Maggie Furey - Aurian 3 - Sword 
of Flames 
Table of Contents 
l Prologue: The Story So Far 
l Chapter 1: The Miracle of spring 
l Chapter 2: Journey's Beginning 
l Chapter 3: Strange Havens 
l Chapter 4: A Burned-out Shell 
l Chapter 5: Words of Warning 
l Chapter 6: The Storm Breaks 
l Chapter 7: The Mountain King 
l Chapter 8: The Mountain Queen 
l Chapter 9: On the Wings of the Wind 
l Chapter 10: Within the Crystal 
l Chapter 11: Killers of the Night 
l Chapter 12: A Cry for Help 
l Chapter 13: Through Earth 
l Chapter 14: Through Fire 
l Chapter 15: …and Through 

l Chapter 16: Out of Time 
l Chapter 17: The Seeing 
l Chapter 18: Horncall and Sunrise 
l Chapter 19: The Infiltrator 
l Chapter 20: A Queen in Waiting 
l Chapter 21: Just Like the Old Days 
l Chapter 22: The River Run 
l Chapter 23: Storm Front 
l Chapter 24: Southpaw 
l Chapter 25: The Cauldron 
l Chapter 26: Lightning Strike 
l Chapter 27: The Sword of Flame 
l Index of Characters 
Prologue - The Story So Far… 
Long ago, there had been four magical weapons 
fashioned by the Mages. Their history had been lost, 
together with the Artifacts themselves, in the Cataclysm, 
the horrific wars of magic which wrought changes on 
land and water alike. Lost also had been the history of 
the nonhuman Magefolk: the Winged Ones, the 
Dragonfolk, and the mighty Leviathan—or so said the 

ancient legends 
Young Aurian, growing up lonely and neglected in her 
mother's valley, knows nothing of these tales. Yet when 
she meets Forral, a wandering swordsman, the encounter 
will change not only their lives but the future course of 
history. 
Aurian's father, Geraint, has perished through misuse of 
his Fire-magic, and her grieving mother, the Earth-Mage 
Eilin, is obsessed with restoring the valley—the barren 
crater left by the explosion. Appalled by Ellin's neglect of 
her daughter, Forral stays to care for the child, and a 
close bond develops between them. He begins to teach 
Aurian sword-play, until an accident in training almost 
kills her. Eilin, on the advice of the Magefolk healer 
Meiriel, sends her to the city of Nexis and the Academy, 
home of the few remaining Magefolk, where she can be 
fully trained as a Mage 
Homesick and missing Forral, Aurian turns to the 
Archmage Miathan, unaware of his plans for her future. 
His interest earns her the enmity of the Weather-Mage 
Eliseth and her cohorts Bragar and Davorshan, though 
Aurian is befriended by Finbarr the Archivist and 
D'arvan, Davorshan's twin, who is unable to access his 
powers. As she grows to adulthood, her studies in magic 
are diverted by the return of Forral as commander of the 
Nexis Garrison. Aurian resumes sword training and 
makes new friends at the garrison—Maya, Forral's 

lieutenant, and Parric, the cavalrymaster. The bond 
between Forral and Aurian ripens into mature love, but 
matings between Mortals and Magefolk are forbidden. In 
the meantime, Miathan begins to force his attentions on 
her. 
Elsewhere in Nexis, Anvar, son of a baker, is sold as a 
bondservant to the Archmage. He is truly Miathan's 
son—a half-breed Mage whose mother has kept his 
identity secret, Miathan steals his powers, binding him 
with a spell of silence. After months of toil and brutality, 
he escapes, seeking his lover. Sara, who was pregnant 
when they were parted. But she has lost the child and 
married Vannor, head of the Merchants' Guild. When 
Anvar is recaptured, Aurian defies the Archmage to 
claim him as her servant. 
In the catacombs beneath the Academy, Miathan 
discovers a deadly weapon—a grail refashioned from the 
Caldron of Rebirth, one of the lost Artifacts of Power. 
When Aurian and Forral become lovers, the jealous 
Archmage turns the grail to evil, cursing any child that 
may come of their union to take the form of the first 
beast Aurian sees after its birth. 
The following Solstice sees sinister changes. Eliseth 
alienates Davorshan from his brother and persuades 
Meiriel the Healer to negate Aurian's spells against 
pregnancy, for Miathan will never countenance Forral's 
half-breed child. Davorshan tries to murder his brother, 

and Aurian sends D'arvan to her mother, who can help 
him find his powers. Maya goes with him to the valley. 
When Miathan discovers that Aurian is with child he 
attempts to destroy the babe, but Anvar warns Forral and 
Vannor. When Forral attacks, Miathan unleashes Death- 
Wraiths—spirits who feed on life-force—from the grail, 
and Forral is slain. Finbarr fights the Wraiths with magic, 
buying Aurian, Vannor, and Anvar time to escape. 
Overcome with rage and grief, Aurian vows to avenge 
Forral, but now she must flee. While Vannor stays in 
Nexis to organize resistance against the Archmage, 
Aurian and Anvar escape by ship, taking Sara with them 
at Vannor's request. Aurian's one hope of fighting 
Miathan is to find the three lost Artifacts—but time is 
limited, for as her pregnancy progresses, she will lose her 
powers until the child is born. Then to her horror, she 
feels Miathan's mind searching the seas for her with 
magic. 
Miathan now controls Nexis and sends Davorshan to kill 
Aurian's mother. Maya and D'arvan reach the valley, 
where Eilin tells them of the terrible events, seen in her 
scrying crystal, that have occurred. She also tells D'arvan 
that his true father is Hellorin, Lord of the Phaerie—a 
powerful race of Elemental beings exiled from the 
mundane world by ancient Magefolk. Shocked and 
grieving, Maya and D'arvan turn to each other for 
comfort and become lovers. They stay in the valley so 

that D'arvan can learn magic from Eilin. 
At sea, Aurian discovers powerful minds of great 
wisdom: whales—the ancient Mage race of Leviathan. 
When they are threatened she uses magic to help them, 
and the Archmage finds her through her use of power. 
Eliseth conjures a storm to sink the ship, while Miathan 
attacks with magic. In the ensuing battle, Aurian blinds 
him. 
When Aurian, Anvar, and Sara are rescued by the 
Leviathan, the storm has blown them to the unknown 
Southern Kingdoms. Sara seduces Anvar, reminding him 
of their former love, and Aurian leaves them to go with 
the Leviathan Ithalasa, who reveals the lost history of the 
Magefolk. Aurian learns of the missing Artifacts: the 
Staff of Earth, the Harp of Winds, and the Sword of 
Flame, created by the Dragonfolk for one hand alone to 
wield. Ithalasa does not know where they can be found. 
Anvar and Sara are captured by the Khazalim, a fierce 
desert race, and taken to the city of Taibeth, where Anvar 
is sold as a slave and Sara goes to the harem of Xiang, 
the ruler, known as the Khisu. Given the chance to 
become a queen, she uses her beauty to ensnare Xiang 
and callously consigns Anvar to his fate. 
Aurian reaches Taibeth and is captured and sentenced to 
fight in the Arena for the pleasure of Xiang. Here she 
befriends Eliizar, disillusioned swordmaster, and his 
wife, Nereni. Rumors of foreigners in the city give her 

hope of finding Anvar, but in the Arena she must fight 
the fearsome Black Demon, against whom no one has 
survived. 
In the valley, D'arvan learns Earth-magic from Eilin and 
swordplay from Maya. When Davorshan attacks, his 
brother slays him, but Eilin is wounded. To save her, 
D'arvan calls on his father, and he and Maya, along with 
Eilin, are transported to the realms of the Forest Lord, 
where Eilin must remain in order to survive. Hellorin 
explains that the Dragons gave the Sword of Flame into 
the keeping of the Phaerie, who must now return it to the 
mundane world. Once the Artifact is claimed, the Phaerie 
will be freed. Hellorin conceals the Sword in the valley, 
and Maya is transformed into a Guardian—an invisible 
unicorn. D'arvan brings the Wildwood to the valley, 
making it a haven for Miathan's foes. 
Aurian fights in the Arena before Xiang, his son, and his 
new queen, Sara. She survives the first bouts but is 
wounded, and now must face the Demon: Shia, a fierce 
great cat from an intelligent race. When the Mage 
communicates mentally with her, Shia claims her as a 
friend. Harihn, Xiang's son, takes Aurian and Shia under 
his protection. While her wounds heal, she is cared for by 
a eunuch, Bohan, and wins his heart with her kindness. 
Anvar is found dying in the Khisu's slave pens. Aurian 
battles Death for his spirit and prevails. 
Before Anvar can be warned of Sara's treachery, Xiang's 

soldiers attack. Anvar and Harihn are sentenced to death. 
Aurian escapes from the dungeons, freeing Shia and 
Harihn's men. With Yazour, their captain, she storms the 
throne room, taking Xiang prisoner. Harihn will not 
accept the throne from a Mage and a woman. He frees 
Xiang on condition that he and his people may leave the 
kingdom and cross the desert. Anvar begs Sara to join 
him, but she repudiates him cruelly. Eliizar and Nereni 
join the fugitives. 
In Nexis, Eliseth holds the land in an extended winter. 
Vannor, Parric, and their rebels hide in the sewers 
beneath Nexis. Miathan is sure that Aurian is alive and in 
the south. Elewin, the Academy's chief steward, warns 
Parric, who decides to go in search of her. The rebels 
escape the city with Meiriel, who has been driven mad by 
the loss of her soulmate, Finbarr. They find sanctuary 
with Vannor's friends the Nightrunners, an elusive 
smuggling community who are already sheltering the 
merchant's daughter Zanna. Vannor's rebels head for the 
valley, seeking Aurian's mother, while Parric, Meiriel, 
Elewin, and the warrior Sangra journey to the Southern 
Lands in search of Aurian herself. 
In the desert, Anvar quarrels with Harihn. His rage is 
strong enough to break Miathan's spell, and his powers 
draw his spirit back to Nexis, where he snatches back his 
magic from the Archmage. Aurian offers to teach him to 
use his powers, and his training begins. 

Meanwhile, across the desert in the mountain city of 
Aerillia, the Winged Folk are dying in Eliseth's unnatural 
winter, which is spreading across the world. Blacktalon, 
the corrupt High Priest, claims he can turn aside the 
deadly cold and demands to be wedded to the Princess 
Raven, heir to the throne. Raven flees, heading south 
across the desert. 
Harihn's band reaches Dhiammara—a solitary mountain 
in the desert where a mysterious portal opens in the rock, 
snatching Aurian away. When she cannot be found, 
Harihn abandons Aurian's companions. Aurian's loss 
brings home to Anvar how much he loves her. With 
Shia's help he finds the portal and is reunited with 
Aurian. They emerge in the abandoned city of the 
Dragonfolk and discover Raven. Forral's ghost leads 
Aurian to a temple, where she finds the last Dragon, 
freeing it from a spell. It tells her that she is the One for 
whom the Sword of Flame was forged, but first she must 
re-create the Staff of Earth. Having succeeded, Aurian 
now holds one of the Artifacts. 
The Mage is reunited with her comrades and Yazour, 
who has left the Prince and returned with horses. Eliseth 
creates a lethal sandstorm to slay them. Aurian's powers 
have vanished due to her pregnancy, but with the help of 
the Staff, she and Anvar defeat Eliseth and cross the 
desert safely. But Miathan is not done with them, for he 
has learned to free his spirit from the fetters of his body 

and send it abroad to work mischief… 
Once across the desert, Aurian and her companions— 
Anvar, Shia, Eliizar, Nereni, Bohan, Yazour, and 
Raven—find sanctuary in the vast forest that lies beyond. 
They prepare for the arduous crossing of the mountains 
that lie to the north, but discover that Harihn and his 
company, who crossed the desert ahead of the 
companions, are also encamped within the woods. The 
Prince now regrets giving up his father's throne. He has 
encountered the roving spirit of Miathan and made an 
unholy bargain, allowing the Archmage's consciousness 
to occupy his body in times of need. Miathan also enlists 
the aid of Blacktalon, evil High Priest of the Winged 
Folk, who has poisoned Raven's mother. 
Harihn, under Miathan's orders, seduces Raven, 
persuading her to betray the Mages. She offers to guide 
them across the mountains to the Tower of Incondor, 
where the Archmage and Blacktalon have set up an 
ambush. 
Across the mountains, in the lands of the Xandim Horsefolk, 
a Seer receives a vision on the winds. Chiamh, the 
despised, reclusive Windeye of the Xandim, discovers 
powers of evil reaching out from the north toward two 
Bright Ones beyond the mountains. At the risk of 
destroying his tribe, he knows he must aid them in their 
fight against darkness. 
Parric and his friends reach the lands of the Xandim, a 

race of shape-shifters who can exist in human or equine 
form. They are captured and sentenced to death, for the 
Xandim permit no outlanders in their territory. Chiamh 
discovers that the strangers are connected with his 
newfound Bright Powers and goes to rescue them with 
the help of Basileus, a Moldan—an Earth-Elemental who 
is the living mind and soul of the Wyndveil mountain. 
Vannor, now settled with his rebels in the valley, under 
the unseen guardianship of D'arvan, discovers that his 
daughter Zanna has run away from the Nightrunner 
hideout and returned to Nexis. He sets off to search for 
her with the veteran warrior Hargorn. 
Aurian and her band reach the Tower of Incondor and are 
attacked by Blacktalon's Skyfolk and the soldiers of 
Harihn, who is controlled by Miathan. Shia, at the Mage's 
urging, flees with the Staff of Earth. Yazour, though 
wounded, escapes. Aurian and the others are captured. 
Aurian is imprisoned in the tower to await the birth of 
her son, whom Miathan plans to kill. Anvar is taken to 
the Skyfolk city of Aerillia as a hostage to ensure the 
Mage's cooperation. Yazour is found by Schiannath, a 
Xandim outlaw exiled from his homeland along with his 
sister Iscalda, who has been condemned by the Herdlord 
Phalihas to exist permanently in her equine shape of a 
white mare. Using the Staff to communicate, Shia 
convinces Schiannath to help the Khazalim warrior. 
Raven, stunned by Harihn's treachery and her mother's 

death, is taken back to Aerillia. Blacktalon plans to wed 
her, to consolidate his power, but first he destroys her 
wings. Raven attempts to kill herself, but her life is saved 
by the physician Elster and her apprentice Cygnus, 
formerly a secret supporter of the High Priest. 
In Nexis, Hargorn and Vannor have become separated. 
Hargorn is wounded by the soldiers of Pendral, a cruel 
and corrupt merchant, and is rescued by Jarvas, who runs 
a refuge for homeless and destitute Nexians. Hargorn's 
wounds are treated by the drunken physician Benziorn 
and his assistant Emmie. In the squalid alleys near the 
docks, Emmie befriends two strays—a starving white 
dog and a young boy, Grince. She takes the boy back to 
Jarvas's refuge, along with the dog and her litter of 
puppies. 
To reach Aerillia, Shia must pass through the territory of 
her own people. The First Female, Gristheena, believing 
Shia has come to reclaim the leadership, challenges her 
to combat. Helped by the old cat Hreeza and the young 
male Khanu, Shia escapes and wins her way safely 
through. Despite the danger, the two cats insist on 
accompanying her. 
Remana, mother of Yanis, the Nightrunner leader, goes 
with her son and Zanna's friend Tarnal to Nexis, to find 
Vannor and his daughter. Seeking the help of Jarvas, they 
row upriver by night, only to find that Miathan has 
rebuilt the old walls that enclose the city. Making their 

way into Nexis through the sewers, they emerge to find 
Jarvas's refuge under attack by Pendrall's soldiers. 
Remana helps many homeless folk to escape through the 
sewers, taking them back to the smuggler hideout at 
Wyvernesse, but Grince is left behind. Benziorn remains 
to search for him, while Yanis and Tarnal stay in Nexis 
to find Zanna. 
Vannor is captured by Miathan and imprisoned with the 
Mages' Tower. He discovers that Zanna is already there, 
in the guise of Eliseth's maid. 
At the request of the wounded Yazour, Schiannath 
climbs the Tower of Incondor and finds Aurian. Still 
putting her faith in Shia, she refuses to be rescued while 
Anvar is a hostage, but agrees to signal the Xandim for 
his assistance when her child is born. 
Chiamh has rescued Parric and his companions, with the 
exception of Meiriel, now dangerously insane, who has 
vanished into the mountains. To gain the help of the 
Xandim, the cavalrymaster must challenge the Herdlord 
for leadership of the tribe. Phalihas fights in his horseform, 
but Parric prevails and becomes Herdlord for a 
month—until he can be challenged again. The Windeye 
traps Phalihas in his equine form, and acting on Chiamh's 
Vision, Parric takes a troop of warriors to Aurian's 
rescue. 
Anvar has been imprisoned by the Skyfolk in a cave high 
on a cliff. Shia makes a near-impossible climb to restore 

the Staff to him, and he uses it to pass through the 
mountain to the city on Aerillia Peak. He pursues 
Blacktalon to a high tower and slays him, but the Moldan 
of Aerillia causes an earthquake and the tower falls. 
Anvar survives but is trapped underground. Unable to 
attack him in her earthly form, the Moldan transports him 
into another dimension—the Elsewhere of such 
Elemental beings as the Moldan and the Phaerie. Here 
she takes the form of a monster and attacks— for she 
wants the Staff of Earth. 
Incensed by Anvar's escape, Miathan, in Harihn's body, 
attacks Aurian, who goes into labor. Yazour and 
Schiannath come to her rescue—as do a pack of wolves, 
summoned by the desperate Mage. Harihn is slain by the 
pack leader, and as Miathan's curse takes effect, Aurian's 
child assumes the shape of a wolf-cub. When Parric 
reaches the tower, the Windeye frees Iscalda from her 
equine shape, and Parric, as Herdlord, pardons 
Schiannath the outlaw. Aurian journeys with Chiamh to 
Aerillia, in search of Anvar. 
Hellorin, Lord of the Phaerie, discovers the presence of 
the Staff of Earth in his realm, and with Aurian's mother, 
goes to Anvar's rescue. The Moldan is destroyed, and 
Hellorin sends Anvar Between the Worlds to the 
Timeless Lake, to seek the Harp of Winds. Anvar evades 
the traps set by the Cailleach, guardian of the Harp, and 
claims the Artifact for his own. He returns to Aerillia and 

finds Aurian, and at last they affirm their love. Using the 
Artifacts to break the deadly power of Eliseth's winter, 
they bring spring back to the world. 
Chapter 1 - The Miracle of Spring 
Parric would never forget that sunrise—that momentous 
dawn when winter's evil grip had been loosed at last, and 
glorious spring had spread her gentle wings across the 
world. The cavalrymaster had been standing through the 
long hours of darkness on the high parapet of Incondor's 
Tower, chilled to the bone despite his cloak and an extra 
blanket thrown loosely around his shoulders. The 
unaccustomed burdens of leadership had chased away all 
hope of sleep, so be had volunteered to stand watch while 
the others rested, and had climbed up here to be alone 
with his thoughts. 
Parric had much to plan concerning his journey back to 
the Xandim lands, and the cavalrymaster from Nexis, 
who had risen so high as to become Herdlord of the 
Xandim, had an additional responsibility now in Aurian's 
strange new companions from the south. But Parric 
found it hard to concentrate on mundane details this 
morning. Instead, he found his gaze turning repeatedly to 
the northwest, toward the towering mountain peaks 

beyond which lay lofty Aerillia, the Skyfolk citadel. 
Aurian, the headstrong young Mage that the 
cavalrymaster had followed halfway across the world, 
had gone there in haste the previous day, borne aloft by 
winged warriors. She had left Parric again, with barely a 
word of explanation, though he had traveled through so 
many perils in search of her and had only just found her. 
The cavalrymaster's thoughts had been dark with dismay 
as he stood looking out across the bleak expanse of 
snowfields that were slowly emerging beneath a sky 
growing pale behind its gloomy overcast, as the wan light 
of another shrouded sunrise seeped reluctantly across the 
stark landscape. What the blazes was Aurian up to now? 
What was so important that she had left her newborn son 
behind at the Tower of Incondor? Parric knew only that 
she had gone to find Anvar, the servant who had fled 
with her from Nexis on the night of Forral's death. Parric 
frowned. What was Anvar to her, that she had gone 
rushing off in such frantic haste? True, she'd always been 
fond of the lad, but… "Oh, don't be bloody stupid, 
Parric," he told himself. It was a waste of time to worry 
about Aurian. She'd had little time to tell him much about 
her adventures, but from the fragments he had managed 
to glean, it was obvious that the Mage was capable of 
coping with far more than a bunch of flying freaks such 
as the Skyfolk of Aerillia. 
Somewhat cheered, Parric decided to go in search of 

something to drink that would take the chill from his 
bones. But as he turned away from the parapet, he was 
startled by a movement above him, on the very edge of 
his vision. His warrior's reflexes had him crouched in a 
defensive corner of the parapet, sword in hand, before he 
even realized what was happening. When his thoughts 
had time to catch up with his instincts, the cavalrymaster 
emerged somewhat sheepishly from his refuge, sheathing 
his sword with a rueful curse. It was a good thing no one 
had been about to see him, he thought. A right fool he'd 
have looked! 
Parric scowled up at the changing sky. Clouds. Nothing 
but bloody clouds, that's what had alarmed him. "I must 
be getting old," he muttered to himself—then suddenly 
he stopped and looked again, his eyes narrowing as they 
squinted up into the growing brightness. Something 
unnatural was happening. The clouds were moving faster 
and faster: racing, hurtling across the sky toward the 
north. Towering banks of dark vapor rolled ponderously 
across the heavens, disintegrating—even as Parric looked 
on in awe—into smoking, streaming shreds, as though 
they were being ripped apart by the jaws of some mighty 
wind. Yet on the ground, where the cavalrymaster stood, 
not even the breath of a breeze was stirring. Patches of 
high, clear sky began to appear as the cloud cover 
thinned and was whisked away. Parric looked up into a 
breathtaking blueness such as he had not seen for a long 

and dismal age. He let out a low whistle of surprise, and 
lingered to watch the clearing sky. The unexpected 
beauty of the sight lifted his spirits far higher than any 
liquor could have done. 
As the last of the vanquished clouds fled the eastern 
horizon, the sun burst forth in all its glory, spreading a 
blaze of golden warmth like a benison across the world. 
Before Parric's disbelieving eyes, the snow that had 
locked the land in chains for so long began to melt, 
dissolving and shrinking away with uncanny speed. On 
the walls of the tower, icicles formed and dripped, and 
the nearby thicket was filled with the patter of falling 
droplets as boughs and twigs shed their coating of snow. 
Within minutes, it seemed, the chill white blanket that 
had covered the mountains for so long had vanished 
completely, leaving great pools and lakes of standing 
water that were already beginning to seep away—and a 
familiar sound that the cavalrymaster had not heard in 
many months: the joyous, rippling song of rushing water 
as the icebound streams were freed at last. 
This miracle had to be Aurian's work! The untried young 
woman who had fled the northern city of Nexis so many 
months ago was older and wiser now, and hardened by 
sorrow and struggle. And somehow—Parric felt the 
certainty deep within his bones, and shuddered in 
awe—she had managed to find the power to break the 
paralyzing spell of winter that the evil Weather-Mage 

Eliseth had cast across the world. At long last Aurian had 
started to turn the tide of evil wrought by the foes who 
were her own kin and blood, and soon would be bringing 
the battle home to those who had slain her beloved Forral 
and enslaved the free Mortals of Nexis. 
Parric was about to rush down into the tower to share the 
good news, but there was more to come. Spreading like a 
verdant tide across the brown, frost-blasted hillsides 
came a haze of varied green as the earth awakened and 
the plant life, dormant for so long in corm and seed, 
began to stir and stretch. Heather and juniper, grass and 
moss and fern, put forth foliage and fronds in an 
explosion of new life. In the thicket below the tower new 
leaves began to sprout, like tiny banners of celebration, 
while snowdrops dotted the ground between the 
outspread roots. The air was moist and fragrant, and 
tingling with new life. Spring had come to the mountains 
in a single bound, erasing every trace of winter as though 
it had never been. Somewhere in the depths of the 
thicket, a single bird—one tiny, valiant survivor of the 
iron cold—began to sing. 
Parric's joyful shout aroused the sleepers in the tower. 
One by one, they stumbled out through the narrow 
doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes, then stopping to stare and 
gape in astonishment as they registered the changes that 
had taken place while they had slumbered. Out came the 
swarthy Khazalim soldiers from the far south, leaderless 

now that their Prince, the misguided and treacherous 
Harihn, had been slain. Out came Parric's own troops, the 
little band of Xandim warriors that he had brought with 
him to help in the rescue of Aurian. In their midst were 
the two Xandim exiles, Schiannath and his sister, Iscalda, 
who had befriended Aurian during her imprisonment in 
the tower. They had been redeemed now and reunited 
with their people, and such joy shone in their faces that 
Parric found himself smiling in response to their 
happiness. 
Following somewhat more hesitantly, as though they 
were still in fear of their traditional foes, came the 
companions that Aurian had picked up on her southern 
travels. What were their names? Parric frowned, trying to 
remember. Eliizar— that was it. The bald, rangy, oneeyed 
man was the swordmaster Eliizar, and the small, 
plump woman who followed in his wake was his wife, 
Nereni, chattering, to Parric's amusement, nonstop as 
usual as she voiced her astonishment at the sudden 
spring. The cavalrymaster didn't have to understand her 
language to know just what she was saying! 
Behind Eliizar and Nereni came Bohan, towering above 
the others. Cradled tenderly in the eunuch's huge arms 
was the tiny form of Wolf, Aurian's son, born amid a 
storm of violence and bloodshed only two days before 
(could it be only two days? Parric could scarcely believe 
it). The child had been well named, he reflected with a 

shudder. The poor infant had been cursed before his birth 
by the evil Archmage Miathan, so that he would take the 
shape of the first beast Aurian saw after bearing him. 
When Aurian had called the wild wolves from the 
surrounding area to help her escape from the tower, little 
Wolfs fate had been sealed. Parric looked down sadly at 
the tiny cub in Bohan's arms. It was just as well that the 
child had such a staunch protector. The poor mite had not 
had much of a start in life. And when was his mother 
coming back for him? Why had she left so precipitately? 
What, in short, was Aurian doing in the lands of the 
Skyfolk? 
Spring had come to the city of Nexis. Sunlight washed 
over the city in a honeyed tide, gilding the tips of towers 
and spires, pouring its healing warmth over sagging 
thatch and flaking limewash, mellowing the harsh old 
fascias of crumbling brick and venerable stone. The trees 
that screened the merchants' mansions on the southern 
bank of the river were misted over with a haze of new 
leaves that mingled every possible shade of green, and 
across the river on the northern bank, delicate threads of 
smoke, soon whisked away by the fragrant breeze, rose 
from every chimney—a sure sign of coppers aboil in the 
kitchens below, where the householders were indulging 
in an orgy of spring cleaning. New-washed clothing, 
strung up across every inch of space in backyards and on 

balconies, wreathed the city in a rainbow patchwork of 
celebration banners. 
The air was vibrant with birdsong, and from scores of 
shutters, flung wide to admit dry air and sunshine, came 
the rasp of saws and the rhythmic tapping of hammers as 
the citizens of Nexis set to work with a will to repair the 
ravages of winter. Women sang as they wielded 
scrubbing brush, bucket, and broom; children, half-wild 
with the heady thrill of liberation from endless days spent 
in dark, damp rooms, ran shrieking with excitement 
through the drying mud of the alleys. 
Only in two hearts was the joy of spring conspicuously 
absent. Miathan, Archmage of Nexis, stood looking out 
over the parapet that guarded the lofty, open temple 
crowning the roof of the Mages' Tower. Beside him was 
Eliseth, the Weather-Mage, whose plans had been so 
cruelly thwarted by the death of the unnatural winter that 
she had created. The endless, ice-locked season had been 
her own creation and charge, and now, as she looked out 
across the city, a sneer of angry disgust distorted her 
flawless features while her cold gray eyes held the 
expression of a hawk that had struck at— and 
missed—its prey. The Archmage suppressed an ironic 
smile. Though his own plans were currently in tatters, he 
was old and cunning enough to know that such setbacks 
could be reversed, given time—and meanwhile he could 
take some small consolation from this irresistible 

opportunity to feel smug at Eliseth's expense, despite the 
fact that he himself had not emerged unscathed from his 
latest encounter with his renegade runaway 
apprentice—Aurian. 
But Miathan had either not been paying sufficient 
attention to the screening of his thoughts, or Eliseth's 
mind had been running along a similar track, for turning 
to the Archmage, she scorched him with a scathing 
glance. "Well?" she snapped. "Proud of your pupil, are 
you? Just look at this—and all because you let Aurian 
and her paramour, Anvar, escape you!" She glared at the 
sunlit panorama below her as though it were a personal 
affront. "What in the name of all the gods do we do 
now?" 
"I have no idea." With an abrupt motion of his hand 
Miathan quelled the protest that was forming on the 
Magewoman's lips. "I have no idea—yet," he continued, 
"but rest assured, Eliseth, this battle is not over—not by a 
long road. Now, of all times, we must stay calm, and 
think, and plan—and, as a matter of priority, complete 
our defenses." Striding across the flat rooftop, he crossed 
to the other side and turned the glittering gaze of the 
gems that were his eyes toward the south, as though to 
pierce the long miles that separated him from Aurian. 
"One thing is certain," he muttered. "Even if we do 
nothing at all, it is only a matter of time now before 
Aurian comes to us." 

Aurian was cleaning the rust from her sword. 
"Must you do that in bed?" Anvar protested sleepily. 
"I was waiting for you to wake. Now that you have, I'm 
sure I can think of a better alternative." Aurian's eyes 
twinkled as she looked across at her fellow Mage. 
Winning the Harp of Winds had changed him, much as 
she herself had been altered when she had recreated the 
Staff of Earth and claimed it as her own. Anvar was 
more, somehow, than he had been before. His blue eyes 
sparkled with a greater intensity; his hair was a brighter 
shade of gold. An aura of vibrant power surrounded him, 
transforming his entire being into the appearance of 
something more than merely human. Aurian, however, 
had undergone a similar transfiguration when she had 
claimed the Staff of Earth, and knew that appearances 
could be deceptive. In his heart, where it mattered, her 
fellow Mage was the same as he had ever been. 
Anvar stretched and smothered a yawn. "What time is 
it?" 
Aurian shrugged. "Haven't a clue." She glanced out of the 
window. "It's dark again, though, so we must have slept 
all day." She sighed. "I suppose they'll be coming to fetch 
us soon, for Raven's celebration banquet—not that it'll be 
much of a feast. This winter has left the Skyfolk on short 
rations indeed." 
"It won't be so bad," Anvar replied. "While you were 

talking with Shia this morning, Raven remembered all 
the food we left cached in the forest on the edge of the 
Jeweled Desert. She went off at once with a squadron of 
Winged Folk to collect it. And to try out her newly 
recovered powers of flight," he added with a frown. 
"Blast her! I just healed those wings of hers, and it was 
anything but easy," Aurian said. "She had no business 
putting such a strain on them so soon!" 
Anvar was still frowning. "I don't understand why you 
did it at all," he burst out angrily. "After betraying us as 
she did, she doesn't deserve—" 
"Hush, love." Aurian laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You 
were still in trouble, here in Aerillia, and Shia was 
trapped here, too, remember? I knew you both were in 
danger, and I had to get here quickly—I needed Raven's 
cooperation." She looked down at Shia, who was curled 
up fast asleep, taking up the remaining space in the odd, 
circular scoop that the Winged Folk called a bed. The 
great cat was still exhausted from her heroic, nearimpossible 
climb up the sheer cliffs to Aerillia—bringing 
Anvar the Staff of Earth—not to mention her part in the 
battle that had taken place in the Temple of Incondor and 
resulted in the death of Blacktalon, the vile and corrupt 
High Priest of the Winged Folk. Shia was also worn out 
by her grief over the fate of Hreeza, the valiant, sharptongued 
old cat who had been her friend, and who had 
been brutally slain in the temple at the hands of a blood

crazed Skyfolk mob. Aurian sighed. Poor Hreeza's body 
still had not been found. 
"I'm sorry." Anvar's voice pulled the Mage away from 
her thoughts. "I know you had good reasons for healing 
Raven. It just — well, it galls me, that's all. After 
everything we suffered because she betrayed us…" With 
an effort he dismissed the subject. "Anyway, Raven can 
wait. What were these alternatives that you were 
mentioning when I woke up?" Now he was grinning, and 
there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes. 
"Allow me to demonstrate." Aurian was consumed by a 
surge of pure happiness as she slipped the now-gleaming 
Coronach, her precious and long-disused sword that she 
had rescued from the Tower of Incondor, back into its 
scabbard and reached out to her lover. She slid her 
fingers through the silken gold of Anvar's hair, losing 
herself in the blue depths of his eyes. Her arms encircled 
him, his skin smooth to her touch, his body hardened to 
spare bone and muscle and sinew by the privations of 
their quest. Aurian let herself sink into the welcome of 
his embrace… 
Their bliss was rudely interrupted by the whirring of 
great wings on the landing platform outside their tower 
lodgings followed by a thunderous knocking on the door 
and the rasp of steel leaping free from scabbard as 
Yazour and Chiamh drew their weapons in the adjoining 
room where they had been sleeping with Khanu, Shia's 

other feline companion. 
Aurian cursed, and groped beyond the edge of the bed for 
her scattered clothing. "Now what?" she muttered sourly. 
The winged messenger, when they let him in, was in a 
state of considerable agitation. "Come quickly, come 
quickly," he cried. "Something dreadful is happening in 
the ruins of the temple. We heard screams…" 
"It's not fair!" Linnet muttered. Scowling, the winged 
child glowered at the now-deserted ruins of the Yinze's 
Temple and kicked a loose stone from the top of a 
tottering pile. The stone went bouncing away, dislodging 
a small cascade of other rubble that slid after it with a 
staccato rattle. Linnet jumped back, startled, her wings 
spread for flight. She half expected to hear a grown-up 
voice raised in reprimand—the Father of Skies only 
knew, the temple was wrecked enough without her 
contribution—but nothing stirred save the sharp, dying 
echoes of the clatter of stone on stone. Nobody was there 
to scold Linnet—no one, in fact, had even noticed she 
was missing, the fledgling thought with a sniff of selfpity. 
The grown-ups were all across at the palace, 
celebrating the unexpected coming of spring, the 
accession of the new Queen, and the rediscovery of the 
Harp of Winds by some strange, alien, wingless Wizard. 
Linnet's small but vital part in these miraculous events 
appeared to have been forgotten entirely. 

"It's just not fair!" Linnet muttered again. "By Yinze— I 
was supposed to be the hero!" Had Cygnus, the whitewinged 
Skyman, not promised her as much? Why, had 
she not single-handedly carried the news that the Queen 
was being held captive by Blacktalon, the evil High 
Priest? And at the risk of dire retribution from her mother 
for having been playing where she had no business to be 
in the first place? Linnet sat down on a fallen beam and 
dropped her chin disconsolately into her hands. "That 
Cygnus promised me a reward, too," she sighed. "But 
what with all the fuss and excitement about everything 
else, I don't suppose he'll remember." 
A lot of things had been forgotten since the strange, 
wingless Wizard, with eyes the color of the summer sky, 
had appeared out of nowhere in the ruined temple, 
carrying the Harp of Winds. Linnet couldn't understand 
what all the fuss was about. A harp—so what? Why old 
Martin, the instrument maker, could turn out harps by the 
dozen! Oh, the thing looked pretty, for sure: twinkling 
and glowing as though it had been wrought of purest 
moonlight and the glimmer of stars—at least it had 
seemed that way in the quick glimpse that Linnet had 
been able to snatch before Louette, her mother, had 
whisked her away to take care of her little brother, Lark, 
while Louette went off to the palace with everyone else. 
"And now they're all having fun except me," the winged 
child grumbled, aggrieved. She huddled down, shivering, 

and wrapped her wings tightly about herself. Spring it 
might be, but the glittering, starcrazed night still held a 
lingering chill, as if winter, though defeated, were loath 
to slink away. Linnet tried to warm herself with the fire 
of righteous indignation. " I should be there, at the 
palace! I should be getting my reward for saving the 
Queen, instead of sitting at home with that little brat!" 
But in truth her conscience was nagging her—for of 
course she was not at home taking care of Lark. Once her 
brother had fallen asleep, Linnet had crept out and 
headed for the palace, hoping that she would be able to 
sneak up as close as she had done on the fateful day 
(could it really be only yesterday?) when she'd found the 
captive Queen, and catch a glimpse of the festivities 
through some window. And if only she could attract the 
attention of Queen Raven's white-winged companion 
without her mother catching her first, then she might get 
her reward after all. 
Linnet's plans, however, had come to naught. Halfway to 
the palace her courage had failed her. It had been 
different last time, when the gigantic edifice had been 
virtually deserted as the Winged Folk mourned the 
passing of Queen Flamewing. But tonight the towers and 
spires had been aglow with a blaze of torchlight that 
outrivaled the red-gold glory of sunset, while clamorous 
swarms of excited Skyfolk circled the turrets and went 
zipping in and out of every doorway, preparing the best 

feast that could possibly be managed from the meager 
stock of remaining supplies. The winged child could not 
get anywhere near the building without being spotted— 
and if her mother should catch her, it wouldn't be a 
reward that she'd be getting! A bitterly disappointed 
Linnet had been turning away to head back home when 
her eye had caught the black and shattered shell of 
Yinze's Temple. 
The fledgling's thwarted, rebellious spirit had guided her 
toward the menacing hulk of the temple ruins. She had so 
desperately wanted to be distinguished by the important 
folk at the palace—already she had unwisely bragged to 
her friends about her adventures, and the reward she'd 
been promised. Linnet couldn't bear to think of the 
teasing she'd receive on the morrow when the other 
children discovered that she'd been left tamely at home to 
sit with Lark. At least the ruins held out the hope of 
another adventure—or at least, if she used her 
imagination, an incredible and thrilling tale with which 
she could impress the others and hopefully avert their 
taunts. 
Now, however, the rush of indignant disappointment had 
begun to cool, and Linnet was having second thoughts. 
While the blush of sunset had still bathed the sky, the 
ruins had looked like some old, harmless heap of 
stones—but now that night had laid a shadowy caul 
across its scarred and shattered face, the temple had taken 

on a far more sinister aspect. 
A shiver ran down the winged child's spine. In the 
deceptive gloom eerie transformations were taking place. 
An up standing sliver of stone—all that remained of one 
of the decorative archways—had become a tall, cloaked 
figure, its features hidden within the fathomless depths of 
a cowl of deepest black. Twisted pieces of votive silver 
took on the eerie gleam of ghostly figures, while a 
scattered drift of broken crystal from the massive stainedglass 
window depicting the Fall of Incondor had become 
the gleam of many unknown eyes. A pile of fallen stone 
had turned into the lithe, sinister contours of a crouching 
beast. Everywhere, shadows were advancing in the 
stillness: deep holes of deeper black against the 
thickening darkness. They seemed to be reaching out for 
Linnet—and what did they conceal? Was the ghost of 
Blacktalon stirring amid the desolate ruin of his 
stronghold? Would he come creeping forth out of the 
darkness, clutching the ghastly trophy of his severed 
head? 
"Oh, for Yinze's sake, don't be stupid!" the winged child 
told herself sharply, speaking aloud to boost her faltering 
courage. "There's no such thing as ghosts—they don't 
exist!" Nevertheless, a tactical retreat at this point 
seemed a very good idea. After all, she told herself, Lark 
just might wake and be afraid to find himself alone… 
Linnet needed only to find a souvenir, some distinctive 

item, to prove to her friends that she had actually been 
there. 
Linnet stooped, peering narrow-eyed into the gathering 
gloaming, and wished she'd had the sense to bring a 
torch. Then, as she scrabbled among the cold, rough, 
sharp-edged stones, a blood-chilling sound came tingling 
to her ears: a low, bubbling moan that reverberated 
through the rocks below her feet and rose to an eerie, 
wailing crescendo. With a breathless squeak of terror, the 
fledgling spread her wings to flee—and went sprawling 
to her hands and knees as her left foot slipped between 
two loose chunks of masonry and twisted, unbalancing 
her and pulling her down. And though Linnet, oblivious 
in her panic to the pain, tugged with the strength of 
terror, the foot remained obstinately jammed. She was 
trapped. 
Linnet bit her lip to stop herself from crying aloud—a 
fleeting glimmer of common sense told her that the last 
thing she needed was to draw attention to herself. The 
wailing came again, softer this time, as though whatever 
creature was making the anguished sound had gone 
beyond the limits of its strength. Linnet wet herself. The 
warm, spreading dampness was an utter humiliation, 
noted in some deep, buried place at the back of her 
mind—the part of her brain that dealt with normal, 
everyday occurrences. But the terrified core of her had 
taken control. The fledgling wrenched again at her 

unyielding foot, too scared even to cry out as another 
white-hot lance of pain pierced tier leg. All at once, time 
seemed to slow as her mind began to work with the speed 
of desperation. Linnet analyzed her predicament in a 
lucid flash or inspiration born of extremity. She saw that 
the two great chunks of stone trapping her foot were too 
heavy for her childish strength to shift, but they were 
bedded on a base of loose rubble. If she could dig that 
out, she might unbalance one of the blocks and free 
herself… 
Sobbing with fear, Linnet clawed frantically at the loose, 
surrounding stone until her fingers bled, hoping to shift 
the balance of the larger blocks. Then, as she cleared a 
space, her stinging, abraded fingers met with something 
warm, soft, and yielding. Something that moved. Into the 
fledgling's mind came the faintest whisper of a harsh, old 
voice: "Help me… You can hear me—help me. …" 
One of the palace revelers, having slipped briefly outside 
to clear the wine fumes from his head, heard a scream of 
terror ripping through the night. The unnerving sound 
came from the vicinity of the temple. Gray with shock, 
he swooped back inside on shaky wings to raise the 
alarm. 
"Well, I'll be damned." Aurian, kneeling in the shallow 
pit from which the rubble had been flung hurriedly aside, 
laid a fleeting hand on Shia's broad head. "So this is your 

old friend Hreeza that you thought was dead!" She laid 
her hands on the cold, battered body that lay before her 
and shook her head in amazement. "Well, she's 
incredibly lucky to be alive—that's all I can say!" 
"That remains to be seen." Shia, with Khanu peering 
anxiously over her shoulder, poked Hreeza's body with 
an anxious muzzle. "Will she survive, do you think?" 
Aurian caught the underlying thread of anxiety in the 
great cat's tone. The caring was different, she mused. 
Shia, though speaking in extremity, and in tones of 
deepest concern, had never spoken of the Mage or Anvar 
or any of their party in that same way. But this time, the 
casualty was one of her own folk. Aurian wished she had 
a comforting answer, but she could never bring herself to 
lie to Shia. Their relationship went too deep. 
Aurian probed Hreeza with her Healer's senses, but the 
response of the old cat was not encouraging. 
Nonetheless, she tried to remain positive. "If the stubborn 
old fighter has such a stranglehold on life, I'd say she has 
every chance, so long as we act quickly." The Mage 
shook her head in amazement and dismay. "Broken 
bones—the lot!" she muttered. "She must have been 
unconscious for over a day or you'd have heard her, Shia. 
I would guess that the child must have disturbed her and 
brought her out of it in some manner. Somehow, in the 
depths of her being, she must have realized it was her 
only chance of rescue—but that one last, desperate 

struggle to seek help was almost enough to finish her." 
Even as she spoke, Aurian was summoning her Healing 
powers, augmented by the might of the Staff, to pull the 
old cat back from the brink of death. Swiftly she worked 
at knitting fragile bones and restoring sundered tissue, 
losing herself in the complexity of the task—yet halfaware, 
after a time, that Anvar was by her side, his hand 
on the Staff, steadily feeding her with energy to 
supplement her own, so that she would not be too 
depleted at the end of her work. Chiamh knelt by the 
great cat's head, using his own spells to force air in and 
out of Hreeza's lungs, keeping her breathing while 
Aurian worked. The winged physicians Elster and 
Cygnus hovered behind the Mage, peering rapt with 
fascination over her shoulders and marveling at her 
Healing powers. 
Aurian's repair work was basic, and carried out as swiftly 
as possible to minimize the threats of cold and shock to 
her fragile old patient. After a time, she rose swiftly to 
her feet. "Very well," she said briskly, "that'll hold her 
for now, but we must get her quickly to warmth and 
shelter without disturbing the remainder of her injuries or 
jeopardizing these delicate new repairs." Aurian turned to 
her fellow Mage. "Anvar, I'd like you to back me up as 
you've been doing—but in place of a steady feed of 
energy, I need all the power you can give me in a single, 
massive surge. I want to take Hreeza out of time for a 

few minutes and use my mother's old apport spell to send 
her safely to our quarters." 
Anvar's eyes widened. "What, simultaneously? Isn't that 
a little drastic?" 
Aurian shook her head. "Not really. It'll be tiring for both 
of us, though—I'm still out of practice, having recovered 
my powers so recently—and I want to leave some energy 
in reserve to finish Hreeza's Healing. That's why I need 
your help." 
Once more, Anvar placed his hands on the Staff. "You 
can always count on my help," he told her—and for an 
instant their eyes met in a warm, unspoken communion. 
"Get on with it—please," Shia growled, and the Mages, 
sensing her anxiety, turned quickly back to their patient. 
The time spell was simple enough, and Aurian sent a 
brief prayer of thanks to the spirit of her old friend 
Finbarr, who had taught her that particular piece of magic 
while she was still a girl. Once Hreeza was safely 
immobilized, Aurian prepared herself for the apport 
spell. She grasped the Staff firmly, feeling Anvar's hands, 
warm and steady, touching her own as she opened herself 
to the power of the Artifact. Concentrating hard, she 
wrapped the web of her power around the old cat, 
cradling Hreeza in a sheath of magic that shimmered 
with the Staffs unearthly green light. Then, visualizing 
the desired destination—her own tower rooms—Aurian 
gathered her will and pushed. 

