame that her father’s instructor had seen her this way.

“Sara Fairchild, you have been deemed unacceptable for a position in the first division. As such, I am offering you one last chance.”

Victory bloomed in her mind.

“A weapons prepper for the Third division.”

Sara stiffened outwardly. But inwardly she cheered. She should feel anger, spite, and shame at the assignment. But it was just what she needed to slip around camp with armament supplies in hand as she searched for Hillan. Still, she felt as if she had let her father down by not getting the best position in the troops from the outset. She knew in her heart that she was here for one goal: to find one man and return to Sandrin in less than month. But it galled her to be considered unfit for the one thing she had trained her whole life for when she had been denied her pride of place as the recognized foremost fighter in Sandrin.

The captain read her disappointment in her eyes. He thought it was because of the shame. She said nothing to deter him.

“You are untried, unproven, and a liability until you’ve been through the forge,” said the captain of the Corcoran guard. “I offered you a job. This is it. Take it or leave it.”

She couldn’t contest the captain’s words. The principle of it no longer mattered. The honor of her family no longer mattered. In fact, it was the thought of her dead mother and father that quickly sopped up the last of her pride. Pride hadn’t kept the Fairchild family alive, and she was no longer safe in Sandrin. She could only defeat her opponents for so long. She knew to truly win those fights she had to find out what they were seeking before they found it themselves.

“I accept,” she said with a straight back and hard eyes.

The captain nodded.

Then he said, “You are a child. But you can be molded.”

Sara’s jaw stiffened. She was fighting not to lash out.

“Just hear me out,” said the captain with a biting tongue. “According to word around these parts, you are quite good with a blade. But being able to kill someone in an alley and kill them when ten men are running at you from the other side, your partner is dying at your feet, the battlefield is aflame, and there’s so much noise you can’t think is another thing entirely. I won’t have a green mercenary whose head isn’t on straight working my crew or my inner circle. For now that includes the first division, battle mage or no. You will earn your place or you can go back to whatever it was that you were doing now.”

The captain gave a sharp whistle. An older, battle-scarred woman with short-cropped hair came trotting forward.

“Karina, if she decides to stay, show her the ropes and integrate her into the third division.”

As he turned and walked away, Karina snapped a sharp salute.

She turned back to Sara and said sharply, “Well?”

“I’m staying,” Sara said, fighting not to let weariness and dejection overcome her. For a journey to fight a war, her start was awfully depressing.

Karina eyed her in speculation. “Fine. But get your butt in gear. I don’t take mopers or whiners in my division. And yes, I am Commander of the third division. We work hard, we’re not grunts and you will have your ass handed to you if I hear one whine come out of your mouth about your assignments. Am I clear, Mercenary Fairchild?”

Sara nodded. “Crystal clear.”

“Good,” Karina said with a sharp smile.

“Now, I don’t take on green striplings lightly. You will do everything I say and do it promptly. You will train with your core from dawn to dusk. You will dig latrines and pitch tents. In short you will no longer be a Fairchild, an elite fighter among men, but a grunt who must earn her place.”

Sara stared at her stonily.

Then she shouted. “Can you do that?”
She didn’t flinch. “I can.”

“I didn’t hear you!” she roared.

“I can!”

Karina turned and gestured for a runner to come forth. “To you, I am Commander Karina. You’ll be joining the Corcoran third division as a weapons prepper, a probate-in-training, really, and from there we will see. Raze will take you to the archivist now.”

Sara nodded in agreement.

With that Sara Fairchild became the lowliest mercenary in the company of the Corcoran guard. Karina had to deal with a fight that broke out between five or six mercenaries before she had barely finished speaking.

To Sara, Raze said with a snicker, “The old man’s over here. How’s it feel to be a common mercenary?”

Sara gave him a side glance.

“Yeah, we heard every word,” he said with another snicker.

Her shoulders slumped as she looked around and saw several mercenaries eyeing her with glares on their faces. It was going to be a long training period, it seemed. She didn’t mind their ire. Her problem was that she couldn’t kill any of them, seeing as they were supposed to be on the same team.

Raze left her standing in front of an old man that was so flustered he was pacing in a circle.

Staring at the archivist, Sara waited.

Finally the man finished scribbling a note that he handed off to a messenger boy, who dashed away as fast his legs could carry him. As Sara watched, his feet barely seemed to hit the ground.

“By the gods, he’s fast.”

“Yes, yes he is,” said the archivist, “Half-windrunner, that one.”

Sara’s head snapped around. She desperately wanted to ask if he meant that literally. She’d never met a half-human, half-kith before. But even she knew that would be rude to ask, even if the boy wasn’t present. There weren’t many kith-human hybrids around for a reason. Unions between any species of kith and humans were forbidden. No one had told her why, but she suspected it had to do with a couple of mass murderers with kith ancestry in the past. At least that was what her father had hinted at when he had told her stories of olden times.

“You the new recruit?”

She nodded. “Mercenary Fairchild, sir.”
He grunted. “You’ll need new pants, shirts, jerkins, and to be fitted for armor. But first I need to notify the Mercenary Guild you’re heading out with us.”

He turned and whistled sharply.

Another messenger boy quickly came forth. “Rams, you have that new male recruit’s notification letter for the guild?”

Rams nodded eagerly.

“Good,” said the archivist as he wrote in a blur on the mobile desk he had in his arms. Ripping the sheet from the stick that held it in place, he handed it to Rams. “Give the guild official this as well and hurry back!”

Rams jumped on a horse and galloped off.

“Is he going with us?” Sara asked curiously.

The man gave her a glance. “Only if he gets back in time. Why are you still here?”

“Because I have a question,” she said firmly.

“No time, get going!”

“The sooner you answer, the sooner I leave,” she retorted.

He gave her an irritated look. “Well, what is it? Spit it out.”
“How long before we reach the battlefield?”

The man grimaced. “Depends on which one you mean. There’s a small skirmish on the edge supposedly three days’ ride from here.”

Yes, thought Sara. That’s the one.

Then the archivist continued, oblivious to her thought process, “But the larger battle is in deep Kade territory at least three weeks’ march away.”

She blinked in astonishment, thinking, which one will I find Hillan at?

“And the Red Lion guard?” she asked hopefully.

“What do you want with those ingrates?” he said sharply.

She flinched. “I heard we were joining forces.”

“You didn’t hear wrong,” he said harshly. “But that’s far up in the Kade territory. Won’t see no Red Lions for a while, and that’s a good thing!”

“Right,” she said guiltily as her stomach plummeted. That was nowhere near as soon as she had planned.

“Didn’t I say you needed new clothes? Get to the tailor!”

She jumped, ready to do his bidding. He might have been old, but he had a voice like the crack of a whip through the air. You stopped what you were doing and did what you were told when he let loose.

Trouble was, she had no idea where to go.

It doesn’t matter, Sara decided internally. As long as it’s away from here.

She started walking, hoping to find a mercenary who could look her in the face without glaring to ask for directions.

Before she’d taken six steps, the archivist’s voice cracked through the air. “Wait! Do you have a horse?”

She looked at him and shook her head.

He clicked his tongue. “Go to the farrier as well, then. But the tailor is first.”

Deciding that she’d rather ask than wander around aimlessly, Sara said, “Where are they?”

Instead of answering, he snapped his fingers and a young girl came running up. “Tams, take her to the tailor first, the farrier second.”

Tams nodded eagerly.

As they walked away, Sara asked her new guide, “Are all the messengers named with something that ended in ‘ams?’”

Tams looked up at her with a wise expression and a gap-toothed smile. “Yep. The archivist took us in and we all got new names then. There’s Rams, Vams, and Wams, too.”

“Great.” muttered Sara as she wondered how anyone was supposed to keep them straight. She decided she’d just call all of them ‘Cams,’ as in, Come here ‘ams!

This Cams made short work of her getting outfitted in serviceable attire and assigned a spirited gelding with a white star on his chestnut forehead.

“Thank you,” said Sara when it was over.

As Cams was saying, “You’re welcome,” the sharp blare of a bugle blew out and then all of the mercenaries loitering around began to move.

“We’re on the move!” shouted Cams while running off towards the archivist’s. Shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, Sara saw a messenger horse pull up beside the caravan and the owner quickly hand the reins off to a larger man. The other Cams was back.

As Sara mounted up, she wonder what adventures awaited her. But she knew for sure as she exited through the city gates with the others, that no matter what she would find out the secrets her father had uncovered, and heaven help anyone who stood in her way.

Chapter XVI

BEFORE TWO HOURS HAD ROLLED by, she’d managed to get a comfortable routine in place. She had her horse in a smooth trot and was getting used to the gelding’s fast gait. Once she got a feel for riding after so long walking the alleys of Sandrin, she kicked the horse she’d decided to name Danger into high gear. Unfortunately, she realized she only had a feel for his speed but not his energetic state when she kicked him in the ribs and he jumped a foot into the air. Before he landed on all four hooves, they were off racing in a gallop. By the time Sara got him under control, she found herself in a different section of the troop altogether. She was now surrounded by archers with bows of all sizes on their backs. But one bow in particular caught her attention.

It looks very familiar, she thought. Even though there were two riders between her and the bow that had caught her attention, she could have sworn she recognized the crossbow across the rider’s back.

Dropping into her mage sight, she opened her eyes and took in a sharp gasp of surprise. This bow was definitely familiar. She knew because her battle magic recognized it as a weapon she’d seen in use before. An endless catalog ran in Sara’s mind of the swords, knifes, bows, staffs, and weapons she had used over the years. Like a normal human, she could see and recognize a weapon’s make and model with ease. But as a battle mage she could take that remembrance of a weapons catalog one step further and cross-reference any weapon she’d previously come across based on its magical aura. It was like having a walking encyclopedia of weapons in her head. She knew just by looking at it whatever she had previously learned—from the owner to the age of the instrument to the weapon’s abilities. On top of that, if the weapon stayed long enough in her presence it absorbed some of the magical signature of her own aura, forever marking it to her. She knew enough to know that she had seen this weapon before and perhaps had used it in some sense.

It can’t be, Sara thought to herself as she urged the gelding to sidestep over.

But her eagle-sharp vision hadn’t failed her once.

Someone had stolen Cormar’s crossbow.

She didn’t particularly care how or why because whoever they were, they were a dead person. Whether they realized it or not, even if their convoy was already miles outside the city and heading farther northeast by the minute, Cormar would find them. She couldn’t imagine anyone stealing from Cormar and living to tell about it. He seemed like the type that would go to the ends of the earth to reclaim what was his. Curiosity piqued, she stared harder as she drew closer.

It could be another of those ancient crossbows Ezekiel was raving about, she thought.

But even in her mind, she highly doubted it. What was the chance of coming across two of those things in less than a week?

With a wry grin, she relished telling Ezekiel about it when she got back. He’s going to be furious!

She might not be seeing him for another two months if the plan went well, but she knew she would rue the day they met again. Because he would kill her if she let the opportunity to find out who the thief was pass her by. She urged her horse closer and closer to the hooded archer. She found it strange that he kept the hood atop his head in the hot midday sun. But she had known stranger people.

With one last urge of the gelding, she was riding side-by-side with the thieving archer. So close that she could have reached over and touched their thigh. She couldn’t tell if they were a man or a woman, but their hands were certainly small, so she guessed female.

Sara leaned forward a little and looked into the hood. She didn’t try to hide her actions. She wasn’t shy about anything and expected most mercenaries weren’t. So when they turned their head to look at her while she did the same, she wasn’t shocked by their actions. It was what lay inside their hood that gave her the surprise of her life. So shocked was she, that she almost didn’t correct her posture, and leaned over so much that she nearly fell off the horse. Sara hurried to right her position by grasping the saddle of the pommel frantically and pulling herself back upright. The archer beside her helped by pushing on her left shoulder.

Seat regained, she turned and stared with her mouth open.

Ezekiel looked back at her with amusement on his face as he said, “Did you really think I was going to let you go off to war without me?”

She spluttered a couple of nonsensical words. Finally ending up with, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking after you, of course,” he said, “Who else is going to keep you from going berserk but me?”

“I thought you said you had hideouts in the city,” she stammered.

“I never said I was going to use them,” he pointed out.

Sara sat on her horse with a butt that was growing sore and a mind a flurry with disbelief.

“You can’t be here,” she hissed. “We’re going to war.”

He gave her a wry look. “I know that. Didn’t I just say that?”

“This isn’t a joke, Ezekiel! You could get hurt. Even killed.”

He nodded. “I’m aware. This doesn’t seem any more dangerous than my treasure hunting adventures.”

“It’s a lot more dangerous, you moron. Go back to Sandrin!”

“I can’t,” he said, “Do you know what mercenaries do to deserters? A hanging would be kind by comparison.”

A pall descended over her.

He cursed. “I’m sorry, Sara. I wasn’t thinking of your father. I shouldn’t have said that. I just meant that I signed on the dotted line and I have to honor that commitment.”

She stared straight ahead. Teeth clenched. Angry at him, angry at the world. She had one friend. One friend, and here he was riding beside her into the maw of death. Sara had no illusions about being on the frontlines. It would be tough—for her—but she could survive it.

But Ezekiel, she thought softly. He’s helpless. A scholar if I’ve ever seen one. He can’t survive a war.

“Sara?” said Ezekiel softly. “I said I was sorry. Come on, don’t freeze me out. I don’t…”

He paused.

She turned to him. “You don’t what?”

He looked at her with a pained expression on his face. “I don’t have anyone else. No friends. No family. I came because for the first time in my life I felt a connection to someone. To you.”

She sighed. “I’m not freezing you out. Just trying to process. To think.”

“Well, I’ve always thought best by thinking aloud,” he said cheerfully. “I could imagine that you’d do better if you told me what’s on your mind.”

She glared at his rapid change of temperament. The man could go from despondent to happy at the drop of a hat. She’d never had that ability. If she was angry, she stayed angry until she resolved whatever the problem was she was angry about. Usually by killing someone.

“Well,” Sara drawled, “why don’t you tell me how you ended up here?”

“I joined the Corcoran guard.”

He said it as if he’d just gotten invited for tea at the local parlor.

“That’s it? You joined the guard? I know that,” she said. “The questions is how? They would barely let me join.”

“Really?” he said with a side glance. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing!” she said in a shout loud enough to startle the rider and horse cantering by. She really didn’t want to relive the abject humiliation of acting the part of the entitled brat. The mare’s rider gave her a one-fingered salute and continued on his way.

Sara bared her teeth at him and wished she could show him her knives. She was feeling restless, angry, and anxious all rolled into one.

Funny, she thought wryly, half those emotions didn’t show up until Ezekiel came into my life.

Calming her tone, she reiterated, “Nothing. I swear.”

“Right.” The judgment in that one word had her bristling. Mainly because he was right.

“All I said was that I belonged in the first division,” she spluttered. Still playing the part, but inwardly rolling her eyes. Both at the ludicrousness of the fact that she hadn’t really been able to audition for her spot as a true first division candidate and the fact that Ezekiel might believe her lies after all they’d been through.

She waited as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. For a moment her stomach flipped, worried that he hadn’t taken the bait.

Then he said, “I thought you didn’t do anything?”

She turned to him with a dark expression on her face. He held up a hand while forcing himself not to laugh. She could tell because even though he ducked his head to hide his face, chuckles were still escaping his mouth.

Nevertheless, Ezekiel quickly sat back up and looked at her with a straight face. Or, well, as straight as he was capable. His mouth was pressed into a thin line that trembled every so often as he tried to hold back more laughter. Her mouth was set in a thin line of its own. One of irritation.

Lips twitching, Ezekiel said between sharp gasps of air, “Okay, okay. That was wrong. But did you really think that the mercenaries wouldn’t think you a bit of an upstart for trying to get into the premier division of their unit on your first day?”

Sara’s back stiffened and she looked straight ahead through her tall gelding’s black ears. Her gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular. She just didn’t want to be looking at Ezekiel at the moment.

Nevertheless, she explained, “I’ve trained my entire life. Since the age of five I’ve studied with masters of hand-to-hand combat, swordplay, and archery. I speak three languages, including the tongue of the old ones, so that I can take my place as an officer in the army. I’ve studied with mages and mystics to learn the ways of the old ones and become the mistress of my magic rather than its servant.”

“You’ve trained your entire life?” was Ezekiel’s quiet question. His voice no longer held amusement, just contemplation. He was riding side-by-side with her and she knew he was staring straight ahead just as she was. Although she might have cheated and looked out of her peripheral vision once…maybe twice.

“Yes!” she said adamantly.

“For this?” Then she turned her head.

“Yes!”

“I didn’t ask if you’d trained your entire life for war, Sara. I want to know if you’ve trained for this.”

“This is war,” she growled at him. “Do you think we’re going to the front lines for a tea party? Or to sign a peace treaty with the Kade mages. They’ve been fighting for eight months against the imperial mages, with no end in sight. Make no mistake, there will be blood and there will be death.”

He turned to her. “Yes, there will be. But before we get to war, before we get to the frontlines, we must prove ourselves. We are strangers here, Sara. What you don’t get is that every mercenary in this guard knows one another. If they don’t know their fellow mercenary’s weaknesses, they know their strengths. They have worked together. Trained together. Bonded and they trust one another.”

She opened her mouth to interject. “I know that…”

“I’m not finished yet,” Ezekiel said with an angry look as he pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

“You are an outsider. We are outsiders. And what’s more, you’re an outsider who thinks she’s better than them. Because you’ve trained with masters, studied with mages, and possess a magic like only a few of them have even seen glimpses of. Yes, Sara. You think you’re special.”

She glared at him as he continued. “You are special. You are gifted and unique. But you are also untried and untested.”

“I suppose you aren’t?”

“You’d be surprised what you don’t know about me,” he said.

Some of her anger dissipated as curiosity took its place. “You’ve been to war, Ezekiel Crane?”

He looked off into the distance. “I’ve been to many wars.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I’ve studied the battles of Baen and Carnak. Lived the aerial dragon fights of Dannis and seen the great sea battle of Sandrin,” he said.

She listened to him list battle after battle from Algardis history.

Ezekiel finally turned back to war. “I’ve lived the wars through the memories of others, Sara. I am no more tested than you are in your trials to become the best fighter in Sandrin. But you want to know the difference between us?”