In a flash of emerald radiance, Hreeza vanished. Air 
rushed in with a thunderclap to fill the space the cat had 
occupied, and the watching Skyfolk leapt back with 
startled oaths and cries, rubbing the dazzle from their 
streaming eyes. Aurian sagged against Anvar, feeling, 
despite his assistance, as though she had carried Hreeza 
every inch of the way on her own back. That was the 
trouble with apport spells, the Mage reflected ruefully. 
They might move objects quickly and easily, but their 
range was very limited, and they took every bit as much 
energy as the more conventional methods. 
Chiamh, the Xandim Windeye, was leaning limply 
against a pile of broken masonry, his eyes unfocused and 
blank with their sheen of silver, and Aurian realized that 
he was using his particular talent of riding the wind to 
check whether the old cat had reached her destination. 
Even as Aurian watched, he shook himself abruptly and 
straightened as the reflective glimmer drained from his 
eyes to restore them to their usual warm amber. "She got 
there safely," he informed the Mage in awestruck tones. 
"Light of the Goddess, Lady, what a spell! Can you move 
yourself like that, also?" 
Aurian smiled and shook her head. "Can you pick 
yourself up by your own boots?" she countered, and 
turned back to Anvar. "Come on, let's go and finish 
healing Hreeza." She was about to beckon her winged 
bearers, when, frowning in sudden recollection, she 

looked around. "By the way, what happened to the little 
girl who found her? In all the excitement we forgot to 
thank her…" 
"I would leave that for now, if I were you." Anvar 
gestured over his shoulder, and Aurian, gathering her 
wits after the draining apport spell, became aware of a 
commotion taking place in the shadows some distance 
away. A scolding voice and a flurry of slaps followed by 
a rising wail told the Mage that the winged child's mother 
had passed the point of relief and had reached the stage 
of exasperation. Aurian winced sympathetically. "Poor 
mite," she murmured. 
"Wait until it's your turn," Shia interjected slyly. "You 
have all these joys of motherhood still to come." 
Aurian raised her eyes to the heavens. "May the gods 
help me, she muttered. 
Cygnus turned hastily away as Aurian approached, 
calling for her bearers to fly her back to her tower. The 
young physician-priest was unwilling to show the Mage 
his face, lest she divine his most secret thoughts. In a 
blaze of bitterness and envy he had watched her Healing 
powers at work, knowing in his heart that he was wrong 
to resent such miraculous gifts, but unable to help 
himself. How could the gods be so unjust, the whitewinged 
physician wondered, as his mind went back to the 
depredations of the dread, uncanny winter, and his own 

inability to help his suffering people. Why should these 
freakish wingless ones possess such powers while his 
own race, once Magefolk in their own right, remained 
impotent and bereft? 
Across the shadows Cygnus looked at Anvar, who was 
clambering into a net to be transported across to his 
tower. As the Mage pushed a hampering fold of his cloak 
aside, the Skyman glimpsed the eldritch glimmer of the 
Harp of Winds, strapped securely to Anvar's back. The 
physician clenched his teeth, seething with resentment. 
Why should this alien, this interloper, possess the most 
precious heirloom of the Winged Folk? What right had 
he to keep it, when it truly belonged to its creators? 
Perhaps, just possibly, the precious Artifact could be 
used to restore the lost and stolen powers of the Skyfolk 
…"And if I possessed the Harp," Cygnus murmured to 
himself, "I might become a true Healer at last…" 
Eliizar stood in the open doorway of the Tower of 
Incondor, blind to the beauty of the rich spring landscape 
that spread out before him like a colorful tapestry, and 
deaf to the song of the returning bird life and the cheerful 
calls and chatter of the warriors who brushed past him as 
they bustled in and out of the tower, preparing to set out 
for their various destinations. It seemed to the one-eyed 
swordmaster that he was the only one who wasn't busy 
on this second day of the miraculous spring, and—with 

the possible exception of Parric, the leader of the Xandim 
band, who by his demeanor, appeared to have a weight of 
worries on his mind—Eliizar was certainly the only one 
who wasn't cheerful. 
The swordmaster sighed, feeling low in spirits and very 
much alone. Nereni had gone off some time before, 
toward a nearby stream, carrying a tottering pile of dirty 
laundry and singing cheerfully to herself. Bohan was 
sitting in a sheltered patch of sunlight in an angle of the 
tower wall, with the two great wolves that Aurian had 
selected to be foster parents to her son in her absence 
stretched out beside him, for all the world like shaggy 
gray hounds. In the eunuch's lap, on a blanket, lay the 
tiny cub that was the Mage's child. Eliizar shuddered, 
nauseated by the sight of the accursed creature. How 
could Aurian bear it? he wondered. How could she 
possibly love such an abomination? How could she be so 
calm about the whole dreadful business? 
If only Yazour would return from Aerillia! Apart from 
the practical difficulties that Eliizar's little group had 
been encountering because their translators were all away 
in the lands of the Skyfolk, the one-eyed warrior 
desperately needed to talk to someone who might 
understand. He had lain awake all night, wrestling with 
the dilemma that had beset him, and in the bleak and 
solitary watches of the night he had reached his decision 
at last—the only decision, he had decided grimly, that 

made any sense. Unfortunately, he knew that Aurian 
would be far from happy about it—and Nereni wasn't 
going to like it at all. Nonetheless, the matter must be 
addressed, and there was no point in putting it off. 
Squaring his shoulders, the former swordmaster of the 
Khazalim Arena set off in search of his wife. 
Guided by a drift of fragrant woodsmoke on the breeze 
and the sound of distant singing, Eliizar soon found her 
where the stream ran out of the thicket below the tower. 
A large old caldron that had hung from a hook in the 
tower hearth was now scrubbed free of rust and dirt and 
was steaming gently over a crackling fire. Blankets and 
various items of clothing had been spread to dry on the 
bushes at the thicket's edge. Nereni was kneeling on a 
folded cloak at the water's edge, beating a linen tunic 
against the rocks that edged the stream and singing softly 
to herself as she worked. 
Eliizar hesitated for a moment at the edge of the coppice, 
screened from his wife's view by a patched gray blanket 
and a curtain of fresh green leaves. It had been a long 
time since he had seen Nereni happy like this, and now 
he must be the ruin of her newfound contentment. As he 
stepped out reluctantly to greet her, she scrambled to her 
feet, the dripping tunic still clutched in her hands, her 
face beaming with additional joy at the sight of him. 
"Eliizar! I was wondering where you could be! I…"As 
her voice faltered, the swordmaster knew his expression 

must have given him away. 
"Why, Eliizar, whatever ails you?" Nereni was frowning 
now. "How can you seem so gloomy on such a wonderful 
day?" 
"I must speak with you." Eliizar was hoping—praying— 
that she would forgive what he was about to say to her. 
"Nereni, our kinfolk are leaving tomorrow," he plunged 
on quickly. "They are returning to the forest at the 
desert's edge to build homes and make new lives for 
themselves, away from cruel kings and magical battles. 
Jharav has asked us to join them, and I—I firmly believe 
that we should go." 
"What?" Nereni's expression was growing stormier by 
the second. "Leave Aurian? Leave Anvar? Absolutely 
not, Eliizar! How in the Reaper's name could you even 
suggest such a dreadful thing?" As if to emphasize her 
words, she hurled down the tunic that she had been 
washing. It hit the surface of the stream with a 
resounding slap and began to float away on the current as 
the little woman rounded on her husband, her waterwrinkled 
fingers clenched into fists. 
Eliizar took a hasty step backward. He had never seen his 
gentle spouse so angry. "My dearest one, only listen for a 
moment…" he begged. 
"Only listen? Why should I sully my ears with such 
treacherous, ungrateful talk?" Nereni shouted. "Aurian is 
our friend, Eliizar! How could you even think of leaving 

her? Who will care for her if I do not? These Magefolk 
may be powerful, but practical? Why, neither one of 
them can so much as boil a pot of water without burning 
it!" 
Eliizar sighed. He had known that this was going to be 
difficult. "They have other powers that will more than 
compensate," he insisted, "and other companions who 
can help them far better than we, on their northward 
journey. Hear me out, Nereni — please. It is not our 
business to involve ourselves in this unnatural sorcery, 
and this is our last chance to leave before we become 
hopelessly embroiled in their fight against these other 
Magefolk." 
Eliizar was talking quickly, not giving his wife a chance 
to interrupt. "We cannot pass through the mountains 
alone, without aid," he went on urgently. "We either 
leave now, with our own folk — our own kind, Nereni — 
or embark on a road that has no turning back. And what 
will the future hold for us, as strangers in a foreign land 
— a land beset by blackest sorcery?" 
There was a new coldness, unnerving and unfamiliar, in 
Nereni's eyes. "You're afraid," she said softly. 
Shamefaced, unable to meet her gaze, the swordmaster 
dropped his face into his hands. "Yes," he whispered. "In 
the face of this sorcery, I am afraid — afraid as I have 
never been before." 
"And so you ask me to choose now between you and 

Aurian— - Aurian who became our friend and forgave us 
for putting her through the ordeal of the Arena, who freed 
us from the power of the tyrant Xiang — " 
"Nereni, stop! This is more than I can bear!" Her words 
pierced Eliizar's heart like a spear of ice, turning him 
cold with horror. Nereni thought he was asking her to 
choose? The notion had never occurred to him — it was 
not the way of the Khazalim. It was a man's place to 
decide the comings and goings, and a woman's place to 
go — or stay — as he dictated. For the first time in all 
their wanderings, he truly realized how greatly matters 
had changed between himself and Nereni. And yet… 
Eliizar looked at his once timid, placid, unadventurous 
little wife, and saw the newfound spark and spirit in her 
eyes. He suddenly realized that her courage and common 
sense had become more pronounced — and appreciated 
by the other companions — as their journey had 
progressed. Why had he been so blind for so long? 
Indeed, Nereni had coped far better with many of the 
shocks and surprises of their adventures than had Eliizar, 
swordmaster and seasoned warrior! 
Even as these thoughts were racing through Eliizar's 
mind, he was aware that Nereni's unrelenting gaze was 
fixed upon his face as she awaited an answer. He had 
been humbled and outdone by the courage of his 
wife—and it was not a pleasant feeling. The swordmaster 
felt his face grow hot with anger. "No, wife," he growled. 

"I am not asking you to choose. I have decided that we 
will return to the forest with our people, and I am telling 
you that you are coming with me." With that, he turned 
on his heel and strode away up the hill in search of 
Jharav, the veteran officer who was now in charge of the 
Khazalim contingent. Eliizar did not look back—and it 
was his own misfortune that he did not. The expression 
of anger and disgust on Nereni's face might well have 
persuaded him to reconsider. 
Chapter 2 - Journey's Beginning 
In the moonlight, the lichened gray stones of the Tower 
of Incondor looked as though they had been dipped in 
silver. On the slope between the ancient, crumbling pile 
of stone and the reaching shadow-fingers of the thicket, 
every blade of the blossom-starred turf was sharply 
outlined in a chiaroscuro of sharp-cut shadow and frosty 
light, almost as though winter had stolen back again on 
stealthy feet. But the air was alive with the tingling 
fragrance of spring, and it was somehow reassuring: a 
promise that the days of endless cold were gone at last, 
though the night breeze was still cool enough and the two 
winged couriers were grateful for the warmth of their 
close-wrapped wings. 

Finch and Petrel, the two Skyfolk messengers stationed 
here at the behest of Queen Raven and the groundling 
Mages, sat perched like a pair of gargoyles on a high 
projection of worn stonework at the rear of the tower, as 
far away as possible from the presence of the wingless 
aliens with whom they had been forced to associate. 
Following their refusal to sleep with the foreigners inside 
the tower, they had been allotted a place on the roof in a 
crude lean-to shelter constructed against the warm stones 
of the chimney; but the constant circuits of the rooftop 
sentry had disturbed their slumbers, and the brilliance of 
the night—for the dazzling moon was just past its 
full—had made them restless. Eventually they had been 
driven to this dizzy perch between sky and ground where 
they could think in peace and talk softly and privately 
about the momentous changes that had taken place in 
their city over the previous two days. 
Apart from the monotonous footfalls of the sentry as he 
made his rounds on the rooftop above the Winged Folk, 
nothing stirred in the moondrenched stillness. After a 
time the quiet speech of the couriers grew fitful, and 
faltered into silence. Then, breaking into the profound 
peace of the night, came the tiniest of sounds: a faint, 
high-pitched creak as the tower door eased open. 
The two Skyfolk stiffened, instantly alert, and glanced at 
one another in wide-eyed alarm. They did not completely 
trust these groundling strangers, and anyone skulking 

about in the middle of the night must surely be up to no 
good! An unspoken signal flashed between the two 
winged figures. Silently, stealthily, long knives were 
eased from sheaths, and the couriers tensed their wings 
for flight. Soft footfalls could be heard… Someone was 
creeping around the side of the tower! 
It was fortunate for the prowler that the moonlight was so 
bright. As soon as Finch and Petrel saw the silhouetted 
figure of their stalker, they sheathed their weapons and 
relaxed their combative stance, their expressions 
changing from alarm to amused astonishment. Why, it 
was that little woman who seemed to feel the need to 
mother everyone in the encampment—the one who kept 
plying them with such delicious food! The one 
groundling among the lot of them that the Skyfolk trusted 
to pose them no threat. 
"What in the name of Yinze can she be doing?" Petrel 
hissed to his companion. At the sound of his whisper the 
groundling looked up, placed a finger to her lips to signal 
silence, and beckoned them down. "Aerillia, Aerillia," 
she whispered urgently, tugging at the arm of the nearest 
Skyman and pointing first to herself and then to the dark 
heap of meshes that was their cargo net, left safely at the 
foot of the tower wall. 
For a few moments, the winged couriers had difficulty 
believing what they thought she meant by her urgent 
gestures. At last, however, Finch turned to Petrel in 

dismay. "She wants us to fetch the net and take her to 
Aerillia? Tell me it's not true!" 
His companion shrugged. "She can mean nothing else." 
Finch, by far the smaller of the pair, looked ruefully at 
Nereni's plump form and flexed his wiry arms. "Why 
her?" he sighed. "Couldn't they have sent one of the 
others, for Yinze's sake?" 
Aurian, narrowing her eyes in concentration, peered into 
the deceptive, shadowed gloom of the cramped tunnel, 
and blessed the gods once again for the gift of her Mage's 
night-vision. "Shift that torch a little, would you, please?" 
she muttered over her shoulder to Cygnus. "I'm working 
in my own shadow here." 
Beside her the Mage felt Anvar's shoulder brush her own 
as he wormed his way forward to take a closer look into 
the narrow gap between the fallen stones. "That's the 
place we want," he said. "There—can you see it? Where 
that big slab of rock has slipped at an angle. If we can 
just wedge it upright somehow, it should prop the 
others…" 
"Look out!" Aurian's sharp cry was all but drowned by 
the ominous grinding overhead. As her soulmate leaned 
forward to point, even that small movement had 
disturbed the delicate balance of the stones. As one, the 
two Magefolk flung their magical shields outward and 
upward, extending the fields of force to support the 

shifting slabs. After an endless moment the grating rasp 
of stone on stone wore down into silence, leaving only 
the liquid patter of a stream of grit and dust that sifted 
through the cracks. 
The last spark of fitful torchlight vanished. The Mages 
leaned against each other in a darkness that only their 
eyes could penetrate, panting slightly from the effort of 
holding the sagging roof in place. "Bugger!" Anvar 
muttered. "That was a bad one." 
"He obviously thought so," With a tilt of her head Aurian 
indicated the deserted stretch of clear tunnel behind 
them, down which their winged companion had, 
unsurprisingly, fled. 
"Skyfolk!" Anvar grimaced in disgust, although the 
Mage knew that he blamed their frightened companion 
no more than did she. Or did she? Aurian frowned. This 
mad notion to explore the ruins of the priestly archives 
below the Temple of Incondor in search of clues that 
might lead them to the Sword of Flame had been 
suggested by Cygnus. It had seemed a good idea the 
night before when discussed at length with the winged 
physician over a flagon of wine, but the reality of 
burrowing through these unstable tunnels had proved to 
be a perilous undertaking indeed. Surely Cygnus must 
have known of the dangers involved. He had certainly 
wasted no time saving his own skin when the roof began 
to crumble. Aurian shook her head. I'm too suspicious 

these days, she thought. Why should Cygnus harm us 
after we freed him from Blacktalon and saved his Queen? 
It could only have been honest fear. Though she and her 
partner had been shielding the group from the start, she 
knew it was hard for the Skyfolk to put their trust in 
something they couldn't even see. The strain of holding 
up the sagging roof forestalled any further reflection. 
Aurian looked across at her partner, and the two Mages 
shared a wry grin. "Think we can do it on our own?" 
Anvar's words were a challenge. 
"Why not?" Aurian shrugged. "Besides, the Skyfolk will 
be back shortly—if only to erect our memorial!" 
Anvar chuckled. "Come on, then. Which would you 
prefer? Keeping the shield up, or heaving stones?" 
"The shield," Aurian said decisively. "Because I have the 
Staff of Earth, I'll have more power to take the weight of 
these rocks above us." She glanced up doubtfully, at the 
tons of stone balanced precariously over their heads. 
"The last thing we want is the whole bloody mountain 
coming down on top of us— What's wrong?" She had 
caught a glimpse of Anvar's stricken expression. 
"Nothing," Anvar muttered. "I was just remembering the 
last time I was down here…" He shuddered. "It's a good 
thing for us that the Moldan's dead." 
"Hold on… Just a moment more…" Anvar's voice was 
harsh with strain, and Aurian, feeling as though she bore 

the entire weight of the mountain on her trembling 
shoulders, knew exactly how he felt. The great slab of 
tilted rock that Anvar had worked loose from its 
surroundings teetered on its base and began to rise slowly 
upright, impelled by the force of the Mage's will. As 
Aurian watched, her partner began the tricky part of the 
operation, maneuvering tne massive stone snugly into 
position to support the sagging tunnel roof. Almost there, 
and… 
"Lord! Lady!" The sound of hurrying feet echoed down 
the tunnel, shearing like a blade through Aurian's tightstretched 
concentration and scattering the delicate 
balance of opposing forces that Anvar was using to move 
the rock. The great slab went crashing over, and in the 
split second before the roof came down on top of them, 
Aurian snatched the faltering shield back into place and 
felt Anvar throw the weight of his power behind her own. 
With one quick look at one another, they fled back down 
the tunnel that they had opened with such labor, crashing 
into the messenger as they went. Aurian snatched at a 
flailing arm and pulled the Skyman along behind her, and 
all three burst out of the tunnel into the daylight together. 
Behind them there was a thunderous crash within the 
tunnel, and loose stones toppled from the temple's ruined 
walls as the ground shuddered beneath them. Then there 
was nothing to hear but silence, and nothing to see but 
the cloud of dust that came drifting from the tunnel's dark 

maw and eclipsed the pale light of early day. 
"You bloody fool!" Aurian snarled, rounding on the 
hapless, quaking messenger. "You nearly got us all 
killed." Ignoring the Skyman's stammered apologies, she 
looked around for Cygnus, who ought to have had more 
sense than to let stray wanderers into the tunnel when 
there was magic at work. She was sure she'd caught a 
glimpse of him as she'd emerged, but he had vanished 
now — presumably until she and Anvar had managed to 
get over the worst of their rage. 
Anvar, his blue eyes icy with anger, was looking down 
into the tunnel mouth and scalding the air with curses. He 
put his arm around her shoulders and sighed bitterly. 
"That's done it," he muttered. "We won't find anything 
down there now without excavating the entire peak." 
Aurian's heart sank. "Well, it was a slender hope in any 
case, that we'd actually discover something down there 
that might lead us to the Sword. We'll manage somehow, 
love." 
"We'll have to," Anvar agreed grimly. "We don't have 
any choice." 
The two of them stood hand in hand, gazing gloomily 
down into the dark mouth of the collapsed tunnel. After a 
moment Aurian noticed the winged messenger, who was 
still lurking nervously in the vicinity and clearly trying to 
pluck up enough courage to attract the attention (and 
possibly the ire) of herself and her fellow Mage. She 

turned to the Skyman with a sigh. "Well?" she snapped. 
"Spit it out, man! What was so desperately important that 
you had to risk all our lives for it?" 
The messenger turned pale beneath her withering glare. 
"Lady," he blurted. "A visitor has arrived for you, from 
Incondor's Tower. She demands to see you at once." 
"She?" Anvar was frowning, perplexed. "There's only 
one woman at the tower just now, if you don't count the 
Xandim, and that's Nereni. But she would never dream 
of—" 
"It has to be Nereni," Aurian interrupted. "Who else 
could it be? It could be one of the Xandim, I suppose, but 
I doubt that Parric would send a stranger when the 
courier could bring a message just as well alone. But if it 
is Nereni, and she has actually flown all this way alone, 
her errand must be urgent indeed. We'd better go and see 
what she wants." 
Nereni wrapped numbed fingers around the thin metal of 
the goblet and took another sip of the warm spiced wine, 
in the hope that it would stop her hands from shaking. 
The desperate courage that had brought her so far was 
threatening to slip away now, for the airborne journey in 
the fragile, swinging net had been a nightmare beyond 
her worst imaginings. It hadn't seemed so bad at first, 
while darkness hid her surroundings and her thoughts had 
been wrapped up in anger at her unreasonable, mule

headed husband and the cold, sinking fear that Eliizar 
would, indeed, force her to make a choice between 
himself and Aurian—the two people she loved most in 
all the world. Eventually, however, at that freezing 
altitude, sheer discomfort had taken her mind off her 
worries. Then the sunrise had caught up with her winged 
escort, and Nereni, unwisely glancing down, had been 
treated to a dizzying view of the jagged peaks so far—so 
terrifyingly far—below. At that point she had forgotten 
both discomfort and concerns, and had simply shut her 
eyes tight and started to pray. 
The nightmare had ended abruptly as she was dumped 
unceremoniously onto an unyielding surface. Nereni, 
muttering imprecations, opened her eyes to find herself 
upon a narrow balcony without any railings. On one side 
of her was a mass of ornately carved stonework that 
proved to be the wall of a tower. On the other… Nereni 
stifled a gasp and quickly tore her eyes away from the 
seemingly endless drop. 
A tall, arched door of beaten copper led from the balcony 
into the tower. Nereni was puzzled for a moment by its 
unusual construction, for metal doors must surely be 
heavy, inconvenient, and cold; then she realized that 
wood must be very scarce among these barren peaks, but 
metal could probably be mined from the mountains' 
bones. The smaller of her two winged bearers gave her a 
mocking bow and gestured toward the doorway with a 

grin that Nereni wanted to strike from his smug face. She 
was annoyed that she had let him see how badly the 
flight had terrified her. The other Skyman, however, 
proved more considerate. He patted her arm comfortingly 
and, standing between Nereni and the edge of the chasm, 
disentangled her from the meshes of the net and helped 
her to climb unsteadily to frozen feet that had as much 
feeling in them as two blocks of ice. Leaning heavily on 
his arm for support, she hobbled as quickly as she could 
into the chamber beyond the landing platform—and 
staggered, as her guide dropped her arm and bolted at the 
sight of the massive black shape that came arrowing out 
of the shadows. 
"Shia!" Nereni cried delightedly. It seemed so long since 
she had seen the great cat—not since that dreadful night 
when the weak Prince Harihn, his mind controlled by the 
evil sorcerer who was Aurian's enemy, had turned his 
troops loose on the Tower of Incondor. Frankly, when 
Shia had escaped from the tower bearing the precious 
Staff of Earth to safety, Nereni had despaired of ever 
seeing the cat again. Now she was ashamed of her doubts 
and bent to hug Shia as the cat rubbed a huge head 
against her, almost knocking the little woman from her 
feet. 
"You did it!" Nereni cried. "You wonderful, brave 
creature—however did you manage it? To come all these 
leagues through cold and hunger and hardship with the 

Staff…" Her voice trailed away as she suddenly took in 
her surroundings—and the two other great cats that 
seemed, to her shocked eyes, to take up most of the space 
within the chamber. One was curled, asleep, in the downlined 
circular scoop that must pass for a Skyfolk bed, 
while the other sat nearby, watching her with blazing 
golden eyes. 
The little woman froze, her heart hammering wildly— 
then Shia gave her a quizzical, somewhat disgusted look 
and went to rub heads with the other cat. Nereni realized, 
rather sheepishly, that if these awe-inspiring beasts were 
friendly with Shia, she would have naught to fear from 
them. Nonetheless, she felt safer keeping her distance. 
Shia was an old, familiar companion, but these strange, 
wild, and unpredictable beasts could be another matter 
entirely—and she was all alone in the chamber with 
them. Of Aurian and Anvar there was no sign. 
Nereni, suddenly at a loss, wondered what her next step 
should be. Her winged bearers, obviously terrified of the 
cats, had beaten a hasty retreat, and there was no one to 
help her. Even supposing one of the Skyfolk had been 
nearby, she could not speak their language. Nereni's rash 
courage had been enough to bring her thus far, but it 
would get her no further. She looked helplessly at Shia, 
wishing that she could communicate with the cat as 
Aurian and Anvar could. "Now what am I going to do?" 
she muttered. 

She did not have long to wait for an answer—only long 
enough to mull herself some wine from the ingredients 
that she found near the brazier that was the only source of 
heat in the chamber. While she sat there, trying to 
recapture her fleeing courage, Nereni heard the 
thrumming of wings outside, and the thud of someone 
landing on the platform. Shia snarled, loud and long, her 
eyes kindling with a menacing light as the door swung 
open and Raven entered. 
The winged girl looked very different from the waif in 
the patched tunic that Nereni remembered. Now Raven 
was dressed in sumptuous crimson robes, cunningly 
designed to leave her wings and limbs free for flight, and 
a coronet of beaten gold gleamed richly amid her clouds 
of dark hair. Lines of sorrow gave an unexpected 
maturity to her face, and behind her eyes lurked the 
shadow of a bitter sadness that would never go away. 
For an instant the motherly woman felt her heart clench 
with pity for the suffering in the young girl's face. Then 
she remembered Eliizar, hurt and imprisoned in the dark, 
dank dungeon beneath Incondor's Tower. She 
remembered the suffering Bohan, chained to the wall, his 
wrists a festering mass of sores beneath his manacles. 
She thought of poor Aurian, forced to give birth amid 
terror and turmoil, and shuddered at the memory of that 
moment of utter horror when reality had twisted and the 
Mage's child had changed shape within her hands. 

Nereni's mouth tightened. As Raven stepped forward 
hesitantly, plainly unsure of her welcome, she lifted her 
hand and slapped the winged girl as hard as she could 
across the face. 
Raven took the blow without flinching, though her huge, 
dark eyes brimmed with tears. "Would that you'd strike 
me a hundred times, Nereni, rather than stare at me with 
such contempt in your eyes." The winged girl's voice was 
shaking with such anguish that Nereni's heart was almost 
softened — save that the events of the preceding months 
had changed the little woman so that she barely 
recognized herself. "Do you think you deserve anything 
other than contempt?" she retorted bluntly. "I loved you 
like a daughter, Raven, but without a thought you 
betrayed me to die — and Eliizar and Bohan with me." 
"No!" Raven gasped. "Harihn promised! I didn't realize 
— " 
"Yes you did," Nereni went on inexorably. "You should 
have known better — you did know better, in your heart, 
than to set the word of Harihn — the word of a stranger 
— against the safety of those who had loved you and 
cared for you when you were alone and afraid. Had the 
Prince not had a use for Bohan, Eliizar, and myself, we'd 
have been slaughtered out of hand — and even were that 
not the case, you had no right to betray the Magefolk to 
their enemies. Well you knew the fate that lay in store for 
them!" 

Raven squirmed beneath Nereni's accusing gaze. "But 
my people were suffering, and the Mages wouldn't help 
me…" 
"You stupid girl!" Nereni snorted. "Of course they would 
have helped you — eventually, once Aurian's powers had 
returned. You were not the only one in difficulties at the 
time, remember? If you had used your common sense 
instead of behaving like a spoiled, pampered little…" She 
got no further, for her words were drowned in the storm 
of Raven's tears. 
"Forgive me…" the winged girl sobbed. 
"Why should I?" Nereni snapped. 
Raven took a ragged breath. "Because you are the only 
mother I have left…" 
As she heard Raven's anguished plea, the woman 
realized, with a pang of guilt, that she had let the pain 
and terror of the last few months get the better of her. 
She remembered, belatedly, that Raven had been made to 
suffer the consequences of her folly—for not only had 
the girl been dreadfully, horribly injured by the evil High 
Priest, but she had lost her mother, besides. 
Nereni's motherly instincts finally triumphed over her 
anger—and, she thought ruefully, probably her common 
sense as well. She sighed, and went to put her arms 
around the weeping girl. "There, there," she muttered 
roughly. "We can't have the Queen of the Winged Folk 
bawling like a lost calf! Come, dry your tears, child. Just 

remember, however, that you weren't the only one to 
suffer as a result of your folly. Strive to atone for your 
mistakes, and you'll find that folk will forgive you in due 
course. And then, in the end, you might be able to forgive 
yourself." 
"Fine words, Nereni—if somewhat optimistic." With a 
start Nereni recognized Anvar's voice. The Mages had 
arrived, unnoticed, and were standing in the doorway. 
The woman saw Raven flinch away from Anvar's stony 
gaze, and shivered. Here was one, at any rate, who would 
not forgive the winged girl in a hurry! Raven, sensing 
Anvar's hostility, made her hasty farewells and left the 
chamber. 
"Nereni!" The coldness fled from Anvar's eyes as he 
came forward to embrace her, and Nereni heaved a sigh 
of relief at the reappearance of his old, broad grin. She 
was so glad to see him safe and well! And at least the 
Mage's ordeal had not embittered him completely. No, 
Nereni thought, it's only Raven that he hates—and more, 
I'll wager, because of what was done to Aurian and her 
child than because of what happened to himself. 
"But what in the world has brought you here like this?" 
Aurian asked anxiously as she embraced the little woman 
in her turn. Remembering the gravity of her mission, 
Nereni felt obscurely comforted by the Mage's staunch 
presence. "It's Eliizar," she blurted. "Aurian—he wants 
us to leave you!" 

Bit by bit the story came out. Aurian, sitting hand in hand 
with a grave-faced Anvar, frowned. "What? He wanted to 
leave? Without even letting you say good-bye to us?" 
Nereni nodded. "Jharav and his folk were preparing to 
leave for the forest this morning. Already they will be 
searching for me…" She tried to keep the rising note of 
panic out of her voice. Seeing the glint of anger in 
Aurian's eyes, Nereni shifted uncomfortably on her 
flimsy Skyfolk stool and struggled with her feelings of 
disloyalty toward her husband. "Eliizar is terrified," she 
tried to explain. "Battle and privation he can deal with, in 
any amount, but the sorcery…" She shook her head 
sadly. "Something about your magic unmans 
him—especially after what happened to the child—so he 
must hide his fear in angry bluster. What am I to do, 
Aurian?" she pleaded. "I love Eliizar—I cannot leave 
him, not for all the world—yet how can I leave you and 
Anvar, whom I have come to love so deeply? I feel so 
torn…" 
Aurian knelt beside her and took Nereni's hands in her 
own. "What do you want to do?" she asked. 
"I want us all to stay together," Nereni replied simply. "I 
want you to come back with me and talk Eliizar out of 
this nonsense." 
Anvar had been listening to the conversation with 
increasing dismay. He didn't want to lose Eliizar and 

Nereni as companions, but the more he thought about the 
alternatives… "Nereni, are you sure?" He frowned. "In 
some respects Eliizar is right. You'd be far safer returning 
to the forest with your countrymen. There's bound to be 
fighting where we're going—and knowing Eliizar, he'll 
be in the thick of it. Do you want to take that risk? If 
anything should happen to him, what would become of 
you, stranded in a foreign land?" 
"Why, we would take care of her, of course!" Aurian's 
voice was sharp with indignation. 
"So long as we're in a position to do it," Anvar said 
somberly. "There's no guarantee that we'll survive 
ourselves. And what about Eliizar's fear of magic? Once 
we return to Nexis, that's what this fight will be about." 
"Are you saying that you want us to go?" Nereni asked in 
a small voice that trembled on the edge of tears, and 
Anvar hated himself for killing the hope that his soul 
mate had put into the little woman's eyes. But it was for 
the best. "Yes," he told her brutally. "That's exactly what 
I want." 
"Anvar—why?" Beyond that one pained gasp Nereni, for 
once, was shocked into speechlessness, though Anvar 
recoiled from the look of hurt on her face. Aurian was 
glaring at him in a way that, if the look could be 
solidified, would have flayed the flesh from his bones. 
"Anvar—what the bloody blazes are you doing?" her 
mental voice resounded sharply in his mind. 

Anvar sighed. "The right thing for Eliizar and Nereni." 
His own mental tones were hushed with sorrow. "It may 
not be what you or I or Nereni want, but think about the 
alternatives, Aurian. It's by far the best option for their 
survival." 
Aurian bit her lip. Anvar could see how much she wanted 
to deny his logic, but… "Curse it, you're right," she told 
him softly, and turned away—but not before he had 
glimpsed the sheen of tears in her eyes. When she turned 
back to Nereni, however, she had her emotions back 
under control. "Anvar and Eliizar are right," she told the 
woman firmly. "I'll miss you so much, dear friend, but 
we must think of your future. Once our quest is over—" 
"Don't lie to me, Aurian!" Nereni snapped. "We'll never 
see you again." Her eyes flashed angrily. "Reaper curse 
you— I came to you for support—not this! Don't you 
care about us anymore? Eliizar and I were good enough 
to help you through the desert and the mountains 
beyond—and in the forest you had a use for us, while 
supplies needed gathering and there was clothing to be 
made…" Nereni's voice was harsh with bitterness. "But 
now that your other friends have arrived from the north, 
you no longer want us!" And she burst into tears. 
"Nereni, that's not true!" Aurian cried. 
"It certainly isn't." Anvar leapt to his feet and went to put 
an arm around the little woman's shoulders, persisting 
even though she tried to shrug him away. "Nereni—listen 

to me. Aurian and I will be traveling far to the north, 
across the ocean, and we'll be going into greater peril 
than anything we've experienced so far. Frankly, if it 
were up to me…" He smiled ruefully. "Well, if there was 
any way we could do it, Aurian and I would be going 
back to the forest with you right now, to make a new life 
for ourselves in peace. But that's just not possible. We 
have to go on, into more hardship and danger, but it 
would help us to know that some of our companions, at 
least, will be safe." 
"But you need me," Nereni protested. "Who will look 
after you? I'll be sick with worry—and what about the 
child…?" 
"Wolf is another reason why you ought to go," Aurian 
told her gently. "You know that Eliizar has a horror of 
the poor child." Her eyes smoldered at the idea, but she 
controlled herself with a deep breath. "It's not his fault, 
really. You know Wolf was born as a human child — you 
were there — but Eliizar never saw him as he was before. 
He doesn't want you to have anything to do with the 
babe, and I don't want that to come between you. 
Besides," the Mage went on persuasively, "you'll have 
enough folk to take care of without fretting about Anvar 
and me. As well as his surviving soldiers, Harihn's 
household folk were left behind in the forest. You'll have 
enough people to start a thriving little colony, and it will 
need leaders, Nereni. If Anvar and I can win through, and 

bring peace back to the world, it will be an enormous 
help in the future to have allies in the south." She smiled. 
"Why, next time we see you, we'll be coming back to 
visit the King and Queen of the Forest!" 
"If we all survive that long," Nereni said sourly, but the 
anger had fled from her voice, and Anvar began to hope 
that she was coming round to the idea of staying behind. 
"So you'll do it?" he cajoled. "For us?" 
"Do I have a choice?" Nereni snapped. 
Aurian put a hand on her shoulder. "Of course you have a 
choice," she said. "If you really want to come with us, 
that's fine by me — but I have a feeling you'll be doing it 
without Eliizar. Is that what you really want?" 
Defeated, Nereni lowered her face into her hands. "No," 
she whispered in a muffled voice. Anvar saw a single tear 
trickle from between her fingers. Aurian, with tears in her 
own eyes, knelt to embrace the woman who had been 
such a staunch friend to her throughout so many 
hardships. "It'll be all right," she murmured. "It's for the 
best — you'll see. And the next time we meet, all this 
trouble will be over, and Wolf will be a human boy 
again…" She turned to Anvar. "Would you mind leaving 
us alone for a little while, Anvar? If you would send for 
Raven to say farewell, we can make arrangements to take 
Nereni back." 
"I'll organize that," Anvar agreed. "We'd better hurry. 
Eliizar will — " 

"Eliizar won't say anything," Aurian said shortly. "Not 
after I've spoken to him, he won'tl" 
"You're going, too?" 
"Yes, to talk to Parric. And I'd like to say good-bye to 
Eliizar and bring Wolf back with me. Want to come?" 
"Indeed I do." As the Mage left the room, he took pains 
to screen his thoughts from his soulmate. He didn't want 
to worry Aurian unduly, but… Anvar also needed to 
speak with Eliizar—to pass on a warning. 
Possession of the Harp of Winds had left Anvar with a 
preternatural awareness of the weather patterns over a 
very wide distance. When the Mages had brought spring 
back to the world, there had been one unfortunate effect 
of which Aurian had not been aware. The lethal 
sandstorms over the Jeweled Desert had ceased 
completely. With a shudder Anvar remembered Xiang, 
the cruel tyrant King of the Xandim. When the Mages 
had escaped his clutches, along with his son, Harihn, 
Aurian had managed to terrify the King into letting them 
go. By now, however, Anvar had: a feeling that the fear 
would be wearing off. Xiang was a vengeful man—it 
seemed impossible that he would not try to pursue them 
sooner or later. And now that the desert was safe once 
more, the way to the north lay wide-open—and passed 
directly through the great forested valley that Eliizar 
wanted to colonize. If Xiang should come… Anvar 
shuddered. Eliizar had to be warned. 

Soft curls of morning mist drifted around the feet of 
Incondor's Tower. The jingle of bits and the impatient 
stamp of horses' hooves carried clearly through the cool, 
damp air, while cloaked and hooded figures, their voices 
hushed and low in the predawn stillness, hurried to and 
fro from the tower to complete their last-minute 
preparations for departure. Others, such as Jharav—the 
veteran Khazalim captain who had befriended Nereni 
during her captivity—had been more efficiently 
organized than their tardy companions and were already 
mounted and waiting, impatient to leave. At the edge of 
the thicket, away from the bustle in the tower, sorrowful 
farewells were taking place. 
"I'm sorry you can't go on with us, but I understand your 
reasons." Anvar clasped Eliizar's hand. "Go well, my 
friend. Take good care of yourself—and Nereni." He 
glanced across at the little woman who stood nearby, 
deep in conversation with Aurian. "You have a very 
special lady, there, Eliizar. If you find, in the days to 
come, that she's full of surprises, try to understand how 
much she has been growing in these last hard months." 
The Mage grinned wryly. "It's strange, but traveling with 
Aurian tends to have that effect on people." 
Eliizar shook his head ruefully. "Her changes will take a 
good deal of getting used to. The way she went off like 
that, alone to Aerillia—my timid Nereni, of all people! 

But how could I be angry with her?" He spread his hands 
helplessly. "I was so afraid that something dreadful had 
happened to her or…" Anvar could see the struggle in his 
face, as he tried to form his next words. "Or that she had 
left me, because of my cowardice," the swordmaster 
finished softly. 
Anvar laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're not a coward, 
Eliizar," he reassured the older man. "It takes a great deal 
of courage to face up to your fears as you did. And, 
unfortunately, I'm convinced that you'll still have a part 
to play in the struggle to come." At the earliest 
opportunity he had taken Eliizar aside and told the 
swordmaster his fears of an attack by the vengeful 
Khazalim King. 
Now Eliizar nodded gravely—but there was a twinkle in 
his one good eye, and Anvar was certain that the aging 
warrior was looking forward to the prospect of a battle. 
"Your warning has been well taken," he assured the 
Mage. "In coming from the desert Xiang must bring his 
army through our valley—a narrow place, indeed." He 
bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. "We may be 
outnumbered, but our forest is the ideal place for an 
ambush—indeed, for any number of them! When Xiang 
comes, he will find a welcome he will not forget." 
"Good man, Eliizar!" Anvar clapped him on the back. 
"Remember, though, that two winged messengers are 
going with you, now that Aurian has worked the same 

spell on them that she did with Raven, so that they can 
speak the Khazalim tongue. If you do find yourself in 
difficulties, send for help to Aerillia." 
"We will need no assistance from those winged traitors," 
the swordmaster snapped. Like Anvar, he was finding 
Raven's treachery very hard to forgive—but the Mage did 
not want Eliizar's antagonism to cost him his life. 
"Now, listen," Anvar began firmly. "You will be very 
badly outnumbered, Eliizar. Don't let pride deceive you 
into—" He broke off abruptly as Aurian approached. The 
last thing he wanted was to start worrying her with this 
business. Luckily, Nereni was issuing a stream of lastminute 
instructions that had drowned out his words. 
"And don't let the little mite get wet," she was saying, 
"and remember to keep him warm, Aurian—tell that 
Bohan to make sure to keep him out of drafts—and—" 
"Don't worry, Nereni," Aurian protested with a smile. 
"He's a wolf, remember—a tough little thing! But never 
fear, we'll take the best possible care of him." She turned 
to Eliizar. "All ready to go?" 
The swordmaster nodded. The farewell was brief and 
awkward, with Nereni, weeping bitter tears, hugging first 
Anvar, then Aurian, as if she would never let them go. 
Then she tore herself away with the first curse that Anvar 
had ever heard her utter and ran off toward the waiting 
group of riders, followed closely by Eliizar. 
Anvar turned to Aurian. "Poor Nereni. I'm going to miss 

her—and she'll be worrying herself to a shadow, 
wondering how we'll manage without her." He grinned 
wryly. "I don't hold out much hope of a quiet life for 
Eliizar in the next few months." 
The Mage's eyes twinkled. "Don't you?" she said 
brightly. "Well, I wouldn't count on that, my love. With 
luck I may have arranged a little surprise for 
Nereni—and within the next few months she could have 
other matters to occupy her than the fate of two stray 
Magefolk." 
"What do you mean?" Anvar demanded—but Aurian, 
looking annoyingly smug and secretive, refused to say 
another word on the subject. 
As Eliizar and Nereni reached their horses, Anvar saw a 
lean figure, still with the slightest trace of a limp, detach 
himself from the knot of onlookers and put his hands on 
the swordmaster's shoulders in a warrior's embrace. At 
his side the Mage heard Aurian sigh with relief. "Yazour 
unbent, then, in the end," she murmured. "I'm so glad." 
Anvar, too, was pleased. Yazour had been appalled by 
what he had seen as Eliizar's defection from their group. 
He had always held the older warrior in the greatest 
esteem; the swordmaster's weakness, therefore, had 
disappointed him all the more. As the group of Khazalim 
made their way down the hillside, the young warrior 
came over to join the Mages. "That's that, then," he 
muttered. 

"Yazour, are you sure you won't be too lonely without 
them?" Aurian asked. "Now that Eliizar and Nereni have 
gone, you've lost all your countrymen save Bohan. If you 
want to change your mind and go with them—well, 
Anvar and I would hate to lose you, but we'd 
understand." 
"Lady, do you take me for a skulking coward?" Yazour 
looked affronted. "You are my companions — where you 
go, I go!" With that he walked stiffly away. 
Aurian sighed, and laid her head on Anvar's shoulder. "I 
had to go and say it, didn't I?" 
"Actually," Anvar comforted her, "I think you did." He 
tightened his arms around her, enjoying the feeling of 
closeness. "Yazour is only feeling prickly because Eliizar 
has gone. He'll get over it." Suddenly troubled by a vague 
sense of unease, he looked up, over Aurian's shoulder. A 
short distance away, at the edge of the thicket, Parric 
stood watching them. The little cavalrymaster's 
expression was cold and bleak as stone. Meeting Anvar's 
eyes, he turned away sharply and melted into the 
undergrowth. A shiver, like a finger of ice, ran down the 
Mage's spine. 
Three days after her miraculous rescue, Hreeza 
demanded, much to the surprise of Aurian and Shia, to 
see the child who had saved her life. 
"Are you sure?" the Mage asked doubtfully as she sat 

with Shia beside the old cat's bed. Hreeza's words had 
captured her attention with a jolt, for Aurian had been 
paying scant attention to the mental murmur of 
conversation between the two cats. She had been 
brooding over the events of the previous day, when she 
and Anvar had returned with Nereni by net, courtesy of 
Raven's winged bearers, to the Tower of Incondor. 
A great many matters had been arranged among the 
companions in a very short time. The Mage had returned 
Chiamh and Yazour, both protesting bitterly, to Parric's 
forces—for the little cavalrymaster was desperately in 
need of translators for the widely assorted group who 
would be under his care during the ride back to the 
Xandim Fastness. Aurian chuckled wryly. Trust Parric. 
Only he could find himself suddenly ruling a race whose 
language he couldn't even speak! 
After bidding a sorrowful farewell to Eliizar and Nereni, 
the Magefolk had seen them off on the first leg of their 
journey back through the mountains, and Aurian had 
arranged for the winged couriers Finch and Petrel (who 
had volunteered, the Mage suspected, with thoughts of 
Nereni's cooking uppermost in their minds) to 
accompany them in case of emergencies. Only then had 
Aurian been free to collect her child and its lupine foster 
parents—and to placate Bohan, who had been determined 
not to leave the wolfling, even for a little while. The 
matter was taken out of his hands, however, for the 

Skyfolk were unable to transport one of his vast size and 
wisely refused even to make the attempt. Instead the 
eunuch was to go with Parric, on the sturdy, stolid horse 
that had borne him all the way across the desert. He 
would meet the Magefolk again at the Xandim Fastness. 
While the cavalrymaster made the slower journey by 
horseback to the Xandim lands, the Mage planned to 
return to Aerillia and use her mother's Earth-magic to 
speed the growth of the new crops that the Skyfolk were 
currently planting—and she still had a great many 
matters to resolve with Raven. There was also the matter 
of Anvar's continuing hostility toward the newly crowned 
Queen of the Skyfolk— but she would resolve that, too, 
given time. In the meantime, Aurian's immediate concern 
had been to persuade her child's foster parents to leave 
their pack and make the journey by net to Aerillia—and 
even more difficult, to persuade the winged bearers to 
take them. By the time everything had been arranged and 
the Mages were ready to return to the Skyfolk city, 
Aurian had been ready to tear her hair out and scream. 
Hreeza's words, however, drove all these matters to the 
back of the Mage's mind. The old cat, though she still 
slept for much of the time, seemed well on the road to 
recovery, but perhaps the experience had turned her 
brain. Aurian raised a questioning eyebrow at Shia, who 
returned the mental equivalent of a shrug. 
"I would have thought," the Mage suggested cautiously, 

"that you'd have had enough of the Skyfolk for the time 
being." Following the cat's ordeal at the hands of her 
people's ancient foes, Hreeza had acted with undisguised 
hostility toward any of the Winged Folk who had entered 
her chamber. 
Shia, in her usual style, was much more forthright. "What 
do you want with the cub?" she demanded. "Be still, you 
old fool: rest. Have you forgotten how close we came to 
losing you?" 
"No, I have not forgotten." Hreeza's mental voice, though 
faint and weary, still held a spark of her old acerbic 
spirit. "That is why I wish to see my rescuer. Had it not 
been for that cub of the Skyfolk, I would have perished 
for certain— and it is against my nature to let a debt go 
unpaid, as well you know, Shia. I must thank the little 
one — and as it galls me to be beholden to any of these 
skyborne scum, I wish to get the unpleasant business 
over with as soon as possible." 
"Pah! You don't fool me!" Shia retorted. "I know you too 
well, Hreeza. You are keeping something from us, or I'm 
a chunk of Xandim horse meat! Come on, spit it out!" 
And when Hreeza remained obstinately silent, the 
younger cat continued: "I won't let Aurian send for the 
child until you do." 
Hreeza grumbled through her whiskers, but she knew 
when she was beaten. "Very well," she conceded 
grudgingly, "but you won't believe me." She shot Shia a 

challenging glare. "The Skyfolk can hear us, Shia. They 
have the potential to understand our mindspeech just as 
the Mages can!" 
Aurian, listening in on this conversation, uttered a 
startled exclamation, but Shia was silent, too stunned for 
speech. After a moment she collected herself. 
"Nonsense!" she snapped. "Delirium — that's all it was. 
You imagined it!" 
"I did not!" Hreeza snarled. "I called out for help, I tell 
you — and that winged cub heard me!" 
Aurian, lacking Shia's background of inborn hatred and 
resentment of the Winged Folk, was quicker than her 
friend to grasp at the possibilities. "But if the two races 
can communicate, then surely there must be a way of 
making peace between you," she suggested cautiously. 
"Never!" Shia spat. She turned on Aurian, eyes blazing. 
"What of our slaughtered people? Have you forgotten so 
quickly the skins that the Skyfolk gave you and Anvar to 
warm yourselves? Have you forgotten how Raven 
betrayed us and almost cost us all our lives — including 
your child? The Winged Folk are not to be trusted! They 
are base, treacherous, murderous…" 
"Hush." Hreeza's voice cut firmly through Shia's snarling 
tirade. "The slaughter of our people has gone on long 
enough," the old cat declared. She looked 
sympathetically at the dumbfounded Shia, and sighed. 
"In my heart I agree with you, my friend, but my head 

tells me this war between our people and the Skyfolk 
must cease. The slaughter of our race has gone on long 
enough — and I would never wish another cat to suffer 
as I did. Someone must call a halt to these senseless 
hostilities, and if the winged cub holds out a hope for the 
future, then let us take advantage of it!" Her head 
drooped with exhaustion, and she laid it down on her 
outstretched paws. "Enough, Shia. I am weary. While I 
sleep, you must consider my words—find Khanu, too, 
and discuss it with him. Then, when I awaken, you must 
send for the little one." 
Chapter 3 - Strange Havens 
Emmie was almost walking in her sleep as she entered 
the kitchen cavern. The empty chamber was wrapped in 
shadows, for most of the lamps in the smugglers' network 
of caves had been extinguished long ago. Emmie didn't 
mind. The slumberous red glow from the banked fires 
provided enough illumination for her needs. She crossed 
to the long, knife-scarred table, pulled out one end of the 
sturdy bench that was tucked beneath it, and sat down 
heavily. She was ravenously hungry, but lacked the 
energy to find herself something to eat. It was well after 
nightfall, and the kitchen helpers had long since gone to 

their beds. Everyone had worked so hard without rest 
these last two days that Emmie didn't want to wake them 
now. It wouldn't be fair. Instead, she propped her elbows 
on the table, ran her fingers through the tangles in her 
disheveled blond curls, and lost herself in worried 
thought. 
As though it could sense her weariness, the white dog, 
now christened Storm, laid its head on her lap and 
whined, looking up at her with an uncannily intelligent 
expression in its dark eyes. Emmie swallowed hard as her 
vision blurred with unexpected tears. She muttered a 
curse and brushed an impatient hand across her face. My, 
but you've sunk low, she chided herself. Bawling like a 
babe over sympathy from a dog! 
"Gracious, girl, you look worn to a shadow! Here—get 
some of this inside you." 
Emmie jumped. She must truly have been lost in her 
thoughts, for she'd heard no one come in. A rough, 
sturdy, work-reddened hand appeared, bearing a mug of 
soup that was plunked down unceremoniously on the 
table in front of Emmie. She looked up to see Remana, 
the mother of Yanis, the Nightrunner leader. The woman 
pulled out the opposite bench and lowered herself 
wearily onto the hard wooden seat. Though she must also 
have been ready to drop from fatigue, she still managed a 
bracing smile for the younger girl. "Did you get it sorted, 
then?" she asked, taking a cautious sip from her own 

steaming mug. "And why wasn't Jarvas dealing with it?" 
Emmie shrugged. "It was just another squabble over 
accommodation," she sighed. "Jarvas was asleep—I 
finally found him in a corner, but it looked as though he 
had just fallen over where he sat. I hadn't the heart to 
wake him—the loss of his sanctuary has hit him very 
hard. I managed to settle the ungrateful fools myself, 
without further bloodshed." From somewhere she found 
the ghost of a smile. "Luckily, they are all very much in 
awe of Storm, here." 
Hearing its name, the dog whined, and Remana reached 
out to stroke the broad white head. The dog looked up 
sharply at the touch of the strange hand, but had already 
decided that, as a friend to her mistress, the Nightrunner 
woman was acceptable. Slowly, the white-plumed tail 
began to wag—then a large black nose came up over the 
edge of the table to sniff hopefully at Remana's mug. 
"You should be so lucky!" Remana chuckled, removing 
her soup to a safe distance. "This is the first thing I've 
had to eat all day!" She turned back to Emmie. "My 
word, she's going to be a beauty. All she needs is 
fattening up…" 
Emmie saw the shadow of a frown cross Remana's broad 
forehead. "The problem is, there won't be enough food to 
go round, will there?" she prompted the Nightrunner 
woman. 
"Oh, we'll manage — don't you worry." 

Remana's cheerful front did not fool Emmie in the least. 
"How?" she asked bluntly. Since the arrival, two nights 
ago, of the ragged band of fugitives from Nexis, matters 
had been going from bad to worse in the smugglers' lair. 
The secret network of caverns had seemed such a haven 
at first to the hungry, exhausted refugees, after the horror 
of the attack on their compound, the hellish journey to 
freedom through the sewers beneath the city, and the 
cold, cramped, perilous voyage back to the Nightrunner 
hideout on a ship so overloaded that the gunwales 
threatened to dip beneath the surface with every passing 
wave. For the Nexians, however, relief at their salvation 
had been short-lived. 
Some sixty folk had escaped the city with their lives, and 
the smugglers' caverns were far from capable of 
accommodating such an influx. The result had been 
chaos. Emmie, Remana, and Jarvas — the leader of the 
refugees — had been hard-pressed indeed to find 
sufficient space to cram the Nexians into, while the poor, 
unsuspecting smuggler families had been aghast at the 
invasion. To be honest, Emmie could hardly blame them. 
The fugitives had nothing but the rags they stood up in, 
and each and every one of them reeked from their 
journey through the sewers. Arrangements had to be 
made for bathing and feeding them, and the overworked 
sanitation arrangements in the cavern network, which 
depended on the twice-daily rise of the tide through 

channels beneath the stone, were fast becoming 
unbearable. And worst of all was the disease. 
Emmie sighed, regretting for the thousandth time that 
they had been forced to make their escape through the 
sewers. It had been inevitable, she supposed, given their 
chilled, half-famished state, that her people would fall 
easy prey to the diseases that proliferated in those 
narrow, stinking tunnels. Most of the Nexians were 
already worn down with grief and hardship — for there 
was not a family present who had not lost loved ones to 
the dreadful slaughter that the city guards had carried out 
in their compound. And so many of Jarvas's refugees 
were among the vulnerable groups who had been unable 
to support themselves in the city: the old, the very young, 
those who were crippled or unfit to work, and those 
already suffering from illness in the first place. 
"Damn it!" Emmie hit the table with her fist and bit her 
lip to keep from shedding tears of weariness and 
frustration. Since the loss of the physician, Benziorn, in 
the attack on the refugees' sanctuary, Emmie had been 
the only remaming Nexian with any knowledge of 
healing. All the responsibility rested on her shoulders 
now. Assisted by Remana's herbwives, she had been on 
her feet for the last thirty-six hours, tending the sick, 
advising the others on what few precautions they could 
take to prevent the further spread of disease—and 
arranging for the disposal of the dead. The fourteen 

corpses, three of them pathetically small, that had been 
shipped out that evening for burial at sea, were the 
ultimate evidence of her failure—and that was what hurt 
Emmie the most. 
"Don't." Remana's strong hand closed over her own. 
"You can't take everyone's burdens on your shoulders, 
lass. We'll get through this crisis in the end." 
"The ones that survive it." Emmie barely recognized the 
dull, defeated voice as her own. 
"And most of them will—you'll see," Remana retorted 
briskly. "Most of those that died were old, lovey, and 
already near the end of their days. And the little 
ones—well, what chance would they have had to grow 
up in Nexis, the way things are these days? At least you'd 
given them that chance in the first place, Emmie—you 
and Jarvas. As for the rest-well, it looks as though they've 
turned the corner now, thanks to your nursing. Don't 
dwell on the few you lost. Think instead of the many 
you've saved." 
"Thank you, Remana." Emmie squeezed the older 
woman's hand gratefully. "That helps a little. But what 
are we going to do for the survivors? You'll never 
manage to feed and clothe them all, and I know your own 
people are giving you trouble about the allocation of 
living space…" 
"I've dealt with my own people already, thank you," 
Remana said darkly, "and that's the last we'll hear on that 

subject, I expect I have extra fishing boats going out to 
help ease the food shortage—" For a moment, her face 
brightened. "What a blessing this sudden change in the 
weather is! By the gods, but it put new heart into me, to 
see the sun again!" 
"Weather?" Emmie frowned, perplexed. 
"What? You mean you haven't even put your nose 
outside for the last two days? You haven't seen it?" 
Remana cried. "Why, a miracle has happened, lass. It's 
spring again!" 
Emmie shook her head in disbelief. It had seemed so 
long… After so many months of snow and cold and 
dismal darkness, she could barely remember what spring 
was like. 
"Just wait until tomorrow," Remana told her. "Wait until 
you see it for yourself. I'll take you out for a sail—it'll do 
you good." 
"But I can't!" Emmie cried. "I have to…" 
"You have to do nothing of the sort," Remana snorted. 
"Tomorrow you'll rest, my girl. Everything's under 
control," she went on in quieter tones, "or it will be soon. 
You leave it to me. Tomorrow I'm sending messengers to 
my sister Dulsina, who is with the rebels in Lady Eilin's 
Valley. They are much better supplied there than we are; 
they can help us out with extra food. I had thought to 
send your able-bodied Nexians—those still capable of 
wielding a weapon, and anyone else who wants to go—to 

join them. That should give us enough space here to cope 
with the remainder. What do you think?" 
"Oh, Remana—thank you!" Emmie cried. The weight of 
worry that had suddenly lifted from her shoulders made 
her feel light-headed. "What would we have done 
without you?" 
"I don't know what you'd have done without me—but I 
know what you're going to do for me," the Nightrunner 
woman replied briskly. "First of all, you're going to have 
something more solid to eat than soup, then you're going 
to bathe—and then you're going to my room, where 
you'll sleep undisturbed until you've slept yourself out. Is 
that clear?" 
Emmie nodded gratefully. "Yes, I think I could sleep 
now," she said. 
But despite her optimistic words, Emmie found that sleep 
was hard to come by once she was settled beneath thick 
quilts in Remana's warm bed, with her white dog curled 
by her side. Now that her mind was no longer 
preoccupied with the practicalities of settling her folk, 
she found her thoughts straying helplessly to those who 
had not survived. So many had been lost—people she 
had known and cared about. Poor Benziorn, her mentor 
and teacher in the healing skills, was missing, and 
unlikely to be alive. And poor Tilda… With a shudder 
Emmie remembered the sword that had pierced the 
streetwalker's belly, spilling her guts out onto the 

bloodstained ground. And what of Tilda's young son, 
Grince? He had rushed back into the burning warehouse 
to rescue Storm's litter, not knowing that the pups were 
already dead. 
… Emmie choked back a sob. In a short time she had 
become so fond of the boy, but there seemed little hope 
that he was still alive. Even if he had survived the inferno 
in the warehouse, it seemed unlikely that a ten-year-old 
child would come unscathed through the carnage outside. 
Emmie had lost so many loved ones already—her 
husband and her own two children had been slain months 
ago, during the depredations of the Archmage. By now 
she should have no more tears left to shed. But as she lay 
alone in the darkness, Emmie clung to the white dog for 
comfort and wept for the ragged young boy who had 
never stood a chance. 
Not for one minute did she believe that she would ever 
see him alive again. 
After nightfall, the Grand Arcade in Nexis was an eerie 
place. The vast pillared halls, once the beating heart of 
Nexian commerce, now held barely an echo of their 
former glory. Many of the myriad shops and stalls were 
shuttered and empty in the black days of Miathan's reign; 
the endless rows of crystal globes that had once been 
filled with golden light were guttering or already dark. 
The aisles and alleyways, trodden in happier days by a 

multitude of feet, were silent now, and shadow-stalked. 
Spiders spun their silken tapestries undisturbed, and the 
stillness was broken only by the pattering, rustling 
footfalls of cockroach and rat, who had pursued their 
nightly rounds without competition or hindrance—until 
now. For a new scavenger had begun to haunt the Grand 
Arcade; a new form, silent as the shadows, flitted 
through the deserted aisles, rattling a shutter here, trying 
a door latch there, alarming the vermin with its human 
scent and noise. They scattered for cover as the 
newcomer approached, unable to understand that the 
disturbance of their existence was far less of a threat than 
it seemed—for their competitor was only a child. 
The puppy must be saved—this was the only thought that 
had kept Grince going throughout the last day or two, or 
three—he couldn't remember how long he had been 
running and hiding, in fear of his life, cradling the small 
dog that was tucked into the scorched tatters of his shirt. 
He had fled in terror after the soldiers had stormed the 
sanctuary owned by gruff, ugly Jarvas—searching for 
Emmie, his best friend in the world, who had given him 
all five of the puppies from her huge white dog to be his 
very own. Four of those little scraps of life now lay dead 
in the burned-out shell of the warehouse that had been a 
home to so many poor families. Grince was desperate to 
save this one remaining survivor—for as far as he was 
aware, the puppy was the only living creature that he still 

knew. Emmie, if she lived, was nowhere to be found. 
The boy's first clear memory after the swords and the 
blood and the flames was daylight, an open kitchen 
doorway, a small loaf cooling on a table—and hunger: 
terrible, gnawing hunger and thirst. He had been in and 
out of that house before the goodwife had time to turn 
round from the fire she was tending, with his booty 
clutched tightly in one dirty fist. The woman had been 
too stout to catch him, though he remembered the sound 
of her wails and curses pursuing him all the way down 
the street, until he'd rounded a corner and found a chink 
of an opening in a cellar grating through which his 
skinny form could slide. 
Grince remembered how-difficult it had been to feed his 
dog, that first time. The little creature was scarcely ready 
to progress beyond its mother's milk, and already it was 
limp and weak with hunger, showing no interest in the 
morsel of bread that he held up to its mouth. The boy 
shuddered, remembering how close he had come to 
losing his precious pet. If he hadn't remembered what 
Emmie had told him about mother dogs chewing up the 
food for their youngsters… When he'd tried it, Grince's 
mouth had been almost too dry with apprehension to 
chew the bread, but somehow he had managed. Once he 
had forced one or two of the resulting pellets between its 
tiny jaws, the puppy seemed to get the idea. Like the 
child, it was a survivor. 

That evening in the cellar marked the turning point for 
both of them. Grince, though still deep in shock at seeing 
his mother's disemboweled corpse in the ruins of Jarvas's 
compound, found new purpose to his life in caring for the 
tiny dog. Puppies ought to have milk, he knew—but milk 
was scarce indeed in Nexis, and though he searched long 
and desperately, he could find none. Then he thought of 
cheese— would that do, instead? By now his search was 
taking him toward the less poverty-stricken homes in the 
north of the city. Cheese he found in an unguarded 
pantry, having slipped like a shadow through an open 
kitchen window. There was also a pot of porridge, 
simmering at the edge of the fire, ready for the morning. 
Grince stole that, too, wrapping the hot handle in a scrap 
of rag before picking it up. He had been astonished at 
how easy it was. 
Seeking a lair to enjoy his spoils, the boy had discovered 
a high window at the rear of the arcade that had its 
wooden shutter swinging slightly ajar. It had been 
difficult to climb with the puppy still tucked into the 
scorched rags of his shirt—and even more difficult to get 
the porridge pot up there without spilling the 
contents—but Grince, goaded by his need, had managed 
it in the end and, grunting and swearing, had pulled 
himself up over the sill. The opening was protected by a 
row of metal bars, but the spaces between were just wide 
enough for a small, skinny boy to squeeze between. 

Grince had dropped down hard on the other side of the 
wall, falling awkwardly because he was trying to protect 
both his precious dog and the contents of the porridge 
pot. Luckily, the floor's stone flags were covered in a 
layer of dusty, prickly straw that cushioned the bump a 
bit. For all his care, though, the landing still knocked the 
breath from his body and slopped a little of the 
congealing cereal over the edge of the pot. Grince swore 
and, with a grubby finger, scooped up a lump of the 
porridge that was still clinging to the rim. He popped it 
into his mouth, and it suddenly made him realize how 
hungry he was. He could have eaten the lot, but 
restrained himself with difficulty. The porridge would 
have to be saved for his puppy. 
The puppy! Was it all right after his fall? With shaking 
hands Grince opened his shirt and checked on the little 
creature, facing into the faint glimmer of light that came 
through the window above and squinting his eyes in an 
attempt to pierce the shadowy gloom that filled the 
interior of the building. The little dog whimpered 
plaintively as it felt the cold air against its body, but apart 
from that, it seemed fine. Grince was willing to bet that it 
was hungry, too. He must find somewhere safe for the 
two of them to hide… 
The boy had already heard the small rustlings and 
scrabblings in the straw that betrayed the presence of 
lurking rats. Grince could imagine their shiny little eyes 

in the darkness, watching him. He was not afraid of 
them, he told himself stoutly. After all, there had always 
been rats at home. But the puppy was in deadly danger, 
and they would make short work of his meager supply of 
food. Grince abandoned his plan to leave the porridge pot 
in a corner while he explored. 
Awkward as it was, he would have to take it with him. 
What he really needed, to start with, would be a stub of 
candle— and a good, stout stick wouldn't go amiss 
either! "Come on, puppy," the boy told his small 
companion. Taking a firm grip on the handle of the 
porridge pot, he set off into the darkness. 
The inside of the building was too dark for exploring. 
Grince had not taken three steps before he ran bang up 
against a wooden wall. Moving to his left, he came near 
to tripping over the pile of casks and crates that had been 
stored beneath. Grince bit down on a curse, then 
suddenly brightened, as an idea came to him. Stooping, 
he began to burrow his way into the haphazard pile. And 
mere, right in the center, he found his lair at last—in an 
old flour barrel where the rats could come at him from 
only one direction, and be deterred by a slat of wood that 
he had pulled from a broken crate. For the first time in 
ages, Grince had a shelter in which he could almost feel 
safe and secure—somewhere from which he could begin 
to make his plans for survival. 
"Don't be scared, little one. I'll look after you." Though 

Grince's words had been addressed to the tiny puppy 
tucked snugly into the rags of his shirt, the child had 
spoken in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. Once 
his initial relief had worn off, the boy's newfound feeling 
of security had not lasted long. He was exhausted and 
hungry; he was all alone in the cold and dark of this 
enormous, creepy building, and there was no one left in 
the whole of his small world that he could turn to for 
help. 
They were all dead. Grince closed his eyes and 
shuddered. His mind still tried to writhe away from the 
brutal truth. Once more, he wanted to run—to run as he 
had been running ever since his young life had fallen 
apart in blood and flames. But the boy had already been 
running from the truth too long. He had found a good 
hiding place now, and he had enough sense to know he 
ought to stay there. The arcade was a haven away from 
the dangers and violence of the squalid dockside area. It 
would shield him from the weather and hide him from 
the brutal guardsmen whose swords had drunk the blood 
of his only protectors. Here, with luck, there might be a 
little food to scavenge, and comparative peace in which 
to take care of his only companion. 
Grince decided that the best way to fight his encroaching 
tears was tending to his puppy, which was shivering 
beneath his shirt and whimpering with hunger. It was a 
terrible business, trying to get porridge into the tiny 

mouth in the darkness, and by the time he had finished, 
the boy felt that most of the sticky stuff was all over 
himself, and matted into the little dog's white fur. Still, at 
least the puppy seemed satisfied now. He could hear the 
soft, even sigh of its breathing as it fell asleep. Grince 
tucked it back into his shirt, where it would stay warm 
against his body, and pushed the porridge pot behind 
him, right at the back of the barrel where the rats couldn't 
reach it without going through him first. Remembering 
his own hunger now, he fished a squashed and battered 
morsel of cheese out of his pocket, to keep himself going. 
Then, squirming awkwardly to find a comfortable 
position within the cramped, curving space of the barrel, 
he took his stick in hand and curled himself protectively 
round the furry little body of his puppy. This was as safe 
a place as any, and in the morning, once it was daylight, 
he'd be able to explore a little… But for now, exhaution 
was taking its toll. In the midst of his planning the boy's 
eyes closed at last, and before he was aware of it, he had 
joined his dog in sleep. 
Grince woke, screaming, from a nightmare. The 
compound gate had been broken down, and the 
warehouse was consumed by a roaring wall of fire. Folk 
were running, screaming… The soldiers were 
everywhere, their long, sharp blades gleaming crimson in 
the light of the flames, drinking thirstily of blood—more 

blood. Bodies were everywhere, littering the mud like 
broken toys, and Grince's mother lay sprawled where she 
had fallen, sliced open like a slaughtered animal, while 
the grim-faced soldiers with their swords swept on and 
on… 
Grince whimpered, tears running down his face, his inner 
eye filled with swords and fire and death… He scrunched 
up within his barrel, as if to hide from the guardsmen 
with their sharp blades—and from within his shirt the 
puppy yelped sharply, in pain. 
The sound brought Grince out of his nightmare with a 
jerk. The puppy—he had almost hurt it! Cursing himself 
for a fool, the boy slipped a trembling hand into his shirt. 
A soft, furry shape wriggled beneath his fingers with a 
joyful whine, and a tiny tongue licked his hand. Deep 
within himself, Grince felt a warm glow of pleasure that 
helped dispel the last chilling dregs of his nightmare. 
Why, it knew him! Really, he thought, it ought to have a 
name… Crouched in the darkness, his hand still stroking 
the warm, comforting fur of the little dog, Grince 
considered the possibilities. It had to be a special name, 
somehow. This was his dog, and it deserved no less. 
Huddled alone in the darkness, the boy racked his brains 
for a suitable name—a perfect name—but without 
success. One possibility after another he discarded as not 
being quite good enough. Still, it helped take his mind off 
the cold, off his hunger and loneliness and midnight 

terrors… 
Deep in thought, Grince stroked the wiry body of the 
pup. It wasn't really so very small, he reflected. It only 
seemed that way when he compared it to its mother's vast 
size. It had been the biggest of the litter, too, he thought 
proudly, and it had enormous ears and feet. Emmie had 
told him they were big so that the puppy could grow into 
them. One day, she had said, it would be as big as her 
own white dog. 
Where was Emmie now? Without realizing what was 
happening, the boy slipped back into the hideous visions 
from the compound. The soldiers were there again, with 
their brutal swords—only this time, Grince was not 
alone. At his side was an enormous white dog—his white 
dog, all grown-up. With a snarl it leapt at the soldiers, 
tearing at them with its great teeth that were more than a 
match for any sword. Shrieking with terror, the soldiers 
ran away… 
And Grince came back to himself, curled uncomfortably 
in the musty barrel, the great white dog a tiny helpless 
puppy snuggled in his ragged shirt. But he won't stay 
small forever, the boy thought delightedly. If I take care 
of him now, he'll grow up to be big like his mother—then 
he'll look after me! And he'll be a better fighter than any 
of those rotten soldiers… 
Grince shot bolt upright, banging his head on the curving 
top of the barrel. The pain of the bump did nothing to 

quench his delighted grin. Of course. That was it! It was 
perfect! The small boy hugged his puppy. "Guess what," 
he told it. "I'm going to call you Warrior." Still smiling, 
Grince fell asleep at last, secure in the knowledge that his 
own white dog would protect him from his dreams. 
Far above sleeping Nexis, high on the promontory that 
overlooked the remains of that once fair city, the white 
walls of the Academy trapped the moonlight in an eerie 
glow. From a distance, had anyone been looking up from 
the lesser dwellings of the city, the home of the Magefolk 
still seemed unsullied and perfect—save where the 
massive weather-dome had been shattered into shards 
like a broken eggshell. From within the walls, however, 
things looked very different. 
Is it always so? Miathan wondered, as he shuffled 
carefully across the stained, cracked flagstones of the 
courtyard. Is everything different when viewed from the 
other side? The Archmage still wearied easily from the 
strain of spending so long, lately, in the occupation of 
another body, not to mention the superhuman effort it 
had taken to wrench himself back to his own form when 
his pawn Harihn, whose shape he had borrowed, had 
been slain. Partway across the moon-silvered courtyard 
he stopped to rest, seating himself on the cold stone rim 
of the central fountain whose springing waters and 
laughing, bubbling song had long since been stilled. A 

bitter laugh sprang to Miathan's lips. This was a fitting 
throne, indeed! At last he had achieved his ambition—his 
rule over the city's Mortals was absolute, as he had 
always wished it to be—and his victory was as hollow, 
empty, and ruined as the cracked shell of the once mighty 
weather-dome. 
It used to be so beautiful here, the Archmage thought. 
The Academy had once been filled with life and 
movement as Magefolk hurried to and fro, their minds 
bent on perfecting the use of their powers. Servants had 
bustled about, cleaning and repairing under Elewin's 
stern gaze, maintaining the place in all its splendor. 
There had been a sense of pride and purpose in those 
days, Miathan reflected. Not just the purpose and pride of 
one ambitious Mage, but of many folk, all going about 
their allotted business. All the work, the personalities, the 
hopes and dreams of those folk, had combined to give the 
Academy a life and a spirit that was unique—and in 
reaching out to possess the greater world, he, the 
Archmage, had destroyed the place he had rightfully 
ruled. It was as though he had reached out toward a 
rainbow—and come back with a handful of rain, that 
trickled through his fingers and vanished without trace. 
The Archmage scanned the Academy courtyard with the 
multiple, prismatic vision of the gems that had replaced 
his eyes. The pearl-white buildings, that had once been 
so pristine and spotless, were now mottled with dark 

patches of moss and slimy mold. The glass and iron 
lacework structure of the plant room had melted and 
buckled in the heat of the exploding weather-dome, and 
coarse weeds had sprung up between the cracks in the 
courtyard's flags. The windows of the Great Hall and the 
Mages' Tower were cracked and smeared with grime, and 
tiles had slipped from the library roof, leaving gaping 
holes that exposed the priceless works within to all the 
depredations of dirt and damp. 
Miathan shuddered. "I never meant it to turn out like 
this," he whispered. Then his expression hardened. He 
had sacrificed so much for the sake of power that now he 
must keep it, whatever the cost. Nonetheless, he was 
unable to bear the sight of the desolate, memory-haunted 
courtyard a moment longer. Pulling the hood of his cloak 
about his face as if to hide the sight, he stood abruptly 
and headed for the sanctuary of his garden. 
From her window in the Mages' Tower, Eliseth watched 
the stooped figure hobble across the courtyard like the 
old man that he was, and smiled. Miathan's grip on the 
reins of power was weakening at last. Soon—very soon 
now—it would be her turn, and it was time to put some 
of her plans into action. As soon as Miathan had 
vanished into his garden, she turned back into her 
chambers and took up her scrying crystal. This new, 
diminished Miathan, the Weather-Mage could deal with. 
Aurian had done most of her work for her already. First 

and foremost, however, Eliseth wanted to know what her 
true enemy was up to. 
The Weather-Mage paused in the center of the room, 
balancing the glittering crystal on her palm, her brows 
creased in thought. Scrying was not among her natural 
skills, and it would therefore require a great amount of 
concentration and effort on her part if she was to succeed 
in spying on Aurian without the other Mage—not to 
mention that meddling Anvar—detecting her presence. 
Also, there was the matter of her own safety. Miathan 
had already lost his eyes when Aurian had struck back at 
him through a scrying crystal, and the Weather-Mage had 
taken that lesson to heart. "I need more power," Eliseth 
muttered to herself. "Sufficient power to find and reach 
Aurian in the first place—and sufficient power to protect 
myself when I do. "Her lips stretched back in a feral 
smile. "How very fortunate that there is just such a 
source of magical energy right here in the Mages' 
Tower." Striding briskly, she left her lair and headed 
upstairs, toward Vannor's chambers. 
Chapter 4 - A Burned-Out Shell 
This is hopeless," Yanis grumbled. "At this rate, I don't 
think we're ever going to find Vannor." He took a sip of 

his ale and spluttered as he swallowed. "Gods, this stuff 
tastes like it came out of a privy!" 
"It probably did. There are so many shortages in this city 
now, nothing would surprise me," Tarnal replied 
uneasily, hoping to deflect the leader of the Nightrunners 
from his original complaint to the lesser one. Though he 
was accustomed by now to his companion's grumbling, 
he'd become increasingly worried of late by Yanis's 
frequent comments about the hopelessness of the task 
they had set themselves. He doubted that the Nightrunner 
leader knew the extent of his devotion to Zanna, but as 
far as Tarnal was concerned, there was no possibility of 
his going home before he had found her. 
The fair-haired young smuggler sighed, and looked with 
disgust around the taproom of the Invisible Unicorn. It 
was not a place that encouraged optimism, he admitted to 
himself, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the filthy, 
verminous straw on the floor and grimacing at the sight 
of the once-white walls that were now stained with 
smears of soot, grease, and rusty spatters that looked 
suspiciously like dried blood. "When Parric stayed with 
us in Wyvernesse, he said that this was his favorite 
tavern," he commented. "It's a good thing he can't see it 
now." 
"Hush, you fool!" Yanis peered around suspiciously, but 
only a handful of the other drinkers seemed to be within 
earshot. "Don't go mentioning names like that! This place 

is full of bloody mercenaries in the pay of you-knowwho, 
and you go shouting your mouth off…" 
Tarnal felt his face burning red with embarrassment. 
"Well, you were the one who wanted to come here in the 
first place. I told you it was an idiotic idea. And you 
started it, too, mentioning Va—" 
"Will you be quiet?" 
"But you did…" 
"Yes, all right, I was careless. I'm sorry," Yanis said 
hastily. 
Tarnal noticed several heads turning in their direction, 
and he shivered. "Come on, let's get out of here. 
Whatever you think, Yanis, it was a stupid idea to come 
to this particular tavern." 
The two Nightrunners slunk through the dark streets, 
heading toward the north of the city. They followed a 
roundabout route among the back alleys, scrambling over 
yard walls and fences and cutting through abandoned 
buildings until they were quite certain they had not been 
followed. At last the streets around them turned from the 
labyrinthine clusters of crumbling buildings made of 
ancient, soot-stained stone, to neat rows of newer houses 
faced in limewash and brick. 
"These streets all look the bloody same to me," Yanis 
groaned, but the younger lad, at least, had memorized 
what few landmarks there were and was sure of his route. 
"This way." Tarnal took a sharp turning to his right, 

heading toward the city's northern gates, and then cut 
through a smaller alley to his left. Another sharp turn 
brought them to the neatly scrubbed doorstep of Hebba's 
house. 
"I don't know how you do it," Yanis marveled, shaking 
his head. As Tarnal pushed open the wooden door, he bit 
back a short reply. He only thanked the gods that the 
young leader of the smugglers was more at home on the 
sea than in a city— otherwise, the Nightrunners would 
have been in desperate straits indeed. At least Yanis had 
the idea of coming to Hebba for sanctuary, Tarnal 
reminded himself, anxious to give credit where it was 
due. Had it not been for her, who knows how we'd have 
managed! 
When the two young men had come to Nexis, it had 
taken several days of discreet inquiries to find Vannor's 
old cook. They had started with a surreptitious midnight 
visit to the servants' quarters of the merchant's former 
mansion, and had been horrified to discover that it was 
now occupied by the corrupt and money-grabbing 
Guildsman Pendral, who, so the gossip went, was in the 
Archmage's pocket and was already styling himself head 
of the Merchants' Guild. Most of Vannor's former 
servants had already left, but the gardener's lad 
remembered Hebba, and thought that one of the young 
kitchen maids—a good friend of his, he assured them 
with a lewd wink—might know of her whereabouts. The 

girl was serving in a tavern now, and would be there 
tomorrow, and if she didn't know, she was sure to know 
of someone who would… From person to person the trail 
had led, until they had finally discovered the former cook 
living in the northern part of the city, in the house of her 
sister, who had been slaughtered along with her husband 
and children on the Night of the Wraiths. 
Hebba remembered Yanis as the nephew of Vannor's 
housekeeper, Dulsina, but fortunately for her nervous 
disposition, she had no idea of their connection with the 
legendary smugglers. When they told her that they had 
come in search of her beloved Zanna, she had been more 
than ready to give them sanctuary, and besides, she was 
afraid of living alone now in these violent times, and 
pathetically desperate to have someone to take care of 
again. She had welcomed the two young men with open 
arms, and though she had little, she shared it without 
reservation. 
Though Hebba had already gone to bed when Yanis and 
Tarnal returned, they found that she had left a welcome 
for them in her cozy, spotless little kitchen with its 
colorful rag rugs on the floor, shining copper pots that 
twinkled among the low ceiling beams, and shelves of 
brightly glazed mugs and plates that had been 
unofficially removed by Hebba from Vannor's house 
when the mansion had changed ownership. A pot of thin 
broth was keeping warm by the edge of the fire— and the 

final remains of a scrawny chicken they had stolen three 
days ago on an unauthorized foraging expedition among 
Pen-dral's outbuildings. 
The Nightrunners took off their cloaks and swords, and 
sat down gratefully by the fireside with brimming bowls. 
A short time passed in a hungry and appreciative silence. 
Though it was not exactly filling, the broth was warming 
and, thanks to Hebba's skillful touch, delicious. 
Moreover, the thought of having foiled the fowl's 
previous owner added extra spice to the meal. 
Finally Yanis scraped the bottom of the bowl with his 
spoon and set it aside. For a time he sat frowning and 
fidgeting, looking into the fire. "Look here," he burst out 
suddenly, "to go on with what I was saying back in the 
tavern: I've been thinking a lot about it lately, and I don't 
believe we should stay here any longer. I should be back 
at home, Tarnal. As Nightrunner leader I have 
responsibilities to my own folk— and besides, what's the 
point in staying? We're never going to find Vannor—or 
Zanna. We've been combing the city for days now, 
without a word or a trace of either. I reckon they must 
have escaped already, or…" Suddenly he couldn't meet 
his companion's eyes. "Or they must be dead." 
Horror gripped Tarnal's heart, swiftly followed by a blaze 
of outrage. He leapt to his feet, tipping his chair over 
with a crash. "You bastard! Zanna is not dead," he yelled. 
"You miserable bloody coward—you're afraid of getting 

caught. And you're desperate to get back so you can bed 
the fair-haired wench we rescued, the one that you fancy 
so much. You don't care about Zanna at all! Call yourself 
a leader? If it wasn't for your mother, you'd be—" His 
vision exploded into sparkling blackness as a fist 
smashed into his face. 
Tarnal staggered to his feet and Yanis hit him again—but 
this time the younger man was ready. Reeling backward, 
he rebounded off the wall, using it as a springboard to 
launch himself forward. His blow brought a leaping 
fountain of red from Yanis's nose, which the Nightrunner 
countered with a vicious kick to Tarnal's knee. The fight 
went to and fro across the kitchen in a cacophony of 
clattering pots and pans and splintering crockery, until 
Tarnal saw an opening and butted his opponent in the 
stomach. Yanis fell backward onto the rickety table, 
which collapsed with a crash into matchwood, taking the 
smuggler down with it. Tarnal dived on top of him, fists 
flailing, and got in three or four telling blows before 
Yanis recovered both wind and wits, and brought a knee 
up into his balls. Tarnal curled up, gasping in helpless 
agony—and choked as a deluge of cold water hit him in 
the face. He looked up through streaming eyes to see 
Hebba standing over them with a wooden bucket in her 
hands. Her plump, round face was crimson with anger. 
"What do you mean by this brawling, you ungrateful, 
good-for-nothing ruffians? Just look what you've done to 

my kitchen!" Abandoning the bucket for her broom, she 
began to beat the two young men about the head and 
shoulders, belaboring them until they howled for mercy, 
and giving them the rough edge of her tongue all the 
while. 
"I don't know… Is this your gratitude for my kindness in 
taking you in, out of the goodness of my heart? What 
your poor aunt Dulsina would say… You'd have had the 
city guard down on us with your ruckus… My poor table 
a pile of kindling and all the good crocks smashed to 
smithereens… It comes to something, when two healthy 
young lads who should know better treat a poor helpless 
widow woman in such a heartless way…" 
On and on Hebba went, even after she had exhausted her 
anger and her voice had turned querulous with tears. She 
kept up her scolding commentary even as she rummaged 
in her cupboard for witch hazel and willow bark for the 
chastened men, and bathed their hurts in cold water. 
Tarnal had almost preferred it when she was hitting him 
with the broom, although when he cast his rapidly 
swelling eyes over the wreck he and Yanis had made of 
her home, he was ashamed, and sick to his stomach with 
guilt. 
"Oh, shut up, woman, for goodness' sake!" Yanis roared. 
Tarnal looked up, horrified, in the ensuing silence and 
saw Hebba's mouth hanging open in shocked indignation. 
The leader of the smugglers was scowling blackly. "I'm 

sorry about your kitchen, Hebba," he muttered 
indistinctly through puffed-up lips, "but I'll make amends 
to you one day, I promise. I'm leaving now," he flung at 
Tarnal. "You can stay here if you want—or go to 
perdition for all I care. As far as I'm concerned, you're a 
Nightrunner no longer!" With that he snatched up his 
sword and went stamping out of the house. 
The slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age in 
the wreckage of the kitchen. To Tarnal—still in a state of 
shock following Yanis's announcement—it was the death 
knell of the only life he had ever known. It was Hebba 
who finally broke the silence that followed the 
smuggler's departure. "Did he say Nightrunner?" she 
demanded. 
That tore it. Tarnal could only nod miserably. 
"And Dulsina knew about this?" Hebba's eyes were wide 
with astonishment. "Well!" she said indignantly. 
"Whatever next?" 
Tarnal only wished he knew. 
It had started to rain. The streaming, leaden skies were a 
perfect match for Yanis's spirits as he sloshed, shivering 
and already hopelessly lost, through the confusing maze 
of empty, muddy streets. Already his anger was melting, 
as though doused by the pounding rain. Guilt, however, 
was enough to keep him going. He couldn't go back and 
face Hebba again after what he had done, and as for his 

former companion… 
Yanis gingerly fingered the throbbing bruises on his face 
and felt a flash of his former anger. "Damn Tarnal!" he 
muttered. "This is all his fault. How dare he question my 
authority like that?" Yanis's pride supplied the final goad. 
What, go back now and apologize to the little turd? Why 
should I? he thought. I wasn't in the wrong. I am the 
Nightrunner leader. I should be at home with my 
people—especially in these hard and dangerous times. 
And, prompted a nasty little voice from within, there are 
plenty of folk besides Tarnal back home who doubt your 
fitness to lead. If you want to keep your authority, you'd 
better be there to defend it. 
"The trouble is, my ma is going to skin me when I come 
back without Zanna," Yanis groaned. There was nothing 
he could do about it, though, he assured himself. Had he 
not searched for her all over? What more could anyone 
expect of him? "No. I'm going home, and that's final." 
Saying it aloud somehow helped to strengthen his 
flagging resolve. Now all he had to do was find his way. 
For the first time since leaving Hebba's home, Yanis 
began to pay attention to his surroundings. The buildings 
in the narrow street were still those accursed brick-andplaster 
structures that were all alike, though it struck him 
with some force that after all this time he should have 
been in the older part of the town. "Damn these bloody 
houses," he muttered in disgust. "I must have been 

wandering round in circles." He stopped for a moment 
and looked around, trying without success to find a 
familiar landmark, and his heart sank as it occurred to 
him that right now, the long journey home was the least 
of his concerns. In his fit of temper, he'd stormed out 
without so much as a cloak to his back, and he was 
already chilled so that his teeth were chattering. He 
desperately needed warmth and shelter—but since he had 
so thoroughly lost himself, returning to Hebba was not 
even a possibility. The locked doors and firmly shuttered 
windows of the nearby houses turned blank, indifferent 
faces toward him. With so much lawlessness in Nexis 
nowadays, folk wouldn't open their doors to a stranger 
after dark. Yanis muttered an oath. There was no point in 
just standing there getting wetter—not that he could get 
any wetter, he thought sourly. With a shrug, he picked a 
direction at random and set off again. He had no other 
option. 
In a little while, however, hope returned to the 
Nightrunner as he emerged from the end of a street to 
find another road that crossed it, leading steeply downhill 
to his left. Thank the gods for that! Yanis exhaled on a 
sigh of relief. All he had to do now was keep heading 
downward and he was certain to come to the older part of 
the city. Maybe then he'd be able to get his bearings, and 
down among the deserted warehouses and derelict 
buildings near the docks he'd be sure to find a place to 

shelter. 
Yanis hurried along the lonely streets, his head down, his 
eyes fixed on the treacherously muddy cobblestones, 
wary of keeping his footing as the steep downhill 
gradient gave impetus to his jolting strides. The only 
illumination filtered through the chinks in shuttered 
windows, or, shone weakly from the occasional lantern 
hung above a doorway, and the rain-dimmed lamps that 
hung on the corners of buildings to mark the intersections 
of the streets. The smuggler was distracted by discomfort 
from being soaked through and, more particularly, from 
the damage inflicted upon him by Tarnal's fists and feet 
when they had brawled. Because his mind was befuddled 
by cold, fatigue, and unpleasant thoughts, he was not 
really concentrating on self-preservation. 
The smuggler was trying to give the appearance of a 
normal citizen, caught out in the deluge while going 
about his rightful business, and heading for home as 
quickly as he could go. He had forgotten that he was not 
the only criminal to be out and about on the streets of 
Nexis after dark. He was alone and off his guard, and the 
farther down into the labyrinths of the old town he went, 
the greater was his chance of being set upon by the 
desperate relics of humanity that haunted the night-dark 
streets. And the nearer to the docks he went, the more the 
risk increased. As he hurried on his way, he was unaware 
of the eyes that watched him from the shadows. The 

sheets of rain obscured swift forms that slipped in and 
out of concealment behind him, and the pounding of the 
deluge drowned the scuff of stealthy feet. 
One minute Yanis was striding along, his eyes and 
thoughts turned inward; the next, something hard and 
heavy struck him, and he stumbled, fetching up hard 
against a wall and falling facedown on the oozing ground 
with his head ringing and a mouthful of mud. Instinct 
took over and he rolled, choking—but a bolt of cold fire 
in his right arm told him he'd moved too late. The knife 
had gone right through the muscle of his forearm before 
its point hit the cobbles beneath. Yanis yelled and jerked 
his arm away, and the blade came with it, jarred from his 
assailant's hand. Even as the agony hit him, the smuggler 
glimpsed a shadow stooping over him, a darker silhouette 
against the glimmer of a lantern in a nearby doorway. 
Two other shapes lurked beyond, closing in on him like 
wolves. 
With his left hand Yanis scooped up a fistful of mud and 
flung it into his attacker's face. The man yelled an 
obscenity and reeled back, clawing at his eyes. Yanis 
struggled to his knees and grabbed the knife, his muddy 
fingers fighting for a grip on the blood-slick shaft. He 
yanked it from his arm in a spray of blood as his assailant 
came at him again and plunged it into the robber's belly, 
ripping the blade upward and out. The man fell 
screaming, tripping one of his fellows as he went down. 