She raised her chin. “What?”

He said as he kicked his horse away, “I know when I am unprepared.”

Sara watched Ezekiel ride off. She didn’t go after him. She felt an odd sense of satisfaction. She’d managed to convince the only person in this blasted company that had a hint of her true self that she was an idiot who looked down upon other fighters.

She thought about getting angry. Angrier really. Angry at what she had to do. Even a small part of her was angry that he would doubt her abilities when she had proven herself time and again in the streets of Sandrin. She was a legend. But slowly she calmed. She merged with the rhythm of her horse’s hooves clopping on the stone thoroughfare beneath them and she thought about what Ezekiel had said. She thought about what the captain had said. They were only defending the reputation of the fighters around her, after all.

As she looked around at the uncouth faces around her, Sara flashed back to a memory with her father. They had been training on a bright sunny day. Sara still remembered the day she had turned ten as if was yesterday. She and her father had stood atop the battlements of their village home. She, he, and her mother had escaped the stuffiness of Sandrin to their estate just up the coast. It was a land of rolling green hills, dotted with heavy forestry on the west and a seafront estate on the east. That day the breeze had been lovely, not a cloud marred the sky, and she and her father had stood facing each other as they prepared to train.

Sara remembered standing fifteen feet away from her father. She wore a white tunic, billowing white pants, and a sash tied about her waist. In her hand was a medium-sized staff of hardwood, balanced carefully for an attack as she eased her left leg out from her body, ready to move. Her father mirrored her pose across from her, but he wore no shirt and no shoes. His hair was cropped short and spiked with the oil of the sand demons so that it stood stiff, like a parrot’s feathers. Sweat dripped down her face as he smiled at her in approval and his pale olive skin was dripping with it.

He panted slightly. But Sara hadn’t been foolish enough to think their quick parries had winded him. On the contrary, her battle with her father was just the end of a long day of training. Behind him knelt six of his best warriors. Each fearsome fighters in their own right. All of them breathing hard, some of them with blood running down their shirts or naked abs.

Her father had just single-handedly defeated all six in one fight. Now he faced her.

“Come, little one,” said the man before her. “Face your father. Learn your destiny.”

Sara dug her moccasin-covered feet into the mat beneath her. Itching to take them off, but she knew her mother was watching the fight from the doorway. Sara knew that her mother was the most beautiful woman in the entire empire just as she knew her father loved her mother more than anything else. Her parents were almost inseparable and had been ever since Sara could remember. He bore the scars of years in the gladiator’s arena on a six-foot-tall frame that was filled out with muscles and straight brown hair on his head. Or at least what was left of his hair after he let the barber crop it close to his scalp in a warrior’s style. Her mother, on the other hand, had browner skin, like Sara, and long, curly black hair that she kept soft and luxurious for her occasional work as a wind dancer. Mother and daughter both had small, lithe forms. Her mother had been a dancer, renowned for her performances in the empress’s court when she had met Sara’s father at a ceremony awarding his prowess in the arena. Her mother had said he’d been smitten from the moment he saw her. Her father just smiled and pulled her close every time.

Even now, nothing else could draw his eyes away from her mother when he looked to her. Sometimes Sara felt the burn of jealousy, the desire for her father to love her more than he loved her mother. But she knew that was impossible. Nevertheless, she had his love still. But even that love wouldn’t protect her if her mother caught her without her moccasins on.

Sara called them booties, because they looked like the ridiculous shoes babies were forced to wear. She didn’t want to wear them, but the last time she had come home from training with torn and bloody feet, her mother had pitched a fit. She had said if her father was going to train their daughter like one of his soldiers, she would not interfere. But no daughter of Anna Beth Fairchild would look anything less than beautiful—on or off the battlefield. That included soft and smooth feet unmarred by scars from a rough run across the training field.

Her mouth had cracked into a smile as she thought about that memorable conversation between her mother and father. Her father towered over her petite mom. Even if he had not been six feet and five inches to her mother’s four feet even, he still outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. But that didn’t matter. Because the man the empress had once called her lion had shrunk back from his vivacious wife and quickly acceded to her demands. Once her mother’s will had been put into play, there was no turning back. If Sara didn’t wear the moccasins, she faced her father’s wrath.

“Something amuses you?” her father had said chidingly from across the mat.

“Just you,” countered his daughter.

Back on her horse, Sara smiled at the memory of what had come next. She had gotten him good.

“You and your lovesick eyes,” younger Sara had sniped as she ran to the right with the speed of a battle mage. With the strength and youth of a young gazelle, she had vaulted off the side of the battlements straight at her father.

Sara had received her battle mage abilities from her father. She had gotten her cunning from her mother. Mixed together, they made her a formidable opponent, even as young as she was.

As she had launched herself from the edge of the wall, the strength of her kickoff had managed to damage the stone wall so badly that it crumbled in her wake. Sara was already airborne by then, but her mother’s scream had rent the air. Her father’s concentration had broken as he turned to Anna Beth and Sara smiled. He had known just by looking at her that she wasn’t in danger. But her mother wasn’t a battle mage or a fighter. She couldn’t see what Sara and her father saw. It was underhanded but it worked. His look to his wife, to calm her without a touch, had given Sara the opening she had needed to move in on her father.

She wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t commander of the imperial forces and the highest-ranking former gladiator still living for nothing. Her flip in the middle of the air had brought her straight down onto her father. She hit his shoulder with her staff in a crushing swipe that probably would have broken a non-mage’s bones.

He leapt back to avoid a second blow to the neck, but she didn’t pursue. She didn’t have to. Sara landed in a crouch and brought up her staff in front of her with a triumphant smile. This training between them had been for the first blow, and she had successfully landed it. Slowly she had released her battle magic as she looked to her father, who stood off the side of the mat while breathing hard.

Sara remembered that for a moment, a flicker of unease had gone through her mind.

What if I had gone too far? She’d had thought.

Then her father’s battle-scarred face had broken into a smile and he boomed with laughter.

“You’ve learned from the best,” he said.

“From you?” said Sara with all the eagerness of a ten-year-old sopping up her father’s praise.

“No,” he’d said, shaking his head silently. “Only your mother would be that cunning.”

Her mother’s snort had come clearly from the doorway as she stepped into the sun’s light.

“Come here, Sara,” Anna Beth had called. “Let me see you.”

She received her running daughter in a tight hug that enveloped Sara in a wave of lavender. Her mother’s signature scent.

Anna Beth had first looked at Sara’s feet. The soles of her moccasins had been torn to shreds, but no blood marred the cloth, indicating that her skin was unbroken. Still her mother had sighed heavily.

“You’ve ruined another pair,” she said.

“Maybe you should stop making me wear them,” Sara had said defiantly.

“Sara,” chided her father as he strode up. “Mind your mother.”

Sara ducked her head as her mother stood with her hands on her shoulders.

“I just want you to be safe, my darling,” her mother had said while tilting her face up with her left hand on Sara’s cheek.
“I knew what I was doing,” pouted Sara as her father encircled them both in his arms.

“What?” Her mother said with a laugh. “Scaring me to death?”

Sara had had enough of the family bonding time by then.

She had pushed away from her father in mock irritation. “Father, you stink.”

“You don’t smell so good yourself, Kitling,” he had said teasingly.

Sara had glared up at her father with her arms crossed and her staff awkwardly tucked in her elbow. “I do not stink.”

“You’ve been training all day,” her mother had said.

“I don’t stink.” It was said with all the stubbornness of a ten-year-old who knew that if she said it enough times it would be true.

Her father grinned down at her. “Off with you, scamp. Go bathe. We’ve had enough training for the day.”

Sara had sighed in exasperation. “I’m not tired.”

“I am,” said the commander of the imperial forces.

Sara had pouted and turned around. She didn’t want to beg for it. Her father would tell her in his own time, she had guessed.

As she left through the doorway, he had said, “Sara?”

She had half-turned with hope on her face. Hoping today would be the day. The day that she graduated from just training with her dad and his men, to training with the academy juniors. Real students her age. Real opponents.

He finally said, “You’re ready. Tomorrow you’re going to the militia academy.”

Sara couldn’t help it. She had screamed aloud as she jumped around. “I’ll be there with them all. The mercenary brats, the commanders’ kids, and the gladiators’ spawn.”

“Yes,” her father had said with a laugh.

Sara had beamed, her tongue peeking out through the hole left by a missing front tooth. “I’ll beat them all, Father. I am a Fairchild and we’re the very best!”

Her pride overtook her face.

Her father gave her a serious look as he held her mother lightly by her waist. “Pride will come before a downfall—always. We may be Fairchilds, daughter, but we are mortal.”

“I know, Father,” Sara had said while nodding. She was eager to be off and tell her friends. Barely listening to him at all now.

“Sara,” he had said, commanding her attention.

She’d straightened and looked at him.

He had stared down at her. “You might be surprised at what some of those mercenary brats can do.”

With that last word, Sara’s remembrance of the memory faded and she snapped back into the present. Surrounding by the same mercenary brats that she had derided for so long. But this time they were her equals and might someday save her life.

Chapter XVII

IT TOOK TWO DAYS. TWO days of Ezekiel not speaking to her. Two days of setting up camp with strangers who glared at her and tried to pick fights. Two days of getting the last of the food from the slop cart because no one would tell her where the mobile kitchen would be located at the end of that evening’s ride. And a day since she fell off her horse because someone had cut the straps on the saddle without her noticing. It had been six hours since she’d woken up, huddled not in a tent but on the freezing cold ground, where she’d been forced to sleep next to her horse so that she could make sure no one messed with her tack or Danger again. Two days before she gave up. Gave up her stubbornness. Gave up her pride. She was damned tired of being alone.

She went to look for the only person who might even be half a friend in the entire convoy. She went after Ezekiel Crane. Well, she and Danger went after Ezekiel. The convoy was currently parked on a giant bluff overlooking a crystal clear lake and meadowland. Many of mercenaries were taking the day to enjoy their first bath since leaving Sandrin. Sara was hiking along the bluff with her horse in tow looking for the curator who didn’t want to be found. She couldn’t trust the horse wranglers to look after Danger like the other mercenaries could. Mainly because everyone seemed to hate her after that one outburst the first morning she joined.

So she led Danger by the reins with her scimitar strapped to the left side of the saddle, her sword on her back, and her knife at her waist. She had ridden Danger up the slope but it was more of a problem getting down. The slope was slippery, littered with rocks, and had a steep incline. Making it hard for a horse to get down without breaking its legs. She knew the wind mages and earth mages of the guard would work together to make a smooth incline when they were ready to leave. The way it was now was just a defensive tactic that would slow down any enemy’s forces.

They were a further three days out from the nearest deployment site and Sara had to wonder who or what Captain Barthis Simon feared that he would stick his entire mercenary regiment atop a hill with defensive rings all around them.

Sara shrugged irritably at the thought. It’s his problem, not mine. We’re sitting ducks up here. All it would take would be for one enemy soldier to get the brilliant idea of starving us out and we’d die on that hilltop.

That was part of the reason she was heading down. That and the solace of Ezekiel’s company.

“Crap!” yelled Sara as her foot nearly slid out from under her. She refocused on getting down the hill without breaking her neck.

What made life difficult for their enemies made life even more difficult for a single rider just trying to get from atop the slope to grassland.

As they eased down, Danger whinnied anxiously.

If he could talk, Sara had a feeling he’d be saying, “I’m a warhorse, not a mountain goat, you idiot.”

They came close to a few tumbles, the earth sliding out from underneath Danger’s hooves and the gelding almost pulling her down the slope with him. But they regained their footing and made it to the base. When they did he gave the loudest snort she’d ever heard.

“Good boy,” she cooed to him softly. “You were a good, agile boy.”

She reached a hand up toward his nose. Danger tossed his head away from her, refusing to let her pet him.

“Fine,” said Sara. “You’re welcome to be mad at me too. But make no mistake, you’re coming.”

With that, she turned around and pulled on the reins. Danger didn’t bother trying to throw his weight off and unbalance her, they’d had that fight before. He’d lost his pride and his access to his favorite carrots for the rest of the day. That had ended that stubborn streak right then.

As they walked forward, weaving around laughing men and women who wouldn’t even look at her, Sara stiffened her back. This was worse than Sandrin had ever been. There her family name had commanded respect. When that respect was lost, then indifference reigned. No one avoided her for being her in the capital, only for being the daughter of the most decorated and most reviled commander in imperial history. The exclusion from friends and acquaintances alike had eaten at her, but she realized that none of it was personal. More spite and comments than outright hatred. But here…here it was different. She was finally a fighter. One of the comrades. Or at least she was supposed to be.

But, in an unlikely turn of events, her comrades despised her. Her shoulders didn’t droop, but her confidence was surely shaken. It was hard not to be after two and a half days of cold shoulders and outright hostility. She knew part of it was her fault. She kept herself aloof from everyone. With good reason, she was on a mission. Not here to socialize. Still it hurt. Sara kept moving forward. Never stopping. She walked and walked the area surrounding the hilltop. For close to an hour she searched for Ezekiel, looking for him amongst the metal smiths, then the camp followers and even at the temporary training yard set-up. And then, with her ears burning, her eyes dangerously wet, and her back aching from the stiff arch, she kept walking. She walked until she left the voices behind and had cleared the perimeter of the guards set for watch.

She walked until she saw no one to her left or above, although the lake and its denizens was visible off to her right. If they didn’t want her here, then she would find somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. She wasn’t leaving. Oh no, not that. Just going to the farthest edge of perimeter where she could be away but still be seen.

Walking alongside the lake until she had gone at least half a mile from the nearest splashing group of mercenaries in the shallow water, she tied Danger’s reins to a log and sat on the white stone beach with a sigh. Nothing about her week was going right. She’d lost her mother, her only friend, and still had no clue where Mercenary Hillan was or what it was exactly that the Red Lions wanted from her father’s file. Resting her head on her folded arms, she brushed her hands through her long black curls and felt tiredness overwhelm her. She’d been going for four days and a half days with practically no rest. Starting from the time she’d entered into Cormar’s service until now, when she couldn’t sleep from the bitter cold and fear of other mercenaries raiding her possessions out of spite, it was a harsh way to live. And totally unexpected.

She hadn’t been living a pampered lifestyle in Sandrin these past few months. After they’d lost their villa, she and her mother had lived in a one-room hovel in the dark part of the city. But that was part of the problem. She had gotten used to it because it was all they had. But these last six months had been a complete change in her life. Before her father had died and before their mansion had been repossessed by the imperial courts in light of her father’s actions and all of his land stripped from them, she and her mother had lived lives of comfortable opulence. The villa just outside the city had seven bedrooms, servants’ quarters, and a small garrison for his father’s men. They had fluffy beds, good clothes, and enough food to eat.

Since they were on their own, with her mother unable to work and Sara banned from gaining an honest day’s pay as a fighter, they had slowly lost everything, even their health. It was kind of hard to maintain a dedicated fighter’s dexterity and ability if you were starving for anything but thin soup and some bread. Sara’s weight had dropped drastically from the prime of a topnotch fighter to an underweight woman without the muscle of a sword mistress. The only reason her weakened state didn’t affect her sword play was because she’d practiced all her life and could use her battle magic to boost her strength.

She threw her head back with a sigh. “Now I’m heading off to a war that I’ve spent my whole life preparing for and I feel like I’m lost at sea.”

“Don’t we all,” said a voice from behind her. A stranger.

Sara whirled in a crouch.

Out of the shadow of the dense forest came a man. He wore a simple tunic and pants and was unarmed.

That didn’t stop Sara from quickly drawing her sword from its sheath and grabbing the knife at her waist. Her face tightened and her emotions dulled as she faced him with both weapons raised.

“Who are you?” she shouted. There was no way in hell a mercenary would walk about unarmed. Even on this leisurely day. They all had their weapons within reach. Even the ones lollygagging in the water had left weighted batons in the sand nearby.

He raised his hands slowly. “Not someone who wants to harm you.”

Sara narrowed her eyes as she said, “I think you need to be worried about me harming you.”

He gave a slow smile and kept coming forward. “Do tell.”

“Stop where you are,” said Sara with alarm in her voice. He was close enough that she could now tell he wasn’t a man. He was a mage.

He stopped and waited. Looking at her calmly.

“What do you want?” she said with unease. There was a good twenty feet between them and she could see without dipping into her enhanced physical sight that he wore no insignia on his breast or patch on his shoulder. Leaving no way for her to tell if he belonged to any of the mercenary guilds or military companies.

He could be a Kade mage for all she knew, but Sara doubted that. The Kade mages were warlocks, all eight of them. Each one had the power to devastate armies. She knew one of them even had the power to create earthquakes. He didn’t feel that powerful. Even as she sent out feelers and dipping into her mage sight, she sensed nothing unusual about his gifts.

Nothing remarkable showed up when she looked at him through a mage’s eyes, either. She couldn’t even see what type of mage he was because his aura was dark and cloudy. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Clearly the sign of a weak-willed mage if he couldn’t use his gifts to project one color that shone above all. He didn’t have enough power.

“So are we going to just stand here and stare at each other all day?” he asked in a bored tone.

“Would you rather I pierced you in the heart and left you for dead?”

He laughed. “No, I would not.”

She tilted her head. “What’s a mage doing out here all alone? With no insignia and no guards?”

“What’s a pretty sword mistress doing loitering by the lake all alone?” he countered.

She didn’t answer for a second. Realizing he had left out the fact that she was mage. She wasn’t shielding, but she didn’t have to. The magic of battle mages was often undetectable to regular mages, even if they were looking. She knew it was because her gifts were different from a normal mage’s. As a battle mage, her magic was intrinsically tied to her body in order to increase functions like her eyesight or strength. It wasn’t something that affected the world around it so much, and therefore was almost a hidden gift.

A hidden gift that was rather useful on the battlefield or in a fight.

She kept her stance loose, ready to twist away or attack at any minute. But for a minute she would humor him. It wasn’t like anyone else was speaking to her anyway.

“I want to be here,” she said with a raise of her chin. “It’s peaceful and was quiet.”

He took an exaggerated look around. “It is that. Lonely, as well.” His voice hinted at mockery.

She raked her eyes up and down his form. “You’re one to talk. Wandering through the forest without anyone else. Sneaking up on people who don’t want to be found.”