Using the wall for support, Yanis staggered to his feet 
and kicked the sprawling fellow solidly in the face. 
The third footpad—a scrawny little man who so far had 
shown little stomach for the fight—was closing in now, 
wielding a long, sturdy cudgel. Yanis saw him glance 
down at his fallen companions and hesitate, and marked 
the little rat as a coward. He flipped the bloodstained 
knife and threw it, clumsily and left-handed. Thought the 
blade was not designed for such work, the closeness of 
the target made up for the lack. The small man shrieked 
and dropped his weapon as the knife hit him in the chest, 
though Yanis knew the throw had lacked sufficient force 
to inflict much more than a scratch. He groped 
awkwardly for his sword, and at the sight of the gleaming 
steel the scrawny robber took to his heels and fled. The 
Nightrunner, his arm still dripping blood, staggered away 
in the opposite direction, only wanting to put as much 
distance between himself and his attackers as he could. 
Luckily, he had already come close enough to the river to 
be able to see the high roofs of the warehouses looming 
over the lesser buildings. Though his left hand was still 
firmly clenched around his sword hilt, Yanis used his 
forearm to brush the rain and his muddy, tangled hair out 
of his eyes. He set his teeth against the white-hot agony 
in the useless right arm that dangled at his side, and his 
mind against the knowledge that, even if he could find 
the shelter he so desperately needed, he stood little 

chance of being able to bind the injury effectively lefthanded. 
But there was no sense in worrying about that 
now. He was losing too much blood, and the wet and 
cold were weakening him further. Added to that, the 
longer he roamed the open streets, the greater was the 
risk of encountering another gang of footpads. Unless he 
could quickly find a safe haven out of the rain where he 
could light a fire, the problem of treating his wound 
would never arise. Yanis looked around and, seeing no 
one, laid his sword reluctantly against a wall for a 
moment. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he worried a 
rag loose from the torn sleeve of his shirt and bound it as 
tightly as he could above his leaking wound, tying a 
clumsy knot with his teeth and the cold-numbed fingers 
of his left hand. Then, picking up the sword again, he 
struggled onward. 
As the dim light of a leaden dawn began to crawl across 
the sky, the rain finally slowed to a dismal drizzle before 
stopping altogether. The Nightrunner tottered down the 
last twisting alleyways, in a darkening dream of pain and 
exhaustion, toward the flat, sprawling, semiderelict area 
of the waterfront. He was past the stage of worrying now. 
The single thought of shelter that he had fixed in his 
mind's eye was all that kept him going. Beneath the 
blurring of his conscious thoughts, however, the 
instinctive part of his mind was still at work, taking note 
of familiar landmarks. He was much more at home in this 

area than the upper parts of Nexis. In better times his 
people had done much of their surreptitious business on 
the wharves, and lately he and Tarnal had spent a good 
deal of time here, searching among the warehouses and 
derelict buildings for any trace of Vannor. The 
overwhelming need for sanctuary that was uppermost in 
the young man's mind automatically led his steps toward 
the place that he remembered as a haven for so many of 
the city's desperate and wretched folk. 
Nonetheless, Yanis blinked with astonishment as he 
caught sight of the familiar silhouette of crumbling, sootscarred 
stone rearing against the slate-gray sky. How did 
I get here? he thought blearily. Am I dreaming? 
Memories came flooding back to him of the night when 
he and his mother, Remana, had come with Tarnal to 
Nexis in search of Zanna, and had emerged from their 
secret underground route through the sewers into a 
nightmare of blood and fire, and the tearing sound of 
screams. He remembered the big old warehouse, its roof 
collapsing inward in a fountain of sparks and flame, and 
Pendral's soldiers with their thirsty swords that drank the 
blood of women, children, and infirm old folk with brutal 
impartiality. He remembered Remana's desperate attempt 
to get the survivors down to safety in the old drain that 
ran below the fulling mill, while Jarvas, the unlikely 
founder of this sanctuary for the destitute, had witnessed 
the destruction of his dream with tears of anguish 

running down his ugly face. And most of all, Yanis 
remembered Emmie, the blond-haired girl who combined 
an ethereal loveliness which had captured his heart, with 
a relentless practicality that had thoroughly daunted him 
and left him tongue-tied. 
With reluctance, Yanis shook himself back to the present. 
What was he thinking of, standing here gawping and 
daydreaming like a moonstruck fool when the shelter that 
he needed was so close? There was no longer any need to 
find the gate of the stockade—the scorched timbers of 
the once-high fence had been pulled down in ruins. 
Though the warehouse was a burned-out shell, the fulling 
mill was still intact—and it also contained a water supply 
and a safe escape route. Blessing the gods for his good 
fortune, Yanis staggered with weaving steps toward the 
tall old building. 
The wan light of the gray morning did not pass beyond 
the doors of rotting wood that sagged ajar. It was so dark 
within the mill that Yanis wondered, with a chill of fear, 
if his vision was starting to fail him as he succumbed to 
blood loss at last. As his eyes grew accustomed to the 
gloom, however, he thought he could discern a faint 
glimmer of brightness, like the warm amber flicker of 
firelight, far down the length of the dusty, echoing 
chamber. If his mind was not playing tricks on him, the 
light seemed to be coining from behind the row of great 
dye vats at the farther end. As he was about to start 

forward, the Nightrunner found himself hesitating. If that 
was a fire, then who had made it? And would they prove 
to be friend or foe? At that moment, a slurred and 
wavering voice broke into song—and Yanis made up his 
mind to go on. Whoever was down there, they sounded 
far too drunk to do him any harm. Indeed, if they had 
wine or strong spirits with them, he only hoped they 
would be in a mood to share. Nonetheless, a certain 
amount of caution seemed a good idea. Creeping down 
the long, narrow chamber as quietly as he could on 
uncertain feet, Yanis slunk around the edge of the dye vat 
and peered around the corner. 
The singer, clad in a disreputable collection of filthy rags 
with a threadbare, tattered old blanket draped around his 
shoulders, sat with the curving wall of the massive stone 
vat at his back, and a small fire before him. He seemed 
oblivious to his surroundings, beating time to his song 
with the near-empty flask clutched tightly in his hand. He 
was a man of indeterminate years, and to Yanis the 
deeply graven lines on his gaunt face seemed more to do 
with sorrow than the depredations of age, though glints 
of silver frosted the dulled gold of his lank and greasy 
hair. His face seemed vaguely and annoyingly 
familiar—but Yanis had no chance to pursue the thought 
further. Having reached the end of his endurance at last, 
he swayed dizzily, clutching vainly at the smooth stone 
side of the vat—and toppled like a felled tree, almost 

landing in the stranger's fire. 
"Though she could have been younger, I had to admit, 
I only had eyes for the size of her—" 
Benziorn's song broke off suddenly as someone fell into 
his fireplace. "What in perdition!" He scrambled to his 
feet, his heart pounding wildly, and stood swaying 
uncertainly, squinting down at the apparition that had 
suddenly plummeted out of the sky. "But there is no sky, 
Benziorn, you fool," he muttered to himself with 
impeccable drunken logic. "Only a roof. So he couldn't 
have fallen out of it…" This was all getting too 
complicated. Anyway, he decided, I suppose I'd better 
help him, before he starts to singe… 
Benziorn pulled the inert figure farther away from the 
threatening flames and squatted down beside his 
mysterious visitant. As he turned the body over, he let 
out a muttered oath of surprise. Why, wasn't this the 
smuggler lad? And in dire trouble, by the looks of it. 
Someone had made a fair old mess of his face, but more 
worrying was the wounded arm, where a knife had 
slashed down through flesh and muscle, and torn its way 
out of the other side. Frowning, the physician picked 
with unsteady fingers at the knot in the makeshift 
tourniquet that had been tied above the wound. That 

would have to come off, for a start. It had been left on far 
too long— the arm below it was already white, with an 
unhealthy bluish tinge, and the flesh had swollen up 
around the strip of rag, tightening it and making it hard to 
untie with stumbling, drunken fingers. 
"Emmie?" Benziorn cried instinctively, as he continued 
to worry at the stubborn knot. "Come and help me here, 
and bring my…" His voice trailed away into silence as 
the memories that he had been drowning in wine came 
thrusting back like a knife blade twisted in his heart. 
Emmie was gone. Jarvas was gone. And all the old folk, 
and the little children… For a moment his vision was 
obscured by the sight of the burned and dismembered 
corpses that had littered the bloodstained yard outside. 
"Damn you," Benziorn muttered savagely at the 
unconscious man. "Why did you have to come back here, 
reminding me? I'm not a physician anymore—what's the 
point? I've given up healing, I tell you—" 
"Well you'd better take it up again—and fast" 
Benziorn whirled to find himself face-to-face with the 
point of a sword. His eyes tracked the blade up its 
gleaming length—up and up, until he met the cold gaze 
of the other young smuggler—the shorter, blond one that 
he also remembered from that dreadful night when 
Pendral had attacked. 
Tarnal looked down with mounting irritation at the 

physician's swaying figure and owlish gaze. What the 
blazes was wrong with the man? Then he smelled the 
alcohol on Benziorn's breath, and his annoyance turned 
to alarm. "Don't just sit there gaping, you drunken fool. 
Do something. Help him." The sharpness of his voice 
also stemmed from guilt, he knew. 
The young smuggler had been awake all night, regretting 
his fight with Yanis and worrying about the Nightrunner 
leader who was wandering the town alone in the storm 
and darkness, without even his cloak. Besides, if only he 
had tried to persuade his companion to stay, instead of 
losing his temper like that… Tarnal couldn't bear the 
memory of Yanis's last angry words. Surely, now that his 
temper had had time to cool, he would see things 
differently. As soon as it was light enough to see, Tarnal 
had set off to find him—suspecting, rightly, that his 
erstwhile friend would have made his way down to the 
wharves, and shelter. Once he'd reached the waterfront, 
he had soon discovered the distinctive prints of the softsoled 
boots that the smugglers used to keep their footing 
on slippery decks, and a trail of darker blood in the 
drying mud, which had sent his heart into his mouth and 
had finally led him to this place. 
"All right, all right." Benizorn's voice snapped Tarnal 
back to the present. "Put that blasted lump of steel away, 
then, young man, and get down here and help me." 
Tarnal hastily sheathed his sword and dropped to his 

knees at the physician's side. "What do you want me to 
do?" 
"See this?" Benziorn pointed at the bloodstained strip of 
rag. The smuggler felt nausea rise in his throat at the 
sight of the gaping knife wound that was surrounded by 
red and swollen flesh. He swallowed hard and tore his 
eyes away from the ghastly sight. He had never been too 
good with that kind of thing. "Yes," he said faintly. 
"Well, get your knife out and cut it off." 
"What—the arm?" 
"No, you bloody dimwit. The tourniquet!" roared the 
physician. 
"Oh. Well, how was I to know?" Tarnal muttered 
sheepishly. He was blushing as he fumbled for his blade. 
"Did you actually think you could saw the poor bugger's 
arm off with a belt knife? Melisanda save us!" Benziorn 
cast his eyes skyward. "Hurry it up, there. Now—just 
slide the blade very carefully under the binding—and 
don't cut him in the process! I'd do it myself if my hands 
were steadier. A touch of ague, I think…" 
Ague my behind, thought Tarnal sourly. Gripping the tip 
of his tongue between his teeth, he maneuvered his knife 
point beneath the bloodstained rag, trying not to look at 
the torn flesh beyond. Holding his breath, he turned the 
blade very slightly to angle the sharp edge upward—and 
gasped with relief as the fabric parted and the tourniquet 
fell away. 

"Thank you so much," Benziorn said sarcastically. Tarnal 
reminded himself that this obnoxious, acid-tongued sot 
was the only one who could help Yanis, and he 
reluctantly unclenched his fists. 
"Put more wood on the fire—I can't see what I'm doing." 
The physician stooped low over the inert form of the 
Nightrunner, peering at the injury, from which a trickle 
of blood had begun to seep. "Well, it looks as though we 
still have circulation," he murmured. "Your friend is 
fortunate in that respect—though he'll have to be 
extremely lucky to avoid infection. There's mud and all 
sorts of other muck inside this wound. You'll find a pot 
of water over there by my blanket, lad—just put it on the 
fire, would you? And pass me the leather satchel that 
you'll also find there. I'll try to clean this up as best I can, 
but…" 
As Tarnal hurried to do his bidding, Benziorn continued 
to probe at Yanis's wound and voice his thoughts aloud. 
"Wouldn't do much good to stitch at this point—the flesh 
is too swollen now, and, besides, I suspect the wound 
will need to drain before much longer." He looked up at 
the young smuggler with such a grave expression on his 
face that Tarnal felt his heart turn to lead. 
"I'll do my best, of course, lad, but you must prepare 
yourself." The physician shook his head. "Your friend is 
going to be a very sick man for some time. If we can't 
control the infection, we may have to remove his arm to 

save his life." 
Chapter 5 - Words of Warning 
"Majesty, do you not think you've wasted enough time on 
these groundling Wizards?" Elster winced and inwardly 
cursed her own temerity as the Queen's dark eyes kindled 
with a flash of anger. I would have to go and open my 
mouth, she thought. 
"How dare you even suggest such a thing, after all that 
Aurian and Anvar have done for us?" Raven leapt up 
from her seat and began to pace up and down the richly 
appointed chamber, the sound of her footsteps tapping an 
impatient rhythm on the marble, and the swirl of her 
robes as she turned casting a shadowed reflection in the 
gleaming surface of the stone. Her expression darkened 
with a furious scowl. "You may be old enough to be my 
grandmother, Elster, and you may have saved my life, 
but that does not give you the right to tell me how to run 
my kingdom!" 
Elster hesitated—then decided that she had already gone 
so far, she might as well go all the way. "If I do not, then 
who will?" she countered. "You are right, Majesty, I 
know little of ruling, but I have spent many years in the 
world. Because I am a physician, folk confide in me, and 

I know how to keep my eyes and ears open besides. You 
are young, and for all your mother's training, you have 
little more experience than I. Because of the royal 
isolation in which you were reared, you have few or no 
friends within the palace. Queen Flamewing's counselors 
all perished in Blacktalon's reign, and you have not 
appointed any of your own. That is only one of the many 
essential tasks you have put off while the groundlings 
have taken up all your attention and time. Why, you 
aren't even officially crowned yet, and will not be until a 
new High Priest is appointed: another task you have 
neglected. But be warned; if you don't take a hand in the 
selection, then the Priesthood will do it for you—and 
their choice may not be the same as your own, nor 
necessarily to your good." 
"Give me a chance, for Yinze's sake!" the Queen 
snapped. 
"I may—but you have enemies in Aerillia who will not." 
Seeing storm clouds gathering on Raven's face, the 
winged physician tempered her reproof with a smile. 
"Will you not listen, at least, to one who would be your 
friend? I am only offering information and advice. You 
could use the information, you know, even if you decide 
to discard the advice." 
"Information?" Raven's pacing stopped abruptly. "What 
information? And what do you mean by enemies? Who 
dares to oppose me?" 

The healer, relieved that the girl seemed to be coming to 
her senses at last, settled herself more comfortably on her 
spindly chair with a rustle of her black-and-white wings. 
She glanced around Raven's comfortable, lamplit room 
with its gold-stitched hangings on the wall, and longed 
for the peace and anonymity of her own cramped, drafty 
quarters on the lower spur of the pinnacle. But it was no 
good wishing—the little hanging turret had been 
smashed to rubble, along with that entire area of Aerillia, 
in the fall of Blacktalon's tower. The Queen, in gratitude 
for Elster's having saved her life, had given her the title 
of Royal Physician and moved her into the palace—much 
to the healer's dismay. Her quarters were far more 
sumptuous and comfortable now, but it sat ill with her 
that Raven should have a hold over her comings and 
goings and a monopoly on her skills; in her experience 
such close proximity to a reigning monarch was neither 
comfortable, peaceful, nor safe. 
"Well?" Raven's sharp voice cut through her thoughts. 
"You seem very slow with your answers, for one who 
only a moment ago was so full of advice. Or were you 
just trying to frighten me?" 
Elster sighed. "I only wish I did know the names of your 
foes," she admitted, "but I would advise vigilance, 
Majesty. Blacktalon left many secret supporters in this 
city. Be wary of those in whom you place your trust." 
"You have told me nothing, you useless crone! If the 

identity of Blacktalon's supporters is such a secret, then 
who in Yinze's name should I decide to trust?" Raven 
replied sulkily. 
Elster took a deep breath and reminded herself that in 
spite of all her trappings of power, the Queen was still 
little more than a child. "Usually—if I do say so 
myself—" she answered wryly, "you can trust those who 
are prepared to risk your wrath by telling you the painful 
truth." 
"How very convenient. In that case, I suppose I should 
make you my chief counselor," the winged girl sneered. 
"You could do worse. At least I am not saying that it was 
Blacktalon who ended the winter, and not the Magefolk. 
Nor am I spreading rumors that, for any number of 
reasons, you are unfit to rule." 
Raven's mouth fell open. "What reasons?" she managed 
to say, in a small, choked voice. 
For the first time since the start of their conversation, 
Elster felt she had the Queen's complete attention. She 
began to count off the points she made on her fingers: 
"For one thing, they are saying that Aurian's healing 
spells are a trick, and that the injuries to your wings will 
come back as soon as she leaves, leaving you crippled 
once more." 
"Preposterous!" Raven snapped. "That will be revealed as 
a falsehood the minute the Mages depart." 
"True—but to guard their falsehoods, they are also 

saying that you are in league with the natural enemies of 
the Winged Folk: Wizards, Xandim, and the great cats. 
Because of what happened with the Khazalim Prince who 
was Blacktalon's ally…" Elster nodded her head in mute 
apology at the sight of Raven's stricken face. "I am sorry, 
Majesty, to distress you, but somehow word of that 
regrettable business has got out, and it were best you 
know. The talk is that you have been duped again by 
Outlanders, and that you will betray us to our foes. The 
Queen, they say, is too young and inexperienced to rule 
the Skyfolk." 
"Yinze blast them—how can they spread such lies!" 
Raven struck the wall with her fist, but the force of her 
blow was smothered by the heavy tapestries. "It's not 
true—none of it!" 
The healer felt a desperate urge to comfort the 
beleaguered girl, but cosseting the Queen would not 
solve anything. It was hard, but she would have to learn 
to deal with crises such as these—and fast. "Then what 
are you going to do about it?" Elster asked levelly. 
"I don't know," Raven wailed. "I would have them 
arrested as traitors, but we don't know who they are. And 
how can I counter their vile calumnies? If I make any 
public protest, it will just add fuel to the rumors and 
make matters worse." She twisted her hands together. "I 
never realized that being Queen would prove so 
difficult…" 

"It isn't, necessarily," Elster told her wryly. "All you need 
is the backing of the military and the Priesthood—and, as 
a secondary consideration, the rest of the populace." She 
smiled at the distraught girl and patted the seat beside 
her. "Here, child—sit down and stop panicking. Have 
some wine. Now, let's think this through together, shall 
we?" 
Meekly, Raven sat, and accepted the goblet that the other 
thrust into her hands. Elster let her take a long draft 
before saying: "First, I suggest you employ a taster. As a 
physician, I have an extensive knowledge of poisons…" 
The color drained from the Queen's face. She began to 
choke. 
"It's all right. I haven't done anything of the kind," Elster 
shouted over her splutters, hoping that the lesson had hit 
home. "But I very easily might have." 
Raven's face went from chalk to crimson in an instant. 
"Hag! Harpy!" she shrieked, launching herself at the 
physician with her taloned claws extended. Elster's old 
bones rediscovered a nimbleness they had lacked for 
years as she grabbed the girl's wrists in her strong, 
gnarled hands and hung on grimly until Raven's struggles 
ceased. 
"Enough!" the physician panted. "Forgive me, Majesty— 
but it was a lesson that you had to learn." 
Raven glared at her, speechless with rage—then, after a 
long moment, she found her voice. "If you ever do that to 

me again," she growled, "you'd best make sure you 
poison me in truth—for otherwise I will have your head!" 
"If you give me a chance to do that again," Elster 
countered bluntly, "then I suggest you tell the guards to 
take your own head. It will save time in the end." 
The Queen bit her lip, as if to hold back an angry retort; 
then she shook her head and suddenly burst out laughing. 
"Do you know, Elster, sometimes you remind me of the 
Lady Aurian? She is as plainspoken and impatient with 
fools as yourself." Her face suddenly sobered. "And I 
have been a fool, have I not? Bearing in mind my 
mother's fate, I should be more wary…" She frowned. 
"But tell me: who would undertake the perilous position 
of Queen's taster? How can I condemn a friend to 
constant danger? Yet how could I trust an enemy? Who 
would I choose for such a task?" 
"Cygnus." The name was out of her mouth before Elster 
knew it. 
Raven's eyes opened wide with surprise. "But why? You 
trained him yourself. He helped you to save me. Cygnus 
is a friend—is he not?" 
How can I tell her? Elster thought. The Queen has no 
idea that Cygnus was responsible for the poison that 
killed her mother. And, besides, he has repented and 
reformed—or has he? It was no good. The physician 
could call herself a foolish old woman and chide herself 
for being overly suspicious, but she could not shake off a 

lingering feeling or mistrust. Whoever had spread those 
rumors knew entirely too much—and who knew more 
than herself and Cygnus? Yet she could scarcely accuse 
him with no proof. No; probably the best place to keep 
the young healer from further mischief would be at the 
Queen's side—where I can keep my eye on him, Elster 
thought. And I'll be watching him like a hawk. 
"You must be patient with the Queen, my friends, for she 
is little more than a child as yet." Cygnus looked from 
one to the other of the three figures seated with him at the 
table. Aguila, Captain of the Royal Guard, would be the 
hardest to sway. The young physician would have to 
handle him very carefully, for his sworn duty was to 
protect the Queen. The other two posed less of a 
problem. Skua, Acting High Priest following Blacktalon's 
demise, was also the head of the Temple Guard, and 
would do anything to have his temporary position 
officially confirmed. As for the leader of the Syntagma, 
Aerillia's warrior elite—well, Sunfeather had been 
Cygnus's closest friend ever since the two had been 
fledglings. After the accident that had almost claimed the 
life of the handsome, brilliant young warrior and led to 
Cygnus's eschewing the Way of the Sword for the Way 
of Healing, Sunfeather's rise through the ranks of the 
Syntagma had been meteoric. The healer often reflected 
that his friend's close brush with death had led him to 

seize upon everything that life could offer with greedy 
hands. When the existing Wingmarshal had met with a 
mysterious but fatal accident after crossing Blacktalon, 
Sunfeather had been all too ready to step into the role. 
It was good, Cygnus mused, to have friends in high 
places. After his first attempt to get rid of Aurian and 
Anvar—and to claim the Harp of Winds from the fallen 
tunnels below the temple—had failed, he had been 
racking his brains for an alternative. Though no plan had 
suggested itself as yet, he had decided that the first step 
lay in driving a wedge between Queen Raven and the 
Mages. Divide and conquer, as his old military tutor 
always used to say. Cygnus had convinced himself that it 
should not be too difficult to turn these three powerful 
men against the Queen's alliance with Aurian, though 
there was a hard look in Aguila's eyes that caused him 
some qualms. 
Clearing his throat and fighting down the hollow feeling 
of nervousness in his stomach, the physician addressed 
his fellows: "I have called this gathering so that we four 
may consider what must be done for the good of our 
people—and the good of the Queen, of course," he added 
hastily, with a sidelong glance at Aguila. 
The weather-beaten, tawny-haired captain looked 
unimpressed. "I hope so," he said bluntly. "Queen 
Flamewing's tragic fate is a disgrace from which the 
Royal Guard will not easily recover, and I have sworn a 

solemn oath that it won't happen to her successor. Your 
clandestine meeting stinks of treason, Cygnus—and for 
your sake, you'd better convince me otherwise." 
Cygnus cursed inwardly. When Blacktalon had perished, 
many fortunes had been reversed overnight, and the 
leadership of all Aerillia's military forces had undergone 
a rapid change. Trust this loyal, conscientious lowborn 
bonehead to have wrested control of the Royal Guard. It 
would take some quick thinking now to keep control of 
the situation] 
"You wrong me, Captain," the physician said in injured 
tones. "You should know that I, of all people, am loyal to 
the Queen. Why, did I not labor with Elster to save her 
life after the High Priest's reprehensible attack upon her 
person? Did Blacktalon not intend to take my life, too? 
Each day I thank Yinze that Her Majesty is safe now, and 
upon her rightful throne at last." He looked at the faces of 
his companions to judge the effect of his words and, 
encouraged, continued: 
"I merely speak now for the good of both the Queen and 
her subjects. Can it truly benefit Aerillia when its ruler 
has become enamored of foreign groundling Wizards? 
Have you all forgotten the bitter lessons of the 
Cataclysm?" 
"I don't know about that, but it seems that you have 
conveniently forgotten a fact or two," Aguila growled. 
"For one thing, we have the foreigners to thank for 

ridding us of Blacktalon and putting the Queen on her 
throne. They have labored long and hard since they came 
here to get our crops growing again, to save Aerillia from 
starvation." He leaned over the table and fixed the 
bristling Cygnus with his gaze. "And also," he went on, 
"if my memory does not deceive me, it was Incondor, 
one of the Winged Folk, who set in train the catastrophe 
of the Cataclysm. He was every bit as much to blame as 
the groundling Wizard Chiannala." 
"Come, come, friend Aguila," Sunfeather put in 
smoothly. "No one would dispute your words, but I think 
you misunderstand our companion. He has only the best 
interests of everyone at heart. The groundlings have 
played their part, true—but what will be the price of their 
aid? Now they are causing Her Majesty to neglect her 
most essential duties. She talks of depleting our forces at 
a time when we can least afford it, to send our people off 
to fight in some foreign war of magic." 
"Exactly," Skua interrupted. "Are we now to forget what 
befell us in the Cataclysm? After we lost our magic, the 
Winged Folk swore never again to consort with 
Wizards." Laying his palms flat upon the table, he looked 
gravely at them all. "My friends, I believe that Cygnus is 
right. The Queen is but a young girl, vulnerable and 
gravely in need of guidance. It is our duty and 
responsibility to advise her—and we must start by 
wooing her away from her groundling friends and 

purging our land of this foreign infection." 
"I agree." Sunfeather nodded. "Aguila, you are needlessly 
suspicious. Blacktalon no longer reigns here, and—" 
"There may be some who still miss him." 
At the captain's words Sunfeather half raised his coppery 
wings and put his hand upon his sword. "I suggest that 
you explain yourself and apologize," he hissed, "or 
prepare to defend your vile slanders in the arena of the 
skies!" 
Aguila looked unperturbed, but his hand had also gone to 
his weapon. "It occurs to me," he answered with 
deceptive mildness, "that the High Priest was responsible 
for your rise to your present exalted position. I would 
simply like to establish, once and for all, the extent of 
your loyalty to the Queen." 
Cygnus, realizing all too late that control of the meeting 
had slipped from his grasp, tried to dissipate the tension. 
"Please, my friends, there is no need for such suspicion 
between us. Aguila, you have misjudged the 
Wingmarshal. As you all know, Sunfeather was my 
childhood companion, and we have remained close over 
the years. I know his reasons for accepting his position 
from the hand of Blacktalon, for he confided in me at the 
outset. It was I who advised him to take the 
promotion—for at least then he would have sufficient 
authority to help our people clandestinely and to 
counteract the worst of the High Priest's depredations. He 

acted from the best of intentions—as do we all." 
"I see. Well, if that is truly the case, then I beg his 
pardon," Aguila answered, though Cygnus suspected that 
he spoke more from caution than from true conviction. 
"You must understand that as guardian of the Queen's 
person, it is my duty to ask these questions. I admit, 
however, that there may be sense in what you say. I see 
no gain in sending our warriors off to some foreign war 
when we should be consolidating our position here in 
Aerillia, and I will join with you in advising Queen 
Raven to that effect." 
It was only through rigid control that Cygnus managed to 
suppress his sigh of relief. 
"Good," he answered. "I am grateful to you all for your 
cooperation. I suggest that we present our case to the 
Queen on the morrow." 
It couldn't possibly last, thought Raven—but by Yinze, 
while it did, it was a marvel to behold! The winged girl, 
now Queen of the Skyfolk, dropped out of the thermal in 
which she'd been circling and swooped down toward the 
lower slopes of Aerillia Peak. Let them say what they 
like, she thought. At least I've already achieved a miracle 
in my short reign. 
There, on the hand-hewn terraces below the Citadel of 
the Winged Folk, a great work of cultivation was in 
progress—and everyone capable of such labor, from 

ragged-plumed elders down to the smallest of fledglings, 
had been mobilized to assist. Raven looked down with 
pride upon her people, all engaged in the work of 
clearing, tilling, and planting, and felt her raptor's vision 
blur with tears of gratitude and relief. I have the Mages to 
thank for this, she thought. Aurian and Anvar. Even 
though I betrayed them, they have still come to my aid in 
this great-hearted way. 
Raven cringed inwardly at the memory of her recent 
folly. How close she had come to bringing ruin upon 
them all! How could I have let myself be duped by 
Aurian's enemies, and my own? she wondered. How 
gullible I was. Aurian might have forgiven her, but the 
young Queen of the Skyfolk would never be able to 
forgive herself—and that made her feel even more guilty 
about the news that she must now impart to the Mages. 
"Ho, Raven!" 
The winged girl banked sharply in the direction of the cry 
from below. Aurian, with Anvar at her side, was waving 
from a bank of earth at the end of a row of grapevines. 
Raven bit her lip as her stomach clenched in trepidation. 
They weren't going to be at all happy with the word she 
brought them, but she would have to get it over with. 
Furling her wings, she landed beside the Magefolk, 
apologizing hastily as her final backsweep whirled a 
cloud of dust into their faces. 
Aurian coughed grit from her throat and wiped her 

streaming eyes on her sleeve. "I see your whirlwind 
landings haven't altered," she said dryly. 
"You're right," Raven acknowledged. "My mother always 
used to say…" Her features twisted in a grimace of pain. 
"Don't dwell on it." Aurian laid her hands on the winged 
girl's shoulders. "Raven, you can't change the past. 
You've repented, and what's more, you've learned from 
your mistakes. Now you're doing your best to set matters 
to rights. You have promised to help us in our fight, and 
your winged warriors will make all the 
difference—though I know how difficult it is for you to 
spare them just now, when you have so much to do here 
in your own kingdom." 
Raven could not meet the Mage's eyes. "That's just it," 
she muttered. "I…" There was no way that she could 
break this news gently. "Aurian, they won't come," she 
blurted. "I spent the morning closeted with what remains 
of the Temple Guard and the officers of both the Royal 
Guard and our fighting force, the Syntagma. They all say 
the same thing: that it's insane to leave our land 
unprotected when we are at our most vulnerable, and that 
since the time of the Cataclysm, the groundling Wizards 
have earned nothing but our enmity." 
"They said what?" Anvar shouted, his blue eyes icy with 
anger. His hand swept out to embrace the verdant 
terraces on the mountainside. "They call this nothing? All 
the work that Aurian has done to keep the ungrateful 

bastards from starvation? And what about Blacktalon? If 
it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have a bloody 
kingdom—" 
"And without the backing of the warriors, I will not have 
one much longer!" Raven cried. "They have already 
made that perfectly clear," she added in a smaller voice, 
into the shocked silence that followed. "It was Elster who 
warned me. Despite his cruelty, Blacktalon had many 
followers, especially among the military, because they 
believed that he was trying to restore the ancient selfrespect 
and supremacy of the Winged Folk. How else do 
you think he could have succeeded as he did?" Her voice 
took on a brittle edge of bitterness. "His only mistake 
was murdering my mother. Even for those who were 
loyal to him, that was going too far—and yet even now 
there are those in Aerillia who are saying that the coming 
of spring had naught to do with Anvar. That it was 
Blacktalon who ended the winter as he had promised—at 
the cost of his own life." 
"But that's outrageous!" Aurian was scowling. "You 
know, I thought I could sense hostility from some folk 
while I was working on the terraces. I simply put it down 
to suspicion of an Outland Wizard. But who started these 
ridiculous rumors? How can people believe them?" 
"I wish I knew who was responsible," Raven sighed. 
"Because of what happened with Harihn, my rule over 
the Skyfolk is tenuous at best, and to have a secret enemy 

spreading such poison behind my back makes me very 
uneasy. Your selfless work upon our crops has 
strengthened my position, but…" 
"It's not enough." There was grim finality in Aurian's 
words. 
Raven nodded. "Not only that, but…" She looked up at 
Anvar, tacitly pleading for his understanding. "The 
finding of the Harp has caused a good deal of resentment. 
People believe that Anvar had no right to claim it. Only 
today, Sunfeather, the Wingmarshal of the Syntagma, 
was saying that it should be returned to its rightful 
keepers: the Winged Folk. The hope of regaining our 
long-lost powers of magic is a powerful and dangerous 
lure. With the resentment that is building, it may no 
longer be safe for you to stay here — " 
"Damn it, Raven — the only reason we did stay so long 
was to help your people," Anvar began hotly, but Aurian 
silenced him with a shake of her head. 
"It's time we were leaving anyway," she said calmly. 
Only the cold gray glint in her eye betrayed her true 
feelings. "Far from helping you establish your authority, 
Raven, I think our presence is making matters worse — 
and, besides, it's time we were heading back north. Can 
you still arrange to have us transported to the Xandim 
Fastness?" 
"I owe you that — and so much more." Raven's vision 
blurred with tears. "You gave me back the gift of 

flight…" She took a deep breath, fighting to control her 
emotion. "My people have shamed me, Aurian, but I will 
make amends for betraying you, I promise. I'll do 
whatever I can to put things right. There are some still 
loyal to me, who will act as bearers and couriers for you 
until you cross the ocean and return north. I will make 
the arrangements at once." Too ashamed to say more, she 
took wing again, heading back toward the sunlit spires of 
the Citadel. 
Anvar's eyes were bleak and cold as he watched Raven 
fly off. The anger in his guts was too great to be 
contained any longer. Aurian, catching his expression, 
raised a questioning brow. "Does she still trouble you so 
much? After all, you can hardly blame her for this 
situation." 
Anvar took a deep breath. "I never understood how you 
could forgive her." His tone was flat and 
uncompromising. "After what she did to us—after what 
became of Wolf—how can you just act as though nothing 
has happened? How can you be so calm about it?" The 
Harp of Winds, strapped, as always, to his back, began to 
thrum discordantly in tune with his anger, and Anvar 
silenced it hastily—though not without effort. Like 
Aurian in the early days of her stewardship of the Staff of 
Earth, he had not yet perfected his control of the 
powerful Artifact. 
Aurian, who had been leaning, chin in hands, with her 

elbows resting on the crumbling drystone wall of a 
terrace, turned to look at him. "Anvar, don't be too quick 
to judge. At least Raven didn't kill anyone. Oh, she 
precipitated situations in which there were deaths, but 
that was because she was manipulated. Her chief crime 
lay in being too young and untried—and trusting in the 
wrong people." 
Anvar shook his head in denial. "So she was deceived. 
That doesn't alter the fact that she betrayed us!" 
"True." Aurian looked away from him. "But I remember, 
not so long ago, a young girl who trusted in the 
Archmage, and—" 
"Aurian, that's not the same!" 
"Oh—isn't it?" Aurian's mouth had thinned to a tight line. 
"Seeing the way he despised the Mortals of Nexis, should 
I not have realized what he was like? After the way he 
treated you, should I not have known that he was evil? 
When he tried to have his way with me, should I not have 
faced the truth?" 
Anvar, in his mind, added the words she had left unsaid: 
"And if I had, then Forral need not have died. …" 
"That wasn't your fault," he told her stubbornly. 
"Exactly!" Aurian's voice rang with triumph. "It took you 
to teach me that—and there's little difference between 
Raven's situation and mine—not to mention your own." 
"What?" Anvar gasped. 
Aurian took his hand. "Think back, my love. Back to the 

young man who once loved a girl so much that he would 
sacrifice anything for her—though she plotted his death 
and abandoned him to marry, first a rich merchant, then a 
powerful king." 
Anvar recoiled as though she had slapped him. The blind 
folly of his love for Sara was not a subject he cared to 
dwell on. "I…" he began to protest, but there was no 
answer to Aurian's charge. Anvar felt his face turn hot. 
She was right—much as it pained him to admit it. 
Suddenly, he began to see the winged girl in a new light. 
Aurian squeezed his hand apologetically. "Raven 
changed," she said softly. "She grew up—just as we did. 
She knows better now. She learned the hard way, as did 
you and I. Does she not deserve a chance to redeem 
herself?" 
Anvar sighed. "I take your point, but—Aurian—can you 
trust her? How can you be sure that she didn't start these 
rumors herself, to get rid of us? Have you ever wondered 
if she wants the Harp?" 
Aurian shrugged. "I don't trust her entirely—I'd be 
foolish if I did. But for now I'm prepared to give her the 
benefit of the doubt. If the situation is as precarious as 
she claims, then Raven has more than enough troubles of 
her own." 
Anvar dug the toe of his boot into the new-turned earth. 
"Well, she's welcome to them. As far as I'm concerned, 
the Skyfolk have proved themselves to be as arrogant, 

ungrateful, and untrustworthy as all the legends claim. 
They can stay up here and squabble among themselves 
until the sun turns cold, for all I care. But"—his eyes 
flashed fire—"if any of them try to take the Harp from 
me, they'll be sorry they were ever born!" 
Aurian hugged him. "If they are stupid enough to try that, 
they'll have both of us to reckon with!" Frowning, she 
dismissed the Winged Folk with a shrug. "We've done all 
we can for the citizens of Aerillia. It's time we turned our 
thoughts toward heading northward once more. Our allies 
must be nearing the Xandim Fastness by now." 
Raven, reveling in the strong beats of her newly healed 
wings, approached her pinnacle-palace and looked down 
upon the shimmering forest of towers, domes, and spires 
with mingled pride and sorrow. She was Queen now—all 
of this was hers (as were the burdens and responsibilities 
that went with it, she reminded herself sharply, feeling 
another stab of shame for the behavior of her people). 
The evil reign of Blacktalon was ended, and the fell 
winter that had slain so many of her folk had been 
banished—but at what cost? Sadly, she looked up at the 
shattered shell of Yinze's Temple—a hideous structure it 
had been, but how much irreplaceable knowledge had 
been lost beneath that mound of fallen stone? 
The winged girl turned her eyes downward, toward the 
great scar on the mountainside where the High Priest's 

tower had crashed down in ruin, taking so many lesser 
dwellings, and lives, down into darkness with it. She 
looked across at the Queen's tower, her destination—and 
the place where her mother had died in agony and 
torment. The legacy of Blacktalon still lingered, and it 
would be long, indeed—if ever—before his evil 
influence could be eradicated. Raven sighed, then, taking 
her example from the dauntless Aurian, lifted her chin 
proudly. Well, so be it. Nothing could undo those 
sacrifices—and Flamewing, her mother, had often told 
her that any sacrifice would not be in vain if the good of 
the people had ultimately been served. As Queen, Raven 
knew that it was her responsibility, and hers alone, to 
make sure that it was so. And, by Yinze, she meant to do 
it. 
"Your Majesty. Your Majesty! Please…" 
The shrill, piping voice that had startled the Queen of the 
Winged Folk from her royal thoughts ended in a squeak 
of fright—and the enraged bellow of a guard. Raven 
stalled, spilling wind from her wings, and sideslipped to 
turn and look for the cause of the commotion. Her eyes 
widened in surprise as she took in the balcony of a 
nearby tower and the sight of the slight, brown-winged 
child held firmly in the grasp of the scowling guard. The 
fledgling was struggling and swearing, shrieking out 
curses that no child should know. Raven's lips twitched 
in an involuntary smile at the recollection of her own 

rebellious childhood. Putting her own troubles aside for 
the moment and composing her face into a semblance of 
royal dignity, she flew across to question the small 
intruder. 
"Let me go! You filthy carrion-scavenger, fit for nothing 
but to pick flesh off a rotting corpse! Let me—" The 
words were cut off in a wail as the guard cuffed his 
captive. 
"Gracious, who taught you such language?" Raven 
thought it best to interrupt at that point, before matters 
could deteriorate further. 
The child, who had been too busy yelling to notice the 
Queen's approach, turned her head sharply, her mouth 
dropping open in an O of surprise that changed swiftly to 
horror. "Your Majesty!" she gasped, and writhed in her 
captor's grasp in a desperate attempt to dip her wings in 
obeisance. 
Raven fought off the tender urge to straighten the girl's 
tousled brown curls, and said sternly: "How comes this? 
Why are you trespassing in the precincts of the palace?" 
"I caught her earlier, Your Majesty," the guard 
interrupted. "The little wretch was trying to sneak into 
the throne room. Tried to give me a lot of nonsense about 
an urgent message for you. I sent her off then, but she 
must have sneaked back—" 
"Be quiet!" Raven told him. "Are we still in the hands of 
a tyrant, that you must bully children? And let the child 

go, for Yinze's sake. If she has a message for me, she's 
hardly likely to go flitting off." She turned back to the 
fledgling. "Now, little one, what is your name? And what 
word do you bring for your Queen?" 
The child, released from the grip of the scowling guard, 
straightened her tunic in a pathetic attempt at dignity and 
dipped her wings once more. "Thank you, Your 
Majesty," she piped. "If you please, my name is Linnet. 
And I do have a message—an important one—from the 
cat Hreeza." 
"So you are the brave child who rescued her!" Raven 
said. She had been astonished when Aurian had brought 
her word that one of her folk—and a fledgling at 
that—could accomplish the mindspeech of the great cats. 
She had been meaning to look into the matter further, 
but… Raven put her thoughts aside with an impatient 
shrug. The child was here now, at least. "And what was 
your message?" she asked. 
Linnet looked blackly at the guard. "She said it was 
private. " 
The Queen laughed. "Come, then, little one. We will 
adjourn to my chambers and see if we can find any 
refreshment there that is fit for a messenger." 
"She said what?" 
Linnet flinched from the forcefulness of the Queen's 
tone. Had that dratted cat got her into trouble again? Was 

she to be thrown out of these cozy royal chambers in 
disgrace? I told Hreeza that this idea was crazy, she 
thought resentfully. Linnet took an enormous bite out of 
the sweet cake in her hand—it tasted so good, and if she 
was to be thrown out, she might as well—and that was as 
far as she got for, not unnaturally, it went down the 
wrong way. 
By the time the Queen had finished thumping her on the 
back and giving her a drink of water, Linnet had 
forgotten the original question. She flushed with 
embarrassment as Queen Raven repeated: "Now, then, 
tell me again, Linnet, exactly what Hreeza said." 
"She said that she had an urgent request." Linnet scowled 
in concentration, doing her best to remember the exact 
wording. "She asks if you will wait until the others 
leave—the Mages and the cats—and then provide bearers 
to return her to the lands of her people." 
"But in Yinze's name, why?" The Queen was frowning. 
In her consternation she seemed to have forgotten that 
she was speaking to a child. "Shia said that she and her 
friend were outlawed in their own lands, and could not 
return on pain of death." 
"That's why it has to be a secret," Linnet told her. 
"Because if the others find out, they'll worry, and they 
won't let her go. Hreeza says that her Queen is bad—not 
like you," the child added hastily, blushing for the slip, 
"and if she isn't dealt with, she will always be an enemy 

at Aurian's back. But Hreeza has a plan—a wonderful 
plan—and if she can just get back quickly—" 
"Wait, wait!" Frowning, the Queen held up her hand for 
silence. "Linnet, you had better come with me and talk to 
Hreeza. If you can translate, I would hear this plan for 
myself. What the Mages would say, if they knew of 
this…" 
Linnet felt a weight of responsibility lift from her 
shoulders. Forgetting, in her relief, the exalted rank of 
her companion, she darted round the table and took hold 
of Raven's hand. "Let's go now," she said excitedly. "I 
didn't understand it myself, but you will. And Hreeza is 
very wise, so it's sure to be a very good plan…" 
As the excited child pulled her from the room, Raven 
lifted her eyes heavenward. "It had better be," she 
muttered to herself, "or Aurian and Shia will have my 
hide." 
Chapter 6 - The Storm Breaks 
The little band of Xandim cavalry were but a scant 
handful of days from their destination, and excitement 
was growing within them as they neared their homeland. 
They had climbed high now, into the great mountain 
range, and were looking forward to the day when they 

could look out across the roof of the world and see the 
familiar shape of their own sacred Wyndveil Peak, 
glimmering in the distance like a promise. 
Spirits were high around the fire that night, and the talk 
and laughter were loud, but even though the flask was 
passed round again and again from hand to hand, the 
Xandim maiden declined her share and crept away from 
the crowd of warriors who had crammed themselves into 
the bright circle of the campfire's glow. After so many 
months of near solitude, Iscalda still found herself 
overwhelmed, on occasion, by such a press of people, 
and she wanted to be alone for a time—at peace with the 
immense stillness of the night. On quiet feet she crept 
past the sentries and ventured a little farther beyond the 
glare of the flames until the soft hum of voices had 
receded and the stars above her were bright once more. 
Iscalda unbraided the rippled flaxen banner of her hair 
and pushed her cloak back from her shoulders, letting the 
wind that swirled down from the snowpeaks stroke her 
arms with fingers of ice, raising tingling gooseflesh along 
the bare skin. She shivered pleasurably, luxuriating in the 
sensation of being clothed in human flesh once more. For 
her, this trek back through the mountains to her 
homeland had turned into a wondrous voyage of 
discovery. She had been trapped in her equine form for 
so long that she had almost forgotten simple, ordinary 
sensations such as the smooth slide of linen and the 

rough drag of wool against her skin; the savor of hot food 
in her mouth and the supple weight of a leather cloak 
around her shoulders; the heart-lifting, all-enfolding 
warmth of strong arms pulling her into an embrace; and 
the delight of shared laughter with a friend. Sights, 
sounds, scents, emotions—they had all seemed like 
thrilling new experiences, tasted for the very first time. In 
these last few days Iscalda had felt like a child again, 
running out, full of excited expectation, into the morning 
of the world. 
"Lady—do you not feel cold?" 
Iscalda jumped at the sound of the soft voice that came 
from behind her and, whirling, came face-to-face with 
Yazour. He had been the last person she had expected to 
hear addressing her in her own language. During the 
journey she had been chiefly occupied with renewing old 
friendships among her own people, and had forgotten 
that Chiamh the Windeye had extended a spell of tongues 
around the strangers so that they could be understood. 
With a startled exclamation, she took a hasty step 
backward and pulled her cloak around her shoulders once 
more. 
The young warrior inclined his head in apology. "I did 
not mean to startle you." 
"No?" Iscalda inquired tartly. "You creep up soft-footed 
as a Black Ghost of the mountains, and suddenly speak 
from out of the darkness. What, then, did you expect?" 