Sara gestured at the crowd of women and men in the distance. Their shouts of laughter could be heard up and down the lakeshore. “If I want people, I have them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What if you want friends?”

She smiled sharply. “Then I wouldn’t approach strangers.”

He put his hands in his pockets and smiled. As he did, it was as if the clouds of the sky dissipated a little more to reveal parts of his face in shadow. For the first time, she saw a hint of alabaster skin and dirty blond hair curving around a sharp cheekbone.

“Everyone’s a stranger…until you get to know them. Besides, considering who you are, I’d take what I could get, Fairchild.”

“How do you know my name?” she snarled.

He stayed half-hidden in the shadows. She couldn’t see his eyes. Couldn’t test his intent.

“I know a lot of things,” he said smoothly. “But more importantly, I know a lost woman when I see one. A woman with the strength of ten men and the broken heart of one.”

She blinked at the unease rioting through her.

How does he know that? And me so well?

“You don’t know that,” she said as she started to walk closer. “I’m going to take you back to camp and they’re going to have some questions for you.”

He laughed. “Kitling, I’d be more worried about where I will take you.”

Sara froze in her tracks. That nickname was one she hadn’t heard in over a year. It was the name her father called her whenever she got in trouble. It was their secret and no one else used it. Certainly not a man she had never met.

Disbelief crossed in her eyes as she wondered how he could know it. She had only one explanation.

“Are you a geist?” she said, using the old language word for “ghost.”

“I’m no ghost,” said the man in front of her as the shadow surrounding him suddenly moved and she realized that it was a natural shadow that cloaked him. When the darkness fell back from his form, she was met with the strangest eyes she’d ever seen.

Sara knew she didn’t know him. Those eyes, that face, and that voice would have forever been imprinted on her mind if she had. Vivid, purple eyes framed by long lashes.

“What are you, then?” she whispered as she stared.

He smiled sadly. “A mirage.”

Then a voice called out from behind her. “Sara!”

Sara didn’t flinch and didn’t turn around. She recognized its owner. As Ezekiel came running toward her, she kept her wary gaze on the man in front of her. She didn’t know who he was or what he wanted, but he might be insane.

“Why don’t you tell me your name?” commanded Sara.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, before her eyes his body faded away in a wave of light like a whirlpool in the middle of the ocean that opened and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Sara stared, flummoxed. Unsure if she should move and scout the area or stand her ground in case he had just dropped a sight and sound shield around him. But she knew what a sight and sound shield looked like, knew what the gathering of magic for that particular spell felt like, and what he had just done had been neither.

He had just…vanished.

Finally, Ezekiel’s panting breaths stopped beside her.

“What are you looking at?” said Ezekiel with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

He leaned over so far that the arrows in his quiver slipped out over his head and tumbled down to the ground. Ezekiel grumbled and gathered them back up.

As he did, Sara answered his question. “A mirage.”

Ezekiel stood while holding half a dozen arrows lopsidedly in his hand. Quite a few of which were poking Sara sharply in the side. She didn’t move away because she was honestly wondering if the painful poke would make her snap awake from a dream or a nightmare.

She felt Ezekiel turn to look at her. Then he did something so annoying that she almost slapped him. Ezekiel whistled with a sharp pitch directly into her ear.

She pushed him away with a yell. “What the hell, Ezekiel?”

Off-balance, he stumbled back and nearly fell. He ended up dropping half the arrows in his arms again.

Sara turned to look behind her but the stranger had well and truly vanished. She felt no other presence aside from herself and Ezekiel. With an irritable sigh, she sheathed her sword and walked a few steps over to apologize.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “You really jolted my concentration.”

“That was kind of the point,” he said irritably. “You’ve been standing on this beach staring at nothing for the past fifteen minutes. When I came up to you, you muttered nonsense. I thought you were in a trance.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, thank you for checking on me, Ezekiel,” he muttered. “You’re welcome, Sara, even though you’ve been throwing a hissy fit for the last day and a half.”

“Are you through?” she said with her arms crossed.

“Are you done being crazy?” he shot back.

“I’m not crazy,” she said. “I saw something.”

“Saw what? A shade?” he said.

“No, a person.”

Ezekiel’s gaze transformed into something close to panicked. “We’re near the battlefront, you know. If you saw a Kade soldier, we need to warn the others.”

Before he could turn and head off, she held up a warning hand. “No. That’s not what I meant. I came out here for the quiet. But after I got here, someone else came. A person I think was a vision…a vision called a mirage.”

Ezekiel shifted uncomfortably. “A mirage? Like the kind of vision that hallucinating people see in the desert?”

She turned and looked over at him. “I don’t know how to explain it. It—he—was a man. Tall and wearing non-descript white clothing.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“Not much,” muttered Sara.

Ezekiel bit his lip. “It might have been another mercenary wandering by.”

Sara shook her head. “He was no Corcoran. I can tell you that right now.”

“Then who was he?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said, “but he had purple eyes.”

Something flooded Ezekiel’s eyes that moment. Something dark.

“What did you say?” he choked out.

“He had purple eyes,” she said defiantly. “Does that mean something to you?”

“It might,” he whispered. “We need to get back to your campsite. I have to show you something.”

Sara shifted uncomfortably.

“What?” Ezekiel asked.

“I don’t have a campsite,” she said.

“I do,” Ezekiel said firmly, “and if you’ll have me by your side, so do you.”

She raised her head. “What? We’re not even going to talk about the fight?”

He flashed a grin. “Lucky for you, I have something much more fascinating to discuss. Otherwise I would lay into you on your behavior these last few days.”

He started walking back. Having no choice, she grabbed Danger’s reins and followed him.

“My behavior?” she said, affronted.

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard some stories,” he said. “You’re the talk of all the mercenaries.”

She scoffed. “They put rats in my tents, slashed the holders on my saddle, tried to pick fights with me, refused to aid me in getting dinner, and…”

Ezekiel cut her off as he untied his own horse from a nearby tree limb. “Trust me, that argument is going nowhere with me or anyone else. There’s too much ‘me’ involved.”

Sara clenched her jaw.

She watched as he tried to jump up on his horse and failed.

“Do you need some help?” she said pointedly.

“Maybe,” Ezekiel admitted.

Sara came up behind him and held out her hands to give him a boost.

“Thanks,” Ezekiel said as he vaulted into the saddle.

She held his horse’s reins for a second, holding him in place. “Why can’t you tell me what you know here?”

“Because,” Ezekiel said as he snapped the reins and his horse broke into a trot as she mounted up, “I need my books!”

Sara watched him gallop off with her jaw dropped. She urged Danger to follow quickly and Danger leapt into the race with joy.

Gaining speed as they ran side-by-side, Sara yelled at Ezekiel, “I can’t believe you brought your books to war.”

The grin on his face as he said, “We need them,” left her shaking her head in disgust.

Chapter XVIII

HER HEART RACED AS THEY rode to the hill quickly. When they got to the first and clearest path up to the top, Sara expected Ezekiel to slow and turn his mare for the slow and arduous process of climbing the hill. But Ezekiel didn’t stop. He urged his mare to continue around the far side of the hill at a fast trot as they weaved around soldiers walking about. When they continued south, Sara followed, wondering where he could possibly be going.

When they had gone clear around the front and were approaching the lake again, she yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“There’s a path up ahead,” Ezekiel yelled back, his butt bouncing up and down in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. She winced just watching him. It was her first time back in the saddle in months. So she was shaky. But he looked like he hadn’t ridden anything but a mule since birth.

She waited for this mysterious path to appear as Danger followed along the mare’s right side. Then Ezekiel turned his mare north again, straight into a bunch of trees. But not between them. Sara watched with something akin to anger flaring in her gut. She knew what she was seeing immediately. As Ezekiel rode straight through the copse of trees like it wasn’t there, it was clear as day. She had been tricked. As she went through and they emerged riding on the other side, she turned to her left and right to see two mages standing on either side of the pathway.

Mercenary mages hired by the guild, both of them. They sat with bored eyes and lazy expressions as they kept their illusion standing.

Ezekiel took note of her expression as she turned to look at him with stubborn tilt to her mouth. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“No,” she said. “No, I didn’t.”

Sara looked up to see a winding incline leading straight up to the top of the hill. No rocks, no branches, and nothing hazardous lined its surface. With a sinking stomach, she realized that the entire company had probably been laughing behind her back as she nearly broke her and her horse’s neck trying to get up and down the front.

“Those idiots,” said Ezekiel. “You could have broken your neck.”

Sara snorted and urged Danger forward. “You know…I don’t think they care.”

Ezekiel followed behind her silently as they crested the hill, and then he took her to a small cluster of tents with a standing area of wood poles where two other horses were tied up.

He quickly jumped, or rather fell, down from his mare’s back and tied her up. Sara did the same and walked calmly behind as he ran and tripped his way to his cream-colored tent.

As they entered the tent, she saw one cot against the left side of the tent, a wooden trunk with a lock directly at the head of the tent, and Ezekiel’s red bag in a lump on the floor.

Coming in slowly, she ducked and sat on the cot while Ezekiel hurried over to the trunk and got busy unlocking it.

As she did so, she said, “How exactly did you swing that?”

“Swing what?” he asked while fiddling with the double-breasted beast he used to keep his secrets hidden away.

“A fifteen-pound locker on a march to war,” she said dryly.

He looked at her from his perch on the ground with a guilty expression. “I know one of the cooks. In exchange for her storing my trunk on the food supplies wagon, I gave her some plants.”

“Plants?”

“Some rare ones, actually!” he said smugly.

“Laudanum? Lavender?” Sara asked, naming off two that she knew would be useful for their properties and were not easily acquired on the long road. The first was used to ward off pain. The second was great for the scent it gave off in even the mustiest environments.

“Thyme, coriander, and parsley,” he said as he finally opened the trunk with a loud creak.

Sara stared at him in amazement. “Herbs?”

“Yep,” he said as he dug in and pulled a book from the side. “She’s quite proud of her cooking skills.”

He put that book back.

Then he pulled out a small diary-sized book with a vellum cover and a tassel marking his last page. He quickly flipped through its pages until he found what he was looking for at the very end. Then he read a few lines from what she could tell, flipped a few pages more, and then closed the book with a snap of its pages.

“I know what we need!” announced Ezekiel triumphantly.

“That wasn’t it,” she said.

“Nope.”

He pulled out another, and Sara watched while the trunk lid closed on a space that, as far as she could tell, was filled entirely with books, and Ezekiel flipped around to face the entrance to the tent with his feet crossed.

She sat forward with eager attention as he dusted off the book he held in his hands and opened it. She expected parchment pages filled with writing and perhaps some illustrations to meet her eyes. Instead the open book revealed a secret compartment, and inside that secret compartment lay a vial.

As Ezekiel reached inside to pick up the small vial of dusky colored red glass, he unstopped the vial.

What floated out caused Sara to sit back alert as she said, “Ezekiel Crane, what have you done?”

Ezekiel looked up at her and said, “Found the answer to our mysterious visitors.”

“And broken more laws than I care to count,” she snapped.

Ezekiel held out a hand to the winged creature that fluttered in the air, dust drifting down slowly from its wings. The dragonfly alit on his outstretched palm with its four gossamer wings outstretched.

The damned thing had nothing to do with dragons. She had no idea why it was named the way it was, except for the fact that the devastation it could wreak was on the level of an enraged dragon even though it was as small as her finger. Dragons from Sahalia, of course, were measurably bigger. She seen males that were larger than twenty-feet long.

“Those are forbidden,” Sara said urgently.

Ezekiel looked up at her fiercely. “Only because no one else understands them.”

“No one else?” said Sara. “Are you postulating that you understand how to do deal with that dragonfly?”

Ezekiel said calmly, “I do. Oh and it’s female.”

He took a finger and traced it down the spine of the dragonfly.

“I don’t care if it’s a she, put it back where you found it. Now!”

He’s crazy, she thought as she almost stood. The only thing that kept her seated was the need to know. The need to know how he had caught and tamed such a creature…and how it would help them find out more about the purple-eyed man who had disappeared in front of her.

“You do realize that if she gets angry, her dust will filter out, poison, and kill this entire company?”

“I know,” said Ezekiel, “but she can also unlock the truth of what you saw. Including whether or not we’re actually dealing with the legend of the purple-eyed mage in a living being. Unless you have a thousand-year-old Sahalian scroll lying about somewhere?”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“It’s worth every risk if you weren’t hallucinating the whole thing,” he said tautly.

“I wasn’t,” said Sara, “but quite frankly, that’s just a legend. A myth. Nothing more.”

“Just like the golden eyes of the Weathervanes who first emerged just seventy-five years ago are a myth?”

Sara leaned back.

“Those eyes are a family trait passed down between generations. But you can’t compare the golden eyes to this,” she insisted. “Nowhere is it told that the advent of purple eyes are a family ability.”

“No,” said Ezekiel. “It’s a gift bestowed by the dragons and its magic, which is why we need magic to ensure what you saw was true.”

He held up the fluttering creature in his hand urgently. “Now eat it.”

Sara stared at him unhappily.

Legend said that if you ate a dragonfly, you became something more. A seer of sorts. Of course, she knew it was more than legend because her father had used that tactic. Twice. Once with a subordinate who became his greatest asset in defeating the Kades, and another time on himself. Of course, that hadn’t saved him from execution and a label as a deserter.

But she knew that Ezekiel wasn’t necessarily wrong. She just wondered how he knew how to tame the dragonfly and whether it was worth it to risk her life for it. Because not only was acquiring a dragonfly dangerous, but using it was even worse for the person involved. If she ate it and it worked, she would become a seer. If she ate it and it didn’t work, poison would wrack her body for days and she would be in her own form of hell locked inside her mind until it released her from her symptoms.

Either way, they would find the answer they sought. Whether or not the purple-eyed man was the second coming of a mage that had been long dead was on that list.

“It’s the only way,” pleaded Ezekiel.

“It’s foolish,” snapped Sara.

“And yet you’re not leaving?”

“And yet,” she echoed reluctantly. Then she plucked the dragonfly from his hands and hastily tossed it into her mouth. Ignoring the minute flutter of wings, she chewed and swallowed with haste.

The dragonfly hadn’t struggled at all. She wondered why.

Then Ezekiel spoke. “Is it working?”

The only thing that was working was the disgusting taste of crunchy dragonfly in her mouth and the urge to throttle Ezekiel for talking her into this mess.

Then something did happen. A warm feeling began to spread from her stomach to her upper body. Like a pleasant heat it took over her chest, her arms, and then her head.

Sara stared at Ezekiel and her senses enhanced. But not the senses she was used to improving, like her eyesight or hearing. No, this was her mage senses. Her mage sight turned on without her prompting and she watched the tent light up as several objects with residual magic imbedded in them started to glow. The vial in Ezekiel’s hand glowed like a small lantern and the trunk off to the side shone like a small sun.

Then the air around them began to shine. Sara watched in wonder as the ley lines of the world became visible. The ley lines were the remnants of magic used. They streaked and streamed with lines of gold, waves of amber, and spots of cerulean. She could go on and on. It was everywhere and in everything.

She blinked trying to get the lines and spots to go away.

“What is it?” asked Ezekiel excitedly.

She spoke up. “I can see the magic around us.”

“That’s good!” he said. “That’s supposed to be the second step.”

He pulled out his notebook while peering up at her with his quill poised. “I suppose that means you’ve already been through the first with your mage sight?”

She spluttered. “You suppose?”

“Well…” Ezekiel said.

“I thought you knew how this works!”

“I do,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve just never experienced it myself.”

“Lovely,” snarled Sara.

“You need to concentrate!”

“How can I? I’m going blind with the spots.”

“Close your eyes,” he urged. She did as he asked. “Good, now open up the final barrier to your recall ability.”

Sara opened her eyes. “My what?”

“Your memories. You should be able to recall each and every event that has happened to you in perfect recollection. Down to the last detail. And, more importantly, you’ll be able to use this enhanced mage sight to truly discern what is real and what happened in each memory.”

She pursed her lips. Sara closed her eyes.

Waiting for it to come. And then it came. But she recalled something much dearer to her and much further back than her morning meeting with a stranger on the lake.

Sara fell back into her memories. As she drifted off she remembered the day a man in uniform had appeared at mother’s home.

A servant had answered the door and he asked if the lady of the manor was at home.

At the time she and her mother had moved back to Sandrin, to live in their second home, as they usually did when her father was off to war. He preferred to spend his days in the villa north of Sandrin when he was off-duty, training and with his family. Her mother cherished those times, Sara had known, but she had also loved the festivities of living in the city.

So they had stayed in the posh Nobles’ Quarter in a small two-story home.

Her mother had come to the door and Sara had stayed hidden in the nook off to the side. She was thirteen then, gangly, with a body that hadn’t grown to match her legs. She also didn’t want to be seen at the moment as she was covered in mud from a fun fight that her mother wouldn’t approved of.

“Is there something you need?” her mother had asked curiously as she eyed the tightly wrapped scroll in the messenger’s hands.

“No,” said man. “A delivery from Commander Vincent Fairchild is why I’m here, ma’am.”

He held out a long object wrapped in fabric and tied on each end with rope.

Sara couldn’t contain a gasp of surprise and joy.

“He remembered,” she squealed as she leapt from her hiding place, her eyes focused on the object in her mother’s hand.

The messenger nearly jumped a foot in the air, but her mother only turned to her with a rueful smile. A smile that quickly turned to a frown when she saw that her daughter was covered in mud from head to toe.

Her mother put a hand to her breast as she looked her only daughter up and down. “By the gods, Sara, did you roll in a pigsty?”

“Of course not, Mother,” said Sara happily. “Just a mud hole.”

Her mother glared at her. But Sara could see by the twinkle in her eye that she was close to laughing her head off.

Clapping her hands together, Sara had said, “He remembered, Mother. Father remembered his promise.”

“Of course he did,” her mother had said. “He always keeps his word, and today is your birthday.”

Sara had nodded and stepped forward to take the gift.

“Oh no!” said her mother with a warning finger. “You, young lady, are going to the servants’ quarter and taking a bath in their bathing room. You will not get this present until your skin is scrubbed, your ears have been cleaned, your hair has been brushed and combed, and you don’t look like a street ragamuffin.”