Yazour laughed. "You have me there. What I meant to 
say was that I did not come out here with that intention. 
In fact, I left the fireside to satisfy a much more mundane 
and pressing need, but as I was returning, I saw you 
standing there, alone in the darkness." He hesitated. 
"Lady — I must confess that I was driven to approach 
you by curiosity. Since our rescue, we have had no 
chance to speak privately with one another, and…" 
"And?" There was an edge to Iscalda's tone. Already she 
knew where this must be leading. When he did not reply, 
she went on for him. "And you remembered what I was 
when you first met me, and wanted to know whether, as a 
woman, I had retained the instincts of a lowly beast — to 
be at the beck and call of any passing man — " 
"No!" Yazour's protest interrupted her. "Lady, you 
misjudge me. I simply wondered how it could be that the 
most magnificent horse that I had ever seen could have 
been changed, as if by magic, into the most beautiful 
woman. I wished to understand the nature of your race — 
yet, as your warriors talked with one another around the 
campfire, something — a fear of giving offense perhaps 
— has held me back from asking, especially since my 
people and yours have been foes for so long. But I felt, 
because of the long days of our captivity that we spent 
together in the cave, that you and I might share some 
fellow-feeling. Your thoughts then, I know, can not have 
been those of a mere beast. The night you took me to the 

tower, you understood my need, and when I saw you 
tonight, I thought that you, of all people, might 
understand again, and forgive any offense that an 
outsider and former enemy might convey with his prying 
questions." 
Iscalda was mollified, if not a little surprised, by his 
words. "In a sense, you were wise not to ask the 
warriors," she mused. "Once, your questions — your 
very presence in our lands — would have meant instant 
execution. Yet you do not seem like an enemy to me, 
Yazour. And if what I hear from Chiamh is true — that 
our people soon will go to war — then the secret of our 
dual nature, which the Xandim have guarded so jealously 
for so long, may soon be out in any case." She smiled at 
him. "Ask, then, Yazour — and I will try to satisfy your 
curiosity." 
The young warrior spread his hands helplessly. "I 
scarcely know where to begin," he confessed. "I — well, 
there was one thing that puzzled me…" 
Iscalda laughed. "You want to know where the clothes 
go?" Even in the dim light she could see his skin take on 
the darker hue of a blush. To rescue them both from his 
embar rassment, she went on quickly. "The garments just 
seem to be part of us and change as we do—into 
horsehair, perhaps— who knows? You might try asking 
the Windeye. Leather, wool, flax—fastenings of thong or 
carven horn or bone—anything that once was living 

matter—changes with us. Weapons, buckles, personal 
adornments of metal or polished stone, do not change, 
however. If we wish to take such items with us, they 
must be carried by another, in human shape. It's 
sometimes inconvenient—but at least the clothes are 
always there when we change back to our human form, 
and that's the most important thing." 
Yazour smiled. "Given the barbaric climate of these 
mountains, Lady, I cannot fail to agree with you." 
Iscalda had noticed that the young man always seemed to 
require more garments than her own folk, and yet he 
always seemed to be shivering. Chiamh had told her that 
the sun burned much hotter where Yazour came from, 
but she found that impossible to imagine. She was robbed 
of her chance to question him, however, for he was 
already speaking again. "How came your people to be as 
they are, Lady? What is their history?" 
Now it was Iscalda's turn to shrug. "That I cannot 
answer. No one knows where we came from, or how we 
came to be— not even the Windeye. It seems that we 
were always here, and always as we are." 
"And yet you knew that you differed from other races," 
Yazour said thoughtfully. 
"I believe so." Iscalda nodded. "That is why we have 
always kept secret our ability to change our shapes. 
Forgive me, Yazour, but your own people, the Khazalim, 
have always been notorious for enslaving other races. 

Imagine what useful slaves we Xandim would make, if 
the truth were known!" 
"No one shall enslave you, Lady!" The vehemence of 
Yazour's reply startled Iscalda. "The secret of the 
Xandim will always be safe with me. Even were it 
otherwise, I am an exile from the lands of the Khazalim 
and may not return on pain of death. I owe no allegiance 
to the Khisu whatsoever." 
Iscalda felt her heart clench with pity for the young 
warrior. She too had been an exile, and she knew the 
bitterness and sense of loss that he must be feeling. She 
bit her lip. "You know, do you not," she said quietly, 
"that even if you wished to do so, you would never be 
allowed to return to your lands alive, now that you know 
our secret?" 
Yazour nodded gravely. "I had guessed as much. But it 
makes no difference. My way lies northward now. Where 
Aurian and Anvar go, I will go also—and if I survive the 
approaching conflict—" He shrugged. "Well, then we 
will see. But one thing I can promise you: I will never 
return to the land of my birth." 
"Never?" Iscalda sighed in sympathy with the young 
warrior. "That seems too harsh a fate…" 
"Iscalda! What are you doing out here beyond the 
sentries?" Iscalda recognized the familiar outline of 
Schiannath, walking toward them, silhouetted against the 
glow of the distant flames. "At least you had the good 

sense not to wander off alone," he added, but as he drew 
nearer and discovered the identity of her companion, 
Iscalda heard a note of doubt creep into his voice. She 
was stung into a swift defense of her companion. 
"Must you treat me like a child, Schiannath?" The words 
came out more sharply than Iscalda had intended, and she 
strove to reach a more conciliatory tone. "I know that no 
one should be out alone, unguarded, dear brother, but 
following our long period of isolation, so many people 
overwhelm me at times. I crept away to be alone with the 
night, but Yazour discovered me and thought much the 
same as you. When he found me here, he kindly stayed to 
bear me company." 
"Indeed," Yazour concurred. "But in truth, Schiannath, I 
was also glad of the opportunity to make the 
acquaintance of your sister in her human form at last." 
Schiannath came up between them and put an arm 
around each of their shoulders. The honeyed scent of 
mead was on his breath, and as he rested his weight upon 
her, Iscalda realized that he must have been drinking 
heavily from the flasks that each Xandim warrior 
carried—ostensibly, in case of emergencies. "You 
mistake me, my sister," he told her, his voice slightly 
slurred. "Yazour, as far as I am concerned, you are not an 
enemy. You may be an Outlander— but did the Goddess 
herself not instruct me to befriend you?" 
"What?" It was the first time that Iscalda had heard of 

this. She had a vague, equine memory of meeting the 
great cat in the pass—a recollection of terror and blood 
and rage— the buried, instinctive urge to defend her 
beloved brother at all costs from the predator. She also 
remembered Yazour—a still, dark huddle, with his 
lifeblood sinking into the chilling snow. 
Her brother went on to explain how, in the pass beyond 
the Tower of Incondor, the Goddess Iriana Herself, in the 
form of one of the great Black Ghosts of Schiannath's 
home mountains, had given him instructions to befriend 
and succor the wounded warrior. Iscalda listened, 
incredulous, as his tale unfolded—until, out of the corner 
of her eye, she saw Yazour's mouth quirk in suppressed 
amusement. Goddess, indeed! The young warrior knew, 
or suspected, more about this matter than he was 
revealing, and Iscalda intended to get to the bottom of 
it—but not now. 
"So, you see," Schiannath was saying, "I trust you in the 
company of Yazour. I befriended him at first because I 
was told to, but later he earned my true respect. The rest 
of the Xandim, however, are another matter." 
At that, Iscalda switched her attention back to her 
brother's words. "What have they to do with it?" she 
demanded. 
"They will view me as another Outlander, and suspect me 
accordingly," Yazour put in, his voice sharp with 
hostility. He was right, Iscalda realized. 

"Exactly, Yazour," Schiannath added. "They have no 
idea of what lies behind your inclusion in our party—and 
what reason have they to trust the word of my sister and 
myself, who have only lately been accepted on sufferance 
and through the most unusual circumstances, back into 
the Xandim?" 
Iscalda looked at her brother through narrowed eyes. 
Clearly, he was not as drunk as she had thought. Despite 
the absence of light, he turned to look deep into her eyes. 
"There is, however, another complication, Iscalda—and 
one that you have not considered." 
"And what is that?" The Xandim maid felt the first true 
stirrings of alarm. 
Schiannath sighed. "Your betrothal to Phalihas." 
"Nonsense!" Iscalda snapped. Her anger, however, was 
not directed at her beloved brother. It stemmed from a 
sudden, sinking fear. "The Herdlord is defeated now," 
she protested. "Schiannath, you know I only agreed to the 
betrothal in the hope that I might have sufficient 
influence to protect you—and much good it did either of 
us, in the end. But Phalihas is defeated now. His reign 
and his power are ended. The Windeye would not permit 
him—" 
"The Windeye cannot prevent him," Schiannath said 
heavily. "I have just been talking to Chiamh. This is the 
heavy news that I had come to break. Iscalda, under 
Xandim Law you were betrothed to Phalihas. While you 

were exiled, the betrothal was void — but now that you 
have been accepted back into your tribe, the betrothal 
still stands. Should the Windeye ever allow Phalihas to 
revert to his human form — and how can Chiamh refuse? 
— you, of all people, should know the alternative — then 
you will belong to our former Herdlord, as you did 
before." 
"Will he never come?" Basileus muttered irritably. 
Restless within the great mountain peak that comprised 
his body, the Moldan kept his vigil, awaiting the return of 
Chiamh, the Xandim Windeye. For the first time in all 
the endless aeons of his existence, the giant Earth- 
Elemental was finding it difficult to resign himself to 
patience—for these were the most momentous times he 
had known in many centuries. 
The world was changing: the course of history was 
turning relentlessly toward a newborn age. The ancient 
Artifacts of Power were waking, and three of the four 
Great Weapons had already been loosed upon the world. 
The Mageborn were at war once more, and the fate of the 
future hung trembling in the balance, awaiting the 
discovery of the final Artifact—the Sword of Flame, the 
great master-weapon designed long ago by the far-seeing 
and powerful Dragonfolk, to be their legacy of hope for 
the future. Into whose hands, the Moldan wondered, was 
the Sword destined to fall at last? The answer could spell 

either the hope of freedom for Basileus and all his 
Elemental kind—or it would herald the onset of slavery, 
annihilation, and the start of a new Age of Darkness. 
Magefolk! Basileus felt the slow burn of anger deep 
within his core. Long ages ago, the ancient Wizards had 
imprisoned all his kind in these immobile shells of stone 
to prevent them from using their vast, arcane, and 
unpredictable powers of the Old Magic to influence the 
fate of the world. Any future hope of freedom for the 
Moldai and the other Elemental races, such as the 
Phaerie, depended upon the Artifacts of Power—or, more 
precisely, upon the intentions of those who wielded them. 
High up on the slopes of the Wyndveil, rocks ground 
together and the flanks of the mountain trembled as the 
Moldan expressed his frustration. There was so much at 
stake, yet he could do so little to influence the outcome 
of the approaching conflict! It was scarcely surprising, 
Basileus reflected sourly, that he could find no rest. 
The Moldan was not the only watcher on the Wyndveil. 
Had Basileus been paying less attention to his inner 
thoughts, and more to what was taking place upon his 
outer skin, he might have noticed the lurker on his peak. 
Night after night, while the moon went through its 
changes, the madwoman had lain in wait, spying upon 
the Xandim Fastness from her hiding place among the 
rocks above. She knew they would return, the ones she 
sought—and from this vantage point she would have 

early warning of their coming. 
Wild-eyed, wasted with hunger, and pierced through and 
through with cold, Meiriel kept her lonely vigil, 
concealed in a hollow in the frost-cracked rocks well 
away from prying Xandim eyes, feeding on little more 
than the hatred and desire for revenge that had sustained 
her for so long. Soon, now, her wait would be over. She 
had found friends—new and powerful friends—who 
would help her wreak her vengeance. The one who had 
caused the death of her beloved soul mate, Finbarr, 
would soon be here, along with that accursed monster, 
the half-Mortal abomination that she had borne. Aurian 
was coming, and when she arrived… Meiriel ran her 
tongue across the sharp points of broken teeth. "I will rip 
out her heart and drink her blood," she whispered. 
Parric struggled with warring feelings as his tight-knit 
band of Xandim warriors picked their way through softly 
falling rain, across the final projecting ridge of the 
Wyndveil to strike the trail that led toward their Fastness. 
"What in the world is wrong with me?" the little 
cavalrymaster wondered. Why, he ought to feel happy 
and triumphant after his achievements! Had he not done 
what he'd set out to do? His journey to the sprawling, 
hostile Southern Kingdoms had been a nigh-impossible 
gamble, yet against all the odds he had succeeded in 
finding Aurian… "And what's more, I will bring her 

home with me, to join our fight against the Archmage," 
he muttered. 
At the sound of the cavalrymaster's voice, the powerful 
black stallion that he rode flattened his ears back and 
turned his head to roll a wicked, white-rimmed eye at his 
conqueror and foe. Resentment burned behind that gaze: 
hatred (not unjustified, Parric admitted) for the one who 
had consigned this once-proud king to the humiliation of 
captivity and servitude. The cavalrymaster must never 
forget for a moment that his mount was Phalihas, one of 
the shape-shifting Xandim, who had not only occupied a 
human form but had once been Herdlord—the Xandim 
leader—before Parric had challenged and defeated him, 
and Chiamh had trapped him in his equine shape. 
Phalihas, sensing his rider's distraction, tried to dislodge 
Parric with a series of jolting bucks. Swearing, the 
cavalrymaster tightened his seat in response and rashly 
urged the beast to a faster pace. While the horse was 
preoccupied with picking a footsure way through the 
treacherous terrain, the creature would have little 
opportunity to be causing trouble. 
Trouble. It always came back to that. "Why must 
everything be so bloody complicated?" Parric fretted. 
Back in his old role as cavalrymaster of the Nexis 
Garrison, Parric had been equal to anything. When it 
came to soldiering, his skills could scarcely be bettered. 
But ever since Forral, his friend and commander, had 

been murdered by the corrupt Archmage, the foundations 
of Parric's world had been slipping. Even Aurian, whom 
he had come so far to rescue, had seemed so altered… 
The cavalrymaster shook his head in dismay, then chided 
himself for being unfair. You fool, he told himself. Of 
course she's changed. After what that poor lass has been 
through… At this point, his imagination failed him. 
Treachery, battle, and death Parric could understand, but 
when it came to magic, he was utterly lost. Even now, he 
could scarcely bring himself to contemplate the fate of 
Aurian's firstborn—Forral's son. Cursed by the 
Archmage to take the form of the first beast his mother 
saw after bearing him, the child had been transformed 
into the shape of a wolf cub. 
Parric gritted his teeth against a surge of anger and 
wished that he could have Miathan at his sword point, to 
make him pay for the atrocity that he had committed 
upon a helpless child—especially since the boy was all 
that was left of Forral. In his secret heart, the 
cavalrymaster had been hatching a plan to care for 
Aurian. It would have been a pleasure, not a duty, to raise 
the son of his friend and commander—and though he 
could never really hope to take Forral's place as a father 
to the lad, he was determined to do his best. The boy 
would have taken the place of the son that Parric had 
never (knowingly, at least) fathered. But how, in the 
name of all the gods, could a man be a father to a wolf 

cub? Besides, one look at Aurian had disabused the 
cavalrymaster of such unrealistic notions. 
Parric sighed. It was his own fault, he acknowledged 
ruefully. He had always thought of Aurian as an untried 
young girl when she was in the presence of Forral. The 
swordsman had always been so confident and capable 
that those around him seemed diminished by comparison. 
But the steel-eyed, grimly resolute Aurian that Parric had 
found in the Tower of Incondor had stunned the 
cavalrymaster, and shaken him to the core. She had 
matured, true, but that was only to be expected. What 
Parric had not anticipated was the aura of power that 
surrounded her, wrapping her about in a cloak of 
numinous force. He had not expected the hardness in her 
eyes, the chiseling of bitter experience on her face, and 
the flat practicality that led her to leave her newborn son 
in the care of others while she went off in pursuit of more 
urgent goals. It wasn't right, somehow—though he 
acknowledged that her actions had been necessary. 
Parric cursed himself for entertaining such unjust 
thoughts. Had he not served and fought with pragmatic 
female warriors such as Sangra and Maya? Was Aurian 
not a better swordswoman than either of them—and a 
Mage besides? So why was he swamped by this irrational 
protectiveness toward her? It was almost as though the 
shade of Forral haunted him. But that was ridiculous, 
Parric told himself, as he tried to shake himself free of 

his doubts. Soon he would be back at the Xandim 
Fastness, and would have more urgent matters to 
consider. There, too, he would see Aurian again— and 
surely, once they had spent more time together, he would 
recover his former sense of ease with her. 
Aurian and Anvar arrived at the Xandim Fastness with 
their escort of Winged Folk and landed, damp and 
shivering in their nets, in a mist of fine spring drizzle that 
was becoming heavier by the moment. 
"Ugh!" Aurian stepped carefully from the tangle of 
meshes and tried to pull the clinging folds of her wet 
cloak more closely around her shoulders with her free 
hand. The attempt was made awkward by the fact that 
Wolf was cradled in the other arm, snugly asleep against 
the warmth of his mother's body. Above the Mage, more 
Skyfolk circled, waiting their turn to land, bearing the net 
that contained the cub's lupine foster parents within its 
enclosing meshes. They looked a bedraggled sight, with 
their wet fur clinging spikily to their bodies, and Aurian 
could sense from their thoughts that both of them would 
be infinitely relieved to get their feet back onto good, 
solid earth once more. The Mage never ceased to be 
amazed and humbled by the extent of their forbearance 
and their loyalty to herself and her child. Which made it 
all the worse that they were out here being soaked and 
chilled, along with Aurian's other companions. Already 

the Skyfolk, who hated the discomfort of wet plumage, 
were growing restive. With an impatient sigh the Mage 
turned back toward the Xandim Fastness, anxious to get 
her party into shelter quickly, and out of the damp, 
inhospitable night. 
Anvar, aware of the restless mutterings of his winged 
escort, was squinting through the drifting veils of rain. 
"Where the bloody blazes is everybody?" he muttered 
irritably. "Even if they haven't posted guards, they should 
at least be keeping some sort of watch. According to our 
winged scouts, Parric and his lot should certainly have 
arrived by now." 
"What useless humans," rumbled Shia, shaking a spray of 
moisture from her fur. "Anvar, will you help us, please?" 
The cat sounded thoroughly disgruntled. She and Khanu 
had been landed quickly—due, Anvar suspected, to a 
good deal of nervousness on the part of their winged 
porters. The Skyfolk had dropped the net all in a tangle 
and retreated to a safe distance, and Shia and Khanu, 
without hands to unwind the mare's nest of knotted rope, 
were securely enmeshed. Anvar, wiping rain out of his 
eyes, went to disentangle his friends. 
"I've just spoken to Chiamh," Aurian reassured them. "He 
was asleep—they all were. They didn't expect us so soon. 
He says that the last part of the journey over the 
Wyndveil was grueling—they were exhausted by the 
time they reached the fastness. He's rousing them now 

and they're sending out an escort." 
"About time," Shia muttered. "Lazy two-legged—" Her 
head swung sharply. "What was that?" 
"What?" Anvar frowned. All his concentration had been 
centered on unraveling the snarled net. 
"I thought I heard somethi—" 
None of them had any more warning than that, as a black 
shape streaked out of the darkness toward Aurian. 
Hampered by the child in her arms, the Mage had neither 
the time nor the opportunity to react. Even as he leapt to 
his feet, Anvar saw the dark form close upon her, saw her 
crumple, heard a terrified squeal from the cub. Then the 
shape was gone. 
"Follow it!" Anvar bellowed at the Skyfolk, who were 
still standing nearby, paralyzed with shock. Two of them 
took off in pursuit. Shia and Khanu burst free of the 
tangled net and went bounding after them, with the two 
wolves—who had been landed too late to help the 
Mage—close upon the heels of the great cats. 
"Aurian!" Anvar bent over the limp form of the Mage, 
who lay motionless, facedown on the waterlogged turf. 
Sliding his arms beneath her, he turned her gently but 
was unable to make out any details in the gloom. Her 
skin was dreadfully cold. Somewhere in the background, 
he heard the sound of running feet. Then he was 
surrounded by Xandim who milled uselessly about him, 
unable to keep their torches alight in the rain, and 

blocking what little light was available even to Anvar's 
night-vision. Frantic, Anvar gathered all his rage and fear 
and threw the energy into a brief, bright flare of 
Magelight that sent the Xandim reeling backward, 
covering their eyes and screaming in panic. 
"What in Chathak's name is happening here? Get out of 
the way, you fools! Let me through!" To his relief, Anvar 
recognized the voice of the cavalrymaster. 
"Aurian was attacked," the Mage cried. "Quick, Parric— 
help me get her inside." He heard the cavalrymaster 
curse, and then the little man was at his side. "Is she 
badly hurt, Anvar?" 
"I think so." He lifted Aurian from the rain-soaked 
ground and followed Parric quickly as the little man 
cleared a path through the milling crowd. How badly she 
was hurt he didn't dare think—but in that brief flare of 
Magelight, Anvar had seen that her tunic was soaked 
through with dark blood that was welling around the 
blade of a jagged knife, sunk deep into her chest. 
Chapter 7 - The Mountain King 
Aurian was drifting, somewhere out beyond her body. 
From above, she could see the pale, still form that was 
laid out on a bed of cloaks in the great entrance hall of 

the Xandim Fastness. Is that me? she wondered. Can it 
be—really? She felt dreamlike—oddly detached. She 
knew that she had been badly hurt; she knew her son had 
been stolen. Curiously, none of that mattered now. She 
viewed everything from outside, from above, from 
beyond… 
From her high vantage point the Mage could see Parric, 
one of her oldest Mortal friends, kneeling over her body, 
his face contorted with grief. She could see Chiamh, the 
Xandim Seer, propped against the wall in a nearby 
corner, his face blank and expressionless as he rode the 
winds to track her lost child. His whole attention was not 
given to his task, she knew. Always, a shred of his 
consciousness remained with her, in the Great Hall, 
worrying about her recovery. And there—even in this 
soothing limbo she felt a stab of wrenching pain—was 
Anvar. Her lover had wasted no time in weeping. Instead 
he was hunched over her lifeless form, trying with every 
shred of his power and love to pull her fleeing spirit back 
into her body. 
Poor Anvar. What chance did he have? Now Aurian 
understood what Forral must have felt when he was slain 
by the Wraiths, and had seen her, much younger then and 
much more innocent, trying to forestall the inevitable. 
Gods! How much it would have spared her, then, if she 
could only have understood the reality. This farewell to 
mortality was so easy! You only had to let go, and… 

A fleeting glimpse of a memory passed through Aurian's 
mind. A small boat, a moonlit river, and white foam 
glimmering on the churning waters of a lethal weir. An 
icy plunge, and a thought: It would be so easy, just to let 
go and leave all of this behind… 
It was enough to shock the Mage out of her drifting 
dream. Oh, gods, it couldn't be. What the blazes are you 
thinking of? Aurian scalded her drifting spirit with angry 
thought. You can't die now! Yet could she prevent it? 
She felt terror twist her heart within her. A vision of 
Forral stood before her, veiled by drifting mists—but 
even beyond the obscuring veils she could see the pain 
on his face and the glimmer of tears in his eyes. 
Resolutely, Aurian turned away from the shade, stifling 
the longing within her. "Go away," she gritted. "I can't 
give up now!" 
"He may not go—not this time. He has come for you—to 
meet you and escort you to my realm." The ghastly voice 
pierced Aurian to the core with an ever-deepening grasp 
like talons of ice. The Mage shuddered. She had heard 
that voice before—once, long ago, in a dusty, sunhammered 
courtyard in the lands of the Khazalim. "What 
do you want with me?" she whispered. 
Death laughed. "What could I want, little fool? You have 
overplayed your gamble; overstayed your welcome in 
your world. Once before, you defied me—but this time 
you are mine!" 

The massive, shrouded figure loomed huge and dark in 
Aurian's vision, but with a strength born of desperation 
she ripped herself free from the grasp of his icy claws, 
though a howl of agony was wrenched from her lacerated 
soul. "No!" She shrieked her defiance in his face. "I hold 
the power of the Staff of Earth now. Wrought as it is with 
the High Magic, it gives me sufficient power to resist 
you, even in your realm! If you want me, you'll have to 
fight me every step of the way!" Aurian fought to hide 
her astonishment at her own words. She hadn't known 
that, about the Staff! How did she know it now? 
Death hissed a chilling curse. Turning to Forral, he 
beckoned the warrior with a snarl. "Defiant as always," 
he muttered. "She was your love, swordsman—you take 
her! Do this, and she will be yours for all eternity." 
Forral looked sadly at the Specter and shook his head. 
"Not now—not like this. Not unless she wants me." 
"Of course I want you, you great fool!" Aurian took 
refuge in sharpness to keep back her tears. "But 
remember what you once told me, about living my life 
out in the mundane world? And what about our child?" 
Though guilt smote Aurian—a physical force in this 
unearthly world, like a spear through her heart—she 
forced herself to continue. "I love Wolf, too," she said 
softly. "And I must get back now, to save him. He is all 
that remains of you and me." 
Forral smiled sadly. "Not all," he told her. "Never believe 

that. But he is a child—lost, threatened, and afraid. If I 
could protect him, and you, I would—but I can't. You're 
right, love. You should go back." 
"Can I?" 
Forral forced a smile, and the Mage understood the 
measure of the great man's courage. "I always said you 
could do anything you wanted to," he told her, and turned 
back to the looming figure of Death. "You heard the 
Lady. If you want her, you can bloody well get her 
yourself." 
There it was—that same old flashing, unquenchable grin 
that Aurian had always loved. She grinned back at him, 
sharing one last instant of communion—then tore herself 
away and went spiraling back down toward her body. 
She had almost reached it when, to her horror, she felt 
her momentum slow. Death was pulling her back—back 
into the mist. 
"It is not for you—either of you—to decide." The 
Specter's voice was implacable, like the slamming of the 
lid on a tomb. "Your time is over, Aurian. You must pass 
Beyond…" 
"You can do nothing to force me." The Mage was sure of 
it now. "I must go back to Anvar, fight the Archmage, 
and, especially, save my child." 
"Can I not?" Death hissed. Again, Aurian's soul was torn 
by the grasp of icy claws. The Specter's voice grated: 
"You may possess the Staff, O Mage—but one thing you 

have forgotten. We made a bargain once, and you still 
owe me a life. That debt must be repaid…" The words 
ended in a startled shriek as, once more, the Mage felt 
herself released. 
"Wizard, go back to your body." The voice had no 
business here—it was alien—this was none of its 
concern! In the limbo that enfolded her, Aurian felt fear, 
and found herself reaching for a nonexistent sword hilt. 
Death seemed equally startled. "This is not your 
business!" he snarled. 
"True, it is no business of mine—except that I can see 
what is important and what is not," the voice retorted. 
"This is no time for you to reclaim your debt, O Gray 
One—and well you know it. Your concerns may differ 
from those of the Living, but your greed for this one 
bright soul would prove to be all our undoing. It cannot 
be permitted at this time. Why must you take her now? 
Sooner or later she must come to you in any case." 
In the shadows of her consciousness, Aurian could see a 
massive shape—unspeakably old, powerful beyond all 
imagining—and utterly alien—hovering between herself 
and the Reaper of Souls. For a terrifying instant Death 
seemed to hesitate; then: "Very well," he snarled. "I will 
spare her—for now." The grim Specter vanished, leaving 
Aurian alone in the void with the alien Presence. 
"I am Basileus," the shadow said. "I am the body and 
soul of this fastness. I will speak with you later—but now 

you must return. Flee, little Wizard, toward the one you 
love. He will help you!" 
What, back to Forral? For an instant, Aurian was 
confused—then all became clear to her. "Anvar!" she 
cried joyously, and arrowed her spirit toward his seeking 
mind, searching, searching for him in the gray 
nothingness of Beyond. And suddenly, to her joyful 
astonishment, a brilliant green light shone before her: a 
clear and powerful beacon to guide her through the veils 
that kept her from her love. 
"Damn it, I'm losing her!" Anvar cried in anguish. 
Aurian's face was gray-white. Blood and froth bubbled 
horribly from her wound with every gasping, shallow 
breath she tried to take. Her heart was faltering and 
stumbling like a runner at the very end of a race, and 
only his stubborn will—and that of Aurian, 
perhaps—was keeping it going at all. 
As if through a haze, he became aware of someone at his 
shoulder—Chiamh. 
"I'll look for the child later," the Windeye said. "Now, 
you need me here." His eyes still silver with Othersight, 
he bent over Aurian's still form, his hands moving, 
knotting, molding the air above her. "This is bad," he 
muttered. "I can keep her breathing a little while, but—" 
He looked up at Anvar, his silver gaze sharp and 
piercing. "Do you go forth and seek her with your mind, 

beyond the Veil," he commanded. "Use her Staff, that 
once you carved and that she imbued with power. It may 
link you. I—I will get us some help, if I can." So saying, 
he sank down, head bowed, deep in trance. Even as 
Anvar reached across to find the Staff among Aurian's 
scattered belongings, he heard the Windeye whisper a 
single word: "Basileus." 
Anvar clasped Aurian's cold, limp hands around the Staff 
and held them there with his own. He poured forth his 
mind, his will, and his love into the Artifact—and his 
spirit went forth into the void, seeking the one he loved 
with all his heart. 
And he found her. Already she was coming to him, 
hurtling back toward the light of the Staff, streaming 
tatters of gray. Her wraithlike form was hideously 
maimed, as though she had been scored again and again 
by the grip of giant talons. Anvar shrieked her 
name—felt his own name, cried in Aurian's voice, 
reverberate in his mind, harsh with terror and anguish. 
He held her tightly, and she clung to him as the emerald 
glow of the Staff fell about them like a benison. 
There was no time for their reunion now; no time for 
love or fear. "Aurian," he told her urgently, "I need your 
help. Your Healing is beyond me—I still lack the skill. 
You must come back now and join with me in the power 
of the Staff as we did in the desert. Give me your Healing 
powers, so that I can help you." 

Her eyes grew wide. "Is that possible?" she breathed. 
Then he saw her jaw tighten. "It had bloody well better 
be," she muttered. The world spun, and— 
Anvar was back within his mundane form, kneeling over 
the Mage—but this time he felt her mind, in deep and 
intimate linkage with his own. He shared her shock as 
she perceived the damage that Meiriel's treacherous knife 
had done to her chest—and felt his own heart miss a 
beat—for until that moment he had not known the 
identity of Aurian's assailant. But there was no time to 
think of that now. 
"We'd better hurry," Aurian whispered. "I didn't realize 
there would be so much to do." 
Without the Staff of Earth they would never have 
managed it. Without Aurian's skills, which had been 
taught her by the very one who had tried to take her life, 
the Mage would not have stood a chance. Anvar, trusting, 
simply gave his power into Aurian's hands, and his hands 
into her will, and let her do what she would with the 
fusion of his strength and her knowledge. And after a 
dreadful, bloody, exhausting age spent rebuilding sliced 
muscle and damaged tissue, Anvar felt her mind slip free 
from his own. For an instant he felt the clutch of panic 
round his heart—then Aurian opened her eyes. "Oh, how 
I love you," she whispered. "You did good work, my 
partner in Healing—and in all things." 

From her nest of cloaks, the Mage looked up to see 
Anvar grinning like a lunatic for the sheer joy of her safe 
return. Though as yet she lacked the strength to reach up 
and touch him, her heart went out to him. 
"The skill was yours," he told her, "and I love you, too." 
He clasped her hand tightly. "But are you—will you be 
all right now?" 
Briefly, Aurian's gaze became unfocused as she scanned 
inwardly with her powers; then she looked up and 
nodded, with a weary little smile. "All mended. I'm just 
sore—and so very, very weary. I must sleep for a while, 
to regain my strength and let the Healing settle, and 
then"—her grip on Anvar's hand grew fierce—"then we 
go after that bitch Meiriel—and my poor son." 
Anvar frowned. "I can scarcely believe it was Meiriel. 
Are you sure, my love? Parric was convinced she was 
dead…" 
"I wish to all the gods she was," Aurian snarled. "But that 
mistake will be rectified. Is there any news?" she 
demanded. "Has anything been done?" 
Anvar squeezed her hand in comfort and shook his head. 
"But we'll—" 
"You live!" Shia's voice echoed joyously in the Mage's 
mind as two great cats, their coats flattened and streaked 
with rain, came hurtling into the hall. Shia nuzzled her 
with care, long black whiskers splashing icy drops onto 
the Mage's face as she purred her happiness. 

Aurian, despite her worries, somehow managed to 
summon a smile for the cat. "I live," she agreed. "Though 
the gods only know how. But"—her mental voice was 
shadowed with fear—"what happened to you, Shia? 
What news of my son?" 
The great cat dropped her head. "We failed," she 
confessed miserably. "Our foe threw up a barrier of 
magic through which we could not pass, and we lost her 
trail. The Skyfolk, too, seemed equally at a loss. I think 
the magic veiled her from their sight. Then we sensed 
that your life was in danger. Even from such a distance, 
we could feel your mind slipping away…" For an instant, 
Shia's mental voice trembled. "Khanu and I returned 
while the wolves began to quarter the mountain, to see if 
they could track Wolfs abductor." She looked away from 
the Mage. "Aurian—I believe our enemy had assistance. 
We could have been mistaken, but Khanu and I were 
convinced that we picked up a faint trace of strange 
cats—our own folk. I am ashamed…" 
"Hush," a voice interrupted. Looking around, Aurian saw 
the Xandim Windeye. "Do not blame yourself," he told 
Shia, while including the Mages in his mental range. 
"Things are not all bad. No matter how she tried to hide 
herself, we do know which way the madwoman went. 
She may have been able to veil herself from normal 
vision, but with my Other-sight I pursued her on the 
winds—I was forced to return to help Aurian when I 

sensed that her life was threatened. But when last I saw 
the witch, she had made no attempt to harm the child…" 
His voice was soothing, reassuring. Much too reassuring, 
given the circumstances. Aurian's scalp prickled with 
suspicion. "And the bad news?" she demanded. "Come 
on, Chiamh—what is it that you aren't telling us?" 
Chiamh sighed. "The madwoman took the babe up onto 
the high Wyndveil slopes and headed toward the 
Dragon's Tail ridge. Shia was right—two strange cats 
were nearby, pacing her like shadows. She has taken your 
son to the dreaded Steelclaw Peak. Even if they trace her, 
the wolves will be unable to follow. None but the Black 
Ghosts may walk the slopes of Steelclaw—and live." 
The stricken silence of the Mages was broken by Shia's 
growl. "None but the ghosts, you say? But Chiamh, I am 
one of your Black Ghosts! Never fear, Aurian, Khanu 
and I will go to Steelclaw. I have unfinished business 
there, especially if Gristheena and her people are aiding 
your foe. Be assured that I will bring Wolf back.'' 
Meiriel scrambled across the exposed Field of Stones 
toward the broken ledges of the Dragon's Tail ridge, 
alternately blessing her Mages' sight, which allowed her 
to pass safely through the darkness, and cursing the wind 
that wrapped clinging tendrils of hair around her face and 
drove the rain stinging into her eyes to obscure the very 
night-vision that she needed so badly. 

Despite the storm, despite the hardships of the climb, 
Meiriel's heart burned with a savage joy. At last, she had 
struck down her enemy, the slayer of her beloved 
soulmate! Her magical shield had foiled her pursuers, 
and perhaps— Meiriel thrust down the nagging hint of 
doubt at the back of her mind—it had also shielded her 
from feeling the pang of Aurian's death, which she had 
been expecting every moment since she'd fled. Yet surely 
her thrust had been fatal—and now she had Aurian's 
child, that accursed, unnatural monster, to dispose of at 
her leisure. In the distance, Meiriel heard wolves 
howling, and dismissed the chilling sound with a shrug. 
Instead she looked down, her sharp eyes seeking the 
hidden way that led down from the plateau, to the 
shattered ridge. As soon as she reached Steelclaw, and 
was certain that she had shaken off pursuit, the child 
would be at her mercy… 
"Twisted serpent of a Wizard—, think not" 
"Who's there?" Meiriel whirled, her voice shrill with 
panic. Though softly spoken, the words had been clearly 
audible above the whine of the storm. 
"You are mistaken, Mad One. Your treacherous attack 
was not as accurate as it seemed. Aurian will live—even 
now she is being healed—and if you have not lost the last 
shreds of wisdom, you will keep her child alive as 
hostage—or as bait." 
"Who are you?" Meiriel shrieked. Sobbing with terror, 

her joy extinguished, the Magewoman half scrambled, 
half fell down the sloping edge of the plateau and 
crawled onto the broken ridge that led to Steelclaw. Once 
she had left the Wyndveil behind, the voice tormented 
her no more. 
Crossing the Dragon's Tail was a nightmare. Meiriel was 
forced to creep across inch by painful inch on hands and 
knees, her palms and shins lacerated by the razor edges 
of broken rock and leaving smears of blood behind them 
to be washed away by the merciless downpour. The 
storm shrieked its derision at her, buffeting her frozen 
body on the exposed ridge and clutching at her with 
powerful fingers, threatening at every moment to pluck 
her from her precarious perch and hurl her into the dark 
depths that plunged down on either side. Because of the 
energy and concentration needed, she had been forced to 
abandon her magical shield—but that was of no 
consequence now. 
Meiriel gritted her teeth and pressed doggedly onward, 
though her mind still reeled from the mysterious message 
that she had received upon the Wyndveil Peak. Whence 
had come that voice? Was it some kind of trick, and if so, 
from whom? What did it mean? Could it really be true, 
that Aurian was still alive? Meiriel cried aloud in pain 
and rage, and spat upon the rain-slick stones of the ridge. 
Supposing it was true? Did she dare take the risk? The 
voice had been right about one thing. If Aurian was truly 

still alive, Meiriel would need that babe—one way or the 
other. 
By the time she had reached the far side of the ridge, the 
Magewoman had managed to gather her wits once more. 
Even if Aurian should come here, Meiriel still had a trick 
or two to fall back on, not the least of which was her 
newfound friendship with the savage denizens of this 
shattered peak. When that fool Parric had left for the 
south with his makeshift army, Meiriel had headed for 
the sanctuary of Steelclaw, to be well out of the way of 
the Xandim and their keen-eyed scouts as they crossed 
the Wyndveil. 
The Magewoman had had no idea of the Xandim legend 
that the Dragon's Tail was impassable and, besides, the 
unstable ridge was always shifting and being resculpted 
by wind and weather. She had, with difficulty, succeeded 
in making the crossing, and during her wanderings on the 
other side had met with the Black Ghosts of the 
mountain. There had been so many that she had been 
forced to use her powers to defend herself—and in the 
course of her magic had discovered the possibility of 
communication. On meeting their First Female, Meiriel 
had discovered that she and Gristheena were of a like 
mind. The great cat had been wounded, and was still 
smarting from a recent defeat by some outlaw. Her 
position as leader was currently very tenuous, and she 
had been glad of the Magewoman's powers to back her 

authority. And Meiriel? She had needs of her own. 
Tonight, the Magewoman could not have managed 
without Gristheena's assistance. Meiriel glanced across at 
the two great cats who were pacing her—one a guard, the 
other with a dangling cloth-wrapped bundle held 
delicately in its massive jaws. Meiriel smiled grimly at 
the sight. Thank all the gods that she had not been forced 
to bear that burden across the broken ridge! Without the 
use of her hands as well as her feet, she would most 
certainly have fallen. 
Calling to the cat to stop, the Magewoman approached it 
and poked the bundle with a bloodstained finger. A thin, 
protesting whine came muffled from within. Meiriel 
nodded to herself in satisfaction and started tramping 
again, down the rough trail toward the broken core of 
Steelclaw. She must return to Gristheena as soon as 
possible, and then—well, she would see. 
"Curse this blasted rain—I can't see a thing!" Anvar 
muttered. 
"Neither can we," one of his winged bearers retorted 
bitterly, "and we are the ones who must do the flying and 
risk life, wing, and limb among these treacherous peaks." 
"Oh, stop whining!" Anvar muttered, made ungracious 
by worry—but quicker and louder, Chiamh said: "Most 
courageous are the warriors of the Skyfolk who 
volunteered for this perilous mission. You have earned 

unending gratitude from us, the allies of your Queen." 
Anvar felt the Windeye's elbow dig him sharply in the 
ribs, and he hastily added his thanks to Chiamh's own. It 
had been a nice touch, he thought gratefully, for Chiamh 
to obliquely remind the Winged Folk that the Mages had 
rescued their monarch. He only wished the Windeye 
could have done something about this wretched storm. 
"Have you any idea where we are?" he whispered. 
There was a glimmer of silver from Chiamh's eyes as the 
Windeye turned to scan the darkened landscape with his 
Othersight. "We are perched on one of the shattered 
peaks overlooking the heart of Steelclaw," he replied in 
mind-speech. "The core is guarded, but not this high, for 
our winged friends have placed us where the great cats 
cannot climb. The noise of the storm will shield us from 
scent and sound, but keep silence, in any case, as much 
as possible. And have a care for your footing in the dark. 
This will be a good vantage point—our foe, when last I 
looked, was headed this way. She must certainly come 
here if the cats are her allies. Once she arrives, the 
Skyfolk will take us down quickly—and our trap is 
sprung" 
"Then Gristheena is mine." Even in mindspeech, Shia's 
voice was a savage growl. 
"And mine!" Khanu echoed. 
Anvar caught the odd little thought symbol that was 
Shia's equivalent to upcast eyes, and smiled to himself in 

the darkness. 
"I would not smile if I were you," Shia told him gruffly. 
"Aurian is going to murder the pair of you when she 
wakes and discovers that Chiamh slipped that sleeping 
draft into her wine." 
"I don't care," the Windeye protested. "She would insist 
on coming with us, and she was in no condition to do it. 
Besides," he added, "if we bring Wolf back safely, she 
will be too glad to slaughter us." 
"You're right," Anvar told him. "Probably, she'll just 
damage us severely." Though he was scarcely in the 
mood to jest, he welcomed the good-natured chaffing. It 
helped ease his nerves, which were strung tighter than a 
crossbow. 
"Hush!" Khanu interrupted. "I hear something!" 
If Anvar could see nothing in the thick brew of storm and 
darkness, Chiamh, with his Othersight, saw it all. The 
dark, shelved, broken crater at Steelclaw's heart; the great 
projecting ridge of obsidian that glimmered here and 
there with clusters of firefly light as the life-forces of the 
cats gathered and shifted, moving here and there. And 
across from the blackly glittering tongue of the ridge, he 
saw the dark, featureless mouth of a tunnel. From its 
maw a faint ghostlight emerged, red and roiling, halfveiled 
and shot through with spars of lurid darkness. The 
Mad One! Chiamh held his breath, watching as the sickly 

gleam of her unlight emerged from the tunnel and began 
to cross to the ridge, coming right out into the open. 
Then: 
"Now!" he whispered. The nets, on which the 
companions were still standing, were whipped up around 
them and pulled tight. The Skyfolk took wing and swept 
down into the crater. 
Hreeza, shivering in the pouring rain, was beginning to 
wish that she had never come. This was no fit task for 
one old cat! She must have been thinking out loud, 
however, for a voice spoke scoldingly from nearby: "For 
one old cat, perhaps—but we are many. You wanted this, 
Hreeza. This was your great vision, and you have given 
us life and purpose again. Have courage in the miracle 
that you have wrought!" 
Hreeza chuckled dryly. "Some miracle—a bunch of 
skinny-ribbed, patch-coated old vagabonds!" she snorted. 
But warm courage flooded back into her veins, and her 
old heart soared with pride. "Sentimental fool!" she told 
herself—but it felt good, nonetheless. Now, if only they 
could put their plans into action. 
Back in Aerillia, Hreeza had thought the most difficult 
part of her mission would be persuading that little snippet 
of a Queen to provide winged bearers, and to let her go in 
secret. Once that part of the plan had been accomplished, 
however, and Hreeza had found herself dangling above 

the clouds in a swinging net, she had abruptly changed 
her mind. Surviving this, the old cat was convinced, 
would be the really tricky part. She had been wrong, 
though. After several days spent sneaking about in the 
rain and cold—always hungry and living in constant 
terror of being caught—Hreeza would gladly have 
climbed right back into that net—so long as there was the 
promise of a warm fire and a lavish meal at the end of the 
journey. Her convalescence in the Skyfolk citadel, the 
old cat thought disgustedly, had made her soft. 
Nevertheless, Hreeza had persevered. She had crossed 
and recrossed the areas on the outskirts of her people's 
lands, hunting the elusive chuevah: the lonely outcasts 
who had been ejected from the clan because of age, or 
sickness, or unfitness to hunt. Since the brutal Gristheena 
had begun her rule, there were more than there had ever 
been. One by one she had found them: timid, hunted, 
broken-down creatures, some barely holding on to the 
thread of life. She had cajoled them, persuaded them, 
tempted, badgered, nagged, and browbeaten them. She 
had hunted for them, found them shelter, and at the last 
had gathered them together into the most unlikely army 
that had ever been. And now she had brought them back 
to the heart of Steelclaw—to challenge Gristheena's 
might, or die in the attempt. 
At the time of gathering and persuading her draggled 
forces to assert themselves, the old cat had thought that 

this must definitely be the hardest part of her task. Now, 
as she looked down into Steelclaw's crater and saw the 
assembled masses of those who had once been her own 
people, she realized, with a chill of horror, just how 
wrong she had been. 
"You old fool!" Hreeza muttered to herself. Whatever 
had possessed her? In the certain knowledge that she 
would not be able to hold her little band of chuevah 
together for long—either they would be discovered, so 
many of them together, or they would lose their courage 
one by one and slink ashamedly away—Hreeza had 
decided that she must strike as soon as possible. When 
she had heard from her spies that there would be a great 
meeting of cats in the crater, she had blessed her good 
fortune. But looking at her opponents now—all felines in 
their prime, well muscled and well fed— Hreeza's heart 
misgave her, and she began to think that the trip through 
the air in that net must have addled her wits. If she did 
this thing, she would be leading her wretched band of 
followers, who had come to depend on her, to certain 
death. 
Hreeza sighed. Maybe those whom she had called 
cowards had the right of it. Maybe it would be better to 
slink away, head bowed, and simply vanish into the 
night. Maybe she should take her followers and find them 
a new home, in another land. There was space in the 
mountains near Aerillia, and now that she could speak 

with the Winged Folk, perhaps an accommodation could 
be reached… 
Then into the arena below, escorted by two great cats, 
came a two-legged shape, shuffling and bowed, and 
reeking of madness and evil. Hreeza twitched her 
whiskers forward in curiosity and opened her mouth to 
better scent the air. What in the world…? Then her sharp 
ears caught the sound of a high, thin whimper, piteous 
and faint. The whiff of a scent reached her, so distinctive 
and redolent of memory that Hreeza felt her heart turn 
over. In Aerillia, she had played with Aurian's enchanted 
son—had even minded him, as she would the cub of 
another cat, when the Mage was otherwise occupied. 
All thoughts of flight, of surrender, fled from Hreeza's 
mind. Leaping to her feet, the ancient warrior let out such 
a roar of outrage and challenge that the very mountain 
trembled. As though she were young and fleet again, she 
leapt down from the heights of her lurking place. Like a 
great black river in spate, her chuevah followed: hair 
bristling on their bony spines, eyes glowing bright in 
heads held high and proud, and voices uplifted in their 
song of battle. 
Chapter 8 - The Mountain Queen 