Sara deflated more with each item listed. “But that will take forever. Just let me see it, Mother, please!”
“No,” her mother said. “Now go wash. It will be here in an hour when you are finished.”

Sara turned her puppy dog eyes on. Her mother didn’t budge.

With one last rueful look, she had turned and sprinted off to do as she was told.

As she left she heard her mother say, “Thank you,” to the messenger and instruct the footmen to leave the package in her parlor. Where Sara couldn’t get to it unless her mother invited her in.

Chapter XIX

SARA REMEMBERED AS SHE DRIFTED through the hazy state of recalling her memory that for the next hour she had gone through the most rigorous cleaning she had ever done, and that included the time she had participated in the annual bull run of Lineaus, unbeknownst to her parents, and had come back covered in celebratory red tomato juice. Her mother had been apoplectic then.

When she emerged from the bath in clean clothes with her hair still wet, she had run to her mother’s parlor.

The footman at the door had dropped a pair of slippers at her feet with a quick whisper, “Better put these on, miss.”

Sara had smiled at him brilliantly and slid her feet into the linen footwear. Then she opened the double doors in search of her mother.

Fortunately, she was sitting, as predicted, on the parlor chaise. The package was still wrapped and she held it on her lap, waiting for Sara.

Sara let out a slow breath as she forced herself to walk over slowly to her mother’s seated form.

Smiling, Mistress Fairchild had patted the seat beside her.

As she obediently sat down, young Sara had looked at the package with eager eyes until her mother had lifted it and put it in her hands. “Happy Birthday, my darling daughter.”

Back in the tent, Sara smiled sedately. Still lost in the memory but aware of her surroundings and Ezekiel sitting in front of her.

Ezekiel knew not to say anything. He sat quietly at her feet.

Taking a deep breath, while wondering why exactly this memory had surfaced after so long, and especially when she’d eaten the blasted magical bug to find a much different memory, Sara dived back into the history of her past.

When she closed her eyes on the physical space of the present, she reopened to find herself back where she left off. In her memory, her hands were practically trembling as she hurried to untie the rope at each end of the long, slender gift.

As she tore through her father’s wax seal, she could barely breathe from excitement.

She knew what was coming in the memory, but she couldn’t help the thrill that went through her mind as she started to pull back the cloth to reveal an object incased in crinkling butcher paper in the center.

Young Sara had given her mother an expectant look. Her mother had dipped her head, urging her to go on.

With no further push needed, she tore the paper from its denizen.

Then young Sara of the past gasped in delight while older Sara of the present, watching the festive birthday like a ghost resident in the room, gasped in shock.

Because the sword that her father had given her on her thirteenth birthday was just as beautiful as she remembered, with its steel-forged blade, bone handle wrapped in taut leather, and inscribed runes on the handle’s base. But there was more this time. This time the handle of the sword shone with a magical light that Sara knew came from residual objects.

Young Sara hadn’t known this. Delighted she had leapt up swinging the sword until her mother scolded her harshly for running with the blade.

As the memory faded, the recall having done its duty, Sara emerged from its depths gasping for air. It was like she couldn’t breathe as she desperately leaned forward against Ezekiel while grasping his shoulders.

“The s-sword,” she coughed out.

“What?” Ezekiel questioned, puzzled as he leaned forward to hold her up. “Breathe, Sara! It’s all right!”

She was coughing and choking. She couldn’t speak anymore.

It felt like something was lodged in her throat.

Desperate, Ezekiel pushed her to lay back on the cot. He leaned over her to see. “There’s a mass in your throat.”

She couldn’t speak as she desperately clawed at his shoulders. Sara knew that if Ezekiel didn’t do something soon, she would pass out and die from lack of air. She couldn’t survive like this.

Desperate, she reached for the knife at her waist. Hands shaking, she pressed it into his hands.

Ezekiel looked from the knife to her throat, frantic. “No, Sara. No. You’ll bleed out.”

She firmly looked him in the eyes. He didn’t have a choice. She knew there was no other way. Besides, she had a trick she could use to stop the blood flow and ease the knife through her trachea. As long as she didn’t lose consciousness first.

Firmly, she guided his hand holding the knife to her throat, to the place on her skin just where the bulge surged up under her flesh. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“There’s no other way? Can’t I get some forceps and get to it that way?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You’re turning blue.” His voice was frantic as her vision began to get fuzzy, but his hand was steady.

As she started to lose consciousness, she felt a sharp stab as he cut the layer of skin just above the bulging mass in her throat. The pain helped her stay alert. As he cut deeper, she did a battle mage’s work. Lending her strength to the blade so that it went like a hot knife passes through butter to get to the bone and stopping the blood from flowing through her wound.

She could only stop the blood temporarily, but that was enough for now. She wasn’t in mid-battle, fighting opponent after opponent, but rather surgery that would save her life.

She watched him bite his lip harshly as he drew back the knife slowly and squeezed the mass out of her throat with his other hand.

Sara felt the object plop out and she struggled to sit up.

“Don’t!” shouted Ezekiel as he hurried to his pack. He didn’t know she was controlling the blood loss.

But it didn’t matter; she didn’t move but only because she could see the object that had come out of her now. Before he disappeared Ezekiel had put the little thing on top of her chest. It was the slimy, half-digested carcass of a dead dragonfly. As she watched, it began to change and transform but she didn’t have time to watch it further.

Ezekiel came over, forced her head back against the cot firmly, and sewed up the small cut in her throat quickly. When he put a burning liquid on the wound to seal it over, she passed out.

The next time Sara woke, Ezekiel was sitting cross-legged with his head bent over hers.

She blinked as she woke groggily. “What are you doing?”

“Your eyes have been open for a while,” he said disturbed. “But you wouldn’t say anything.”

She licked her dry lips and said, “Well, I’m awake now.”

She felt for the hole in her throat. Forgetting for a moment that he had sealed it shut. When her fingers brushed off across the surface of her skin and found nothing, not even a scar, she looked over at him. “What was in that ointment?”

“A lot of healing magic,” he said tiredly.

Sara turned her eyes to look at the mass on her shirt.

“So glad you left that there,” she said dryly. The slimy liquid on the dragonfly had dried to form a crusty shell. But what was weirder was that the whole thing looked like a perfectly round ball. It had certainly gotten larger after a brief stay in her body.

“I couldn’t move it,” Ezekiel admitted.

She raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth.

“It’s the size of my hand,” she scoffed. Not in a particularly good mood after that rat-sized thing had nearly killed her.

Ezekiel didn’t bother speaking, he just put his hand on the ball sitting on her chest and tugged. It didn’t move. He yanked. Still nothing.

“See?” he said.

Sara reached up with her left hand in trepidation. She really, really didn’t want a ball full of dragonfly guts stuck to her chest. Her hand brushed it lightly, then she grabbed it firmly.

With a yank she pulled it with all the strength left in her body. It turned out she should have lightly tapped it first. Her arm flew back so fast that she managed to hit Ezekiel squarely in the nose.

He fell back with a yowl and then sat up quickly holding his offended body part. Looking over at her with his glasses askew and blood dripping out between his fingers, he glared.

She winced and fished in her pocket. Holding up a relatively clean handkerchief, she handed it over as she sat up and whispered, “Sorry.”

When she was upright, she was pleased to note no lingering effects from the near-death experience. Aside from a wickedly sore throat. Carefully, Sara held up the dragonfly puke ball in her hand up to eye level. She couldn’t really see the dragonfly anymore, just shadows in the ball. The outside was a thick, opaque shell that seemed much denser than whatever had been in her stomach at the time. Turning it over, she prodded the yellow shell and watched as something interesting happened. Every time her finger touched the shell, the point where her flesh met the crust would light up. If she removed her finger, the light went away. After it was pretty clear this was happening only when her fingertip met the shell, she reached out her hand to hold the ball in front of Ezekiel.

“Touch it with your fingertip,” she demanded.

He looked up with a swollen nose. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s not dangerous, just interesting.”

“Tell that to my nose,” he said.

“My throat begs to differ about your nose’s plight,” she said hoarsely.

He reached out a tentatively fingertip and then pressed it against the ball’s shell.

Nothing happened.

“Try a different spot,” she demanded.

He did. Same result.

Ezekiel sat back. “Well, it looks like it only wants to be interesting for you.”

“You’re the dragonfly expert,” she countered. “Speaking of, how could you not know that thing was going to come back up my throat like a demonic hairball?”

He flushed guiltily. “There’s a part of the text about the dragonfly that I haven’t been able to translate.”

“The same text you said would help us find out about purple eyes? Because so far I’ve eaten a bug, had hallucinations that rival those of opiates, and nearly died. And that’s about it.”

Ezekiel sat forward eagerly. The blood dripping down on his legs looking a little ghastly while he did so.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing that had anything to do with the strange man.”

Ezekiel sat back with a frown. “That’s strange. The trance of the dragonfly is always supposed to find what you seek most. It was guaranteed to let you know the identity of the stranger.”

“How?” she said tensely.

“By stripping away the magical shields that clouded his form and eluded your mind,” he said.

Sara sat back as a shiver of apprehension ran down her spine.

“What? What is it?”

“Before I passed out I was looking for something,” Sara whispered as she turned around, “Something I had seen in my dream.”

Quickly she stuffed the dragonfly ball in her pocket as she looked at the object that was sitting by her side as it had always had. The sword that her father had given her when she turned thirteen lay on the cot, waiting to be used.

Sara gulped and grabbed it.

“I don’t understand,” Ezekiel said confused. “You saw your sword in your dream? What was the dream about? What were you seeking?”

Sara looked at him. “My dream took me back to my memory of my thirteenth birthday. My father was away on campaign, but he remembered his promise to buy me my first true weapon on that day. We were supposed to go to a sword smith together, but I learned later that he used the measurements for my gowns to have the man fashion a weapon ahead of time in his absence. It was delivered to me that day.”
“And it still works,” Ezekiel scoffed.

She gave him an irate look.

“I just meant that surely you grew since then,” he said while scratching his head absentmindedly.

She snorted. “Yes, and it grew with me. The sword smith was also a metal mage and he spelled it to lengthen with each increase in my height.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

“I know you thought this would find the purple-eyed man’s identity,” she started to say.

“It’s not just that,” he interjected with slumped shoulders. “It was supposed to actually work. How did it find what you seek by showing you your sword?”

She smiled. “But if you had let me finish, I would have told you that it showed me more than just my sword.”

“More like what?”

“There’s the glow of magic on the handle,” she admitted. “One I’ve never noticed before.”

“And now?”

“I don’t see a thing aside from the slight residual magic that helps it grow,” she said as she hefted the sword up by its sheath.

“Hmm,” said Ezekiel. “May I?”

He held out his hands for the sword. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

Ezekiel turned it back and forth as he looked at it.

“You said it was in the handle?” she nodded.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Neither do I,” she said hoarsely.

Then she got an idea. Her father had loved to leave cryptic messages in different places for her to find when younger. Maybe this message had been waiting for her for four years.

“Give it here, Ezekiel.”

He handed it over, hilt-first, with no comment.

Instead of taking the sword, Sara took advantage of the way it was held out and put her hand on the handle. Gripping it, she twisted to the right. It didn’t budge. She did it to left. Still no movement.

Then she shifted her fingers to the very tip of the pommel. She had barely turned her fingers when the pommel began to glow and turn with her hand. She held her breath as she unscrewed the cap from the sword hilt and peered inside.

“It’s hollow,” she told Ezekiel. “And there’s something inside.”

Chapter XX

REACHING IN CAREFULLY, SARA PICKED up a rolled-up piece of paper.

“Careful,” said Ezekiel. “It could be fragile.”

“It’s at least five years old. I have no doubt it is.”

“Actually,” Ezekiel said, descending into curator mode, his fingers drifting closer to hers, “the dry and contained environment should have protected it. I was referring to the material itself. It looks like it’s made of…rice paper.”

“The texture of the paper does feel oddly stiff and bumpy,” she said.

He nodded. “Rice paper has a rather fascinating curing process. It was first discovered across the seas by servants of the dragons trying to make a special type of insulation but it was too thin for…”

Sara interrupted. “Could we stay on track, please?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, right, of course. Do continue.”

She looked backed down at the object in her hands.

“Why would my dad send me a note etched on rice paper?” she asked. It was certainly a valid question. It was an odd way of sending a message. Especially, since the material itself was so fragile.

Just then the paper began to float off of her hand of its own accord. It rose to the height of her face, right in the middle of the two of them. It looked so fragile that she was afraid to grab it for fear of the paper crumbling underneath her desperate fingers. Still her hand twitched upward, as if to clutch it.

Ezekiel reached up and grabbed her hand to stop her.
“Because rice paper is the best conductor of time-resistant magic I’ve yet to see,” he said breathlessly while still restraining her hand.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this was clearly activated by—and only by—your touch,” he said excitedly.

The paper unrolled without a crinkle before their eyes.

On its browned page was script written in black ink in swooping lines and dashes.

“Do you know what it says?” asked Sara.

Liebste Tochter,
Wenn Du dies liest bin ich bereits nicht mehr unter den Lebenden. Der Tod, ist sowie das Leben, ist ein natürlicher Zustand.
Ich weiß aber, dass wenn Du dies siehst, mein Tod schon lange vor seinem natürlichen Termin eingetreten sein wird.
Es gibt vieles was ich Dir sagen möchte. Aber ich kann nicht zu viel sagen, falls es in die falschen Hände gerät. Sei im Bewusstsein, dass ich Dich und Deine Mutter liebe.
Finde einen Mann namens Hillan. Suche bei den Flüssen nach Karen.
Sie werden die Antworten haben und Dir helfen den Weg zum inneren Frieden zu finden.
Ich konnte es nicht vollbringen. Aber Du besitzt die Stärke meiner Familie, sowie den Mut der Familie Deiner Mutter. Beeile Dich liebste Tochter. Denn die Feinde welche hinter mir her sind, suchen auch bereits nach Dir.

“It’s in the old language of Algardis,” he said, “before we switched to the modern dialect.”

“I figured,” she said with a frown while looking at the cursive script. “My father said that no true officer of the military was complete without an education in the old war techniques. Unfortunately, most of the memoirs of ancient commanders were written in Deutsch, something that even I have trouble reading when it’s written out like this in blasted cursive swirls and swoops that look more like a child ate too much candy when they sat down to scribble a note.”

He chuckled at the description.

“You mean the child was hyperactive and really unable to focus.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

He shook his head wryly. “Let me concentrate, then, so I can decipher this swirly mess.”

“Be my guest,” she muttered as she watched tensely.

Five minutes passed before she noticed that something strange was going on with the flat paper.

“Ezekiel,” she said with a poke. He was busy translating each word as he went. He then scribbled the words in notebook one-by-one.

“Almost there,” he mumbled.

“Ezekiel,” she hissed.

“What?” he snapped as he looked up.

And then the magic appearing in the paper’s script caught his eye, as well. He dropped the quill as they watched each word light up one-by-one with a golden glow. As each one did, they transformed into the more modern script.

Sara read it aloud as the five-year-old letter from her father unfolded before her eyes,

“My dearest daughter,

If you’re reading this, I have passed on. Death, as Life, is a natural state.

But I know that if you see this, my death has come long before its true time.

There is much I wish to say to you. But not much I can say in case this falls into the wrong hands. Know that I love you and your mother.

Find the man called Hillan. Search the rivers for Karen.

They will have the answers and will help you find the way to peace.

I couldn’t do this. But you have the strength of my line and the courage of your mother’s.

Fly swiftly, daughter. For the enemies that seek me, seek you, as well.”

When she concluded, she leaned back, stunned.

“Your father knew about Mercenary Hillan before he died?”

“I think he more than knew about him,” Sara said. “He personally knew him.”

“Is that possible?” Ezekiel whispered in a murmur.

“At this point,” Sara said with a tired yawn, “I wouldn’t doubt anything. I don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”

“The dragonfly,” he murmured as he hunched once more over his notebook. Scribbling down her father’s missive on his pages, she presumed. She had already memorized them. She would never leave something to chance like that again. Files, as she had learned, had a way of disappearing.

“Eating a dragonfly made me sleepy?” she said.

“That and the vision.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “Ezekiel?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“What other side symptoms should I expect from this adventurous delicacy?”

“Well…” he began just before alarm swept across their faces. They didn’t have time to move before the paper burst into flames before their very eyes.

Their shrieks did nothing to stop it as they watch their only clue consumed by fire and drift down to their laps as ash.

“Did you know that would happen?” she asked.

“Not the slightest clue.”

They looked at each other, and that was how the captain of the Corcoran guard found them. Ezekiel kneeling on the floor at Sara’s feet, Sara seated on the cot, and both covered in a healthy amount of black dust.

He poked his head into the tent flap without warning.

Sara didn’t startle. She grabbed for her knife at her waist before she realized it wasn’t there and instead gripped air.

Captain Simon said, “Recruits, we’re moving out.”

“What? Now?” Ezekiel said.

Simon gave him a wry glance. “Next week, recruit.”
“Oh, great,” said a relaxing Ezekiel. Sara wasn’t so trusting.

“No, you fool, now,” the captain roared. “I do not visit tents of scamps like you for the hell of it. Get your butt in gear and on your horse.”

His head disappeared out of the tent in the next second. Ezekiel startled so much that he scampered to stand, only succeeded in hitting his head on the sloping walls of the tent and easing back down as he looked up at the offending fabric with disgust.

“Well, at least you didn’t fall,” she said.

“There was nowhere to fall,” grouched her tent mate.

She snorted.

Sara said, “My knife?”

Ezekiel looked around at his feet until he noticed the bloodstained weapon on the floor.

Grabbing it hastily, he managed to cut himself on the blade’s edge.

How can one person be so clumsy? Sara wondered with amusement.

By his cries, you would have thought he’d been stabbed in the gut instead of pricked on the finger. Sara hastily grabbed his hand and hushed him. When he still didn’t cease his bawling, she pushed her magic in him to deaden the flesh surrounding the wound.

Another trick she knew. This one was one her father used to keep his opponents unaware of their wounds. If they were bleeding out and didn’t notice it because it didn’t hurt, they died that much quicker.

Ezekiel let out a sigh. “Much better, and thank you.”

“Is there a reason you bawl like a baby?”

“I do not,” an offended Ezekiel yelped as he snatched his hand back.