Anvar hurtled down through the darkness, clinging 
tightly with cold-numbed fingers to the rough meshes of 
the net, his skin tingling from the impact of the stinging 
rain. The keening of the storm grew louder in his 
ears—and suddenly became another sound. Anvar's belly 
tightened into a knot of fear for poor Wolf as he heard a 
crescendo of yowls rising above the wail of the wind. 
Below him the great cats were fighting. 
Then, to his astonishment, the Mage heard a familiar, 
rasping old cat-voice in his mind, shrieking venom and 
defiance. He was not the only one to have heard it. 
"Hreeza!" Shia's cry echoed in Anvar's mind. "Don't be a 
fool!" And then they were down, in the midst of a 
bloodbath. The Skyfolk, guided by Chiamh, had landed 
them near the tunnel mouth at the edge of the 
crater—both to cut off Meiriel's retreat in that direction 
and to give them a chance of taking cover from the mass 
of fighting cats that swarmed across the floor of the 
crater. To Anvar's fury, their winged escort took one 
startled look at the carnage around them and rocketed 
skyward again like a covey of startled birds. The Mage 
cursed savagely and then thrust the matter from his mind, 
to be dealt with later. One problem at a time—and it 
seemed that he had troubles enough. 
The rain was beginning to slacken, allowing Anvar's 
night-vision to function once more. He stared, aghast, at 
the bloody struggles taking place around him, trying to 

make sense of it all and, more important, to catch a 
glimpse of Meiriel. But if she was somewhere amid the 
fighting cats, there must be a glamor about her that 
defeated even his Mageborn sight. 
Chiamh could see Anvar squinting his eyes to peer this 
way and that through the drifting curtains of rain. The 
Windeye, however, had an advantage over the Mage. 
With his Othersight he could perceive the glow of life 
energy rather than the physical form—and the corpsegleam 
of Meiriel's hideous, sickly aura was easy to pick 
out. 
Shia, with her feline senses, had no difficulty picking out 
her own foe. "Gristheena!" Her yowl rose in a 
bloodcurdling crescendo, and she darted off into the mob 
of fighting cats, Khanu hot on her heels. Chiamh 
belatedly realized that her route was taking her in the 
same direction as he and Anvar wanted to go—toward 
the rearing obsidian spur for which Meiriel was 
determinedly heading, picking her way through the 
warring felines as though they did not exist. "Come on!" 
The Windeye tugged urgently at Anvar's arm. "This 
way!" 
Chiamh, his Othersight fixed firmly on his quarry, led the 
way, with Anvar close by him, guarding him with drawn 
sword from attack by the cats that packed the canyon 
floor. Shoulder to shoulder, Mage and Windeye forced a 
way forward together, taking advantage of the swath that 

Shia and her companion were clearing with fang and 
claw through the ranks of battling felines. Chiamh 
shuddered at the sight of so much mindless ferocity 
unleashed within the confines of Steelclaw's crater. It 
was difficult, at this moment, to remember that these 
were intelligent creatures and not mere savage beasts. He 
could only pray to the Goddess that Shia's fellow cats 
would remain absorbed in their own bitter struggles and 
continue to ignore the two frail humans that had invaded 
their realm. 
Hreeza had already reached the spur. Ignoring the 
individual battles that raged all around her as her ragged 
band of chuevah closed with the astounded great cats, she 
had taken with her a vanguard of close 
companions—selected for being in a less pitiful 
condition than the rest—and had clawed and bit and 
slashed and fought her way in the straightest possible line 
toward the position of her deadly foe. 
The bloodlust had taken possession of Hreeza. She was 
unaware of the many minor wounds that leaked blood 
into her tattered fur, and ignored the burning of the long 
gashes slashed by hostile claws into her flanks. The red 
fog of battle clouded her mind and glowed in her eyes, 
and her laboring old heart was swollen fit to burst with a 
fierce pride mixed with anger and grief for those of her 
poor valiant followers who had already fallen in the 

onslaught, their death cries ringing—as they would echo 
forever—in her mind. 
Had the old cat been human and believed in such things, 
she would doubtless have said that the gods were with 
her that night. In fact, she owed her good fortune to her 
enemy. Brutal, swaggering, pitiless Gristheena may have 
been dominant, but she was not loved. Already, unknown 
to Hreeza, the tide of battle was turning in her favor. 
Many of the lesser cats, recognizing former companions 
and den mates in the returning chuevah, had greeted them 
with joy and abandoned the defense of their leader, 
whom they had obeyed only through fear of being cast 
out in their turn. On discovering that the much-respected 
Hreeza was First Female of the chuevah, the canyon cats 
were changing sides with startling speed. Hreeza met 
with little resistance as she barged her way from ledge to 
ledge up the side of the massive ridge. Had her mind 
been fixed less on her quarry and more on her 
surroundings, she would have noticed that many cats 
were falling back respectfully to let her pass. 
Gristheena stood on the rising tip of the spur, surrounded 
by her coterie of bullying favorites. The burly cats stood 
snarling in a solid mass, blocking the old cat's path. For 
one mad instant, Hreeza's bloodlust almost impelled her 
to charge right into them, carving a path to her enemy 
with teeth and claws. But she was wise and wily, and had 
not lived so many years for nothing. Cold sanity asserted 

itself just in time. She stopped, and lifted her cracked old 
voice in the discordant, blood-freezing yowl of the 
Challenge: "Come out, coward—and fight!" 
From the throne of her obsidian eminence, the First 
Female looked down upon her Challenger and laughed. 
"Fight with you, you toothless, crack-clawed, film-eyed 
bag of bones?" she sneered. "Why should I soil my claws 
on your flea-ridden hide? My followers, rid me of this 
ckuevah vermin! ' 
"Wait!" Hreeza's answering snarl was soft and chilling, 
but it halted every cat in the crater in its tracks as her 
mental voice broadcast her words to them all. "You had 
better fight me, you bloated bag of offal," she hissed. 
"Because if you do not, every cat in the clan will know 
that the fire has gone out of Gristheena's belly. That our 
great First Female cannot even defend herself against one 
tottering, half-starved old chuevah—because she is 
afraid." Now it was Hreeza's turn to laugh, and her 
mockery raised the hackles of every cat who heard. 
"Some First Female! Why, even the smallest purblind 
kitten will be lining up to challenge you after this!" 
Gristheena's ears went down flat against her skull. Her 
tail lashed back and forth, and foam dripped from her 
jaws as she bared her fangs in a terrifying snarl. Without 
warning she leapt. 
"This way!" Chiamh yelled. Had the Windeye not been 

reinforcing his voice with mental speech, it was doubtful 
whether Anvar would have heard him over the din of 
screeching, spitting felines. The Mage was relieved that 
Chiamh had succeeded, with his Othersight, in keeping 
track of Wolfs abductor, for Shia and Khanu—better able 
to insinuate themselves between the press of feline 
bodies—had already vanished far ahead of the two men, 
and Anvar himself had lost sight of Meiriel in the 
confusion that raged all over the canyon floor. 
"Over there!" The Windeye pointed, and Anvar caught a 
glimpse of Meiriel, clothed in a tatterdemalion patchwork 
of rags and scraps of fur and hide. The madwoman was 
clutching a bundle that must be Wolf. As they watched, 
she gained the bottom of the spur and went scrambling 
like a spider up the side of the ridge. 
"Come on!" Anvar tugged at Chiamh's arm and, with his 
free hand, took a tighter grip on the hilt of his sword. 
Deeply reluctant as he was to harm any of Shia's kin, the 
Mage was so anxious for Wolfs safety that he was 
prepared to carve a way through them with his blade, if it 
became necessary. Fortunately, however, it was not. The 
cats themselves seemed to be melting away before the 
two men, heading in the direction of the ridge. Anvar and 
Chiamh reached the foot of the escarpment unchallenged, 
and the Mage sprang quickly from ledge to ledge up the 
broken rocks, leaving the Windeye to grope his way up 
as best he might. 

Gristheena sprang effortlessly over the heads of her 
followers to land all her vast, crushing weight on top of 
the old cat— and discovered that Hreeza was no longer 
there. Gristheena's claws closed screeching on unyielding 
stone. Her jaws snapped shut on nothing—save her own 
tongue. Blood spattered the froth around her muzzle as 
she howled her humiliation and rage—and howled again 
as a set of iron jaws crushed the fine bones in her tail. 
Gristheena whirled, screaming, her battle cry drowning 
out the unbearable laughter of the watching cats. Hreeza 
gave one last agonizing jerk to the roots of Gristheena's 
tail before she twisted lightly away. 
The battle raged back and forth across the top of the spur 
as the two cats whirled and twisted for position, striking 
out at one another with their great, curved claws. Again 
and again the First Female tried to close with Hreeza, 
depending on her greater weight and strength to pull the 
old cat down. Again and again Hreeza eluded her, 
occasionally getting in a telling blow on her enemy's 
nose or flank, but the elderly cat was tiring. Her 
movements were becoming less fluid, her sides were 
heaving, and her breath rasped harshly in her throat as 
she fought for breath. 
Renewed hope goaded Gristheena into an unexpected 
burst of agility and speed. The great muscles in her 
haunches propelled her in an impossible leap—forward 

and sideways, catching the old cat by surprise. There was 
no escaping this time. Gristheena heard the dry snap of a 
breaking rib as her weight bowled her enemy over and 
over. The heavy paws knocked and buffeted Hreeza 
across the ridge, hitting her again and again with 
stunning force as the great claws raked bloody slashes in 
her sides. 
Hreeza lashed out in blind desperation and connected, 
but Gristheena's teeth met in her ear, ripping it to ribbons. 
Another instant, and it was over. Gristheena had the old 
cat pinned down flat against the rock and was straining to 
push her over, onto her back where she would be helpless 
against the great claws that could rip out her guts, and the 
lethal white fangs that would sink into her throat and 
drink her blood. 
Meiriel was standing near the edge of the great black 
spur, and as she whirled to face him, Anvar saw that her 
features were contorted with shock and dismay. The next 
second he was almost knocked off his feet by a snarling 
black flurry of fur and muscle. On the top of the 
eminence, two great cats were fighting for their lives. 
Anvar caught his balance and leapt toward Meiriel, but 
she eluded him, slipping like quicksilver out of reach of 
his blade. Lifting his sword, he lunged at her again, but 
the Magewoman whirled away from him, to the very 
brink of the escarpment. "Stop!" she cried. Anvar froze in 

horror as she lifted the wriggling, whimpering cub high 
above her head. "Come one step nearer," Meiriel hissed, 
"and I will throw him over the edge!'' 
Ice sheeted down Anvar's spine. Wolfs life was balanced 
on a knife edge. Now what was he to do? And where the 
blazes was Chiamh? 
"Back away, Anvar." The Magewoman's voice was soft 
and menacing. "Get away from me, you lowborn Mortal 
scum—or I'll make you sorry you ever dared meddle in 
the affairs of the Magefolkl'' 
It took a moment for the import of her words to sink in— 
then Anvar gasped. Meiriel didn't know! She still thought 
of him simply as Aurian's Mortal servant. She had no 
idea that he too possessed Mage blood—and its 
associated powers! Anvar smiled to himself, gathering 
the magical force deep within him, racking his brains for 
a spell—just the right spell—that would overcome 
Meiriel and also get Wolf out of danger. Maybe if he 
took them out of time… 
From behind the Mage came the furious yowl of a great 
cat and the heavy thud of a falling body. Anvar jumped 
involuntarily—and in that split second of his distraction, 
Meiriel vanished. Anvar looked around wildly and spat 
out a vicious curse, but it was no good. The Magewoman 
had gone. 
Hreeza, with a red-hot agony in her side that strangled 

every breath she tried to take, kept her claws anchored 
firmly in a small crevice. She crouched low to protect her 
vulnerable throat and belly but kept her ground, though 
her limbs were trembling with strain and a cold knot of 
dismay was forming deep within her. She knew that she 
could not hold on much longer. Death did not hold many 
terrors for Hreeza now— this was the second time in as 
many months that she had come so close. But she was 
heartsick at having failed. 
Gristheena's heart swelled with triumph. Already, she 
could taste the victory ahead. To gain a better leverage, 
she dug her sharp, wickedly curved claws deep into the 
black rock of the ridge and pushed at the old cat with all 
her strength. The First Female snarled deep in her throat. 
She could scarcely believe that this stringy old bag of 
bones could have the strength to resist such an onslaught! 
It only needed time, however… 
Something huge and heavy hit Gristheena from the side. 
The breath shot out of her lungs. She lost her grip on 
Hreeza and went crashing to the ground as the weight or 
another cat crushed her down against the cold black 
stone. Half-stunned, Gristheena shook her head, opened 
her eyes—and blinked in dismay and disbelief. Above 
her, silhouetted against the dawn-pale sky, loomed the 
shape of her oldest and most bitter enemy. 
"I should have killed you when I had the chance!" 

Gristheena snarled. 
"But you did not." Shia's voice was chill and inexorable 
as a glacier. "You failed, Gristheena—and now you have 
failed again. Your reign is over." 
The last thing that Gristheena saw was the burning gold 
of Shia's eyes as they caught the blaze of the sunrise. 
Then Shia's powerful jaws closed around her throat, and 
darkness fell. 
Meiriel laughed softly in triumph as she slipped, unseen, 
down the far side of the spur. During the long, tedious 
wait for Aurian to return with Parric, the Magewoman 
had occupied herself in perfecting an illusion spell that 
bent the air around her, effectively concealing her where 
she stood in plain sight. And it had worked—better than 
she would ever have imagined. 
The glow of satisfaction at the success of her ruse helped 
cushion the shock Meiriel had received when she had 
returned to Steelclaw to find her ally, Gristheena, and her 
subjects under attack. The Magewoman scowled. How 
could it have happened? Could this sudden assault on 
Gristheena have something to do with her own 
adversary? A chill crawled up Meiriel's spine. All this 
time she had been thinking of Aurian merely as her 
impulsive, inexperienced pupil from the old days at the 
Academy. It seemed that she had underestimated the 
power of the younger Mage. 

With an effort, Meiriel mastered the stab of panic and 
gathered her wits. While she had Aurian's child, its 
mother could do little to harm her. Meiriel tightened her 
grip on the misbegotten abomination that Aurian had 
birthed, though even touching the accursed creature was 
enough to sicken her. The wolf cub whimpered in 
protest. Its struggles were growing weaker now—but that 
was of no consequence. She only needed to keep it alive 
until she was certain that Aurian was dead—or until she 
had found a way to deal, once and for all, with the one 
who had caused the death of her beloved Finbarr. 
The sky had paled from night's blackness to a rich, deep 
blue that was beginning to glow with dawn beyond Steelclaw's 
jagged peaks. The thin, cold wind that had finally 
banished the rain clouds snaked across the dark rock of 
the canyon floor. All the cats had vanished now, drawn to 
the rearing spur to witness the battle of the Queens. 
Meiriel groped with her mind to catch Gristheena's 
thoughts but only came up against a stark, black void. 
Fear knotted the Magewoman's stomach. Gristheena 
dead? Impossible! But if her ally had been slain, then she 
had better get out of here— and fast. Quickening her 
pace, Meiriel scuttled toward the dark maw of the tunnel 
that led out of the crater, and rushed inside. 
The uneven tunnel was narrow and so low that she had to 
stoop as she hurried along, the darkness taxing even her 
Mage's sight. Nonetheless, though she knew it was 

illusory, the secure stone walls on either side gave the 
Magewoman the feeling that she had attained a measure 
of safety at last, and she abandoned her illusion spell as 
an unnecessary drain on her energies. When a circle of 
pale daylight appeared ahead of her, she approached it 
almost reluctantly—but she couldn't lurk in the darkness 
forever. As she emerged cautiously from the entrance 
onto a wide, sloping ledge on the mountain's side, her 
ears were assaulted by a booming thunder of wings in the 
sky above her. A swirling gust of wind blew grit into her 
face and almost knocked her from her feet. Meiriel, 
fighting for breath, wiped the dust from her streaming 
eyes—and choked again in terror at the sight of Aurian. 
Cold shock drenched through Meiriel's body. Time 
seemed to stretch and slow as she looked into the 
inexorable face of her adversary, while her mind 
screamed out in horrified protest, for she had never truly 
believed—had not wanted to believe—the mysterious 
voice that she had heard upon the Wyndveil, and had 
truly convinced herself—until now—that the spell that 
cloaked her had also kept out the awareness of Aurian's 
passing. How could it be otherwise? Meiriel remembered 
plunging her knife toward Aurian's heart, and feeling the 
point catch and jar as it grated against a rib. She 
remembered the dark blood welling up around the deadly 
blade and gushing hotly across her hand. Aurian should 
be dead! 

Aurian kicked free of the tangled heap of meshes at her 
feet. With a slithering hiss her sword slid from her 
scabbard— the same blade that Meiriel remembered from 
so long ago. In her other hand the Mage clutched a staff 
tipped with a great green jewel clasped between serpents' 
jaws. It thrummed with power, shivered and twisted the 
air around it, flooding the wan dawnlight with a blaze of 
emerald radiance. At the sight of it, terror struck deep 
into Meiriel's heart. She took an involuntary step 
backward, quaking, and automatically raised a magical 
shield about herself. She doubted that it would hold for 
long against the power of the Staff, but it might buy her 
the time she needed. 
"You look pale, Meiriel. Seen a ghost?" Aurian's voice 
cut like a whiplash. Her eyes burned silver with the icy 
flare of her wrath. "Give me back my child." 
Desperation gave Meiriel a measure of courage. She 
clutched Wolf even tighter to her chest, and put one hand 
around his throat. "Make me give him back," she 
sneered. "Strike at me, and your brat dies with me. If you 
so much as call out with your mind to your companions, I 
will slay him." 
Aurian, still feeling weak and drained from the deadly 
wound she had taken and the energy expended in Healing 
it, was shaking with the effort to suppress her rage. Now, 
of all times, her head must be clear, though the sight of 

her child with Meiriel's hand around his neck tore at her 
heart. Inwardly she cursed the Skyfolk, who had been too 
cowardly to venture into the territory of their ancient 
feline enemies, and were unprepared to risk themselves 
by attacking a Mage. Their reluctance had lost her critical 
moments while she extricated herself from their net. Had 
she been in a position to strike at Meiriel while her foe 
was still blinded by dust, it would all have been over 
now, and Wolf would have been safe. 
Possibilities flew through Aurian's mind, and were as 
quickly discarded. Even the option of taking both her 
enemy and Wolf out of time until she could get help was 
out of the question. Shielded as she was, Meiriel would 
still have enough time to kill the child before the spell 
could take effect. All the Mage could do was play for 
time—and hope that her companions would think of 
searching the tunnel before it was too late. 
Aurian looked at the wild-eyed madwoman with the 
ravaged face and tangled hair, and remembered with 
sadness the neat, brisk, efficient Healer who had saved 
her life and taught her the skills that had proved a 
blessing over and over again. "Meiriel, why?" she 
pleaded. "Where's the sense in this? Can't you see that 
your enemy should be Miathan, not me? And I can't 
believe that you, of all people, would want to harm an 
innocent child…" 
"Child?" Meiriel shrieked. "It's an abomination!" 

Aurian gritted her teeth and reined back her temper, 
trying not to antagonize the madwoman further. "Wolf is 
a normal child, Meiriel—save that Miathan cursed him. 
Surely, if you joined your skills with mine, you could 
help me remove the bane…" 
Meiriel's face contorted with hatred. "Help you?" she 
snarled. "Were it not for you and your filthy Mortal 
lover— and this half-breed freak you bore—my Finbarr 
would still be alive." 
So that was it. It had been a slender hope in any case, but 
Aurian knew for certain now that Meiriel could not be 
reasoned with. "Then it seems we have a stalemate," she 
said tightly. "I cannot attack you while you hold Wolf; 
but should you kill him, you'll have nothing left to 
bargain with—and death will be the most pleasant of 
your options." 
"That would be true—if you could keep me here," 
Meiriel retorted. Aurian saw the Magewoman's brow 
crease in concentration. She made a sharp gesture with 
her free hand, and the air around her shimmered as she 
began to fade. But Aurian, with the power of the Staff of 
Earth, could see through the illusion, and her racing mind 
seized upon the germ of a plan. While working her spell 
of invisibility, her enemy could not also maintain a 
magical shield. Aurian cursed and looked around wildly, 
feigning consternation. And as Meiriel, sure that she 
could not be seen, turned to creep away, Aurian struck, 

dropping the Staff of Earth to get a two-handed grip on 
her blade. Coronach came whistling down in a glittering, 
deadly arc to embed itself in Meiriel's neck. Without a 
sound the madwoman crumpled—but even as her spirit 
fled, Aurian's mind caught one fast whispered, fading 
word… 
"Finbarr …" 
Then Aurian screamed and fell to her knees, blasted by 
Meiriel's death agony. Even so, she crawled forward on 
hands and knees over rocks that were slippery with warm 
blood, half-blinded by pain and with her head ringing. 
With a wrenching effort she rolled Meiriel's limp body 
over. The head lolled, half-severed from the trunk, but 
the Mage had no eyes for the grisly sight. The pain of her 
opponent's death throes was ebbing now; she could see 
clearly once more. Wolf was caught beneath a fold of 
Meiriel's cloak, whining piteously in terror. Aurian tore 
at the heavy, soaked fabric, pulled it aside, and snatched 
up her bloodstained, whimpering child. 
A quick scan with her Healer's senses soon confirmed 
that Wolf had taken little physical harm except for cold 
and hunger and a bruise or two, but even though their 
mental link had weakened since his birth, Aurian could 
feel his shock and acute distress. Since he shared her 
heritage, it seemed likely that the child, too, had been 
assaulted by his abductor's death pangs. Aurian fought to 
control her own roiling emotions so that she could calm 

and reassure him. Too limp with relief even to think of 
getting to her feet, she stayed kneeling in Meiriel's blood, 
rocking her son and thanking all the gods that he was 
safe. 
Anvar, with Chiamh hot on his heels, burst out of the 
tunnel at a run. After a frantic, fruitless search for 
Meiriel, he had been buffeted by her death throes—and 
through them, had located her at last. When he saw 
Aurian, with Wolf clasped in her arms, kneeling over the 
Magewoman's body, his heart almost stopped. As he ran 
to her, his mind whirled with conflicting anger, anxiety, 
and relief, and as he sank to his knees beside her, his 
questions tumbled one over another in his haste to get 
them out. 
"Are you all right? Is Wolf? Are you mad to come out 
here and fight her so soon after she nearly killed you?" 
For the first time, Aurian looked up from her child, a 
spark of anger flashing in her eyes as she looked from 
Anvar to the Windeye and back again. "I had to come. 
Look what a mess you two were making of the business," 
she snapped. Then her expression softened as she laid a 
hand on Anvar's arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean 
that—though you deserve more than harsh words for 
trying to give me drugged wine. You idiots—did you 
really think I'd fall for that?" 
Anvar looked at Chiamh and saw his chagrin mirrored in 
the Windeye's face. Then, to his own astonishment, he 

burst out laughing. It was pure relief, he knew—and also 
a reaction to the events of the last few harrowing hours: 
Wolfs abduction, Aurian almost losing her life, the 
bloody battle of the cats, and the physical and mental 
wrench of Meiriel's violent death. Aurian caught his eye, 
and suddenly she was laughing with him, as they had 
laughed away their shock and terror long ago in the dark 
tunnels beneath Dhiammara, when both had been sure 
that Anvar's life had ended beneath a stonefall. Though 
the laughter was dangerously out of control for a time, 
Anvar felt the fears and turmoil of the night beginning to 
ease, as though a bowstring stretched taut within him was 
loosening at last. 
Finally, Aurian's peals of laughter ended in something 
suspiciously like a sob, and she embraced him clumsily, 
with Wolf between them. Anvar, mindful of the cub, 
hugged her as hard as he dared before they broke apart 
reluctantly and scrambled to their feet to face the baffled 
Windeye. Aurian thumped him on the shoulder. "Thank 
you, Chiamh, my friend, for all your help this night—but 
next time, don't go slipping your peculiar Xandim 
concoctions into my wine." 
Chiamh smiled sheepishly. "It seems there would be little 
point—but, Lady, you must rest now, before you undo all 
the benefit of your Healing." 
"You're right—I'm so tired I can barely stand." Aurian 
sighed, and dragged her arm wearily across her eyes. She 

grimaced as the edge of her sleeve left a smear of blood 
across one cheek. "Besides, we must get Wolf 
home—and where are Shia and Khanu?" 
Anvar, looking on, saw her expression change to a frown 
of concern. "Back in the canyon—I don't know what 
happened to them. Chiamh and I lost them when we were 
searching for Meiriel…" His words trailed away. Aurian 
was not listening. Her expression turned vague as she 
called to the cats—then her eyes snapped open wide. 
"Shia says that Hreeza is here—and she's hurt." 
"Hreeza?" Anvar gasped. "How the blazes did she get 
here?" 
Aurian shrugged. "Let's find out. No—wait." Thrusting 
Wolf into Anvar's arms, she turned back to Meiriel's 
body. Anvar could see the tension in her jaw as she 
stooped to the ghastly head, and closed the staring eyes. 
For a moment she lingered, her hand smoothing the 
Magewoman's tangled hair, and Anvar was amazed to 
see a glitter of tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Meiriel," she 
whispered. 
"What?" Anvar could not contain himself. "Why should 
you be sorry? She meant to murder Wolf, and she came 
too bloody close to killing you." 
Aurian shook her head. "No," she said softly. "That 
wasn't Meiriel. I mourn the passing of the Healer I once 
knew, who was once a friend. She saved my life when I 
was a girl, and taught me the precious arts of Healing." 

Then her expression hardened. "As for the madwoman 
who tried to kill my son—she deserved what she got." 
Springing to her feet, she wiped her bloody hands on her 
cloak before raising them aloft. At her gesture a bolt of 
sizzling flame leapt from her fingers, consuming 
Meiriel's body where it lay on the bloodstained stones of 
Steelclaw. 
"Now we can go." Turning away from the pyre, Aurian 
reached down to pick up the Staff of Earth from the pool 
of blood in which it lay. Anvar, seeing the Artifact 
sullied with the lifeblood of a Mage, felt a shiver of 
unease crawl up his spine—and his thoughts were in tune 
with those of his soulmate. 
"Damn," Aurian muttered. "Steeped in blood—this 
doesn't bode well." Gingerly, she picked up the 
Staff—and cried out, almost dropping it again in 
astonishment. As her fingers had touched and lifted the 
Artifact, it had blazed for an instant with a blinding 
emerald radiance—and when the effulgence faded, every 
trace of blood had vanished. 
"Incredible!" Anvar breathed. 
Aurian was holding the Staff as though the twin serpents 
might bite her. "Yes," she muttered, "but why?" 
Chiamh stepped forward to peer shortsightedly at the 
Staff, though he was careful not to touch it. Then he 
looked up at the Mage. "Lady—why did you choose to 
kill the madwoman with your sword, and not with this 

powerful tool of magic?" 
"I…" Aurian frowned. "Well, for one thing, there was too 
great a risk of harming Wolf, but mainly because it just 
wasn't right." For a moment she faltered. "This is one of 
the four Great Weapons that were fashioned to work 
against destruction. If I had used it for harm, then…" She 
shuddered. "Something bad would have happened. Oh, it 
would have worked, I'm sure—but there would have 
been some kind of recoil, or backlash. I remembered 
what the Leviathan said, about a weapon having two 
edges…" She shrugged, unable to explain it any better. 
Chiamh shuddered. "Lady, you are very wise—and thank 
the Goddess that it is so." 
"I don't know about that," Aurian sighed. "Sometimes, 
Chiamh, I feel as though I'm anything but wise." Though 
she was trying to hide it, she was trembling with 
exhaustion. "Come on—let's find Shia now, and then we 
can get back to the fastness. I could sleep for a 
month—not that we have one." 
Almost as an afterthought she gathered up Coronach 
from the ground, wiping the bloodstained blade on her 
cloak before sheathing it. Then, thrusting the Staff into 
her belt, she held her arms out for her son. 
The stones near the top of the rearing black spur were 
slick with blood. It caked on Aurian's boots and coated 
her hands where she had used them to help her scramble 

up the last steep stretch to the summit. With a shudder, 
she wiped her sticky hands on the hem of her muchabused 
cloak, and longed for a mug of good, strong ale to 
clear the metallic stench that caught at the back of her 
throat. 
Aurian looked over her shoulder and saw Chiamh down 
below, waiting at the foot of the ridge with Wolf, while 
Anvar followed close behind the Mage. He, too, was 
tight-lipped and pale. Thankfully, there had been fewer 
deaths among the cats than Aurian had expected from 
Anvar's terse account of the battle, but some of the 
injuries that they had witnessed on their way across the 
canyon had been dreadful. Having been apprised by Shia 
that Hreeza's life was not in danger, Aurian had lingered 
to give assistance where she could— though even with 
Anvar's overtaxed strength to draw upon, and the power 
of the Staff, her contribution seemed woefully 
inadequate. 
Khanu, his heavy fur torn out in patches and one ear 
ripped and bleeding, had come across the canyon to meet 
the Mages and escort them to Shia in safety. When they 
reached the summit, he led them proudly through the 
crowded ranks of felines that waited there. The assembly 
was a breathtaking sight. One great cat alone was 
awesome in size and power, but to see so many… 
Wonderingly, Aurian swept her eyes across them all, 
seeing lithe, muscled females and heavy-boned males 

resplendent in their shaggy ruffs; grizzled veterans, leggy 
youngsters, and fuzzy, gold-dappled black cubs, with 
paws and ears too big for them yet, that made her smile. 
A hundred gold eyes flashed and flared like a dragon 
hoard in the early sunlight as the great cats watched her 
pass, each one of them tense with silent curiosity. Aurian, 
looking at their great curved claws and gleaming fangs, 
was suddenly very glad that she had Shia to sponsor her 
here. She was an interloper and a hated human, and had 
she been alone, she would not have lasted long enough to 
draw another breath. With a shiver of surprise, she 
suddenly remembered her first meeting with Shia in the 
Khazalim arena. The bond between them was so strong 
now, it seemed impossible to believe that her beloved 
companion had very nearly killed her. 
Shia was near the tip of the spur, watching over Hreeza. 
The old cat, though battered and bloody, raised her head 
with stubborn pride to look on as the Mage rushed to 
embrace her friend. "Thank the gods you're safe," she 
told the cat. "How did you come unscathed through all 
the fighting?" 
"Most of them were very glad to see me," Shia replied 
smugly. "Though there is one who was not." Aurian 
followed her glance toward the body of an enormous cat 
that lay nearby, its heavily muscled body limp in death. 
Shia looked back toward her people. "Gristheena has 
been vanquished!" The thunder of her mental tones rose 

to match the challenge of her roar, which shook the very 
stones beneath them. "Who is leader now?" 
"Shia! Shia!" The sheer volume of their response was 
almost enough to batter Aurian to the ground. It took all 
her self-control not to clap her hands over her ringing 
ears. 
"No." Shia's answer stopped them in midroar. 
For a moment there was utter silence; then an ancient, 
hollow-eyed chuevah called out from the rear of the 
ranked cats. "If you will not lead us, who will?" There 
was a brief scuffle as her friends tried to silence her; then 
the harsh old voice rang out again: "Well, somebody has 
to say it! Don't be a fool, young Shia. You must lead us. 
Do you want us to go through this again?" Her bony paw 
swept out to indicate the many wounded who lay in the 
bottom of the crater. "Our people have suffered cruelly in 
this last evil winter, and through the injustice of 
Gristheena's rule. Our numbers are sadly diminished. A 
strong First Female is essential now, or the tribe will die. 
Would you weaken us further by wasting our best in 
Challenge after Challenge, until a new leader should 
emerge?" 
Though the cantankerous old feline had spoken out of 
turn, murmurs of assent greeted her words. 
"Be still!" Shia interrupted them. "Taheera speaks wisely, 
does she not? Yet she is old. Too old, according to 
Gristheena, to be of any further use to the tribe. Too old 

to Challenge. Only the strongest have been permitted to 
remain with our people. Only the strongest could rule. 
Yet see to what end our reverence for strength has 
brought us." Now it was her turn to remind them of the 
cats that lay in agony below. 
"My people, it is time for change. We must maintain our 
prowess, certainly: encourage, instruct, and nurture our 
hunters and warriors for the good of the tribe. But let 
wisdom lead us." Shia paused, and her golden gaze swept 
across the assembled cats. "By right of Challenge, the 
leadership is mine—but I cannot stay to lead you. The 
bonds of friendship hold me, and my path leads 
elsewhere—for not only here on Steelclaw is the safety 
of our people threatened. With your agreement, I will 
appoint another to rule in my absence. I will entrust the 
safekeeping of our tribe to the brave cat who dared, 
against all hope, to challenge Gristheena: the wise cat 
who brought home your exiled elders and den mates, and 
saved them from starvation in the mountains. O cats, 
have you learned from the slaughter and suffering? Will 
you abandon the law of claw and tooth and terror, and 
put your trust in wisdom? Will you have Hreeza as your 
leader?" 
"What?" Hreeza demanded. "Me?" 
Aurian felt the warm edge to Shia's thoughts that denoted 
humor. "Of course, old friend," the great cat said. "Who 
better?" 

The cats stared at one another, thunderstruck. Aurian 
knew that Shia's return had set them in a turmoil. She 
guessed that, at first, they had been wild with elation over 
the reappearance of their long-lost leader, then horrified 
by her friendship with, of all things, certain humans, for 
she had felt their resentment as she passed among the 
injured cats on the crater's floor. Her help with their 
wounded, however, had gone a long way to reassure 
them that not all two-legged folk were evil, so that by the 
time Shia had warned them of her imminent departure, 
they must have been dismayed by her decision to leave 
them once again. But though the bitter lessons of the 
previous night had left their impact, and made them 
ready to listen to her stirring words, acceptance was 
another matter. Dispensing with the rite of Challenge 
went against every belief that the tribe possessed. 
There was a long moment of silence. Then a lone voice 
spoke up from the rear of the gathering. "Well, I say we 
should have Hreeza as our leader." It was the indomitable 
Taheera again. "What do we have to lose? We lived with 
the other way for so long—and see where it has led us. 
We old cats have lived for many seasons. We have 
hunted in our time, and borne cubs; we have lived and 
survived through famine and sickness, battle and conflict 
within and beyond the tribe. We remember: we are wise. 
Should we be discarded because we are too old to fight 
and hunt and bear young? Why does the tribe not use our 

knowledge? Let Hreeza try, I say—and we old chuevah 
will help her. Give her a chance. If she fails, we can 
always go back to the old way." 
A roar of assent broke out as the old chuevah raised their 
voices to support her. The younger cats murmured 
among themselves, indecisive—and reluctant, perhaps, to 
let go of their authority. "Fine words," one of them said, 
"but what if we need to defend ourselves? How can an 
old cat lead us in battle?" 
Shia added the weight of her words to the debate. 
"Hreeza must choose a battle leader from the cats in their 
prime. She may also appoint a hunt leader from those 
who are most skilled. Give her a year, and see what 
happens," she said persuasively. "Under Hreeza's rule, I 
am certain that the tribe will prosper." 
"It had better prosper," muttered one lone voice from 
somewhere in the crowd, but apart from that, there were 
no further objections. "Hreeza for leader!" Taheera 
roared, and as the other cats joined in, the very mountains 
trembled. "Hreeza! Hreeza!" 
Hreeza turned to Shia with blazing eyes. "Now look what 
you've done, you young fool," she snapped, but Aurian 
could see that she was secretly delighted. 
"Here, let me look at those injuries," she told the old cat. 
"Goodness knows, you'll have a busy time ahead, so 
you'd better start off your reign in perfect health." 
Anvar pulled from his pocket the carved bone whistle 

that had been given to the Mages to summon the Skyfolk 
from the air. "And once you've healed Hreeza, we must 
go home," he added firmly. 
Aurian looked around at the soaring mountains of a 
foreign land, and sighed. "I would like nothing better—if 
only we had a home." 
Chapter 9 - On the Wings of the Wind 
The sun was reaching its zenith when Chiamh emerged 
from the shadowy entrance to the Xandim Fastness. He 
noted the hour with some surprise. Had he really slept so 
long? At about the same time the previous day, he had 
been flown back by reluctant Winged Folk from 
Steelclaw, along with Shia, Khanu, and the Mages. All of 
them had been chilled to the bone and light-headed from 
exhaustion, and no one really had the energy to answer 
the anxious entreaties of Parric, Schiannath, and the 
others who had waited behind. Much to the evident 
frustration of the temporary Herdlord, they had spent 
some time answering only the most urgent of his 
questions while they shared the bowls of stew and the hot 
spiced wine that Iscalda had prepared. Then Anvar, 
concerned at Aurian's evident weariness, had cut the 
meeting short with a brusqueness that had brought a 

scowl to the face of Parric, who had already been 
annoyed at having to stay behind to find accommodation 
for the new influx of Outlanders, and to calm his people 
after the shock of Meiriel's attack. 
The Windeye, glad to make his escape at last, had sought 
his chambers as quickly as possible. After the harrowing 
events of the previous night, he had flopped down onto 
his hay-stuffed pallet and fallen asleep fully clothed, 
before he even had time to pull the fur covers over 
himself. 
When he finally awakened, Chiamh had still felt heavyeyed 
with lack of rest. In an attempt to revive himself, he 
had decided to go and bathe in the icy pool at the bottom 
of the nearby waterfall. Gathering a change of clean 
clothing in a thick warm blanket in which he would wrap 
himself until he dried, he set out through the labyrinth of 
passages toward the entrance of the fastness. 
Chiamh stood to one side of the great arched doorway, 
yawning and stretching, and looked across the steeply 
sloping green expanse that lay beyond the massive stone 
edifice, to the vast open vistas that lay beyond, where the 
land dropped down toward the sea. The day was cool, 
with a brisk wind that harried the ragged knots of gray 
cloud across the sky and sent beams of sunlight stalking 
across the land between the drifting showers, to patch the 
dull greens and duns of the woods and grasslands with 
pockets of emerald and gold. Brighter still, however, 

were the hues of the colorful tents that dotted the 
meadowland before the fastness. 
The Windeye exclaimed aloud in astonishment to see the 
vast encampment of Horsefolk that had sprung up in his 
absence, in response to the messages that he and Parric 
had sent out before they'd left for the Tower of Incondor. 
So much had happened since then that he'd forgotten 
about sending out the summons—and last night Chiamh 
had failed to see the dark outlines of the tents in the rainy 
darkness. Besides, he'd had far more pressing matters to 
concern him. The Xandim, however, had answered the 
Herdlord's call. From the different and distinctive designs 
on the hide tents, Chiamh could see that they had flocked 
in from every region. 
At the sight of so many folk thronging the meadow, the 
Windeye took an involuntary step backward into the 
shelter of the entrance tunnel. He had never seen such a 
crowd of people all together, and their presence unnerved 
him a little. He had lived most of his days in enforced 
solitude before the coming of the Outlanders had 
changed his existence, and though he reveled in the 
warmth of his newfound companionship and acceptance, 
he still found himself longing, on occasion, for the peace 
and solitude of his own little vale, and the airy freedom 
of his Chamber of Winds, where he could reflect and 
meditate for a time on the incredible and portentous 
events that had overtaken him lately. 

On impulse, Chiamh decided to change his plans and go 
home for a little while. He could just as easily bathe in 
the stream-fed pool in his valley, and he really ought to 
check his living cavern to see that everything was still in 
order. That, at least, was what he told himself. In reality, 
the Windeye was running away—but that was something 
he would rather not think about. 
First of all he had to get through the busy encampment 
without being seen, but to one of his calling, that 
presented no difficulty. Entering a pool of shade within 
the depths of the passageway, Chiamh took up the 
insubstantial shreds of shadow and wove a mantle of 
twilight about himself. Securely concealed in his shadow 
cloak from curious eyes, he slipped toward the archway 
with a secretive smile. 
"Ho, Chiamh!" 
On hearing his name, the Windeye froze in his tracks 
with a cry of dismay. Turning, he saw Aurian, silhouetted 
against the torchlit doorway of the inner hall. "That's a 
very clever trick," she said as she approached, "but I 
should warn you, it doesn't work on a Mage. Why the 
disguise, my friend?" She smiled at him, and Chiamh's 
chagrin melted away. 
"You should look outside," he told her. "It appears that 
the entire Xandim nation has camped in the meadow. I 
felt the need for solitude, and—" 
"And I interrupted your escape," Aurian apologized. 

"I don't feel any need to escape you. I just wanted to go 
home for a time." 
"Isn't this your home?" 
Chiamh shook his head. "I live farther up the mountain, 
usually. It is very beautiful there." Suddenly, he decided 
that maybe solitude was not so attractive after all. 
"Would you like to see it?" 
"Is it very much farther?" Aurian, profoundly glad to be 
off the broad cliff path at last, stood at the top of the 
incline that snaked up the crag behind the fastness, and 
looked out across the windswept expanse of the mountain 
plateau. She could see no sign of another valley 
anywhere, and she did not want to stay away from Wolf 
too long. He had been sleeping contentedly when she'd 
left him, guarded by the hovering presence or Bohan and 
the two wolves, who had finally limped back to the 
fastness, footsore and defeated, while she and Anvar had 
been on Steelclaw. They had greeted the cub ecstatically, 
and one or both of them had been at his side ever since. 
Although her son appeared to be suffering few ill effects 
from his abduction, he had been badly frightened, and the 
Mage wanted to be nearby should he need reassurance— 
although, in truth, the cub seemed quite happy with his 
lupine guardians. Nonetheless, Aurian had been hovering 
over him all morning since she had awakened, until both 
Anvar and Shia had chased her out to get some air—and 

some peace and quiet for themselves. 
Anvar had needed to spend some time with old Elewin, 
who had been longing to see the young servant from the 
Academy whom he had once protected. Now, it seemed, 
their positions were reversed. The steward, already 
enfeebled by his illness, had taken Meiriel's death very 
badly. He seemed shrunken, somehow: listless and 
morose and suddenly very, very old; and Anvar, his brow 
furrowed with concern, had gone to see if he could cheer 
his former mentor. Aurian, knowing the closeness that 
the two former servants of the Academy had once shared, 
had been unwilling to intrude upon them. Shia and 
Khanu also had plans: to make a brief trip back to 
Steelclaw—on foot this time—to see how Hreeza was 
faring in her new role as First Female, and Parric, Aurian 
knew, would not be fit company until he had overcome 
his current fit of bad temper because she had escaped him 
the previous night to go to the aid of her son. 
Yazour was still asleep, and so the Mage, seeking 
companionship, had sought out the two former Xandim 
exiles—but their company brought her little enjoyment, 
for Schiannath, in particular, had been silent and morose. 
Though it took a great deal of persistence on her part, 
Aurian finally discovered that the young warrior, having 
at last made the acquaintance of the two great cats, had 
learned that the Goddess Iriana who had seemingly 
spoken to him in Incondor's Pass when he had rescued 

Yazour, had been none other than Shia herself. He felt 
foolish, humiliated, and angry at himself for being so 
gullible, until Aurian, thinking quickly, had suggested 
that, since Shia could not usually communicate with non- 
Magefolk, the Goddess might well have taken a hand in 
the business, after all. Though Schiannath had been 
comforted by the notion, the two Xandim were still far 
from cheerful. Glad as they were to be released from 
their exile, they were uneasy about being immured within 
the fastness within reach of their former enemies. Iscalda, 
in particular, seemed to feel that once Parric's term as 
Herdlord ended, as it shortly would, the companions 
would be in danger once more. Aurian shared their 
concerns but wanted one day's peace, at least, to rest and 
recover before starting to worry about the next set of 
problems. She had left them as soon as she decently 
could to go in search of Chiamh—but almost as soon as 
she had found him, she was starting to be anxious about 
getting back. 
Although she had asked him a question, it seemed to the 
Windeye that Aurian had almost forgotten his presence. 
Seeing the faraway look in her eyes, he cleared his throat 
loudly. 
The Mage swung round to face him. "Goodness, you 
startled me." 
Chiamh pushed a windblown lock of hair out of his eyes. 