She rolled her eyes and he said cautiously, “But should you be using your gifts like this?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You know,” said Ezekiel. “First you stopped the blood flowing from your wound. And now you’re staunching my pain.”

“The first was life-threatening. The second was life-threatening.”

“How so?”

“If I didn’t stop my blood from releasing through that wound, I would have bled out in the messiest way possible. It’s not easy surgery to handle a throat laceration.”

“The second?”

She smiled to take the bite out of her words, but she was deadly serious when she said, “If you hadn’t stopped your howling, I would have stuffed something down your throat. We don’t need a bunch of mercenaries sticking inquisitive heads into our tent. Besides…you kind of deserve it after making me eat a dragonfly that nearly choked me to death. Why couldn’t you eat it?”

She waited for an answer.

“Well, um, you see…allergies are a very serious…” he abruptly stopped talking.

Then he closed his mouth, cleared his throat and said, “I don’t really have a great reason. Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”

“I didn’t think you would,” Sara said dryly.

Sighing, Sara grabbed the knife from where he had dropped it and picked up her sheathed sword.

“I’m going to clean these off and pack,” she said as she exited the tent.

“You should do the same and get your friend to take your trunk before it’s too late.”

She heard a cursing Ezekiel move into action as she looked around outside in the noon day. The hill was abuzz with men running to and fro with their weapons clutched at their sides, like a hornet’s nest that had been kicked.

She went over to Danger and cooed at him. “I never would move from my position so late into the evening, but I’m not the captain, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” answered a human voice.

Sara turned from Danger to find Captain Barthis Simon standing a few feet away with his arms crossed.

She narrowed her eyes, heartily tired of people sneaking up on her.

He dipped his head with a calculated smile and looked her directly in the eyes.

“Did you want to ask me something, Captain?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve been wondering why you’ve done everything in your power to push the mercenaries in my camp away.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it.

Holding up a hand, he said, “Don’t give me that whiny spiel about them picking on you. Throwing stuff into your tent and cutting the straps to your saddle. Because I’ve checked. No one touched your things. And the second morning before you mounted up, one of the urchins noted something curious.”

Sara stiffened.

“He saw a woman, petite and with a large sword on her back, fiddling with those same straps on a mounting block,” the captain said. “Now, it was still an hour before dawn, so he couldn’t be sure who it was. But I’m fairly cognizant of the people in my company and I don’t have many short women serving for me.”

She looked at him with calm eyes. Waiting for him to say it.

“I think you cut your own saddle and wrecked your things. Then I think you blamed your comrades,” he said, “but what I can’t figure out is why. Why you’d go to such lengths to be seen as a snot-nosed brat and get my people to despise you.”

He paused.

She waited.

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Nothing good.”

A cold look crossed his eyes and he stepped forward to stand directly in front of her face. “Whether you want to be here or not, whether you want to survive this battle or follow your ancestors into death or not, you will stop sowing discord in my camp. You will integrate yourself as a full member of this team and you will do so promptly. Because if you don’t, I will have your back whipped for insubordination until the ground beneath your spread feet turns red with blood. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

He stared into her eyes as his nostrils flared wide in anger. He spun on his heel and left without a further word. She was left staring at his back as he crossed the ground in angry strides. When she turned back to take care of Danger, she saw something more ominous in the captain’s wake. Ezekiel stood there with his arms full of saddlebags for his horse as a man hastily carted off the trunk behind him for who knows where.

“Ezekiel,” said Sara, her face stricken. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“I know,” Ezekiel said thoughtfully. He bit his lip.

She came forward. “It’s not like it sounds.”

“You mean you didn’t lie about those people doing all of those horrible things to you?”

She stopped. She couldn’t tell him that she hadn’t. She wouldn’t lie. But she wouldn’t tell the truth, either.

That was all right, though. Because she didn’t have to.

Ezekiel gave her a sad smile. “I know why you did it.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“To protect the others. You don’t want anyone close to you, do you? You’re afraid of going berserk. Afraid of the curse of the battle mages.”

She stiffened. A way out had presented itself. A way out that was most of the truth. Just not all of it.

“Yes,” she said finally.

Ezekiel dropped his saddlebags and held out his hands as he walked forward. Unfortunately, he hadn’t dropped the bags to either side of his body but rather straight in front of his feet. He fell head over heels to land with his face planted on her boots with a muttered, “Ow.”

She stifled a laugh and helped him up.

He gratefully took it, dusted off his pants, and said without missing a beat, “Don’t you see, there are others to help you. I’m here, and the battle mages present surely will have some insight.”
She grimaced. “Maybe.”

“Even Captain Barthis Simon himself,” Ezekiel said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Then she couldn’t help but bursting out laughing. “Yeah, I don’t think he wants to see me anytime soon.”

Ezekiel shrugged. “He will soon enough.”

“And why is that?” said an amused Sara.

“Because we’re going to make you the best loved mercenary in this entire company,” he said with fist pump that knocked his glasses in the dirt.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Then the war elephants began trumpeting and they had no more time to talk. Scrambling, Ezekiel went to tear down his tent and Sara hefted his saddlebags under one arm while carrying her weapons with the other. Putting the blades on a nearby large rock, she set about securing Ezekiel’s bags to the mare he had named Desire.
She watched him fight a losing battle with one side of the tent that he should have rolled up before proceeding to the other.

She chuckled into Desire’s side at the sight.

“I’ve got it!” came the triumphant declaration from her curator-turned-mercenary moments later.

Then Sara froze. She had thought of Ezekiel’s as hers. She hadn’t thought of any person that way since her group of friends, co-conspirators, really, at the training camp of her youth had abandoned her and her family in their hour of need.

Slowly she rose and looked over at Ezekiel Crane. Really looked at him. He was the exact opposite of the four fighters she had considered hers before. He couldn’t fight worth shit, couldn’t defend himself, was more book-smart than street-smart, and got into tiffs with just about anything stationary.

But then she smiled. Because the warm pit in her stomach didn’t lie. He was hers.

Then and there, Sara Fairchild swore that come hell or high water, Ezekiel Crane would leave the battlefield alive.

She didn’t swear anything about herself. Because she couldn’t. But him. Him she could make sure of.

Turning from Desire, Sara went to clean her swords and get ready.

It was time to move out and move on. She needed to make some friends, and fast. Ezekiel’s life depended on it.

Chapter XXI

AS THEIR CONVOY MOVED ON in the evening, night was already falling.

Ezekiel’s Desire trotted beside her own Danger as they moved forward at a comfortable pace.

Then the troops moving forward halted.

The sound of rustling armor and clinking chains moving about, as the mercenaries strained forward in their saddles to look around their fellow man, told Sara that no one else knew why they’d stopped either.

“What’s going on?” Ezekiel whispered.

Sara held up a fist to silence him.

She was trying to hear.

But she couldn’t pick out anything specific over the loud whispers of the hundreds of men and women around them.

Then it came to her. The sound of whispers on the wind. The sound of magic being used on a large scale.

Before she could call out a warning, a shimmer of lights blasted overhead in the sky. Like streaking comets they went over the entire company, and Sara watched in horror as a blast of power followed their path in a wave.

Her eyes were blinded and her ears deafened. It didn’t attack her anywhere else, but that was enough, because she was effectively helpless, as were her colleagues.

Then she heard the whooshing of small objects through the night.

Those aren’t magic, she thought as eyes started to clear. Large black spots still impaired her vision, though, so when Danger fell beneath her and rolled to the side it was a complete surprise.

Sara didn’t have time to jump from his back. When Danger fell to the left, she fell with him, and he rolled onto his left side with a pain-filled scream. Sara let loose some screams of her own. She could finally see and she banged against the saddle ineffectively. Her scimitar was trapped and so was her leg.

Ezekiel came up behind her. “Sara, we’re under attack!”

“No kidding,” she shouted as she desperately looked around at the hail of arrows that was thudding into the people and the horses surrounding them. As she watched, a man in front of her was pierced directly through the eye. He fell to the ground. Dead instantly.

When his head lolled to the side, the arrow’s fletching became clear to her keen eyes.

“Ezekiel, we need to get out of here now,” said Sara desperately.

Damn it all to hell, they can’t be here. Not now, she thought.

“My legs are trapped,” she said as she tried to lift herself up, but couldn’t under the weight of her now-dead horse.

Ezekiel braced his hands under Danger’s left shoulder and Sara pushed with her battle strength into the middle of the saddle. With a sickening sound, they lifted Danger’s body off of her leg and she scrambled back.

Ezekiel lifted a hand to ward off the putrid smell coming from the horse to his nose. “What is that smell?”

“Putrefaction,” Sara said while crouching low.

Ezekiel stared. “But how? He’s hasn’t been dead but for a few minutes. For that matter, why is the horse dead anyway? There’s an arrow sticking out of his right leg. That’s enough to maim him, not kill him.”

Sara grimaced as she looked around and scoped out the battle scene. Damn curators and their need to know. It doesn’t matter how or why he died. It matters that we get the hell out of here.

Sara grabbed Ezekiel’s arm and tugged to get him to follow her.

Ezekiel planted his feet and gripped her arm tightly. “Sara, one of us knows something and needs to share it with the other now.”

“We’re not doing this right now,” she said firmly.

“Oh yes we are.”

She turned back at him with fire in her eyes. “Look, Ezekiel. Look around you. What do you notice?”

He did as she bid and she watched as he saw Danger’s stomach bulge up on its left side as if it would burst with the contents spewing forth only to deflate suddenly with a black, gooey mass eating its way through the flesh. Then Ezekiel spotted the man with an arrow through his eye from before. The arrow was gruesome enough. It was what came after that was sickening. The entire socket and half of his face had turned black with a wasting disease of putrid, midnight slime.

“What is that?” Ezekiel said in horror as mercenary after mercenary fell around them with the same disease. Even if their wound from being pierced by the arrow wasn’t deadly, the blackness spread throughout their body at a rapid pace anyway.

“Poison,” said Sara grimly. “The same kind the Kade mages like to use on enemies of war.”

He gasped. “They’re here.”

“Them or their regiment, yes. Which is why we need to go, regroup, and find out how to attack,” she said urgently. “We’re sitting ducks right here.”

He nodded. “We need shields and mages of our own to counteract the falling arrows.”

She looked up at the sky where the black arrows still fell like iron rain all around them. “Or least to get out of range of these blasted missiles.”

“Let’s go,” Ezekiel said, looking around cautiously. “But where?”

She nodded. “Back that way is uphill. We’ll have a better chance of scouting the enemy and any others of our company that got away.”

He gulped audibly.

She turned and whispered fiercely, “Stay low, stay on my back and do what I do and say.”

He nodded and grabbed an arrow to notch into his crossbow.

She raised an eyebrow.

“You never know,” he said defensively. “There might be Kade troops already on the ground fighting our men.”

She said nothing, but she highly doubted it. The Kade mages were continuing their offensive from a safe distance. Why risk your men if you could kill all of your enemies in one fell swoop from far away?

She set out in a crouch low to the ground as she tried to weave around dead bodies, screaming men and overturned supply carts. When they’d gotten maybe forty feet away, she stopped in the shadow of a large wagon with sacks piled high to the top. It was good shelter from which to reassess the situation. Peering around, she took stock of what she saw around her. In the distance she knew there was a dense grove of trees maybe thirty feet away that would provide shelter.

Unfortunately between here and there was nothing but open ground. No wagons to hide behind. No mercenaries to take arrows in their sides instead of her. Nothing but grass and dirt. It would have to be a flat-out run, she decided.

Sara stared at the paths of the arrows overhead and knew it would be bad.

“I think we can make it,” she said.

As the arrows streaked past the other side of her shelter, the sacks above split open and potatoes tumbled from the top to hit her in the sides and on the head. She flinched but didn’t move as she turned her head to check on Ezekiel. He was too silent for such a usually chatty fellow.

Her stomach sank as she realized she didn’t hear his panting breaths for a reason. He wasn’t there.

Groaning, Sara looked back at the carnage of the one-sided battlefield that was now aflame.

“Some guardian I am,” she growled as she turned back and dove back into the fray. She had no choice. She couldn’t leave him behind.

Quick and sure of foot, Sara raced around dying men, looking for the one who mattered to her. She was usually unemotional, but never callous. Not like that. But she justified passing person after person by the sight of the arrows in each of their chests. Even if they weren’t already dead, they soon would be. And there was nothing she could do about it. Practicality like that would always win out with her.

Just as she took another step forward for a run, she heard the streak of an arrow coming straight for her chest. Sara threw herself backward and landed on the ground breathing heavily to see a still-quivering arrow in the dead flesh of a Cams orphan who had been running past.

She watched in horror as blood gushed from his pierced neck as he arced his back in pain in a useless attempt to get away. His body fell twitching to the ground and Sara crawled over to him on her hands and knees. Flinching each time an arrow streaked overhead.

The young orphan turned pain-filled eyes to her, and Sara felt her own emotions well up in response. There was nothing she could do for him. He was dying.

But she realized soon enough that the arrow had managed to pierce his neck in the only place that wasn’t immediately fatal. She knew that the poison would eat him alive and dissolve his flesh within minutes, but she couldn’t watch that happen. She shuddered. She couldn’t let him die this way.

Sara turned her eyes back from his pierced throat to his shaking form. His eyes met hers, pleading. He fingered the knife at her waist. She knew he’d been taken from a life on the streets of Sandrin and given a home here with the mercenaries, like most of the Cams had been. But if there was one thing her friends at the fighter school had taught her, it was that an orphan always remembered their life before they had ‘made good.’ And they always made a pact with their friends who lived as they did—in the sewers, in the alleys, in the shadows of opulent homes, under bridges, and in stick hovels—that if one asked the ultimate price, the other would give it. Sara had never been an orphan until recently. But she knew what it was like to have less and want more. To suffer and not have the pain end. To hope someone would be there at her last moment and, if needed, kill her to end the nightmare. In this case, her nightmare was of going berserk and killing those she cared for.

In this boy’s case, his nightmare was of a slow and painful death on the battlefield.

Lips trembling, she raised her gloved hand and placed it over his mouth and nose. Pressing down firmly, Sara waited while his breaths shuddered to a stop. He didn’t struggle. As he died peacefully, she took her hand away and closed the lids of his eyes.

Wishing him a safe journey far from these lands, she turned on her hands and knees to scout for another path.

That was when she saw it.

An overturned weapons cart. She knew what it was because the thin metal disks on the sides were supposed to be spelled for an illusion to protect it. They weren’t now.

The mage holding the spell probably died, she thought.

Which was why the cart was visible to everyone as moonlight’s rays bounced off the thin metal disks and illuminated it in an oddly beautiful display amidst the blood and gore.

Teeth gritted, Sara knew she needed what was in that cart. If not to protect herself from the blasted arrows, then to fight against what was to come. If she could locate a small circular disk known as a finder in the supplies as well, even better. She could use it to find Ezekiel.

She darted forward, this time putting on a burst of battle magic speed that made her fleet of foot and able to dodge arrows without diving to the ground. With a couple of acrobatic flips, one in which she had simultaneously back flipped over one arrow and opened her legs to escape another by letting it fly between her shins. She landed against the back of the weapons cart, yanked the padlock off the door to open it, and jumped inside.

When she did, even in the darkness, she knew she hadn’t gotten to the weapons cart as she’d hoped. It was the same cart that she had seen from a distance. But its disguise hadn’t been to hide one of the numerous carts filled with swords, knives, and shields. No, this held something different. She held her breath tensely as her eyes scoped out the too-bare walls around her.

She noted that even though the door had been closed and sealed with a padlock, the air inside was clean and circulating with the even breaths of another person at the far end.

“Who is there?” a woman called out as chains rattled in the back.

Sara was silent. Not wanting to give her presence away. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She desperately did not want to go outside without something to shield her body, but she also didn’t want to get into a knife fight with someone else inside of a cart that at best was four feet high and four feet wide. She had no idea of its length, but she guessed double that.

“Who is there?” said the woman again. “Please help me.”

Sara eased back and halted before stepping outside. The sound of a renewed hail of arrows stopped her from exiting. The rain of arrows before she entered had seemed like a lot. But this sounded like a torrent was coming down in a renewed assault. If she backed out of the cart, she was as good as dead, no matter how many flips and dodges to the side she was able to do.

Growling, Sara stayed put.

She took out her knife. The woman sounded helpless. But you never knew.

Sara said, “I’ll ask the questions here. Who are you?”

The woman’s voice echoed in the night. “I’m Nissa.”

“Nissa,” said Sara carefully. “Why are you chained here? Be careful of your answer. I’m just as likely to slit your throat as help you if I don’t trust what you’re saying.”

That was the absolute truth. She didn’t have time to rescue a woman only to learn she was an enemy out to kill her.

Nissa answered. “My name is Nissa Sardonien. I am a mage. I am a prisoner of the Empress of Algardis.”

That was smart. In one stroke she’s told me she’s useful either way. If I was an ally of the Kade mages, I would free her. If I was an ally of Algardis, I’d be sure to keep her shackled but safe for the imperial court’s reward.

Sara took a step forward. Her outstretched hand held a globe of battle fire. It lit the interior of the cart in a stable glow. Stable in the sense that it wouldn’t combust in her hand. Not unless she did something stupid, like fall to the floor. The light was enough for her to see Nissa. She wore a white robe with a parted slit down the front and long, gossamer fabric that covered even her feet. Her hands were hidden by the draping sleeves.

“Show me your hands,” commanded Sara. “Slowly.”

Nissa raised her hands as far as she could, until they were just above her seated waist and her palms were out. The chains prevented her from moving them any higher. Then Sara saw what covered her arms. Like thin sheets of metal they sheathed each arm from the wrist to the elbow. They weren’t innocuous jewelry, though. Those were mage bands encircled that prevented Nissa from working magic.

“What kind of mage are you?”

“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you,” Nissa said, lifting her chin so that her long and straight hair fell back to reveal a defiant look on her face.

“Try me.”

“Very well, I’m a sun mage.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you,” said Sara. There were a lot of mythical things showing up in her life right now, but having a living sun mage show up was taking things a little too far.

Nissa’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

“Even if I did think you were telling the truth,” said Sara, “the only living sun mage was killed by her Kade mage compatriots months ago.”

“I am she,” Nissa said defiantly.

“You are the nameless one? The scourge of the battlefield that set fire to thousands of men with a sweep of her hand? That woman that caused the red rays of the sun to pierce the tents of imperial mercenaries as if they were weapons? Weapons that burned the flesh off men as if they stood in the middle of a raging fire pit?”

Nissa let no regret show on her face. “I am.”

Sara crouched down as she watched Nissa’s eyes and the cart rumbled as the sound of a trumpeting war elephant rushed past. Once it had stilled again, Sara said, “So then tell me, Nissa of the Sun Mages, why are you still alive? You stand amidst thousands of your enemies. Each of which would gladly roast your head above a pit for the friends you’ve killed.”

Nissa smiled. “Why don’t you ask your captain?”

Sara flashed a bitter grin. “I asked you, and I’d be careful to not dodge my questions again. I’m not having a very good day.”

“So I see,” Nissa purred as she leaned back against the wall, the thump of her chains against the wood the only sound.

Then Nissa sighed. “I was taken to Sandrin to be given an opportunity to help the empress of Algardis find…something. I refused at first. But after some persuasion I agreed to do what was asked of me.”

Nissa shifted and Sara’s mage light shone on something curious. Narrowing her eyes, Sara noted in a flash scars that been hidden before. Deep, parallel grooves on Nissa’s chest just below her breasts.

“They tortured you,” Sara said.

Nissa nodded. “The standard imperial fare for prisoners of war. It was what came after that that convinced me to turn on my compatriots.”

“And what was that?”

“The future,” said Nissa.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Nissa opened her mouth and then a shriek of a different kind broke their concentration. It wasn’t the sound of a human or animal screaming, but the sound of an object that Sara had only read about in her textbooks. But she recognized it instinctively from the drills she had endured at her father’s hands. It was the sound of a ball of battle fire coming down.

Sara realized that she had better douse her own ball of mage fire quickly. She did, and they descended back into darkness. From that moment to the next, everything changed. The battle fire outside hit the ground with a boom, so close by that the blast flung the cart they were trapped in through the air. It flipped end over end as Sara slammed into the sides until it finally came to a rest on its side.

With a groan, Sara tried to stand. Her ankle almost failed her. She soldiered through the pain and stood anyway. Nissa moaned to her right. Sara conjured an orb in her aching hand. Nissa was still in chains when she looked, but she was also hanging at such an awkward angle that Sara feared her arms were broken.

The battlefield outside was silent. But only for a moment. Sara knew that once they started shelling the enemy with battle fire they wouldn’t stop until all their foes lay dead on the ground.

Making a decision, she turned.

Then she heard Nissa call out with desperation in her voice. “You can’t leave me!”

“Watch me.”

“Do you really think the fact that I’m here is a coincidence?” Nissa said.

“The Kades want me dead. That is the only reason this attack has begun. Otherwise this arsenal would be far too much overkill for one, small regiment,” Nissa stressed.

Sara halted. “Begun?”

Nissa said, “This is only a small hint of what is to come. If my Kade compatriots bring their full force to bear, this land will stand blighted for decades to come.”

Sara turned to her. She knew what Nissa said was true. It was even more daunting to think that this was just a taste of what was to come. Even though this magical onslaught was minor for the Kade mages, to employ it on such a concentrated spot still took skill and power. The fact that they were only targeting a mere five hundred troops was overkill. They could easily have fought hand-to-hand combat against the Corcoran guard and won if they wanted to defeat them. Instead they had pulled out all the stops and sent a magical onslaught.

Sara turned with one question on her lips. “Why?”

Nissa straightened her head into what had to be a painful angle as her body hung limply to the side. “Because I know how to defeat them. And your captain was ordered to escort me here for that sole reason.”

Sara hesitated.

Nissa pleaded as another blast rocked the ground not far off. “I’m bound by the sorcerer’s shackles. I can’t use my gift. Do not leave me here. You and your entire kind will regret it if you do.”

Sara snarled, then cursed and moved forward. Toward Nissa.

She had time to wonder what the woman meant by her kind, but not enough time to ask as the sound of battle fire balls streaking through the air grew greater.

“Where are the keys?”

“On my jailer,” Nissa said breathlessly. “At the front of the cart.”

Sara cursed. “That won’t do. He’s probably dead or on fire a few dozen feet away from us by now. Could be in either direction, too.”

“Well, battle mage, I suppose you need to use that ball of fire and get to work, then,” said Nissa drolly.

Sara gave her a sharp look as she came to stand in front of her. She saw no other choice.

“Yes, I know what you are. I said my magic was bound, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still sense another mage when I see one. Even if I wasn’t blind to the ball of battle fire in your hands. Nice work, by the way.”

Sara didn’t respond to the praise. Although she was right. Very few battle mages could hold a combustible ball of fire in their hands for any length of time. Battle fire tended to go wonky if you did that.

“To be clear,” Sara announced, “I will only remove the chains that bind you to this cart. The bands that lay close to your skin and bind your magic will stay. For eternity, if I had anything to say about it.”

“Understood.”

Sara nodded.

“Scream if you want,” Sara muttered as the sun mage looked directly into her eyes with a twist of her lips.

“I plan to.”

With that Sara set to work as suggested. She pushed up the heat of the flame in her hand to a level so intense that she immediately started sweating and held it right on top of the chains shackling Nissa’s wrist to the wall.

Nissa was a sun mage, gifted in using its fiery rays to for her own devices. She differed from an ordinary fire mage in fascinating ways, but right now the only difference that mattered was that she wasn’t immune to the burn of fire.

The sun mage threw back her head and screamed as her wrists burned and her flesh bubbled under the teeth of the ball of battle fire on top of her wrist.

The links chaining her began to weaken as they grew red hot with the intensity of the fire.

“Almost there,” said Sara through gritted teeth as sweat poured down her face.

Nissa screamed again as Sara hurriedly grabbed the chain’s cold metal links farther down and yanked with all the strength of a battle mage. Nissa’s wrist shackle came free as the chain snapped and Sara jerked her hand holding the orb away.

The woman’s head came forward and her hair hid her face as sobs tore through the air.

Then she looked up with her teeth set in a gritted line and fierce expression on her face. “One more.”

Sara nodded and went to her other side.

Chapter XXII

SHE FREED NISSA WITH ONE final yank of the chain and quickly caught the tall woman before she could tumble to the floor. Lowering Nissa to stand on her own two feet, Sara watched carefully as the woman gathered herself together and stood on shaky legs.

“Can you run?” Sara demanded.

“Yes,” said a breathless Nissa leaning over her aching arms.

She said that just a tad too quickly, Sara thought.

Sara said sharply, “I didn’t ask if you could walk. Once we get out of this cart, we’ll need to run for the nearest shelter—a forest at least a few yards away. We’ll be dodging poisoned arrows and balls of battle fire the whole time. I also need to find my friend, so this isn’t going to be the straightest shot.”

Nissa looked up at her with a hint of fire in her eyes at Sara’s abrasive tone.

Sara said, “So I’ll ask again. Can you run?”

“I’ll pass you by, battle mage.”

“As long as you don’t get in my way,” Sara said.

She walked to the front while pushing Nissa ahead of her. She still didn’t trust her.

“How do you plan on finding your friend?” Nissa said as they faced the closed door.

“I don’t know,” said Sara. “I had hoped to locate a finder here inside what I thought was a weapons cart. Instead I found you.”

“Too bad,” said Nissa. She didn’t sound that dejected.

Sara rolled her eyes and doused the ball of flame in her hands. She wouldn’t need it outside. The company mage lights that had glowed all along their route at night would still be hovering over their dead owner’s bodies until the power instilled in them faded. Which could be years away.

“One more thing, sun mage,” Sara said in a dark tone.

She felt Nissa shift in front of her.

“You might want to stay close. Without your magic, you’re helpless, and there are probably nine people in all of Algardis that don’t want you dead. Seven of them being your friends amongst the other Kade mages, all of whom are miles away from here.”

Nissa laughed coldly. “And who might the other two be?”

Sara said simply, “The Empress of Algardis…and myself.”

With that she stepped around her, kicked open the door to the outside, took stock of their surroundings, and dived out of the overturned wagon. She sensed Nissa following close behind. Unlike the time she had lost Ezekiel, it felt like it would be virtually impossible to do the same with Nissa. Sara felt her every move as Nissa tracked her movements perfectly, stepping where she stepped, diving where she dived, and even dodging when she did. It was almost as if it was coordinated.

Despite her misgivings, Sara was impressed. She always had an appreciation for graceful footwork in a swordsman. She had no less of an appreciation for a woman able to dodge arrows and flying balls of fires with efficiency.

She knew the exact reason why she could feel Nissa’s every move, even if she couldn’t see her physically. It was because Nissa’s shackled powers resonated with Sara’s own. And that there was the primary reason she was starting to believe the woman’s story about being a sun mage. Battle mages could sense another’s gifts and intent, just like she had Cormar in what felt like a distant time but in reality was only a week ago. The more powerful the mage, the greater her ability to sync with them and assess their intent before it formed. As Nissa followed closely behind, Sara sensed her presence behind her. It was like an ever present threat looming in her shadow. One she couldn’t get rid of because she had told the woman to stay with her. It was both disturbing and comforting at the same time. Disturbing because her battle mage powers instinctively saw Nissa as a threat sneaking up on Sara. She had the itch to turn around and draw her knife across the woman’s throat every time she leapt behind her. Sara had never been good with partners.

But she had been good with dependents. And like it or not, the sun mage was dependent on her to get her out of here alive. It felt good for a moment until Sara realized she was basically protecting a mass murderer. As they crouched in the shadow of a lumbering dead elephant, Sara took a breather.

“What now?” Nissa whispered.

“Keep an eye on everything going on behind me,” Sara said. “See if you can spot any balls of battle fire coming our way. If they do, we’re going to have to move fast.”

Nissa nodded and put her back to her. Sara didn’t know if it was because Nissa was a sun mage or it was because her potential power was greater than her own, but she felt Nissa turn in her mind. She could tell the woman was staring outward without looking herself or listening to what her ears were telling her when she heard the shuffle of her feet. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Letting a slow breath out, Sara cleared thoughts of Nissa out of her mind and turned a practiced and calculating eye on the surrounding landscape. All around them it looked like a battle of great proportions had been fought here. Fought and lost. But she knew that only one side had come away with not a single person dead. Only one side had deployed its mage gifts and not one single living creature and yet still won the day.

Only one side has the Kade mages, Sara thought to herself bitterly.

The Kade mages were eight—now seven as far as the rest of the world was concerned as the sun mage was supposed to be dead—of the most gifted mages Algardis had ever seen. They had joined together over a year ago and declared war on the Empress of Algardis. No one knew why. But from that time until now, Algardis had been in civil war. Several principalities, independent of the empress’s rule but taxed enough for her coffers to have her leave them alone, had declared themselves for the Kade mages. Most of those principalities were located in the northeast corner of Algardis. Almost six hundred miles inland from the coastal city of Sandrin, and before this, wholly unnoticed by the empress herself.

After those principalities had declared themselves for the mages, the empress had taken the fight to them. So now the turbulent civil war, only eight months long so far, was fought in the flat pasturelands of the empire’s breadbasket. The empress had at first called up a minimal guard under Sara’s father’s leadership. They been roundly trounced and her father had sternly informed the empress that this was no laughing matter. She had taken his advice seriously. Now five military companies stood on the warfront, under the command of one lord general, a council of mages and the leader of the mercenary factions—Captain Simon, whenever he relieved Captain Kansid of the Red Lion Guard, that is. All told, she had heard that over five thousand of the empress’s men and women fought and died on the battlefield. Not to mention the dozen mages of all stripes she had released from her service at the imperial court and pressed into uniform on the warfront.

But the sad thing was, the empire was still losing. Even now, as Sara looked around, the fields were awash in blood, putrefying body parts, and mage fire. It was the blood of imperial troops. Never of Kade soldiers. Sara wasn’t even sure they had soldiers. Aside from whatever small militia the Kade mages had pressed into service from the principality’s own guards. What then did the Kade mages have that made them so invulnerable?

“Mobility,” Sara said. “Mobility and magic.”

“What?” snapped Nissa from her other side.

“I said,” Sara said with her eyes darkening, “I’ll be right back. Stay where you are.”

Before Nissa could ask where she was going, Sara darted out among the dead and the dying. Going from body to body, she searched for the object that would aid in her mobility. She already had the tool to use her magic in the form of her sword.

“Ah-ha!” she said, dodging a fireball that came too close for comfort.

She came upon a man. Lying pristine. Untouched by arrows or fire.

Kneeling beside him, Sara thought he was dead. He didn’t look like he was dying of putrefaction, but his still form didn’t look alive either.

She grabbed what she came for.

As she did, he took a harsh, gasping breath and his eyes opened.

His hand grasped hers urgently. Not to stop her, but to warn her.

“They’re here,” he said in a wheezing breath.

Sara was disturbed to see white boils inside his mouth. What had happened to him? She’d never seen a disease like it before.

“Who’s here?” she said cautiously.

He looked at her with death in his eyes as his retinas began to melt. She arced back in horror.

Before his last breath escaped his body, he whispered, “The Kades.”

Sara stared at the dead body in silence and then she stood up and forced the shield straps down on her lower arm.

She didn’t bother shrinking away from the arrows coming toward her. Instead Sara tested the straps on her shield arm. Making damned sure they were too tight for the shield to come off. Then she smiled. She was ready.

Looking up, she saw three deadly arrows heading straight for her.

If she had ever doubted the arrows were unnatural, she didn’t now.

Any fool could dip an arrowhead in poison to spread sickness to the opposing forces. It would be a bit much to assume a fool could also manage to use a deadly disease that acted so fast that the poisoned foe was dead in minutes. But that was why relatively smart apothecaries-turned-poisoners were employed by the imperial army.

But this? This was different. These arrows didn’t hit the ground. They never targeted the soil and they swerved around wagons to hit targets to the side. They were guided. Guided to hit targets with blood—human or animal, it made no difference.

As she watched the three come down on her, she raised her shield arm calmly.

With one internal command the shield bloomed from a small round object to a mighty transparent disc of orange fire that incinerated the arrow on impact. This is what Sara had been looking for. She had used to own one, and thanks to the benevolence of the mercenary who had died, she did again. An expanding shield fueled by magic.

With a spring in her step, Sara headed back to Nissa. She needed to collect her and they needed to get to the woods. Once there, Sara had plans that involved tying the troublesome prisoner to a tree and finding her own way to the Kade mages. She was ready to lop off their heads. Running with the strength of her battle magic and dodging missiles with the dexterity of something unhuman, she came to an abrupt stop when she heard a sharp whistle.

A whistle she recognized. It would be hard to forget after nearly bursting her eardrum.

Sara searched as she turned looking for its source. She managed to blast two arrows coming directly at her with her mage fire before she could locate the direction.

“Sara, over here!” came the cry of her one friend on this side of the world. Halfway between Sandrin and the annexed principalities, Sara stood on the ground as her eyes pierced the gloom. She knew where he was, but it was tough to pinpoint one body among so many. Then she spotted Ezekiel. Half-buried under a mound of bodies. She felt her heart flip. Not exactly terror, but close. What if the idiot had gotten himself hurt?

She took off at a run.

When she finally reached him, he popped up so fast that she nearly stabbed him in the chest before she swung her sword wide.

“What were you doing under there Ezekiel?” she asked, exasperated. She noticed that he seemed to have lost his glasses somewhere, but otherwise no cuts or scrapes marked his body. Ezekiel Crane was a lucky bastard.

He tutted. “You have noticed that the arrows are targeting living beings only, right? The horses, the elephants, people.”

Sara heard the whistling warning of the thin missiles coming through the air. She whirled around and extended her arm to ward off an incoming blow. The arrows, ten of them, bounced harmlessly off of her extended shield like flimsy sticks.

“I have noticed that, yes,” she said dryly.

“Oh, well, good then,” Ezekiel said, peering over her shoulder. “Nice magical shield. Where’d you get it?”

“Off a mercenary,” Sara said as she scanned the skies warily for more threats.

“He was dead when you took it off him, right?”

“Practically.”

“You didn’t bother helping him?”

“You have noticed that anyone dead or dying around here is doing so by poison, yes?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good, then you know there wasn’t a dratted thing I could do to help out, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m not a healer,” she said, exasperated.

“No, you’re a battle mage.”

Sara extended her shield until it formed an almost perfect sphere around them. The edges met the mound of bodies behind them.

“Exactly. Now, if I can get you to safety, I can do my job.”

Affronted, he said, “No one asked you to come after me.”

“I was just supposed to leave you here?”

“If that’s what you would have preferred.”

“Don’t get snooty on me, Ezekiel. We’re in a battle, for god’s sake. You’re my friend. You needed my help. I came. End of story.”

He softened. “You just called me your friend.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t eat a damned dragonfly for anyone less.”

A smiled cracked his expression, then his weak eyes widened as he shouted, “Watch out!”

Sara turned just as an enormous ball of battle fire exploded on the exterior of her shield. She fell to her knee on the force of the impact, but she didn’t falter. Her shield felt weaker, though, as she stood.

“I’m not so sure we can stand much more of this,” she said.

“I’m surprised we survived that one,” Ezekiel said frankly.

She was too busy scoping the battlefield to pay attention as he stammered. “Not that I don’t have faith in your abilities. It’s just…I’ve never seen anything survive battle fire like that.”

“First time for everything.”

Ezekiel gripped her shoulder tightly from behind. “I don’t think you understand, Sara. Battle fire is supposed to be indestructible.”

“I know. I’m a battle mage, remember? My father taught me.”

“Did he teach you that only a war mage could command the shield that you’re holding in your hand as well?”

Sara turned to him with a frown. “What are you muttering about, Ezekiel?”

He glared at her through a squint. “Something important.”

“More important than us sprinting for our lives before that second ball of enormous flames comes down on us?” she said while pointing up. She watched him turn to look at a ball the size of an elephant coming for them. The previous one had only spanned the width of the wagon. She didn’t think her shield would survive a direct hit of that magnitude.

Apparently neither did Ezekiel, as his face paled and he said, “No, no, I don’t think so.”

“Good,” she said grimly. “Let’s go. I’ve got someone to introduce you to. Stay close to me and don’t wander off.”