"You asked me a question, remember? My valley is a 
good league away, maybe—and part of it uphill again." 
He noted Aurian's hesitation with a pang of 
disappointment. He had been looking forward to showing 
her his home—he had not realized how much, until now. 
Then an idea struck him. But could he do it? Suddenly, 
his mind was made up. He turned to Aurian and grinned. 
"On horseback, it would take no time at all." 
"But we don't have a horse," Aurian objected. 
The Windeye grinned broadly. "Do we not? Stand well 
clear, my friend, and I will show you a wonder." 
Aurian knew, in an abstract sense, that the Xandim were 
shape-shifters, but because of her absence in Aerillia she 
had never actually seen the change take place. Chiamh 
heard her gasp with amazement as his outline blurred and 
expanded; his bones thickened and his head and neck 
grew heavy and long as his position altered to a fourlegged 
stance. All at once the transformation was 
complete. In the place of the Windeye stood a stocky, 
shaggy-maned bay horse. 
"Oh, Chiamh," Aurian breathed. Slowly she approached 
him, plainly unsure whether she dared to touch him. 
Nervously, Chiamh waited, as tense as she—until after a 
moment's hesitation, the Mage laid a gentle hand on his 
warm, thickly muscled neck. 
Startled, Chiamh sprang back with a snort, unable to help 
himself. His mind worked somewhat differently while he 

was wearing his equine form, and it was unnerving to 
suffer the touch of an unfamiliar human hand. For a 
moment, he was tempted to change back again. He 
doubted whether he could hold to his offer to let her ride. 
Normally, for one Xandim to ride another in horse-form, 
there would have to be great need—or great intimacy 
between them. He and Aurian had become friends in a 
very short time, but… 
The Windeye noticed that Aurian was standing back 
now, reluctant to approach him again. She was frowning, 
and subtle changes in her posture and her scent betrayed 
her anxiety. He hated to see her frown—and all because 
he had wanted to show off, he realized guiltily. Did she 
not have enough to worry about, besides the fey humors 
of a half-wild horse? All at once his mind was made up. 
Had they not journeyed together on the wind? And was 
this really so very different? 
Taking firm control of his equine instincts, Chiamh 
stepped forward. Aurian reached out a hand, then 
hesitated, plainly uncertain, and the Windeye cursed 
himself for not explaining matters more fully to her 
before he had transformed himself, for neither his 
Othersight nor mental communication would work while 
he wore his equine form. For an instant he considered 
changing back, just to speak to her— but no. He would 
probably never summon up the courage to do this again. 
Instead, he took another step forward, and rubbed his 

long nose against her outstretched hand. 
At the Windeye's gesture, the Mage appeared to relax. 
She stroked the soft, bristly nose, and smiled. "Chiamh, 
this is amazing! I wonder how you do it," she said softly. 
Chiamh snorted, flicked his ears, and shook his long 
black mane, and Aurian laughed with pure delight. "Are 
you sure you still want me to ride?" she asked him softly. 
"Is it really all right?" 
The Windeye looked at her, and nodded his head up and 
down vigorously. 
"Thank you," Aurian said, "but I'll need something to 
stand on, since you have no saddle. You're taller than I 
thought you'd be." She looked around until she spotted a 
place where a small outcrop of rock poked above the turf 
at the top of the cliff. "That should do." 
Chiamh, following her pointing finger, walked over to 
the place and stood patiently while Aurian scrambled to 
the top of a large, lichen-covered stone. As she threw a 
leg across his back, he gritted his teeth and closed his 
eyes, mastering the urge to flinch away, but once she had 
settled on his back, he felt better. She had done this 
before, he noted with surprise. Her legs clasped him 
firmly but not too tightly, and she knew just the right way 
to distribute her weight to make things comfortable and 
easy for him. Suddenly Chiamh began to relax and enjoy 
himself. Once he felt her twine her fingers in the long, 
coarse hair of his mane, he knew she was ready, and with 

a bound he was away, racing across the short, crisp turf 
of the plateau. 
Aurian sat easily on the back of the galloping bay horse, 
her hair blowing behind her in the wind and her eyes 
watering with the exhilarating speed of Chiamh's 
running. The world went flashing past them, the bright 
spring flowers that dotted the grass blurring past in a 
rainbow of colors beneath his pounding hooves. This was 
wonderful! Unable to stop herself, she let out a wild 
whoop of delight that echoed back from the surrounding 
peaks. 
The ride was over far too soon. Ahead of them, Aurian 
saw a pair of tall standing stones, the gateway to a 
narrow, pine-clad valley with steep, rocky sides. The 
Windeye slowed his wild pace and came gently to a halt 
in the shadow of the towering stones. The Mage slid 
down reluctantly, and backed away until the Xandim had 
sufficient space to change. Once again, Aurian saw his 
outline blur, shrink, and resume an upright form—and 
Chiamh the man stood before her, slightly out of breath 
and grinning widely. 
For a moment they looked at one another, beyond words, 
and then, as if at some unspoken signal, they rushed to 
hug each other. "Chiamh, that was wonderful," Aurian 
told him as they stood apart. "I'll never forget it as long 
as I live!" 

"Nor will I," the Windeye assured her. Holding out a 
hand to her, he added: "Come, let me show you my 
valley." Hand in hand, they stepped out of the plateau's 
sunlight, and into the cool shadow of the pines. 
"Has Wolf recovered from his ordeal?" Chiamh asked. 
They had bathed—very briefly—in the icy mountain 
pool, and now were sitting by a hastily kindled fire in the 
mouth of his cave, sipping hot herb tea and looking down 
the valley past the shadow of the great rock spire that 
towered above the Windeye's dwelling. Aurian, who was 
absently threading white starflowers into a chain, looked 
up at the sound of his voice and nodded. "Seemingly, 
though he's still somewhat nervous. I think he had bad 
dreams last night, if a wolf can dream—but he seemed 
much calmer and happier today, or I wouldn't have left 
him." 
Chiamh nodded. "You were right to come, though. Apart 
from the fact that I am enjoying your company"—he 
smiled at her—"you need to put aside your worries for a 
time." His face grew thoughtful. "How long is it, Aurian, 
since you had a chance to think of only yourself?" 
Aurian was touched by his concern. "Gods, I don't 
remember," she sighed. "Probably not since Forral died." 
The memory, still painful after all this time, cast a 
shadow across the bright afternoon. 
"Ah, Forral," Chiamh said. "Parric's friend, and Wolfs 

father." 
"Parric told you?" 
"Briefly, when we first met." The Windeye took her 
hand. "I grieve for your loss," he said softly, and Aurian 
knew they were not mere empty words. "What happened 
after you and Anvar came south? How came you by the 
Staff and the Harp?" he went on, and the Mage found 
herself telling him of their adventures. Though she tried 
to keep her tale brief, by the time she was bringing 
herself up to the present, the sun was dipping toward the 
cliffs on her left and the air in the shadowed mountain 
valley was growing chill. "And now," she finished 
quickly, "we have the Staff and the Harp, but we still 
must find the Sword. It is hidden, though, and I haven't 
the vaguest idea where to begin to look." 
"I may be able to help, you know," Chiamh told her. 
"Perhaps if I make a Seeing, I will be able to find where 
it is concealed." 
"A Seeing?" Aurian leaned forward, her eyes lighting 
with a spark of hope. "What is that?" 
"It… I…" Chiamh flung his hands up helplessly, lost for 
words to explain. "If you and Anvar come back here with 
me tonight, I will show you." 
"Of course we will." Aurian squinted up at the sinking 
sun. "But I think we should be heading back now, 
Chiamh. It's getting late, and Wolf may be missing me." 
She sprang to her feet, and suddenly turned back to him 

as a thought occurred to her. 
"Chiamh—who is Basileus? When I almost died, he 
helped me—but what is he?" 
The Windeye smiled enigmatically. "I think he could 
explain that better himself. Now that you are back from 
Steelclaw, I'm sure you will be meeting Basileus again 
very soon— and so you should. But if you want to return 
to your son before nightfall, we have no time at present. 
Can you be patient a little longer?" 
"I suppose so," Aurian muttered. Patience had never been 
her strong point. Chiamh grinned. "In that case—do you 
want to ride back again?" 
Aurian's face lit up. "Oh, yes!" 
As Aurian and the Windeye, now back in his human 
form, were clambering down the shallow, zigzag cliff 
path that led to the fastness, Chiamh was the first to spot 
the trouble. The Mage's fear of heights extended even to 
this broad trail, and the descent was proving much more 
nerveracking than the climb had been. Cursing the 
overwhelming Magefolk curiosity that had led her up 
here in the first place, she had been hugging the cliff face 
all the way—and the one direction in which she had not 
been looking was down. 
"Look down there!" 
Aurian shot the Windeye a sour look. "Do I have to?" 

Chiamh, unexpectedly, did not smile at her discomfiture. 
I "I really think you should," he said gravely. 
"Very well—but we'll have to stop for a minute, or I'll 
get dizzy." Steadying herself against the comforting wall 
of stone on her right, she looked down past the manyleveled, 
crenellated roofs of the fastness. The snaking 
track was situated in a curve of the cliff that barely gave 
her a view of the great arched entrance and the crowd 
that stood before it. Though dusk was falling fast, she 
could make out the dark shapes of many people, most of 
whom were carrying torches. Now that she was paying 
attention, the faint murmur of protesting voices drifted 
upward on the wind. Aurian cursed. At the top of the 
entrance steps, Parric stood at bay with Iscalda and 
Schiannath, evidently the focus of the angry, spearwaving 
mob. 
"Great Goddess! We must get down there—and fast," 
Chiamh cried. Even Aurian could see the necessity. "You 
go on ahead," she told him. "I'll follow you as quickly as 
I can." 
The Windeye had clambered down to the bottom of the 
cliff before he could make out individual voices in the 
crowd. As usual, the hectoring Galdrus was one of the 
most vociferous. 
"Thick in the body and thick in the head," muttered 
Chiamh to himself as he ran toward the mob—but it 

didn't make the warrior any less dangerous. Galdrus had 
long been the ringleader of those who had mocked and 
victimized the young Windeye. For an instant Chiamh's 
quick strides faltered; then he plunged forward again. 
The days of fearing Galdrus and the others were past, 
now. It was time to consolidate the grudging respect that 
he had recently begun to wrest from his fellow Xandim. 
"We were promised a new leader, Outlander," Galdrus 
was bawling at the beleaguered Parric. "Yet the dark of 
the moon is three days away, and we have heard no word. 
We want no more of you!" 
Many voices took up his cry. 
"You bring our foes, the Black Ghosts and the Skyfolk 
upon us!" 
"You defile our fastness with filthy wolves and Outland 
magicians!" 
"You consort with outlaws and exiles!" 
"You have cursed our true Herdlord!" 
"We want Phalihas!" 
Other Xandim took up the chant: "We want our 
Herdlord!" 
"Free Phalihas!" 
Parric was attempting to answer them, but his shouted 
words were lost in the roar of so many voices. The mood 
of the mob was turning uglier by the minute. Chiamh ran 
faster—and then one of them turned and spotted him, and 
he realized his mistake. 

"There he is—the Windeye!" 
"He's the one who sided with the Outlanders!" 
"It's all his fault!" 
Some of the crowd stayed to hurl abuse at Parric, but a 
large group, headed by Galdrus, broke away and ran 
toward the Windeye, their faces contorted with hatred 
and menace. An icy knot of terror congealed in Chiamh's 
stomach. He stopped and half turned, every instinct 
screaming at him to run, then changed his mind. His 
communion with Basileus and the coming of the 
Outlanders had transformed his life: his days of running 
away were over. Snatching at the brisk wind that swirled 
around the front of the fastness, he gathered a handful of 
air and twisted it into the shape of a luminous, hideous 
demon. It was the worst mistake he could have made. 
Galdrus, and several of the others, had seen his demon 
before. It had terrified and humiliated them then, and the 
memory served to fuel their anger. What was worse, they 
knew now that though it looked fearsome, it was only an 
apparition which could not harm them. 
"It's all right." A bellow from Galdrus cut through the 
beginning cries of dismay and panic. "It's just harmless 
Windeye trickery. Get him!" 
The mob surged forward—but for all their leader's brave 
words, few of them were willing to go near the demonic 
shape that hovered in front of the Windeye. Even 
Galdrus, with his bluster and brag, was reluctant. For an 

instant, Chiamh gasped with relief—then someone 
stooped, picked up a stone and threw it. Before he knew 
what had happened, the Windeye found himself amid a 
hail of hard-flung missiles. His pursuers were finding 
their range now, and even in the deepening twilight were 
gaining accuracy. A rock hit him on the shoulder with 
bruising force, and he cried out in pain. His demon 
flickered and began to fade. It was all that was keeping 
them from tearing him limb from limb, and he was losing 
it. Even as he struggled to re-form the apparition, another 
stone went whistling past his face, cutting open his 
cheekbone close to his eye. With a curse, Chiamh let his 
demon scatter to the winds and took to his heels. 
As he ran back toward the cliff path, the Windeye heard 
the howling of the mob close—too close—behind him. 
Many missiles struck his back, bruising and winding him, 
but even in agony, with every breath a hard-won fire in 
his lungs, pure terror gave him the impetus to keep 
scrambling forward, praying to the Goddess that he 
would not miss his footing in the gathering dark. Then a 
stone struck his head, and for an instant the world flashed 
black as he fell. Half-stunned and bleeding, he struggled 
to make himself rise, but he felt sick and dizzy, and his 
limbs would not obey him. The mob was almost upon 
him. He saw their faces, contorted like the bestial face of 
his demon. Their hands reached greedily toward him… 
… And suddenly stopped, as though they had run into a 

solid but invisible wall that shimmered, as they touched 
it, with an unearthly silver light. 
Then Aurian was kneeling beside him, her eyes flaring 
icy silver with anger, the Staff of Earth burning in her 
hand with its uncanny green light as she used its power 
as a barrier to shield the Windeye from his assailants. 
She turned him gently, her face dimly lit by the glimmer 
of her shield, and Chiamh felt an uncanny tingle sweep 
through him as she quickly scanned his body with her 
Healer's senses—seeking, he knew, any evidence of 
broken bones or internal hurts. As she laid a gentle hand 
on his forehead, all his pain vanished and he could 
breathe easily again, though somehow he felt so sleepy… 
Chiamh struggled hard to hold on to consciousness, 
reminding himself that they were not out of danger yet. 
"You were lucky," murmured the Mage. "If you can call 
it lucky to be almost stoned to death by these stupid, 
bloodthirsty animals. The fact that they couldn't see you 
clearly was probably all that saved your life." 
She glanced up at the rabid crowd that surrounded them 
now, still trying fruitlessly to break through the silvery, 
shimmering barrier she had created. Many now had 
drawn their swords, but most of them recoiled, Chiamh 
noted with satisfaction, from the savagery of her look, 
and suddenly began to seem far less enthusiastic about 
the attack. 
"Bastards!" Aurian muttered, scowling. She lifted a hand, 

and suddenly, briefly, the barrier flared crimson with 
heat— and the swords followed suit. Galdrus and his 
supporters fell back, screaming, dropping their glowing 
weapons and clutching at burned hands. 
"That'll teach them," he heard Aurian chuckle. Through 
the gap that their attackers' retreat had created, Chiamh 
saw another uncannily glimmering light approaching, 
and wondered for an instant if the blow to his head was 
playing tricks with his eyes. Then he heard a wild, 
unearthly music that was so beautiful it brought tears to 
his eyes, and with a shock he saw that even to his own 
poor eyesight the notes were clearly visible, swirling on 
the air like a mist of stars. And as the starsong fell on 
Galdrus and his followers, one by one they crumpled and 
fell to the ground as if asleep. 
The eerie effulgence grew brighter, and Parric, Sangra, 
Iscalda, and Schiannath came striding up to Aurian's 
barrier. Anvar was with them, and cradled in his arm he 
carried the Harp of Winds, still playing it as he walked. 
"Anvar! Oh, but you're a welcome sight!" Aurian 
dropped her shield and rushed to embrace him, and as 
Harp and Staff met, the night around them exploded into 
beams of coruscating light that shot skyward in a 
crackling aurora of silver-blue and green. 
Parric and the others leapt back hastily. "Be careful with 
those bloody things!" the cavalrymaster yelled. "You'll 
blow us all to smithereens!" 

The two Mages looked at each other and burst into peals 
of laughter, and the sound of their mirth followed the 
Windeye down into darkness at last. 
"What did you do to them?" Aurian indicated the 
unconscious Xandim on the ground. 
"Took them out of time, using the Harp." Anvar grinned. 
"I didn't realize how effective it would be. It seems to 
have a facility for that kind of magic—probably an effect 
of all those ages spent by the Cailleach's Timeless Lake. I 
did the same with the remainder of the mob that didn't go 
after Chiamh, but it's only a temporary solution. The 
other Xandim—the ones who didn't join the riot—are far 
from happy with their companions' fate. We need to 
solve the underlying problem—and quickly." 
Parric glared at him. "The underlying problem is my 
business," he said coldly. "I am the Herdlord, after all." 
The cavalrymaster's response was so uncharacteristic that 
Aurian stared at him in surprise. "What's got into you?" 
she asked him. "It's the business of all of us if we want to 
retain the help and support of the Xandim. It'll take all 
our brains to come up with the best solution—and we'll 
especially need Chiamh." She stooped to check the 
unconscious Windeye. "Poor man. I'd no idea they hated 
him so much." 
"The Xandim are like a lot of people: scared out of their 
senses—or their sense—by the unknown," Anvar put in, 

and Aurian noticed that his eyes were on Parric as he said 
it. She sighed. What had been going on between the two 
men in her absence? Drat them, she thought resentfully. 
It seems I can't let them out of my sight for a single 
afternoon without something going wrong! With a shrug, 
she shelved the problem until later. "Are you going to 
leave poor Chiamh on the damp ground all night?" she 
said sharply. "Help me get him back to the fastness. Once 
he's feeling better, we can deal with this crisis and decide 
what to do next." 
Anvar grimaced. "That," he muttered, "will be easier said 
than done—and it's not our only worry." His face grew 
grave. "Aurian, I was coming to fetch you when all this 
happened." With a wide swing of his arm he indicated 
the unconscious Xandim. "Chiamh is not the only one 
who needs your Healing tonight. It's Elewin. I don't know 
what's wrong with him, but—oh, never mind." 
Abandoning the struggle to explain, he hauled on her 
arm. "You'd best come quickly, and see for yourself." 
The old steward was dying. Aurian knew it the minute 
she walked into his chamber. He lay limply on his pallet, 
his sunken skin aglow with a pale translucence that sent a 
familiar shiver down the Mage's spine. The irregular rasp 
of his shallow breathing scratched at the room's 
unnatural, waiting silence. Because of her previous 
encounters in Death's realm, Aurian was preternaturally 

aware of the Specter that lurked in the shadows, biding 
his time. With an effort, she shook herself free of the 
eerie, clinging atmosphere. "Build up the fire," she told 
Anvar sharply. "Send for some fresh torches." 
"That's right, boy—and be quick about it. I can't see my 
hand in front of my face." Both Mages swung round at 
the sound of the cracked old voice, and Aurian heard 
Anvar gasp. That had always been one of Elewin's 
favorite sayings. Unbidden, a memory rose of sharp 
autumn evenings in the Academy, and the old steward 
using those very words as he scolded the tardy servants 
into lighting the lamps. Aurian compressed her lips and 
shook her head. It boded ill that Elewin's mind was 
wandering back into the past. 
Parric and Sangra had followed the Mages into the room. 
"What happened to him?" the cavalrymaster demanded. 
"He was fine yesterday—at least no worse than he 
usually is." 
"Since Chiamh healed him last time, he's been much 
better," Sangra put in. 
Anvar was flinging fresh wood onto the fire, and the two 
warriors went to the foot of the pallet, murmuring to one 
another in worried voices while the Mage knelt down by 
Elewin's bedside, looking at his face in the light of the 
renewed flames. The steward turned his head to look at 
her. "Lady, tell them to stop whispering," he said 
fretfully. "I don't like it when they whisper." 

"All right, Elewin. They won't do it again," Aurian 
soothed him. As she spoke, she was scanning him with 
her Healer's senses, but they told her only what her 
instincts already knew. Sickness and injury she could 
counter, but age and despair she could not fight. The 
steward's body was failing. She already knew that her 
patient had fought valiantly, again and again, these last 
months, against illness and hardship—but something else 
had laid him low at last. There was a shadow over his 
spirit that she could not pierce, and she wondered what 
had caused him to loose his grip upon the reins of life. 
"Elewin, why?" she asked him directly. "After you've 
come so far, what made you give up now?" 
"Lady, please don't plague me." The voice was little more 
than a petulant whisper. "I am tired now. I've had enough 
of struggle. I want to rest." He turned his face away from 
her to stare into the shadows, and Aurian felt a chill creep 
up her spine as she saw his eyes focus on the Specter that 
only she, of all the others in the room, could see. She 
shook her head. It would not be long now. 
"Meiriel's death hit him very hard," a soft voice 
murmured in the Mage's ear. She turned to see Anvar 
kneeling at her side, his face drawn and haggard with 
grief. "Aurian, please—is there nothing you can do to 
help him?" he begged, and she remembered the fondness 
that had always existed between the young man and the 
old when Anvar had been a servant at the Academy. 

Now, his voice was taut with strain—the effort, Aurian 
knew, of denying the inevitable. 
"You were with Elewin this afternoon. Surely he wasn't 
like this then? Did anything happen, to explain why he 
should sink so fast?" she asked her soulmate. No matter 
that it was hopeless—for his sake, she couldn't just give 
up. She saw him take the old man's hand and hold it 
tightly. 
"He talked a lot about Meiriel… and then he grew more 
and more quiet, and when he did speak, his mind seemed 
to wander more and more." Anvar was frowning with the 
effort of remembering. "Then he started to complain of 
being tired, and when he lay down, I couldn't make him 
get up again… Aurian, I've seen this before." His voice 
was muffled with grief. "It happened to my grandpa, the 
winter that you came to the Academy. It was as though 
he just gave up. But it took weeks then, not hours." 
Aurian felt a draft at her back as the door swung open 
and Chiamh came limping in, still covered with dust and 
sporting bruises. She had left him asleep in his own 
chambers, his Healing sketchy and incomplete, to race to 
Elewin's side. 
"Why did you not send for me?" the Windeye demanded, 
glaring at her as he joined the Mages by the bed. "I care 
about the old one, too, you know." His eyes followed 
Aurian's gaze into the shadowy corner, and she knew that 
he also saw what lurked there. He shuddered, and fell 

silent. 
"Take good care of your mistress, Anvar." The watchers 
swung round, startled by the sound of Elewin's voice. 
"You've turned out better than anyone expected—except 
me," he went on. "You've well repaid my trust in you, 
lad— I'm proud of you." He turned away from them 
again, his gray eyes dark with pain. "Prouder than I am of 
myself," he murmured. "Meiriel was ill. She couldn't help 
herself! Finbarr's death had turned her mind. I was 
supposed to be watching over her and taking care of her. 
It was the least I could do after betraying Miathan…" 
Tears were running down the steward's face. "But I failed 
her," he whispered. "I failed them all. Too old, too feeble. 
I'm sorry…" With a sigh, his last breath left him. 
"You old fool!" Anvar cried savagely, his voice cracking 
with grief. He pounded the bedclothes with his fist. 
"They weren't worth it!" 
Aurian captured his flailing hand. "Duty was Elewin's 
life," she said softly. "He had no family save the folk at 
the Academy. Duty and loyalty were everything to 
him—and I suspect that's what kept him going through 
these last hard months. Once he became convinced that 
he had failed on both counts…" She shook her head 
sadly. "Poor man." 
Chiamh buried his face in his hands. At the foot of the 
bed, Sangra was sobbing in Parric's arms. Holding one 
another, the Mages grieved together. Aurian looked over 

Anvar's shoulder into the shadows where Death had 
stood, but the corner was empty of the Specter's presence 
now. This time, he had not been cheated—but, then, his 
presence had been welcomed by the one he sought. After 
long years of loyal service, Elewin had found his wellearned 
rest at last. 
Chapter 10 - Within the Crystal 
In a prominent place on the wall of the Academy kitchen 
was a carved wooden rack housing eight globes of 
shimmering crystal, each of which had once glowed 
softly with a different-colored radiance. Identical racks 
were housed in the servants' quarters and in the 
gatehouses at the top and bottom of the steep path that 
went down from the top of the promontory to the river. 
Now, however, five of the crystals in each set were dark 
and lifeless—their Mageborn owners would issue orders 
and impose their will through them no more. Only three, 
the red, the silver-white, and the green, still shed their 
light. The crystals caught the eye of Janok, head cook of 
the Academy, as he swept his gaze around the kitchen to 
make sure that the menials were all hard at work. He 
stood rubbing his fingers over his bristly chin, looking at 
the flobes and wondering. Only two days ago, the fifth, 

the blue-violet crystal, had been snuffed. 
The Lady Meiriel had perished, too. Not many of them 
left now, Janok thought. His masters were dying out at 
last. 
Janok, unlike many Nexians, bore no particular hatred of 
the Magefolk. Why should he, when they had furnished 
him with such a comfortable existence? So long as their 
meals were plentiful, appetizing, and available on 
demand, they let the head cook run his little domain in 
any way he chose—and since he enjoyed the favor of his 
powerful masters, none of the other menials dared 
oppose him. But how much longer would this 
satisfactory situation last? As the Magefolk numbers 
gradually decreased, Janok had begun to feel the first 
proddings of alarm. 
Two matters gave him cause for concern: if a similar fate 
should befall Miathan and Eliseth, would he be able to 
hold on to his position of authority and prevent the other 
servants turning on him, and would the time spells they 
had placed on their supplies last beyond their deaths? If 
Janok could only get his hands on those provisions, so 
much badly needed food could obtain him anything he 
wanted, down in Nexis. 
Of course, these preoccupations were greatly dependent 
on his third, and chiefest, concern. The head cook looked 
at the green crystal and scowled. The spark of light in its 
core was small and dim, indicating that its owner was 

still very far away—which was fine, as far as Janok was 
concerned. The farther away she stayed, the better he 
liked it. The Lady Aurian—in his mind he turned her title 
into an epithet—had been responsible for robbing him of 
the drudge Anvar, and elevating the lad to a position of 
merit and trust. Even after all this time, he still flinched 
from the memory of the punishment that interfering 
redheaded bitch had earned him for allowing the escape 
of the young servant that Miathan hated. 
Recently, however, it had come to Janok's notice that, 
little by little, the green glow of Aurian's crystal was 
growing brighter. Wherever she had been all this time, 
she was apparently on her way back—and what would 
happen then? Janok knew to his cost that whenever she 
entered the game of power, the rules had a way of 
suddenly changing—and that made him very uneasy 
indeed. 
Even as Janok pondered, one of the other globes flared to 
a bright silver-white, and began to pulse in a regular 
pattern. The head cook muttered a curse, and reached out 
hesitantly to pick up the crystal. The Lady Eliseth had 
never had the best of tempers, but lately she had been 
growing positively baleful—to the point where the big 
man had found himself dreading her summons. What did 
she want now? One thing was for sure: it would only 
make matters worse if he kept her waiting. Janok 
shrugged and tightened his fingers around the crystal to 

activate its power, then replaced it in the rack. A patch of 
silvery luminescence, half as wide as Janok's outstretched 
arms, shimmered into place above the fist-sized globe, 
and an image of Eliseth's face materialized in the center 
of the light. 
Janok assumed an ingratiating pose. "How may I serve 
you, Lady?" he asked. 
"With more alacrity," the Weather-Mage snarled. "How 
dare you keep me waiting, Mortal?" 
"I beg your pardon, Lady," Janok replied with a bow. He 
had already learned to his cost that, in this waspish mood, 
she would only be further angered by excuses. "How may 
I make amends for my neglect?" 
Eliseth's eyes narrowed as though she was searching for 
something in the content or the tone of his statement at 
which to take further offense; then, to his relief, she 
dismissed the matter with a shrug. "I need Inella," she 
snapped. "Is the little wretch down there with you?" 
"Alas, Lady, I have not seen her all morning. I thought 
she was in your chambers." Janok fought to hide his 
triumph at the Magewoman's scowl of annoyance. I knew 
the brat would slip up sooner or later, he thought smugly. 
"Well, don't just stand there smirking, you idiot! Find her 
and send her up to me—and don't be all day about it!" 
Before Janok had time to reply, Eliseth's image vanished 
and shadows swarmed back into the corner of the 
kitchen. Sensing his temper, the scurrying kitchen 

menials, who had all paused to eavesdrop on his 
conversation with the Mage, suddenly became very 
noisily busy, and his thoughts were drowned by the 
sounds of scrubbing, slicing, scraping, and stirring. 
"Quiet!" the head cook bellowed, and muttered a curse. 
As if he hadn't enough to do, without wasting half the 
day looking for Lady Eliseth's scheming little maid! Then 
his mood lightened. If the Weather-Mage was displeased, 
then not only would she punish Inella—and not before 
time, Janok thought—but he could probably get a blow 
or two in himself, as he had been itching to do for so 
long, without suffering any retribution from the girl's 
mistress. Janok grinned. Enjoying the security of Lady 
Eliseth's protection, Inella had been defiant and pert, and 
had undermined his authority with the others. He had 
waited ages for the brat to fall from grace— and now, it 
seemed, he would get his revenge at last. Janok grinned. 
There weren't many places to hide in the hilltop 
Academy compound. He would find her. In no time at 
all. 
Most of the cool stone storerooms behind and beneath 
the Academy kitchens were forbidden to the menials who 
worked there, for most of the extensive stock of 
provisions hoarded within had been taken out of time by 
the Magefolk. Thus, while the city below them starved 
and struggled and suffered through the shortages that 

followed Eliseth's grim winter, the Academy and its 
occupants were independent, well supplied—and 
therefore in control. Their accumulated foodstuffs could 
not even be taken by force or stealth, should any Mortal 
be brave or foolhardy enough to try. The time spell not 
only preserved the supplies, but prevented the Mortal 
servants from purloining any desperately needed food to 
smuggle down to their hungry friends and families in the 
city below. 
The hiding place that Zanna had found in one of the few 
accessible chambers was small and awkward to reach, 
especially in the darkness; but at least it provided a 
temporary respite from Janok's brutality and the cruelty 
of the Mages. Zanna still hurt from the beating the head 
cook had given her when he had discovered her in the 
great library, but it had been nothing compared to the 
discovery that when the Lady Eliseth was displeased, she 
could inflict pain worse than any beating without even 
lifting a finger. 
The girl wiped a tear from one smudged cheek with 
trembling fingers and twisted her body in the cramped 
space, wishing she could find a comfortable position for 
her aching bones. She had come here, after her mistress 
had dismissed her for the night, to keep out of Janok's 
way—for now that the Lady was displeased with her, she 
knew he would feel free to abuse her as he wished. If 
only she had been more circumspect in her dealings with 

him in the past! She'd suffer for it now—but here, at 
least, she would be safe for a time. She would have to 
emerge in the morning though—and what would Janok 
do to her then? Suddenly, she had run out of time—and it 
was running out for her father, too. Zanna only wished 
that the cramped little nook behind the great stoneware 
crocks of flour, honey, and beans could provide a 
sanctuary from her worries and fears—and from 
reminders of her own failure. 
Lately, she had dared to hope for a time that there would 
be a way to free her father. Vannor had managed to 
smuggle her a message, hidden beneath the dirty dishes 
on a tray, that told her of the hidden escape route through 
the catacombs that ran beneath the library and thence into 
the sewers. But only today Zanna had slipped away to 
investigate, and had discovered that the wrought-iron 
gate that guarded the ancient archives was securely 
locked. To make matters worse, she had been caught in 
her investigations by Janok—and though her punishment 
had been bad enough, the worst of it was that he would 
be watching her like a hawk from now on. She dared not 
go near the library again—not without a damn good 
reason! 
I convinced myself I was so clever, Zanna thought 
bitterly. What a wonderful notion: become a servant at 
the Academy, and spy on the Magefolk. And then Dad 
was captured… She choked on a sob. I was going to 

release him, and we would both escape. Another sob 
forced its way out. But I can't rescue him—I've thought 
and thought, and there's just no way to get him out of the 
Academy past the guards. And he's in such pain… The 
Archmage is killing him, bit by bit—and I can do nothing 
to prevent it. I can only watch him suffer… 
The problem was, she was afraid that she could not 
watch Vannor suffer—not for much longer—and keep 
her feelings hidden from her mistress. Zanna was 
terrified that she would give herself away to Eliseth, and 
what would become of her then? Already she was taking 
too many risks, and spending too much time away from 
the tower in search of some way out for herself and her 
father. The terrible events of today had shown her that. 
But she had been so desperate to get away… If only she 
could think… 
You came here to think! Zanna berated herself 
disgustedly. But you aren't thinking. You're hiding in the 
storeroom, sniveling… Impatiently, the young girl 
dashed the tears from her eyes. This skulking around and 
bawling like a lost calf is getting you nowhere, she told 
herself. This was your idea—you wanted to do it. What 
happened to your nerve? You always looked up to Maya 
and the Lady Aurian. You wished you had their courage. 
Well, girl—now's your chance. You always prided 
yourself on your brains—so use them now. 
Vannor's daughter was heartened by the thought of the 

two women she admired so much. Just knowing that they 
were still opposing Miathan and Eliseth (for she had 
overheard from the Weather-Mage that Aurian was still 
alive, and clung stubbornly to the conviction that, 
although Maya had been missing for so long, she could 
not be dead) gave Zanna fresh courage. If Lady Aurian 
were in my position, she pondered, what would she do? 
Oh, if only she could be here. If only I could ask her 
advice… 
Wait a minute—perhaps I can! Zanna sat bolt upright, 
her heart pounding with excitement. But would it be 
possible? Could it reach that far? You'll never know until 
you try, she told herself firmly, remembering the rack of 
crystals that hung on the kitchen wall. Only that day, 
when Janok had caught her, he had picked up Lady 
Eliseth's silver-white globe, waited until it had begun to 
shimmer, and spoken into it. "I've got her," he had said, 
and the Magewoman had answered. Lady Aurian's 
crystal was the green one, Zanna knew—and it still 
contained that telltale spark of light to show that it was 
active. If only she could use it to communicate—but not 
the globe from the kitchen. It would be missed. In the 
deserted quarters that had belonged to the household 
servants, however, there was another rack, forgotten and 
gathering dust… It was a small, faint hope, but it warmed 
the heart of Vannor's indomitable daughter. Forgetting 
her hurts and despair, she began to make plans. 

"Tomorrow I plan to release some of our stored food to 
the Mortals of Nexis." 
"You plan to do what?" Eliseth cried. "Miathan, have 
you lost your mind?" 
To her irritation the Archmage remained unperturbed. 
"Here," he said, producing with a flourish a flagon of 
pale wine from underneath his cloak. "While I was down 
checking the supplies, I found a flask of your favorite." 
With a negligent flip of his hand he tossed it to her, and 
Eliseth cried out in alarm as her fingers slipped on the 
smooth glass and she almost fumbled the catch. "Damn 
you, Miathan—stop acting the fool," she snapped. "I 
know full well that the wine is only a ruse to distract 
me." She placed the flask on her table with out offering 
him any of its contents. "Now, what's all this nonsense 
about giving our valuable food to those worthless, 
whining Mortals?" 
Miathan sat down, uninvited, on one of Eliseth's chairs 
by the fire, absently stroking the white fur that draped it 
as he spoke: "It isn't nonsense, you stupid woman. 
Meiriel's death set me thinking…" His face darkened at 
the memory, and Eliseth, too, suppressed a shudder as 
she remembered being awakened, the night before last, 
by the wrenching agony of the Healer's death throes. 
Though the pangs had been muted by distance, it had still 
been plain how Meiriel had died—and by whose hand. 

"Pay attention!" Miathan barked, making the Weather- 
Mage jump. "It's important that you understand what I'm 
doing, and why. Though your attempts at scrying have 
found no trace of Aurian so far, Meiriel's death should 
serve as sufficient warning of her capabilities. When she 
returns to the north—and return she will—we must be 
ready. We need the Nexian Mortals on our side; and, 
fortunately, most of them have scant intelligence and 
very short memories. If we claim it was Aurian who 
caused the winter and you who ended it, and then proceed 
to feed the starving rabble, we stand a chance of winning 
their support." 
"I don't like it," Eliseth said automatically. "Why, the 
very idea of groveling for the favor of those lowly 
vermin! And we may need that food—" 
"Spring is here, you idiot!" the Archmage roared. "The 
Mortals are starving now, because nothing has had time 
to grow. In a few months there'll be plenty of food for 
everyone, thanks to the botch you made of keeping 
control of your winter, and the power of our provisions 
as a bargaining tool will be lost." 
Eliseth bit her lip to keep from betraying her anger. 
"Very well," she shot back at him. "Do as you will. 
Squander our supplies if you feel you must—but in 
return I want a favor." 
"What favor?" Miathan's eyes bored into her. She could 
actually see him bristling with suspicion. The Weather

Mage shrugged. "No great thing," she replied silkily. 
"While you are dealing with matters here in the city, it 
would still be to our benefit if I could extend my scrying 
to get a glimpse of Aurian." 
"Face it, Eliseth—your powers don't extend that far," the 
Archmage snapped impatiently. "How many times now 
have you tried and failed? Since Aurian reached the 
mountains, something has been shielding her." 
"And we must find out what it is," Eliseth insisted. 
"Miathan, listen. You prevented me from torturing 
Vannor to boost my powers—you said you wanted to 
experiment on him yourself. Let me try now, as the favor 
I asked of you. The merchant will still be alive when I've 
finished, you have my word on it." 
"Though knowing you, he may well wish that he were 
dead," Miathan said dryly. "Very well, Eliseth. You may 
try, if it will amuse you. Do what you must within reason 
to get results, but remember"—he leaned close, glaring 
fiercely into her eyes—"I want Vannor alive for a 
number of reasons. If you kill him, on your head be 
it—or on your face, at least." His smile was cold and 
cruel. "It would be interesting to see what effect another 
twenty years would have on those flawless features…" 
Eliseth shuddered. "I'll be careful, Archmage—I swear 
it." 
"It's up to you—you know the consequences if you are 
not." With that parting shot, the Archmage got to his feet 

and left without another word. The Weather-Mage stared 
at the door as it closed behind him, and clenched her fists 
so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. One day, 
Miathan, she thought, I'm going to kill you. 
Eliseth wrapped a white linen kerchief around her long, 
pale fingers, and used it to pick up the flagon of wine. 
Lifting it up to the firelight, she studied the amber flicker 
of the dancing flames through the pale, clear liquid, and 
sighed. Though Miathan's cellars had been extensive, this 
was almost the last of the white. The Archmage preferred 
the richer, robust vintages with sparks of fire and ruby 
smoldering in their dark depths. Well, there was no help 
for it—not yet. "When I am Archmage," Eliseth 
murmured, "things will be different." A smile curled the 
comers of her lips. But there was much to do before that 
day could arrive… 
The Weather-Mage focused her powers on the angled 
glass facets of the flagon and tightened her hand around 
the slender neck. The creation of her winter, and her 
subsequent researches in Finbarr's neglected archives, 
had taught her much about the forgotten and forbidden 
spells of the Cold Magic. At her word, the flames in the 
fireplace cringed back like beaten curs and flickered blue, 
and the light of the candles shrank and dimmed. A wisp 
of icy vapor came curling through the air to settle on the 
flask, hiding the wine within beneath a glittering white 
film of frost. 