“You met someone else? Who?”

“You’ll see,” she grunted.

She turned quickly and sheathed her sword. Then she grabbed his clammy hand.

For a moment Sara wondered how he could be cold on the battlefield, then she realized it was blood and she said nothing.

“What are you doing?”

“Not losing you again.”

“Oh, right.”

They took off, running for their lives.

Chapter XXIII

AS SARA WEAVED BETWEEN BODIES, she was careful to keep her speed to a manageable level. Lucky for her, even with her mage abilities, Ezekiel made up what he lacked in mage boosts with his ability to leap over fallen comrades and turn corners like there was no tomorrow.

Panting they came back to where she had left Nissa. Her stomach dropped when Sara saw that she wasn’t there.

She had just lost the most infamous prisoner the Algardis Empire had ever come across.

And then a loud hiss interrupted her thoughts.

Nissa’s head popped around the corner and then jerked back when an arrow nearly took out her eye.

“Where have you been?” shouted the woman from the other side of the pile. “Who is that?”

“I was searching for a shield,” shouted back Sara.

Ezekiel hurried to intercede. “I’m the friend. A friend. Her friend.”

Sara snorted as he stumbled over his words. She had to wonder why he decided to get nervous now. Then Nissa poked her head around again and Sara didn’t have to wonder. The glare of numerous balls of battle fire striking the ground illuminated her and revealed a lot that had gone unnoticed in the cramped prisoner’s wagon. The woman’s hair was a black so metallic that it was like staring at the night sky without moon and stars. Her skin was unblemished except for those torture scars on her chest, and Sara would bet money that wouldn’t deter Ezekiel. She also had a dainty look about her, even though it was obvious she was at least six feet tall. In other words, Nissa was startlingly beautiful, even covered in a now-grimy white gown and dodging poisonous arrows.

“Come on,” Sara urged as she pulled Ezekiel by the hand and they rushed around to where Nissa crouched.

For a moment they were silent while Sara’s two compatriots assessed each other with wary eyes as arrows streaked overhead. She wondered what each thought of the other.

In her mind she introduced them as, Treasure hunting curator, meet cold-blooded mage killer.

Instead, Sara said aloud, “Ezekiel, meet Nissa. Nissa, meet Ezekiel.”

Ezekiel nodded stiffly. “Curator.”

Sara looked at him, thinking, Is he on something? Or just reading my mind? She didn’t ask him anything.

But apparently Nissa didn’t mind as she listed her profession flippantly. “Sun mage.”

Ezekiel stiffened. He looked to Sara, who raised an eyebrow. He looked back at Nissa, who gave a small smile.

Turning to Sara, he leaned over and said, “Is she insane?”

Sara turned to him. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you?” asked Nissa rudely.

He turned to her and tried to push his non-existent spectacles up the bridge of his nose. Realizing the futility of his gesture too late, Ezekiel hastily dropped his hand.

“You have to be pretty insane to think you can claim the title of sun mage and not have it challenged,” he said. “Everyone outside of the principalities wants all eight members of the Kade mages dead. Including you.”

“I’m well aware of those ungrateful pigs’ opinions of me and my compatriots,” Nissa said stiffly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead anyway?” Ezekiel asked, baffled.

Sara said at the same time, “Ungrateful wretches? You—you and your cohorts have torn our empire apart.”

Nissa gave her droll look. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Hundreds are dead,” said Sara stiffly.

“And thousands more will be. I have seen the future, and this conflict is far from over,” said Nissa softly.

A blast of battle fire landed in the not too far distance. They were safe under Sara’s shield, especially since it came nowhere close to being a direct hit. Instead, the light of the combustion lit all three of them in an amber glow.

“I will die before seeing one more father not come home to his child,” said Sara.

Nissa looked around outside the shield above them and said, “Then you have already failed. Because you live while your comrades fall at your feet.”

Sara’s hands twitched towards the woman’s neck. Ezekiel hastily put a warning hand on her shoulder.

He quickly asked, “Can you prove it?”

Nissa looked at him with a bored air.

“That you’re who you say you are, I mean?”

She raised her hands. “Take these mage-binding bracelets off and let’s see.”

Ezekiel looked a little too interested in taking Nissa up on her offer. Sara poked him harshly to snap him out of the glazed look that had drifted into his eyes.

Ezekiel rubbed his side without looking over as he said, “You know, Sara, there hasn’t been a sun mage in so many years.”
“No,” Sara said.

“But they have really cool gifts. Like healing with the power of the rays of the sun, for one.”

Sara turned to him in disgust.

“It’s for the science of it all.” he yelped. “To study such a rare mage.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “No.”

“But—”

“Do you know how many people she’s purported to have killed, Ezekiel?”

“Well…”

“Exactly,” said Sara flatly. “I’m not letting her loose. You’re not letting her loose. I’m don’t care if she’s a lying chimpanzee in disguise. We can’t risk it. Do not under any circumstances touch those manacles.”

Ezekiel slumped in a pout.

“My, she has you wrapped around her little finger,” said the sun mage mockingly.

Both Sara and Ezekiel turned their glares on her.

Nissa rolled her eyes unafraid. “Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be taking me somewhere? Like to your captain?”

“Why do you want to see Simon?” said Sara, immediately suspicious.

“Let me spell it out for you,” said Nissa. “Wherever he is, it’s safe.”

“If he’s not already dead,” said Ezekiel.

“If he were dead, all of the defense mechanisms keeping this entire field from erupting into one big blast would be gone. We would be fried,” said Nissa.

Sara snapped. “What do you mean?”

“Do you honestly not know?” said Nissa.

Their tense, blank faces told her everything she needed to know.

“Well, well, well,” she said as she leaned back with a satisfied purr.

Sara noticed that her garment spread open further on her chest as she did.

Good, she thought with a snarl as she brought her knife to Nissa’s porcelain skin. The better to cut her throat with.

“Careful, battle mage,” said Nissa. “You wouldn’t want to kill the only person out of the three of us here who knows more than you do.”
“Speak up, then,” said Sara in a tense growl.

She was aware of Ezekiel’s hands twisting and turning in his lap, but for once he said nothing.

Nissa said, “There’s a reason we attacked you here. This entire piece of land sits above a natural pocket of gas a few hundred meters below the surface.”
“‘We?’” squeaked Ezekiel.

“Figure of speech,” Nissa said with a shrug. “I align myself with the Kade mages even when I had nothing to do with the planning.”

“Go on,” prodded Sara.

“With enough blasts of battle fire,” Nissa said, “and the past ten rounds were certainly enough, this field should have blown you, your company, and the surrounding land for miles to smithereens. But from what I can see, mages’ battle fire can’t pierce a few meters below the surface.”

“And you know this because we haven’t been blown to bits yet,” said Ezekiel.

“Precisely,” said Nissa with a gentle smile.

Sara tilted her head. “You think Captain Simon has someone with him blocking the mages’ efforts?”

“That would be my guess. Or he is. I suspect your young captain was appointed the position of lead mercenary on the warfront not just for his good looks,” said the sun mage.

“And if he’s the one preventing this field from swallowing his men whole,” murmured Sara as she let her blade drift down to her lap, “then he needs to be in the safest place around here.”

“Exactly,” said Nissa.

Sara ignored her and turned to Ezekiel. “You know this layout pretty well?”
Ezekiel nodded.

“If you were the captain and wanted a safe place to hunker down, maybe even form a counterattack, where would you go?”

Ezekiel turned and pointed. “To the Azure Forest. The trees themselves halt any magic from penetrating its darkness and well…there are things that most people have never dreamed of seeing inside.”

“And you have?” said Nissa.

“Actually, yes,” said Ezekiel in a measured tone.

Nissa gave a snort but didn’t challenge his statement further.

Sara stood from her crouch and watched as they did.

“Then let’s get to this forest,” she said.

At the determination in her voice, neither one of them said anything different.

Sara started trotting away and they came up on either side. The two tall figures ran to the left and right of the small woman with a sword.

When they got to the forest edge, Sara pointed at a long piece of knotted brown rope attached to a long abandoned wagon on its edge.

“Grab that rope,” Sara told Ezekiel.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked suspiciously.

She turned to Nissa with a smile. “Bind this insufferable wench, of course.”

Nissa gave her a sassy smile and raised her hands while clasping her fingers together. “I thought you’d never get around to it.”

Sara gave her a glare. Ezekiel gave her a smile that she didn’t want to decipher and Nissa kept her hands held out willingly.

They walked into the forest untouched by the battle raging behind them.

“Why are you so interested in this war, anyway?” Nissa asked as they walked into the forest.

“My father died because of this war.”

Nissa didn’t sound particularly sorry when she said, “By Kade hands?”

Sara stopped, clenched a fist, and released it.

Nissa came up close behind her but stopped far enough away that the rope between them gave some distance. She seemed to realize she might have gone too far.

“No,” said Sara darkly. “By his own forces.”

The sun mage behind her said nothing.

Sara turned and looked at her. “I’d wondered why my father came here.”

Her hand tightened on the rope perceptibly as she tried to rein in her emotions and failed.

She saw out of the corner of her eye, Ezekiel watched the exchange with open curiosity.

Sara continued, “I’ve wondered why he risked his life once more to serve in a far-flung province on a campaign no one cared about. Because, make no mistake, my father might have died for what he uncovered, but when we first started this…skirmish, no one in the capital thought it would blow up into a war.”

Ire flashed in Nissa’s eyes. “You underestimated us.”

Sara threw back her head with a laugh. “So we did. Not anymore, though.”

Nissa gave her a brittle smile. “You’re out here escorting a sun mage with a curator for help. Your captain is nowhere to be found. And most of your company of five hundred is dead. I’d say your empress is doing a bang-up job of underestimating the Kades.”

Sara stiffened as she spoke. “A mere technicality.”

Nissa shook her head slowly. “No, it’s the reason you will lose this war.”

“More of your prophecies?”

Nissa gave her a sharp smile. “Merely a promise of what is to come.”

Sara sighed, tired of the tête-à-tête. “Do you know why my father risked his life?”

“For honor?” said Nissa mockingly.

“Because of evil filth like you,” snapped Sara.

When Nissa didn’t react, Sara stepped forward to make her react. Then Ezekiel was between the two women on edge. He looked firmly into Sara’s eyes with his vulnerable back no more than a few feet away from Nissa’s conniving but bound hands. Sara didn’t care if she said her magic was shackled, she didn’t trust her.

She pushed Ezekiel out of the way. He grabbed her shoulder so that as he turned she did as well.

Then Ezekiel said, “What are you doing, Sara?”

“What does it look like?”

Worry flashed over Ezekiel’s face at her tone. “This isn’t like you. You aren’t abrasive and angry. Not since I’ve known you. Calm, unemotional, and fiercely unafraid, yes. But not this. Yet since the moment this attack started, you’ve been nothing but.”

She didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to go back to fighting Nissa.

Ezekiel snapped his fingers in front of her face, like one would a toddler that disobeyed. She almost bit his fingers off.

It was that urge to tear into his knuckles that sent fear like ice-cold water down her spine. She stepped back with horror written on her face, mistakenly pulling Nissa with her.

“No,” said Sara.

Ezekiel didn’t let her panic. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“I’m not all right. You don’t know that. Stay back.”

“No,” he said calmly, stepping forward and taking her clenched hands in his. The flesh-on-flesh contact was like a balm to her nerves. “I don’t know. But I do know you’re speaking, you’re listening, and you’re comprehending. All things you wouldn’t be able to do if you had already changed. You just have to calm down.”

Sara swallowed deeply.

Nissa spoke up with a perceptive look in Sara’s direction. “Changed? As in gone berserk?”

“Shut up, Nissa!” shouted Ezekiel.

“I don’t think…”

Sara was starting to see spots of red in her vision.

What’s happening to me? She thought anxiously.

“That’s right, you don’t think,” Ezekiel snarled as he whirled around. “Because I won’t be the first person she kills in her rage. Enemies first. Friends second.”

That shut Nissa up.

“Sara,” coaxed Ezekiel. “Stay with me. The battlefield was pushing you over. You were using your magic then, right?”

She didn’t say a word. Just stared in the distance, the rope binding Nissa’s hands clenched tightly in her own.

“Sara, answer me,” pleaded Ezekiel.

She turned to him with tired eyes. “Yes, I used it.”

“Okay, are you still using it?”

She took stock of her power. She saw a reserve of power just inside her reach to boost her magic for the shield in case of an emergency as well as the standard boost of her eyesight and hearing.

She nodded.

“Fine, shut it off,” Ezekiel ordered. “Now.”

Sara looked at him. “We need those gifts. We’ll be wandering around the forest blind if we don’t.”

“I’d rather be alive than dead,” he said grimly. “Let them go. Please. For me.”

Reluctantly she did as he asked. Her body let go of the tension causing her to stiffen as the magic flowed out of her reach with each breathe.

Finally, the ire and tension related to the use of her magic drained away. But something else replaced it. Normal human doubt. Her vision had faded to normal perception. She felt half-blind.

It irritated her. But with a start, Sara realized she didn’t feel like killing Nissa so much now. Before, when the woman had said something that nearly set her off, Sara wouldn’t have hesitated to draw her blade across her neck. Now the wariness and caution were still there, but the eagerness for blood had dimmed.

She blinked and stared from Ezekiel to Nissa. “That was not how I imagined drifting into the blood rage.”

“How did you imagine it?” asked Nissa softly.

“Like a quick and fast descent into hell—from one moment to the next I would snap,” answered Sara honestly. “Instead it felt like I was slowly going mad with each increasing breath.”

Ezekiel nodded in sympathy. “Well, we learned something today.”

Sara raised an eyebrow.

He grinned. “Don’t make you mad. Although I kind of knew that already.”

She punched him in the shoulder lightly and rolled her eyes. “Why don’t we find Barthis Simon before we get into any more trouble?”

Ezekiel nodded and they set off with Nissa trailing behind like a recalcitrant dog.

As they crested a small hill, Sara said softly for Ezekiel’s ears only, “Thank you.”

He whispered back, “You’re welcome.”

Chapter XXIV

THEY WALKED FOR WHAT FELT like hours. Stumbling over roots, slippery moss, and bumps on the forest floor. Never running into another soul or animal. For that matter, the entire forest was eerily silent. The hoot of an owl didn’t meet their tired ears, the wary gaze of a crouched fox didn’t meet their eyes, and they didn’t see a hint of any of the denizens that usually occupied such a verdant land.

It made Sara outright uneasy.

“Where are the forest creatures?” she muttered as she stumbled ahead. Ezekiel walked directly to her right where she could keep an eye on him and he could keep a wary gaze pinned on her. She wasn’t a forest expert by any means, but had spent a good part of her youth hunting on her father’s land. She had expected something to show up by now. Or at least the sound of something skittering through the bushes or flying through the trees. And yet nothing came but the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

Sara did hear Nissa stumbled directly behind her. The woman was doing as best as she was able, but it was pitch-dark and Sara could tell she’d never set foot in a forest without a retainer by her side before. They were going slowly, trying not to slip and fall, but it was blasted hard when she couldn’t even call upon a mage light to guide their way for fear of slowly tipping further into madness.

Sara had never felt so vulnerable before in her life. If this was what it was like being a battle mage in war—living in fear of your own body and on edge to use your powers at all times—she doubted she would be able to stand another week of it. The stress alone would kill her.

Father, how did you survive it? How did you thrive? Sara wondered in a silent prayer.

She knew it would go unheard. She didn’t necessarily believe in the old gods like her father had, but she did hope his spirit was watching over her. She needed some guidance because she was doing a pretty bad job of solving his death on her own.

Then a bright, white light was visible in the distance. Just ahead and behind a few more trees.

“Sara?” said Ezekiel, seeing it at the same time she did. “What do you want to do?”

She crouched low and pulled Ezekiel down with her. “Find out what it is.”

“I doubt you want to do that,” Nissa said in a low hiss between their shoulders.

“And why is that?” Sara said, looking over at her.

The sun mage pressed her mouth into a thin line.

Sara smiled. “I think I’ll go find out, because if it makes you unhappy it might be the solution to our problems.”

Nissa gave her a scornful look. “Go then, battle mage. Go to your death. I don’t need you anymore.”

Sara stared at her hard. Trying to read the calculation in Nissa’s eyes for what it meant. She didn’t know the woman, didn’t know her motives, and didn’t know how to react or tell if she was lying.

Sara turned to Ezekiel and said, “What do you think?”

Softy, he said without turning back, “I think I should go explore.”

Nissa let out a soft sound of disgust.

“Not happening,” said Sara.

Ezekiel turned to her urgently. “Think about it, Sara. If you’re killed, we all die. If I go and report back we might have a vital clue and wouldn’t risk much in the process.”

Sara stared at him in disbelief. “Wouldn’t risk much? You do happen mean something to me, you know.”

Ezekiel chuckled. “Finally. I was dying to get you to admit your one true love. Now that I have it, I can die happy.”

Sara was vastly tempted to swat him into the next world, but she couldn’t. Her left hand was occupied by her sword and her right held the rope binding Nissa.

More seriously, Ezekiel said, “It’s only ten paces that way. I’ll be there and back before you know it. Besides, we don’t have much of a choice. What were you planning to do? Leave me alone with Nissa?”

Sara thought about it. He was right. They were out of options. Hastily putting Nissa’s rope in his hand, she reached up over his shoulder and grabbed one of the three remaining arrows in the quiver. Then she grabbed his hand holding the weapon and put it into position.

“Load it,” she ordered firmly.

He did so with shaky hands.

She smiled. “Now you’re ready.”

“Let’s really hope I don’t have to use it.”

She nodded solemnly and gripped the rope back. He stood and darted off into the woods.

As she watched her friend disappear into the night, Sara had to wonder what her life had come to that she was sending an untrained mercenary on a scouting mission.

“Wonder of wonders,” Sara muttered to herself in disgust.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. No sound of Ezekiel was forthcoming.

Sara tensed. Then she said, “Come on.”

The sun mage planted her feet and wouldn’t budge.

Sara whirled on her, sword in hand. “Let’s go, Nissa.”

But she turned to see that Nissa wasn’t the only one behind her. Dark shadows of people emerged from the forest. Sara dropped the rope and moved into a fighting crouch.

She couldn’t do anything before they were surrounded. Then Nissa laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“The light?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue what it means,” the sun mage said as she held out her bound hands to one of those surrounding them. He quickly cut the ropes from her. To Sara’s relief, he didn’t touch the shackles binding Nissa’s lower arms and containing her magic.

“I just needed a diversion to get you away from here,” Nissa said with humor. “I was certain you’d take the bait and investigate yourself with a little judicious prodding. I never suspected you’d send that bumbling fool in your place.”

“That bumbling fool is my friend, and if you’ve done anything to harm him I will have your head on a pike,” snarled Sara.

Nissa wiggled her finger as she moved back into the safety of the fold and the men poured in front of her. Sara counted three, six, and another four made ten. Ten dark guards for the great sun mage.

“I wouldn’t make threats if I were you, battle mage.”

“Why?” Sara said mockingly. “You going to take me prisoner?”

“Never,” said Nissa. She looked at one man clothed all in black who differed from the rest. He had a red armband on his bicep.

“Kill her,” Nissa said simply.

He twitched his fingers and the tense group around her erupted in a flurry of attacks.

Sara dodged backward as assassin after assassin came to claim her head. They were all highly trained, but they had never run up against a battle mage fighting for their life like she was either.

She quickly scoped out her options. There were plenty of trees that she could use to her advantage. So she did. Sara swung her long sword in the air. Using her strength and deadly accuracy to take off the side of one unfortunate man’s face as she raced to the tree. Jumping, she used her momentum to run up the trunk vertically and crouch partially hidden in the boughs. She wasn’t trying to hide, however. Just get more distance between her and the nine opponents trying to reach her.

When one came up the trunk after her, she put a knife into the center of his face. The second made it up onto the thick limb and she turned to face him. Swords flashing in the night, they met with a swift exchange of kicks and ducking. Fortunately for her, Sara had practiced her tree sword-fighting as a child. He didn’t stand a chance as she ducked low and saw an opening. She disemboweled him.

She back flipped off the branch into the center of the clearing and immediately caught another opponent’s double-headed axe coming down on her blade. With a grunt, Sara was forced to crouch down while the massive bald man loomed over her and forced her to yield with all his might. But he wasn’t strong enough. Sara ducked to the side just as another blade came whistling down to take off her head.

What it ended up doing was sawing the staff of the giant’s axe in half. The momentum he’d already attained caused him to fall forward directly on his weapon’s head, which had flown back after being separated from its base.

Sara turned and said, “Thank you,” as she slipped her sword’s blade between her opponent’s ribs. Then she took stock of the situation.

A smile breezed across her face as she said, “Five down. Who’s next?”

Nissa’s infuriated screech met her ears. “You idiots, kill her!”

Her voice abruptly cut off as her eyes watched in horror as a weapon came straight for her. Not a sword or a knife but an arrow. It streaked through the center of the clearing and only the last minute selflessness of a brave assassin saved the sun mage from her death. A cloaked assassin leapt in front of his mistress. Taking the full force of the arrow in his chest.

It didn’t stop it from blasting through him and heading for Nissa ten feet away, but it did slow the arrow down. The arrow, covered in blood, flew until it planted itself in the sun mage’s shoulder and into the tree directly behind her. She was pinned. Sara watched the woman jerk to get away, but it was clear from her pain-filled yells that it was impossible.

“Help me!” Nissa shrieked to her remaining men.

“I don’t think so,” Sara said to the four surrounding her.

They had half-turned anyway, and that was all she needed.

Leaping into action, Sara dived for the feet of two. She cleanly sliced through the tendons of one, making him incapable of fighting anymore as he fell to the ground with shocked cries. Sara stood to face the remaining two with a feral grin on her face.

“Well, boys,” she said, “ready to meet your death?”

The two looked at each other and back at her. For a minute she thought they would flee, but they didn’t.

They rushed her in unison.

Sara barely had time to react before Ezekiel came out of nowhere with a scream. He held a piece of log, which he beat one of the men on the head with. She quickly cut the throat of the one he’d dazed. Sara had time enough to wonder what had happened to the crossbow. Yes, she had easily recognized the might of that arrow as one shot from the ancient crossbow in Ezekiel’s hands. She wasn’t stupid; no normal bow could do the work of flying through two opponents and still lodge into the hard wood of a tree with deadly accuracy. It would have been a lot safer for Ezekiel if he’d just shot the man from a distance. But she watched as Ezekiel took a swing at one opponent with a branch he’d grabbed from somewhere. The assassin dodged the curator’s awkward blow with a contemptuous look. Unfortunately for the assassin, that made him momentarily vulnerable to Sara and she finished him off by taking off the last opponent’s head.

Breathing heavily, she said, “What took you so long?”

“I got lost,” he said sheepishly.

“Lost where?” said Sara.

He pointed back that way. “I found our missing captain, though…you know, before I managed to mistakenly leave the search party behind.”

Sara shook the sweat out of her eyes with a wry grin. “So they’re coming?”

He nodded while leaning over on his knees and panting heavily. “Man, killing people is exhausting.”

She lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t bother mentioning he hadn’t actually killed anyone.

“Good work with those men and with our traitorous sun mage over there,” said Sara. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He flushed with praise and she turned to march over to a pinned Nissa with a smile.

The woman was stuck to the tree with an arrow through her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch or beg for mercy. In fact, she lifted her chin proudly and met her captor head-on.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Sara said mockingly.

Nissa looked at her with fury in her eyes.

Sara grabbed the arrow’s shaft with a smile. Nissa flinched, but bit back anything she might have said.

Sara eyed her, waiting for the scream as she snapped the shaft of the arrow so that a sharp edge emerged from the sun mage’s shoulder.

Nissa whimpered. Sara thought about prolonging this. The woman had tried to kill her, after all. But she didn’t.

She grabbed both of Nissa’s shoulders in a fierce grip and jerked the woman off the tree. Nissa fell to her knees as Sara let her go the moment she was free of the arrow. But she hadn’t screamed. Instead her shoulders shuddered in pain as she knelt on the ground.

Sara looked down on her in disgust. When the woman looked up, blood met Sara’s eyes.

Nissa Sardonien had bitten through her bottom lip.

Chapter XXV

SARA FELT SOME SLIGHT ENVY at Nissa’s ability to project a stony expression in the face of pain, but no pity. Nissa had tried to deceive them and would have murdered Ezekiel in cold blood. She didn’t deserve her sympathy.

Sara took a step back and said, “Stand up.”

Nissa didn’t move.

“I won’t ask you again,” Sara said coldly while lifting her blade to just under Nissa’s chin. She was heartily tired of playing babysitter, especially to a conniving, backstabbing woman like the sun mage.

Nissa stood up while holding her shoulder in pain.

Ezekiel came up and winced. “We should get that looked at.”

“She can die of sepsis for all I care,” Sara said.

“I thought you said she was a prisoner of war?”

“Your empress needs me,” Nissa hissed at the same time.

“But that’s just it,” said Sara, turning around with a pragmatic look. “I don’t need you. You’ve done nothing but slow me down or outright try to get in my way. I’d be better off letting your wound fester. You want to know why?”

Nissa said nothing.

“Because it would slow your conniving mind down while the infection spreads to your head, leaving a fever and delusions in its wake,” Sara said. “By the time we locate a good healer, you’ll be too far gone to save but still ambulatory enough to tell Simon what he needs to hear. A win-win situation for us, I’d say.”

Ezekiel looked at his friend with something akin to horror on his face.

Nissa’s faced was etched with flat-out hatred.

Sara gave Ezekiel a defensive look. “She tried to kill me with nearly half a dozen assassins. She’s not worth being upset over.”

He opened his mouth to speak when Sara heard the rustle of leaves as strangers snuck up on them.

She turned with a wary eye to look around. “Someone’s coming.”

Then a voice said, “They’re over here! I’ve found them.”

Suddenly they were surrounded by a group of men and women who were wearing the elite uniforms of the scout team for the first division of the Corcoran guard. Sara relaxed in relief for the first time that day. She had had heard that the first division had been deployed out on a scouting mission a few hours earlier. She guessed the rumors were true. These mercenaries had had one very lucky break. Not a single one of them had a scratch on them.

Out of the midst of his mercenaries strode Commander Amadeus, leader of the first division.

“I see you survived,” said Sara dryly.

“I see you haven’t lost your irreverence, Mercenary Fairchild,” replied Amadeus while hooking his thumbs in his belt while he looked over the three broken, bloody, and tired people surrounded by dead bodies.

Sara shrugged, ready to keel over from exhaustion. “It’s a gift.”

He gave her an irate look. “I can tell.”

Sara was half-amused, half-irritated. She didn’t give a rat’s bottom what they thought of her now. They had hidden in the tree line while scores of their comrades died. She had no respect for cowards.

Nodding at Sara, Amadeus commanded his men. “Take the sun mage.”

Sara shifted uneasily and Amadeus noted it. He held up a closed fist, signaling his men to stop silently.

Looking at her, the first division commander said, “Is there a problem, Fairchild?”

Sara looked at him. “I’m not concerned about her well-being. Truly I couldn’t give a damn if you threw her in the nearest river and drowned her. But I found her, I freed her, and I deserve to deliver her to the captain.”

Amadeus let out a slow smile. “Your captive, your reward, eh?”

Sara stiffened, but she didn’t deny it. “Yes.”

He let out a chuckle. “Now you’re thinking like a mercenary.”

She waited for him to make his move. He could say anything he liked; it was his actions that would count. The leader of the first division stroked his beard and then he stepped aside with a wave of his hand.

“Men, let’s escort Mercenary Fairchild and her captive to the captain of our illustrious company, shall we?”

The forest roared with the sound of mercenary approval.

Ezekiel stepped closer and whispered in Sara’s ear, “This is a good thing. A very good thing. They’re not mocking you. They’re praising you.”

Sara cracked a smile, because for once she had understood the importance of the commander’s acquiescence before Ezekiel had.

With a firm hand on Nissa Sardonien’s shoulder, she forced the mage to walk ahead of her and they strode off into the woods surrounded by mercenary compatriots that, for once, would fight to the death before Sara had a chance to. It was nice to be surrounded by a group of elite fighters that didn’t expect her to win every skirmish tonight.

They marched through the silent forest in rows of four. Four guards at the head. In the second row came Sara, with Nissa in the middle. Amadeus flanked her left and another guard flanked Nissa’s right. Sara knew Ezekiel was right behind her, as he would occasionally stumble and step on her feet. There were three guards in his row to protect him from harm and keep him from killing himself. Behind them flowed the other guards with some deploying farther out as an early warning system.

They marched for what felt like fifteen minutes when Sara began to grow uneasy.

The light hadn’t been that far out, and she knew Ezekiel had found the captain when he headed that way.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked the commander of the first division.

“To our leader,” he said.

“Is Captain Simon where the light is?” Sara stressed.

“He was when I saw him last,” Amadeus said.

She didn’t get much more from him than that. Then they emerged from the tree line to see a very strange structure up ahead. She halted in her tracks, making Nissa stop with her.

“What is that?” Sara said.

“That,” said Commander Amadeus, “is a transportation portal designed to take us from this dreadful forest to where the real action is.”

At that moment, a guard in the distance turned around and Sara recognized Barthis Simon.

He walked up with relief on his face as he said, “Good, you got her.”

Sara didn’t think the emotion on his face was because of her. And there was only one other female in her group.

Clasping Amadeus eagerly on the shoulder, Simon said, “I knew it was the right decision to send your men after the prisoner.”

“Actually, sir, we never made it out of the forest,” said the commander stiffly. “We came across these three straggling through the trees like lost lambs.”

Sara bristled at the description and Ezekiel edged his way around to stand at her shoulder.

“Are you ready to start the counterattack?” Ezekiel asked the captain of the Corcoran mercenaries eagerly.

The man gave Ezekiel a disinterested look. “Counterattack?”

He exchanged an amused look with Amadeus.

Sara couldn’t hold her temper any longer; they were treating this like a game.

“Men are dying out there. Your men,” Sara said. “We need to strike back against the Kade mages.”

“And we will,” said Simon. “But not now. The plan doesn’t involve preemptory strikes.”

“Preemptory strikes?” Sara fazed. “What are you talking about? You need to save your men while you still can.”

Commander Amadeus snarled, “We don’t take orders from grunts like you. We have the situation in hand.”

“Have it in hand?” Sara snarled back. “Is that what you call a battlefield red with the blood of your men and only them?”

“My men are right here,” said Amadeus coldly.

Sara tried to object again.

Simon held up a hand for silence. “It’s all right, Amadeus. Perhaps I should explain a little.”

“I have done what I came here to do,” said Simon, turning to Sara. “The sun mage will be the key to killing all of the Kade mages one-by-one. I won’t risk that by setting off a useless counter-strike that would leave us defenseless and likely let her escape.”

Sara swallowed harshly. “You’ve done all you came here to do?”

She was nearly shaking in anger.

“How dare you?” spluttered Ezekiel beside her. “You’ll let your troops fall to save your own hide?”

“At the orders of the empress, I would sacrifice my own child for the greater good,” said their captain.

Then it all came together in Sara’s mind as flashes of what he had said ventured through her thoughts. Orders of the empress… Done what I came to do… The sun mage is key.

She stared at the captain in revulsion. “You knew this would happen all along.”

He turned to her with calm eyes. “We made precautions in case the Kade mages decided to take out our forces in the first skirmish and recapture the prisoner before we could arrive at the battlefield at a normal pace.”
Ezekiel snorted. “Yeah, like that went so well. You left her behind. Sara brought your precious prisoner to you.”

The captain turned to her with a measured look. “Did you, now?”

Sara said nothing. Revulsion still in her eyes. She was half-tempted to take Nissa and Ezekiel and flee. Flee to where, she didn’t know. But serving under a man who abandoned his leadership to take charge of one prisoner, no matter who the orders came from, didn’t sit well with her.

“Yes, she did,” admitted Commander Amadeus.

“Well,” said the captain, “we can’t let that go unnoticed.”

Sara said, “Don’t trouble yourself over it, really.”

“No, I honor the traditions of the mercenary guild.”

Yeah, except I don’t think leaving your men behind was one of those honored traditions, she thought viciously.

The captain continued, oblivious to her thoughts, “You’ve now been promoted to Mercenary of the first division of the Corcoran guard.”

He said it as if she should take pride in that.

Ezekiel beat her to the punch. “I hate to break it to you, but thanks to your impressive leadership, all your other divisions are dead.”
Captain Simon snarled, “One more word out of you, Mercenary, and I’ll have you left here.”

Ezekiel piped down.

“No, you won’t,” said Sara staunchly. “Every mercenary of the first and second divisions has an archer assigned to them. Ezekiel is mine.”

Simon gave her a fairly amused look. “As you like.”

He turned to Ezekiel. “Ensign Crane, you are now designated to the first division as well. And for the record…the Corcoran guard is much more than the first, third, and fourth divisions.”

Simon had just listed the division of troops that they had rode from the capital city of Sandrin—over five hundred men and women strong. Sara had wondered why the divisions were labeled so haphazardly. Now she guessed she’d have her answer.

“The might of the Corcoran guard has ten divisions. Each with over two hundred mercenaries in their ranks,” said Simon as he backed away suddenly and addressed the men who gathered in the clearing. As they emerged from the shadows to stand around the broad ring free-standing in the clearing and the fiery smoke of a field burning a few miles away drifted above, Sara counted over thirty individuals until she lost track.

“Only sixty-two number among the first division,” Simon barked with his hands behind him and his feet spread. He began to walk around the center of the tight circle formed by the individuals of the first division. A loud cheer met his pronouncement.

“But still we lost the four hundred and fifty brave souls of the third and fourth divisions tonight. They didn’t sacrifice themselves for naught,” Simon continued.

They didn’t sacrifice themselves for anything, thought Sara. They were led like lambs to the slaughter by a leader who didn’t care.

“We will move forward, we will strike in heart of the darkness, and we will end the Kades for good!” shouted Barthis. “For our land, for our empress, for Algardis!”

His sentenced ended on the roar of dozens of men.

Before her Sara saw a leader with the charisma of dozens but the heart of a snake. Calculating, cold, and deadly. Simon dropped his raised fist and walked over to their sun mage.

“Nissa Sardonien, sun mage and member of the Kade mages, are you ready to complete your destiny?”

Nissa raised her head proudly. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn away.

“Am I ready to die so that your imperial courts can continue to drain these lands of resources and magic until Algardis is nothing but a husk, to the shame of our founding emperor and the true intention of the bond between mage and land?” she asked. “No, I am not. But seeing as I have no choice, proceed.”

With every word, anger grew on the captain’s face. When she invoked the sacred title of the first emperor, he hauled back a hand and slapped her so hard that she fell into Sara’s side. Sara helped her to stand while staring at the captain coldly.

Sara didn’t resist when the captain grabbed the rope restraining Nissa’s hand and tugged her into the center of the circle with him. Although she wanted to. By the gods, the man was a vile individual.

With a sharp push, he held up Nissa’s hands while wrenching her arrow-shot shoulder in the process. She was unable to hold back a cry. He didn’t care.

“This woman is our key! She will be the downfall of her maniacal compatriots,” he said.

The men and women cheered.

Finished, Barthis turned to another mage standing to the side with a satisfied grin. “Open the portal way.”

The man stepped toward the large circle and set to work.

Tearing her eyes away from the sight of Nissa on the ground nursing her shoulder, Sara said to Ezekiel, “What is that?”

“It’s a portal way—a gate of passage that can transport us anywhere in the empire.”

Sara stared at him. “Anywhere like to the edge of a battlefield at least four weeks’ hard riding from here?”

He nodded with a gulp.

“Are you ready?” she said.

“Do I have a choice?” he said, straightening his shoulders.

Sara shook her head and they both turned to watch as the portal way glowed with a brilliant light. The same light they’d seen before.

As Sara watched, she knew. It was time to face the true battlefield—the battlefield of Aranos in the heart of Kade territory.

Find out what happens next by starting Blades Of Illusion: Crown Service #2 today.

Afterword

TERAH EDUN IS A NEW York Times and USA Today bestselling author of epic and urban fantasy. Her first series is called Courtlight. She is a young adult fantasy writer that writes the stories that she always loved to read as a young girl.

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