"Enough!" Eliseth banished the spell before the liquid 
could freeze and spoil and, still holding the flagon 
carefully in its cloth, poured the chilled wine into a 
crystal goblet. She went to her favorite chair by the 
fireside and sat sipping appreciatively, reflecting on the 
irony of such ancient, powerful, and lethal magic being 
harnessed for so mundane a task. Then again, why not? 
She felt the need to pamper herself a little tonight. Her 
spirits needed lifting, for lately things had not been going 
well. 
It had been a mistake, she reflected, to take her 
frustrations out on her maid, although the lazy little 
slattern had deserved to be punished. Eliseth took another 
delicate sip of wine, reliving the memory of the girl's 
distress as she had stood, frozen and immobile, in the 
middle of the room, only her eyes reflecting her terror as 
the Weather-Mage stood over her, flexing her fingers to 
tighten the ache of burning, icy cold around Inella's body. 
Only afterward, when she had caught the expression of 
veiled resentment in her servant's eyes, bad Eliseth 
realized her error. Though tormenting the maid had given 
her a satisfying and much-needed outlet for her recent 
frustrations, it had possibly caused irreparable damage to 
the child's loyalties—and these days, the Magewoman 
reminded herself, she needed to foster what support she 
could get. 
With gentle fingers, Eliseth smoothed away the wrinkle 

of a frown. Since Miathan's spiteful spell had burdened 
her face with ten additional years of age, she had been 
forced to take great care of her beauty. All was not lost, 
she reassured herself. She had been quick to note the 
darkening bruises that disfigured Inella's arms and face, 
and the child's hunched posture and stiff, awkward 
movements, which had betrayed other damage out of 
sight: a gift from Janok, no doubt. Perfect! Eliseth found 
her smile again. The head cook had played right into her 
hands. She would turn a blind eye for a while and let him 
brutalize the girl—then she would punish him and rescue 
Inella, earning her maid's gratitude once more. 
Mortals were so easily manipulated—with one 
infuriating exception. As she thought of Vannor, Eliseth 
found herself beginning to scowl again. Leaping to her 
feet, she refilled her goblet from the frosty flask and 
gulped down the fragrant wine to cool her anger. For 
many days now, while the moon had passed through half 
its cycle, she had been trying to persuade Miathan to let 
her use the dark energy of the Mortal's fear and pain to 
fuel her power. That first night, when she had gone to the 
merchant's chamber to try her luck, the Archmage had 
forbidden her, and had been spitefully keeping Vannor to 
himself ever since. He could not seem to see how 
essential it was that Eliseth extend her scrying to pierce 
the miles of distance that separated her from Aurian, and 
the former leader of the rebels was the key—of that she 

was certain. 
The Weather-Mage snarled a curse. Miathan! He had 
insisted that Vannor's strength must be husbanded, and 
that he must be spared from any severe or crippling 
injury, the shock of which might kill him. What 
nonsense! That merchant was strong as an ox—strong 
enough to have learned to resist what suffering Miathan 
had chosen to inflict. That doddering fool of an 
Archmage was growing soft. Or was he? It was always a 
mistake to underestimate Miathan's cunning, as she had 
learned to her cost. Did the old fox have plans of his own 
for Vannor? Or was he simply trying to limit Eliseth's 
power? Well, whatever he was up to, it wouldn't work. 
She'd had enough of waiting, enough of holding back. 
Fueled by the wine she had drunk, her resolve leapt up 
like a white-hot flame within her. Smiling, she went to 
seek her crystal so that she could call the gatehouse and 
summon two of the mercenary guards who were 
stationed there to assist her with the merchant. A plague 
on Miathan and his damned experiments. But she had 
worn him down at last. So long as she didn't actually kill 
Vannor, the Archmage could scarcely complain of what 
she did to the Mortal—not if she achieved results. And 
tonight she would succeed at last. She would find Aurian, 
whatever it took to accomplish the task. 
Vannor was lying huddled on Aurian's bed as Eliseth 

stalked into the chamber, flanked by the two stone-faced 
mercenaries. At the sound of her entrance he hauled 
himself to his feet and straightened in a posture of 
insolent defiance, as though he had nothing to fear from 
her. But the Weather-Mage had seen, for a fleeting 
instant, the way his face had blanched at her approach, 
and had glimpsed the shadow of dread, now veiled, that 
lurked behind his eyes. 
"Still on your feet, Vannor?" she mocked him. "Evidently 
the Archmage has been too lenient with you. But now 
comes my turn." Her voice dropped to a snarl. "Tonight 
you will assist me." 
"I'll assist you in nothing," Vannor blazed, "as I told your 
master before you." 
"Indeed." Eliseth's voice was icy with anger. "That 
remains to be seen." At her signal the two guards rushed 
forward and seized the merchant. Turning her back on 
Vannor and beckoning the mercenaries to follow with 
their captive, she walked back into the living chamber 
and laid her crystal on the polished wooden sill of the 
narrow window, placing two candles so their light 
reflected in the diamond panes and angled into the 
glittering facets of the gem. "Now, Mortal…" She looked 
back at Vannor, held tightly in the grip of his captors, in 
much the same way she might have regarded an insect. 
"Let us test the measure of your defiance." 
Her impassionate gaze turned to the guards. "Something 

small at first," she mused, calm as though she were 
selecting silks in the marketplace. "Yet something that 
will serve as a permanent reminder never to defy the 
Magefolk. A hand, perhaps. The right hand—so he will 
never take up a sword in rebellion again." 
"No," Vannor howled, thrashing and writhing in frantic 
desperation to escape as the mercenaries manhandled him 
into position with his hand held flat against the smooth 
surface of the table. Still he continued to struggle until 
the Weather-Mage, with a small exclamation of 
annoyance, lifted her hand in an abrupt, sharp gesture. 
All at once the merchant found himself unable to move, 
unable to speak, his limbs and tongue wrapped in a gelid 
shroud of icy cold that struck agonizingly to his very 
bones. His eyes were frozen open, looking down at the 
hand that lay limp and helpless, white against the darkly 
glowing wood of the table. There was no way he could 
avoid seeing what they did to him. 
Eliseth, now that Vannor's tongue was stilled and he was 
a prisoner of her magic, found that she was able to hear 
his raging thoughts. Though the merchant's mind was 
still marginally under his control, it could do nothing but 
howl and curse impotently to articulate the terror and 
fury that he was unable to voice. 
"Much better," the Weather-Mage murmured, with a 
complacent little smile. "The power of your trapped 
emotions is increased if they have no means of 

expression." 
Vannor, helpless and in anguish, attempted to distract his 
roiling thoughts by imagining, in cold, precise detail, just 
what he would do to her if only he were free — Eliseth 
merely laughed. "Hatred will serve my purpose just as 
well," she told him, "as will your despair. There is no 
escaping me now. You have no choice but to betray your 
friends." 
From the corner of his eye, Vannor glimpsed a flash of 
silver and heard the rasp of steel as one of the 
mercenaries drew his blade. The merchant's blood turned 
to ice. Cut off his hand? No, they couldn't! They— 
The guard reversed his sword, holding it point up, high 
above the table. With the hilt in both hands, he brought it 
smashing down, the blade's keen edges a silvery blur 
passing perilously close to the merchant's face. Vannor's 
world exploded in a flare of white-hot pain. His mind 
erupted in a soundless shriek as the heavy steel pommel 
of the hilt hammered once, twice, three times into the 
back of his hand, mangling and crushing the flesh and 
delicate bones into a bloody pulp. 
"Enough." As though it came from a great distance, 
Vannor heard Eliseth's cool voice faintly through the 
buzzing in his ears. He wanted to let go, to lose this 
agony and shock and outrage in the dark haven of blessed 
unconsciousness, but the Mage's spell held him like 
bands of iron, preventing such an easy escape. That 

bloody evil, foul-minded bitch, Vannor raged 
inwardly—but no; she had said she could use his anger 
just as well. I won't permit this, he thought. I'm damned 
if I'll let her use me! 
With a wrenching effort he turned his mind away from 
the pain and mutilation to concentrate on good things: the 
wealth and luxury of former days, when he was head of 
the Merchants' Guild; the warmth of comradeship with 
Forral and Aurian, Parric and Maya. He thought of loved 
ones: Zanna— (No—not Zanna! Vannor remembered the 
risk just in time.) Instead he thought of his lovely first 
wife, and Sara… But to his astonishment, it was the 
memory of Dulsina, his clever, sensible housekeeper 
with the compassionate heart and acerbic tongue, that 
gave Vannor the greatest strength to defy his tormentor. 
Without sparing her prisoner a further glance, the 
Weather-Mage turned back to her crystal and let her 
mental energies flow into the fist-sized gem that sparkled 
in the candlelight by the window, against a backdrop of 
velvet night. Then, bracing her mind, she opened herself 
to Vannor's pain and terror, stoking her powers with the 
pounding waves of negative dark energy that emanated 
from her suffering victim. It had taken many hours of 
exhausting and painstaking practice to allow her to reach 
this point, where her inner vision would expand to see 
into the Beyond, but now… Eliseth half closed her eyes 
as the crystal's brittle rainbow glitter blurred and merged 

into a misty, opalescent haze—and within… "Ah." The 
Weather-Mage breathed out a long sigh of satisfaction. 
"Now I have her!" 
Eliseth's first impression was the warm gold flicker of 
firelight; then, as they came more clearly into focus, she 
could see Aurian and Anvar sitting very close together. 
The Mages and two Mortals, a male and a female, were 
talking to someone else who seemed, frustratingly, 
constantly beyond the range of her Vision. She frowned 
and narrowed her eyes, pouring all her concentration into 
the crystal in a desperate attempt to discover the identity 
of the fifth person, but all she could perceive was a shape 
cloaked in shadow—human yet not human, flowing and 
shifting in her Vision, defying all her attempts at 
definition. With an effort, Eliseth focused into the Vision 
until she could hear what was being said—and to add to 
her vexation, it seemed there was a sixth person within 
the chamber! Someone else was clearly being addressed 
by Aurian and Anvar, and the odd, hidden being. 
Someone whose replies could not be heard, and whom 
the Weather-Mage, try as she might, could not see at all. 
Aurian took a sip of syrupy mead from her cup of carven 
horn, and Chiamh saw her trying to suppress a grimace at 
the cloying sweetness of the drink. Though the Xandim 
brewed a more than passable ale, this stronger liquor was 
traditionally served on occasions of great 

formality—such as serious (if unofficial) councils. 
Today, they had gained a respite from the demands of the 
Horsefolk so that they could bury Elewin. Tomorrow, 
however, there would be hard decisions to make 
concerning the future leadership of the Xandim and the 
part that they would play in Aurian's fight against the 
Archmage. 
Tonight, Parric, Chiamh, the Mages, and Sangra had met 
privately, not only to share their grief over the passing of 
the steward, but also to confer together in the hope of 
coming up with some plan or strategy that they could 
present to the gathered Horselords in the morning. 
Parric took a swig from his horn cup and cast his gaze 
around the solemn assembly. "I know that no one feels 
like making hard decisions tonight," he said heavily, "but 
after what happened yesterday, we had better come up 
with something, fast. It's the dark of the moon again, so I 
can be Challenged, and I don't want or need to be 
Herdlord any longer. Besides," he added wryly, "I'm not 
going through a fight like that again for anyone. Surely 
there must be someone from the Xandim who can take 
over—someone sympathetic to our cause. What happens, 
under Xandim law, if the Herdlord doesn't want to defend 
the leadership? Can we nominate someone?" 
"Well?" Aurian prompted Chiamh, who had been sitting 
lost in silent thought. The Windeye turned his attention 
back to Parric's question. "Yes," he said. "With your 

approval another Challenger can step forward in your 
place—but he must fight for the leadership nonetheless, 
if he is opposed. Whom would you choose to lead in your 
stead?" 
"Schiannath," Aurian said firmly. "Apart from you, 
Chiamh—and obviously you can't become 
Herdlord—he's the only one of the Xandim on whose 
support I can count." 
"But wait," Anvar interrupted. "I thought that Schiannath 
had tried to become Herdlord before, and been beaten. So 
how can he Challenge again?" 
"Because Parric has nominated him," Chiamh replied. "In 
essence, he is acting for another, not himself.'' He 
continued: "There is no doubt that Schiannath will order 
the Xandim to aid you if he becomes Herdlord. At 
present, Lady, he connects you with all his recent good 
fortune. Anything that he can do to assist you, he will." 
"But I didn't do anything for him, really," Aurian 
protested. 
The Windeye shrugged. "No? Had it not been for you, 
Parric would never have come to our lands. I would not 
nave been forced to take action against the Herdlord, and 
Phalihas would, in all likelihood, have maintained his 
rule. Schiannath would still be an exile, and his sister 
imprisoned in her equine form. Do not protest his 
devotion, Aurian. It is not unearned—and at the moment 
it is all to your advantage." Though Chiamh had been 

striving to keep any part of his inner feelings from 
showing in his voice, there must have been 
something—the slightest trace of hesitation or a hint of 
bitterness—that betrayed him. Frowning, Anvar looked 
at the Windeye. "You said your advantage. Are you 
implying that it may not be to the advantage of 
Schiannath or the Xandim?" 
Chiamh hesitated. Within the last few days, strong 
memories of his Seeing of long ago had begun to haunt 
him. So far, everything had come to pass as he had 
foreseen. He had assisted Aurian and Anvar and their 
struggle against the Evil Ones, and Schiannath, too, had 
played his part. There was only one part of the vision that 
had not yet become manifest: the chilling prophecy that 
the arrival of Aurian spelled the end for the Xandim race. 
For days now he had been struggling with his conscience, 
wondering whether he ought to let the Mages know what 
he had foreseen. Did Aurian not have enough difficulties 
to deal with already? Was it fair to increase her burden 
with the fate of a race that was not even her own? On the 
other hand, should he not warn her that there might be 
grave consequences to her actions? If he did not, and the 
worst came to happen, would he not share the blame? 
Yet if it was a true Seeing, could disaster be averted 
whether he spoke out or not? But Chiamh could feel 
Aurian's eyes on him. Anvar, too, was frowning. The 
Magefolk would clearly not be satisfied without some 

kind of explanation. 
"Very well," the Windeye said at last. "I probably ought 
to tell you—not that it will make any difference—" 
"No! Do not!" 
Chiamh started as the voice of Basileus resounded 
sharply within his mind. Judging by Aurian's astonished 
gasp and the widening of Anvar's eyes, he guessed that 
the Mages had heard the Moldan, too. The Windeye saw 
the sharp glance that passed between them. 
"Who the blazes was that?" Aurian demanded. "Surely it 
was the same being that defended me against Death. And 
why shouldn't you tell us—whatever it is? If it's 
something we need to know—" 
"It is something you Magefolk do not need to know." The 
Moldan's mental tones were stern and implacable. "Little 
Windeye, you must not do this," he went on, and from 
Anvar's scowl and the angry tightening around Aurian's 
eyes, Chiamh realized that Basileus was now addressing 
only himself, and the Mages could not hear. 
"You and I both know what you foresaw," Basileus 
continued in gentler tones. "When Aurian takes up the 
Sword of Flame, her actions may indeed put an end to 
the Xandim—but there is more at stake here than the fate 
of a single race." 
"That's very well for you to say," Chiamh retorted, so 
angry he barely remembered to keep from speaking the 
words aloud. "It won't be your race that is wiped out!" 

The Moldan sighed. "Young Windeye," he said gently, 
"my race was incalculably and irretrievably injured long 
ago by the Wizards. The Moldai, of all the peoples of the 
world, know what damage they can wreak. To save the 
world from this new evil power that has arisen among 
them, I would gladly sacrifice myself, and what remains 
of my race. It may yet come to that—or it may not, for 
Moldai and Xandim both. Your Vision may have been 
obscure or misleading, and let us hope that it is so. But 
whether you were correct in your interpretation or not, 
you have no right to burden these Magefolk with your 
fears and doubts. If you reveal what you know, you may 
hinder them in their fight, and if the Evil One should 
prevail, then that will almost certainly spell the end for 
the Xandim race." 
Chiamh knew, to his sorrow, that Basileus was right. The 
Windeye had reached this same hard decision on that 
night, several moons ago, when he had discovered dread 
tidings of evil on the wind, and then seen those clear and 
shining beacons of hope in the south: Aurian and Anvar, 
with whose fate he had become so entwined. He bowed 
his head in acknowledgment of the Moldan's wisdom. "I 
understand," he replied softly, still taking great care to 
shield his thoughts from the Mages. "The burden must be 
mine alone." 
The Weather-Mage cursed and threw down the crystal. 

This was getting her nowhere! She had not the slightest 
notion of what was taking place. A plague on 
Aurian—how had the bitch managed to foil the 
penetration of Eliseth's Vision? Scowling, she turned to 
see the two mercenaries looking at her, obviously 
awaiting further orders. Between them, Vannor still stood 
frozen in her spell, though his face was gray and his 
expression blank. Yet though he clung to consciousness 
only because of her magic, the merchant's eyes still 
smoldered with an unquenchable spark of defiance. Had 
his dogged resistance been the barrier that had foiled her 
attempt to spy upon her enemy? Well, she'd get no 
further use out of him tonight—that much was clear—but 
she would see his stubborn spirit well and truly broken 
before she attempted to use his energies again! With a 
wave of her hand she banished her spell, and the 
merchant's knees buckled as blood began to ooze from 
the lump of mangled flesh and shattered bone that had 
been his hand. The mercenaries quickly grabbed an arm 
each and hauled him back upright. 
"Release him," Eliseth snarled at the guards. "Bind his 
hand—I don't want him bleeding to death." Scooping up 
her crystal, she stalked from the room as Vannor 
crumpled to the floor. 
As the Weather-Mage descended the curving stairway to 
her rooms, her temper began to cool a little. After all, her 
efforts had not been entirely fruitless. She had at least 

discovered that Aurian was planning to return to the 
north—and that the Mage had enlisted the Xandim to 
help her. Eliseth nodded grimly to herself as she swiftly 
consumed fruit and wine to help restore the energies 
depleted by her magic. Very well. It was time to put 
some of her own plans into action. There was little she 
could do about Aurian's mysterious southern allies, but 
the Mage would find little aid within her own lands, 
should she dare to return. And if Eliseth wanted to set a 
trap, then Vannor would be the perfect bait. She simply 
needed a Mortal agent to infiltrate the rebels, and she 
suspected that she knew the very man to do it. Without 
further delay she wrapped herself in her darkest, warmest 
cloak, picked up her staff, and left the tower. 
Avoiding the shimmering pools of moonlight, the 
Weather-Mage slipped across the courtyard, invisible 
save as a deeper sliver of shade within the shadows of the 
walls. The solitary guard in the upper gatehouse never 
saw her pass him. The cluster of armed mercenaries that 
now guarded the lower gate had been told to watch for 
intruders, not for people going out. Besides, they were 
deeply engrossed in a game of dice. Eliseth made a 
mental note of that. Come tomorrow, those buffoons 
would be regretting such inattention while in Magefolk 
employ! Shrugging the matter aside, she drifted silent as 
a Wraith across the bridge, and vanished into the 
shadows of the city. 

Chapter 11 - Killers of the Night 
Pickings that night were even more scant than usual. 
Grince was driven by his own hunger, and the more 
pressing needs of his small white companion, from his 
usual safe haunts within the Grand Arcade. Though the 
streets were cold and dangerous, there was always the 
chance that a sharp lad like himself could come by 
something or other to keep body and soul together for 
another day—especially when that lad was getting better 
all the time at his newfound trade of thief. 
It was hard to leave his home, though—even for a few 
short hours. Grince's cozy lair in the labyrinth of the 
arcade's deserted storerooms showed ample evidence of 
his burgeoning skills. He had found a small chamber at 
the end of a dusty passage, and had concealed the door 
from prying eyes behind a pile of boxes, planks, broken 
crates and casks, and any other rubbish he could find. 
Having wedged the door ajar just enough for a skinny 
boy to worm his way through, he had constructed his 
own entrance at the bottom of the tottering stack of 
camouflage, using two casks with the ends knocked out, 
laid in line to make a narrow tunnel through the pile of 
junk. Apart from this access into the arcade, the room 
also had a high, barred window, now screened and 

draftproofed with old sacks tacked to the wooden frame, 
through which the young thief could reach the alley 
outside. 
Within his hideout was a magpie nest of odds and ends 
that Grince had scavenged, found, or liberated from their 
previous owners. In a box were his utensils—a dented 
tankard, a patched and battered cooking pot, and two 
chipped bowls (now used by the puppy) that had all been 
gleaned from a rubbish heap behind a tavern; a carefully 
straightened spoon with a consequently wavy silhouette; 
an eating knife with a broken haft; and four wooden 
trenchers, of which Grince was especially proud, that had 
once been the ends of the casks that formed his entrance 
tunnel. The porridge pot, the original theft that had 
started his career, held a supply of water now, 
painstakingly transported from the pump in the arcade, as 
did a large, tightly lidded crock that had originally, and 
all too briefly, been filled with sticky, sweet honey. 
The young thief's bed took up an entire corner. He had 
laid down an old door to shield his body from the cold 
that seeped up from the stone floor, and had strewn a 
thick layer of straw over the wooden panels. On top of 
these he had piled a rainbow of rags and snippets: every 
rag he came across and any scrap of cloth he could steal 
from the unsuspecting tailors and dressmakers of the 
arcade. Each day, when the night's business of survival 
was done, the weary boy and his dog would burrow into 

the snug warmth of the mounded scraps like rabbits 
vanishing underground. 
Grince had snatched two thick blankets of creamy, undyed 
wool from a washing line in the north of the city, 
much to the puzzled dismay of the goodwife who had 
hung them there in the confidence that the walls of her 
backyard were unscalably high. These were spread over 
his nest, adding weight and warmth and keeping the 
tottering structure together, and crowning it all was his 
prize—a heavily fleeced sheepskin that had vanished one 
night from a tanner's shop near Greenmarket square. 
Since he had come by the sheepskin and blankets, Grince 
had taken the swaths of thinner cloth—filched from the 
great stored bolts used by the arcade's seamstresses—that 
had originally served him as bedcovers, and hung them 
from the walls of his lair, where they brightened up the 
room with their colors and kept out drafts. He had 
nowhere to make a fire, nor would it be safe to do so, but 
a motley collection of lamps, both brightly polished 
household treasures and dented old relics with cracked 
and soot-stained chimneys, stood safely on another box 
in the center of the chamber, along with candles of both 
beeswax and tallow. 
Grince kept a battered bucket in one corner for his own 
waste, with a piece of wood, weighed down by a stone, 
on top for a makeshift lid. A straw-and-sawdust-filled 
box stood nearby for his dog to use. Each night the boy 

was forced to make two awkward and unpleasant 
journeys outside to empty these down a nearby drain. 
His treasures were strewn about or propped on makeshift 
shelves of plank and brick. An old sword, its blade 
broken off a foot below the hilt, that came in useful for 
prying open windows. Mismatched items of clothing that 
had come from washing lines all over the city. A pile of 
odd gauntlets, woolen mittens, scarves, and kerchiefs, 
that Grince was sure would come in useful for 
something, sometime. Assorted needles, spools of cotton, 
hanks of wool and twine, odd-shaped bits of wood, and a 
collection of rusty nails that came in useful all the time. 
A precious tinderbox and a bottle of lamp oil that he 
refilled when he had the chance. A twinkling assortment 
of combs, clips, rings, and trinkets, whose value he had 
no means of assessing—nor was there any means of 
selling them. Grince kept them because their sparkle 
cheered him, and, besides, they made him feel like a 
proper, bold, and daring thief. He kept them on a shelf by 
his bed, along with his chiefest treasure—a long, keen 
dagger with a jeweled hilt, a lucky find that he had taken 
(even now his gorge rose to think of it) from a drowned 
corpse washed up on the riverside mud. 
In a sack suspended from a hook in the arching stone 
ceiling Grince kept his food supplies—when there were 
any to be had. It was the only way, he had discovered, to 
keep them safe from the marauding rats that could not be 

kept out, no matter how hard he tried. Tonight, however, 
for all his scavenging around the arcade, the sack hung 
flat and empty, and his puppy, Warrior, was beginning to 
whimper with hunger. 
Grince sighed, and took a last, wistful look around his 
hideout. He was constantly amazed by his own ingenuity. 
It was a far better home than the squalid hovel he had 
shared with Tilda—and it was all his own. There was no 
one here to curse or cuff or beat him; none of the drunken 
scum who were his mother's customers trooping in and 
out. When he got lonely, there was always Warrior—the 
best friend a boy could ever want—to keep him 
company. But though he was building up a kind of wary 
confidence in his own abilities, the city held a multitude 
of dangers, and he was always reluctant to leave this 
place of safety. What if something dreadful happened to 
Warrior in his absence? What if someone else should 
find his refuge and turn him out? What if… 
"Oh, don't be so bloody stupid," Grince growled to 
himself. After all, it wasn't as if he had any choice. It was 
either steal or starve—and he didn't mind going hungry 
himself, but for Warrior, it was unthinkable. The dog was 
growing rapidly, and needed all the food he could get. 
Grince picked up the squirming white puppy and petted 
and hugged him before putting him in his special basket, 
also filched from an unsuspecting merchant in the arcade, 
which had a lid that tied shut with a piece of twine, and a 

handle so that it could be hung from the same ceiling 
hook as the food sack. By the time that Warrior outgrew 
it, he would also be big enough to defend himself from 
the huge, marauding rats—but in the meantime his 
anxious master was taking no chances. 
Thrusting his dagger and broken sword into his belt, 
Grince put on his outdoor "cloak"—a garment of which 
he was very proud, for he had made it himself, and a 
great deal of thought had gone into its invention. One of 
his mother's regular clients, a one-legged seaman forced 
onto shore by his disability, had taken to the youngster 
and had taught him to use a needle—with the 
wholehearted approval of the lackadaisical Tilda. Though 
Grince had spurned such nonsense as only fit for girls, 
old Tarn, the sailor, had quickly—and 
forcibly—corrected this notion, and the boy was glad of 
his teaching now, in the chilly nights of the northern 
spring. 
Grince had cobbled together his peculiar piece of apparel 
from bits of leather and fur, fustian, velvet, brocade, and 
any other scraps of warm fabric that he had been able to 
find among the stalls and storerooms of the arcade. Its 
patchwork of varied textures and hues broke up his 
outline and helped him blend into the shadows. It was 
short enough to leave his feet unencumbered for running, 
and loose enough to be slipped off at an instant's 
notice—or in the clutch of a grabbing hand. Unlike a 

normal cloak, there were slits in the sides that he could 
put his arms through to snatch a cooling pastry or cut the 
strings of a purse—and the inside was lined with a 
multitude of pockets to carry home his spoils. 
Old Tam, in addition to his sailor's skills with a needle, 
had possessed a fund of outrageously tall stories with 
which he had bribed the boy as they worked. Grince 
particularly remembered the tale of a magic cloak that 
made its owner invisible, and he liked to think of his 
cloak having similar powers, though he had far too much 
sense to put it to the test. Nonetheless, it was his special 
thief's cloak, and it gave him confidence. Though it 
would have been too conspicuous during the day, he 
never went out at night without it. 
Thus equipped for the night ahead, tine boy stacked some 
wooden boxes to act as steps up to the high window of 
his lair, and blew out the candles and all of the lamps, 
save one. Then, squirming between the bars of the 
window, he dropped down into the alley below and 
vanished into the maze of darkened streets. 
Grince slid through the shadows like dark water running 
downhill toward the river and the docks, heading toward 
the merchants' warehouses and the possibility of stored 
food. It was cold outside, but in his cloak he was safe. 
The other denizens of the night were far too intent upon 
their own business to take any notice of him—a small 
boy was clearly no threat to them, and he had nothing 

that they could possibly want. 
As it happened, the boy did not have to go as far as the 
river. His chiefest skill was burglary, and the looming, 
tottering houses in the old quarter, with their overhanging 
stories, crumbling masonry, and loose-fitting windows, 
had always provided him with the easiest 
pickings—when there was any food within. Tonight he 
was lucky. His third such foray (the first having produced 
one ancient, wizened apple plus a few small shellfish 
from the river, which he ate on the spot; the second, 
nothing whatsoever) provided him with a stub of candle, 
half a dozen oatcakes, and a small, stale meat pie of 
indeterminate ancestry. Slipping his spoils into a deep 
pocket within his cloak, Grince blessed his luck as he 
wormed his way out of the forced window back into the 
street, and headed for home. 
It was later now, and the streetfolk were becoming 
desperate. Grince hugged every scrap of cover he could 
find on the way back and gave a wide berth to the 
starving derelicts that remained. A few narrow escapes in 
the past had taught him to be circumspect. While he had 
lived with Tilda, he had never known anyone desperate 
enough to eat human flesh, but these days he was not so 
sure. He had overheard rumors of gangs who roamed the 
streets in the guise of beggars so they could get close 
enough to their victims—and then it was too late. 
There were, however, certain advantages to this perilous 

hour, for the doors of the taverns were beginning to open 
now, and their occupants were spilling out into the 
streets. With luck, Grince might encounter a number of 
drunks on his homeward journey—and a drunken man, 
off his guard and bent on weaving home, was a far easier 
mark than a guarded, sober man for a young pickpocket 
who was just learning his trade. Unfortunately, however, 
Grince's luck seemed to have run out for the evening. 
The impoverished folk of the city were growing 
increasingly desperate in this hungry spring, and many 
were taking to the streets in the hope of robbing their 
more fortunate brethren who had anything—anything at 
all—worth stealing. People were on their guard now, and 
tended to go about in groups for their own 
protection—and when a likely prospect did present 
himself, the competition from bigger, well-armed 
ruffians was more than one small boy could handle. Time 
and again, the boy would sidle up to a potential victim, 
only to be beaten to the mark—usually by armed thugs 
who did not stop at the mere picking of pockets, but had 
murder in mind. 
With some mixed feelings, Grince decided to give it up 
for the night. In the end, his safety was more important 
than a couple of coppers in a leather purse. After all, he 
had responsibilities. He shuddered at the thought of what 
would happen to his dog if he should be killed out on the 
streets. The mere idea of poor Warrior, shut in his basket 

and slowly starving to death, was enough to make the 
young boy cautious. Because of this, though he did not 
realize it, the white puppy had probably saved his life on 
several occasions. 
Grince was looking forward to seeing his small 
companion again. Warrior, like his master, had become 
used to eating all manner of things in his short life. He 
would enjoy the meat pie, and afterward they could 
snuggle up together in the warm and cozy bed, safe from 
the violence of the cold, damp streets. These happy 
thoughts gave impetus to Grince's feet as he turned 
homeward. Familiar as he was with all the shortcuts, it 
took him very little time to get back into the tangle of 
alleys that ran behind the Grand Arcade. Grince slowed 
his pace then and began to creep forward cautiously, 
reminding imself that this was one of the most dangerous 
parts of his journey. He must be sure that no one saw him 
approach the arcade or climb in through the window—or 
the secret of his hiding place would be out at last. 
There was one last, broader lane to cross before he could 
duck into the narrow passage that backed onto his home. 
He would have to be careful here—the thoroughfare was 
usually the hunt of beggars. As he crept stealthily 
forward, Grince heard the sound of footfalls, soft but 
brisk, coming from the street ahead. He froze like a 
rabbit that scents the hunter, flattening himself against 
the cold, damp wall and peeping warily around the corner 

of the building to look into the lane. In the distance a tall 
figure came into view. All details of its identity were 
concealed beneath a billowing hooded mantle of 
midnight-black, yet there was something about it that 
made the young boy shiver and shrink farther back into 
the shadows, lest the dark void that concealed the 
shrouded face should turn his way and transfix him with 
its blank, arcane regard. 
Oh, grow up, Grince, he told himself in withering 
disgust, as the figure came nearer. It's only some damned 
mark who's stupid enough to be wandering home alone at 
this time of night. Do you want to miss a chance like 
this? You'd never get at a pocket through that big loose 
cloak, but maybe begging would work… Maybe it 
would—but Grince would never find out because there 
was no way, no way at all, that he could force himself out 
into the open to accost the eerie stranger. His heart 
labored, and sweat sprang out on his forehead, icy in the 
chill of the night. It felt as though his feet had been 
nailed to the ground. Though he had been too intent on 
the approaching nightmare to see them go, he suddenly 
noticed that the lane had emptied of beggars—apart from 
himself. 
Huddled in the folds of his patchwork cloak, his guts 
knotted in terror, Grince shrank back into the shelter of 
his alley and watched the looming figure pass. Once it 
had gone beyond his hiding place, he felt limp and shaky 

with relief. 
Nonetheless, he would not—dared not—move until the 
shrouded shape was completely out of sight. Grince 
closed his eyes and listened to the receding tap of 
footsteps, and prayed that they would soon be gone. 
The sound of footfalls stopped abruptly, and the boy felt 
a chill go through him. Was the figure turning? Did it 
know he was there? Though Grince was afraid to look, 
the fear of not knowing if he was being stalked was far 
worse. After a brief struggle with the shreds of his 
courage, he opened his eyes and sneaked a quick look 
around the corner. 
"Alms, great Lady? Spare a copper for a poor old blind 
woman?" 
Grince started at the sound of the quavering voice. To his 
dismay, he saw a beggar grope her stooped and halting 
way toward the brooding figure. The unsuspecting crone 
had claimed she was blind—he supposed that accounted 
for the fact that she had not run off in terror, as the other 
beggars had—but how had she known that the mantled 
stranger was female? The old woman shuffled forward 
into the dim pool of light from the lamp that hung on the 
corner building at the end of the street. The figure in the 
black cloak stepped forward, arm extended, and 
Grince—astounded that the blind crone should have met 
with such easy success—thought, Damn—what was I 
afraid of? I've missed my chance. Then that thought, and 

all others, fled from the young thief'smind. The 
outstretched hand flashed white in the light of the lamp 
as it touched the crone—and the blind old beggar 
crumpled into a limp, dark heap of rags on the cobbles. 
Grince heard a soft laugh, as chill and cheerless as a 
winter's dawn, as the figure continued on its way, 
rounding the corner and passing out of sight. 
Minutes crawled by, and the slumped shape of the beggar 
woman in the roadway did not move. It was much later 
than that before the terrified boy dared venture from his 
hiding place. Cold and hunger drove him out in the end, 
as did the threat of the impending dawn and the thought 
of his poor puppy, still shut in its basket and cold and 
hungry, too. In order to reach his own alley, Grince had 
to cross the street and go almost as far as the lower 
corner—much too near, in his estimation, to the body of 
the crone. But if he wanted to reach the longed-for safety 
of his lair, he had no other choice. I'll just run, he 
thought. I'll run right past her, and I won't look, because 
if I do… 
When it came to it, of course, he couldn't help but look. 
Though he ran as fast as he could, especially when he 
neared the shapeless heap, it was as if Grince's eyes had 
been hooked by a fishing line that the body was reeling 
in. For many nights afterward he had reason to curse his 
curiosity. His footsteps faltered, and his breath congealed 
in his throat at the sight before him. Though the body 

was grotesquely twisted, the face was half turned toward 
him, the milky, sightless eyes rolled back in death. In the 
lamplight he could see the bloodless pallor of its sagging, 
wrinkled skin—and the expression of stark terror sealed 
into the features in that last moment of fading life. On the 
old woman's forehead, like a brand, was the mark of a 
hand that burned in flaming silver. 
Suddenly, Grince found his wits again. With a yelp of 
terror he fled, back to the safety of his den in the arcade, 
tumbling in through the window without a thought for 
the drop on the other side. Without pause he snatched up 
Warrior's basket and dived into the spurious safety of his 
bed, where he huddled, wild-eyed and trembling, 
clutching the puppy to him for comfort, biting his lip to 
keep back tears. It was a good thing he had Warrior, he 
thought. Without the dog to care for, he doubted that he 
would ever find the courage to venture out into the streets 
again. 
Though the nighttime thoroughfares of Nexis were 
aswarm with the usual human detritus of beggars, 
whores, and footpads, Eliseth made her way through the 
dark back streets without concern. Even though she was 
disguised by the billowing drapes of her hooded cloak, 
there was an aura about her, a sense of presence that 
bespoke both power and peril. Only one had dared 
approach her—and that one had been blind. Almost 

contemptuously, Eliseth had extinguished the faltering 
flame of the old beggar's life with a single touch, taking 
in its energy to add to her growing powers. To her 
surprise, even such a used and faded existence had 
provided her a tingling jolt of energy that coursed 
through her veins like wine and felt so good—so very 
good—that she understood at last why Miathan had 
become addicted to his human sacrifices. Well, well, she 
thought. We live and learn. I must look into this matter 
further—but not tonight. Tonight the Weather-Mage had 
other business, and her hurrying steps had almost brought 
her to her goal: the place she had located by scrying 
crystal; the home of the one she sought. 
The bakery had been repainted on the inside and 
limewashed without, and the floors and windows 
sparkled. The crumbling brickwork and the sagging roof 
had all been well repaired. Bern had worked hard to undo 
all the depredations left by his father's neglect—with one 
exception. The business was still a failure for one single, 
simple reason: there wasn't a scrap of flour to be had in 
Nexis for love or money. 
Bern was sitting—as was his habit on these long, 
sleepless nights—in the downstairs room that was the 
bakery itself, a bottle at his elbow and his feet up on a 
convenient ledge in the warm brickwork of the older, 
smaller oven. Almost as a ritual, Bern still kept the great 
fires of the ovens alight: both the original one and the 

new one he had built to augment it in more hopeful days, 
when Tori was newly dead and the business was his own 
at last. They warmed the house but did little to assuage 
the cold, creeping sense of failure within the baker's 
heart. He had betrayed the rebels and murdered his father 
to get this business for himself—and what had been the 
point? Supplies of flour and yeast had run out during the 
dark and endless winter, and the girl he had planned to 
marry—a dark-haired lass with flashing eyes, the 
daughter of a widowed dressmaker who lived 
nearby—had left him when his black moods and evil 
tempers had become too much for her to bear. Bern 
cursed aloud. It was so bloody unfair! As soon as he had 
achieved his lifelong ambition, the glowing dream had 
turned to ashes in his hands. 
In the midst of his brooding, Bern must have dozed, for 
he was jolted rudely awake by the slam of a wind-caught 
door. The curse that instantly sprang to his lips died 
there, unut-tered, as he opened his eyes to see a tall, 
black-cloaked shape that towered over him, its face 
concealed within the shadows of a hood. His hand, flung 
out instinctively to reach the long iron poker, the nearest 
available weapon, froze, extended in midair. Then, 
without a word, the figure extended white and shapely 
hands, and pushed the hood back from her face. "You!" 
Bern gasped—and then, gabbling apologies, he fell to his 
knees before the figure of the Weather-Mage. 

Eliseth laughed. "Indeed, Mortal, it is I. Did you never 
think, after the night you came running to the Academy 
to betray your father, that you would see me again?" 
Bern, who in fact had thought no such thing, remained 
groveling in terrified silence. The Magewoman laughed 
again, and stepped over his prostrate form to take the best 
chair by the fire. "Have you fallen on such hard times, 
baker, that you offer no refreshment to your guests?" she 
asked him sharply. 
"My Lady—I beg your pardon." Bern leapt up on shaky 
legs and ran to fetch a crystal goblet that had been part of 
his mother's dowry, and a flask of good wine, all too 
scarce these days, that he had been saving for a 
celebration—or an emergency such as this. Setting them 
on the low table before his terrifying guest, he poured for 
her with shaking hands, while Eliseth pushed back her 
heavy mantle and held out her slender white hands to the 
dancing flames. Taking his own cup, still filled with the 
rough, inferior stuff with which he had been drowning 
his sorrows, he took the other chair, restraining himself 
with an effort from pushing it farther away from the coldeyed 
Mage. All the while, his mind had been racing. 
What could she want from him? How could he possibly 
placate her? 
Eliseth, watching him sidelong from under her lashes, let 
the baker writhe in silence for a while before putting him 
out of his suspense. At last, when she judged that his 

curiosity and fear had reached the exploding point, she 
began to speak: 
"Mortal, you once did the Magefolk a great favor by 
disclosing to us the location of the rebels that infested our 
city. Such loyalty is to be greatly commended—and now 
I find that I must count upon it once again." Swiftly she 
outlined her plan for his betrayal of the rebels, watching 
his eyes first widen in amazement—and then narrow in 
calculating greed. Eliseth smiled to herself. She had 
gauged his nature to a nicety. When she had finished 
speaking, she sat back in her chair and took a sip of the 
disgusting wine, wondering what this base and lowly 
Mortal would dare to ask of her in return. 
Bern's request took her completely by surprise. "What?" 
she gasped. "Grain? Are you certain?" 
The baker nodded, his expression avid. "Lady, there is no 
flour in Nexis. I'm a ruined man—I can't run my 
business. Think what it would mean to me to be the only 
working baker in the city. And I did hear rumors," he 
added slyly, 
"that the Magefolk have all sorts of supplies up there in 
the Academy…" 
Eliseth made a mental note to investigate the source of 
such rumors, and turned her attention back to Bern. It 
was difficult to suppress her smile as she answered. "Of 
course you may have the supplies you require," she told 
him graciously. "But on one condition—you must set out 

this very night." 
Bern looked thunderstruck. "Why, yes, my Lady, of 
course, but…" He swallowed hard. "How shall I make 
arrangements to collect my grain?" 
Eliseth marveled at the man's temerity, even though he 
had shrunk from actually suggesting that she might not 
keep her word. "That can be dealt with at once," she told 
him crisply. "Have you a secure place to store it in your 
absence?" 
Bern nodded, and led the way to his storeroom in the 
cellar. The Mage nodded her satisfaction. "Now, be 
silent," she commanded. Reaching with her mind to the 
location of the Academy supplies, she poured her powers 
into an apport spell. There was a flash, a roar of displaced 
air—and the cellar was filled from floor to ceiling with 
bags of spilling golden grain. 
"Oh—Lady!" The baker's expression told Eliseth 
everything she needed to know. "After this I'll do 
anything for you," he blurted. "Anything at all…" 
"You already know what I require of you." The Mage 
had had enough, now, of the Mortal. She wanted him on 
his way, and out of Nexis before the morning. Leading 
him from the cellar, she shut the door firmly behind them 
and passed a hand across the wood, watching the 
wardspell shimmer into place like light on water. "Now," 
she told the baker, "pay attention. To protect your 
precious supplies, I have spelled the door and the grating 

to kill anyone who touches them." 
The baker's avaricious eyes grew round with dismay. 
"But, Lady…" he stammered. 
"As soon as you return, having successfully completed 
your mission," Eliseth went on crushingly, as though he 
had not spoken, "you will report to me at the Academy, 
and the spell will be removed. That is all. Make your 
preparations, Mortal, and leave immediately—lest I 
should be tempted to regret my generosity." 
There was no need to say more. Eliseth knew now that he 
was hers. As she left the bakery, she could no longer hide 
her smile, thinking of Bern's dismay when he returned 
from his dangerous assignment to discover that free 
supplies had been given out by Miathan the very day he 
had left—and gloating over the thought of the 
Archmage's baffled fury in the morning, when he 
discovered that most of his grain supplies had 
mysteriously vanished. 
The slow hours of darkness crawled by as Zanna waited. 
Now that she had a plan, her spirits fluctuated wildly 
with an unsettling mix of excitement and trepidation, and 
she could scarcely wait to leave her hiding place in the 
storeroom and get moving. Unfortunately, the last thing 
she needed at this point was to run into Janok. Zanna 
knew she would have to curb her impatience as best she 
could, and wait until everyone—especially the brutal 

head cook—was sure to be asleep. 
Getting out of the storeroom in the darkness was a 
nightmare, but even if Zanna had remembered to bring a 
candle, she dared not risk a light. She was forced to 
worm her way out of her cramped lair on her hands and 
knees, feeling blindly ahead for the stacked barrels, bags, 
and crocks that turned the room into a maze of hazards. It 
seemed to take forever. She was stiff and aching after 
Janok's beating and, after so long a wait, every 
movement made her muscles scream in protest, but that 
was the least of her worries right now. Zanna felt lost and 
disoriented, her head spinning dizzily. Surely, it was such 
a small chamber that she must have reached the wall by 
now. 
Zanna's heart leapt into her mouth as she felt a pile begin 
to totter and fall. Reaching up quickly, she tried to steady 
it, but to no avail. The breath was knocked out of her as 
several lumpy, laden sacks landed on top of her. 
Potatoes, from the clean, sharp, earthy smell. For an 
instant of frozen terror she simply lay there, waiting for 
the crash that never came, then carefully began to lever 
herself out from beneath the heavy bags. Thank the gods, 
she thought, as she rubbed her bruises, that one of the 
crocks didn't go over! After another long moment of 
groping, she scraped her knuckles on a cool, rough 
surface. She had reached the wall at last. She took the 
best guess she could at the direction in which the door 

lay, and was lucky. The spaciousness and empty air felt 
so good beyond her seeking hands. Oh, what a blessing it 
was to be able to stand up again and move unhindered! 
She went slowly down the dark passage, feeling her way 
with one hand on the wall. 
The kitchen, though shrouded in shadow, seemed 
dangerously bright after the pitch-black corridor. Dark, 
humped silhouettes against the dim, smoky light of the 
banked fires showed the positions of sleeping menials, 
and Zanna found herself thinking it was a measure of 
Janok's cruelty that he would not permit his few helpers 
to take over the almost-deserted dormitory of the 
household staff. He goes groveling and creeping around 
the Magefolk, she thought resentfully, but he treats us 
worse than animals, because it keeps us cowed so that we 
do his bidding. And because he enjoys the sense of 
power. Zanna shuddered, and tried to put him out of her 
mind. The thought of him made her sick and afraid to her 
very soul. 
The door that led directly from the kitchen into the Great 
Hall was on the far side of the room. It took more 
courage than Zanna had known she possessed to cross 
that broad expanse of kitchen floor. Only the thought of 
her dad, imprisoned and suffering, could make her take 
that worst, first step, and keep going thereafter. Guiding 
herself by the faint glow of the fire, she slid from shadow 
to shadow toward the door, giving the slumbering 

menials a wide berth. Though her feet were silent, surely 
someone must hear the beating of her heart! 
As she passed the sinks, a dull gleam of red caught 
Zanna's eye, as though an ember from the fire had 
somehow rolled into the shadows underneath the deep 
stone basins and was slowly dying on the cold, damp 
floor. What in the world…? Zanna's heart leapt. It 
couldn't be, could it? Stooping quickly, she snicked her 
scrabbling fingers on the razor-keen edge of a long, 
broad-bladed knife. She snatched it up quickly, her 
bloody fingers slippery on the smooth bone handle, and 
felt instantly amazed at the difference a weapon made to 
her faltering courage. With considerably lifted spirits, the 
young girl finally gained the door and slipped gratefully 
out into the cool, musty darkness of the deserted Great 
Hall. 
Zanna darted away from the door and crouched down 
beside the paneled wall beneath the overhanging 
minstrels' gallery. There she stayed for several minutes, 
until her heart slowed and her breathing steadied and her 
trembling stilled. Though a little light filtered from 
outside through the row of tall windows, illuminating the 
stark black columns of the double row of pillars, the vast, 
echoing chamber seemed very dark after the half light of 
the kitchen. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the 
difference, Zanna turned her weapon over and over in her 
hand. She supposed it must have been knocked from the 

table or the bench and accidentally kicked beneath the 
sink, where it had been lost in the shadows until that 
stray gleam of firelight had picked it out for her eyes. 
Janok must truly have been preoccupied today, if he had 
not noticed it was missing. Usually, he kept a careful 
tally of the knives. 
The thought of the brutal head cook was enough to spur 
Zanna into action once more. Levering herself away from 
the wall, she turned to her right and made for the corner, 
where an elegant spiral of open wooden steps curled 
round a carven pillar and led up to the minstrels' gallery. 
There was just no way to get up those steps silently—and 
the Great Hall had been designed to carry sound. Zanna 
froze, horrified and startled, as the hollow shuffle of her 
footsteps was magnified into sibilant echoes that 
whispered around the massive chamber. She had to take 
herself sternly in hand and remind herself that she was 
the only one there, before she could find the courage to 
continue. 
Luckily, the gallery itself was carpeted for the comfort of 
the visiting musicians. Zanna finally gave in to her wild 
urge to run. Holding the knife carefully away from 
herself at arm's length, she pelted down the long side of 
the hall, through the flickering patches of dark and light 
made by the line of windows. Turning left at the bottom, 
she found the curtained upper door that led to a short 
corridor and thence through another, plainer door into the 

quarters of the household servants. 
Had Zanna but known it, she was lucky. In Elewin's day, 
both doors had been securely locked, except when the 
hall was in use, to prevent the servants taking a shortcut 
through the hallowed chamber from their quarters to the 
kitchen. Now, however, the Magefolk had so few 
servants that such traditions had been permitted to slide. 
The second door opened for Zanna, as she had been 
confident that it would, and she permitted herself a sigh 
of relief at last. Nothing could stop her now! Because of 
the two closed doors and the stretch of corridor between, 
she didn't hear the sound of the kitchen door opening into 
the Great Hall, and softly closing again. 
On a shelf at a convenient height beside the door, Zanna 
found a tinderbox and candlestick. Laying her knife 
down on the shelf, she lit the candle after several shaky 
attempts— then cursed her own stupidity. What if 
someone—even the Archmage, she thought with a 
terrified shudder—should be crossing the courtyard, and 
see the gleam? Shielding the flame with her cupped hand, 
she ran to quickly close the curtains across the three 
windows that were spaced at regular intervals down the 
length of the dormitory. Once that was done, Zanna felt 
much more secure. Lifting her candle high, she passed 
the lonely row of neat and unused beds and crossed back 
to the corner near the door, where the rack of twinkling 
crystals glittered with cold fire as they caught her tiny 

flame. Holding her light close to the gems, she moved 
her hand along the rack until she found a glimmer of 
green. 
At last! Vannor's daughter replaced the candle on the 
shelf and was reaching out to take the crystal—when the 
door burst open with a crash. 
"Got you, you little bitch!" Rough hands spun her and 
grabbed her arms with bruising force, making Zanna cry 
out with pain. Struggling was useless against that 
enormous strength. The candlelight made red reflected 
gleams in Janok's eyes, giving him the look of some 
brutish wild beast. Zanna's mind went blank with terror. 
It was all over now. He had caught her—here in this 
deserted place, where there were no witnesses and no one 
would even hear her screams. 
Janok chuckled, enjoying her fear. His hands tightened 
around the tender flesh of her arms, making her whimper. 
"Well?" he said. "And why are we creeping around the 
servants' dormitory in the darkness, I wonder? Were you 
trying to find a lover, by any chance? I'll wager you've 
never had one, such a plain little thing as you are, but 
you're a year too late, my girl. All those fine, handsome 
young men have left or been slain, and there's no one in 
this place to bed you. No one but me, that is." 
What would anger him worse? To reply or not? Yet 
Zanna had little time to reflect on the decision. His hand 
lashed out—hitting her—hurting her. Zanna felt a warm 

trickle of blood crawl down her chin. He was pressing his 
weight against her, pinning her body against the wall. 
Janok's hairy arms encompassed her; his sweaty body 
was pressed against her flesh. She could feel the 
moisture, warm and clammy, seeping through the thin 
fabric of her blouse, and swallowed down the acid nausea 
that came boiling into her throat. His foul breath, and the 
greasy stench of his unwashed body, made her retch. 
Janok pushed at her lower body, hard and excited. Zanna 
tugged one hand free and jabbed at his eyes with rigid 
fingers, but he caught her wrist in a merciless grip and 
hem her hand, helpless, above her head. Holding her in 
place with one arm and his knee, he ripped at her 
clothing, pulling her blouse away in tatters. Zanna felt 
cold air wash over her breasts and turned her head away, 
aghast as his rough fingers squeezed her flesh. Then the 
hand was fumbling lower, lifting up her skirts and feeling 
underneath. She knew what would happen to her now: 
had she not seen it happen, many times, to helpless, 
shrieking, weeping kitchen maids? 
It was far beyond too much. Zanna wriggled helplessly, 
desperate to escape. It was the only thought in her mind, 
the whole core of her being. Against his size and strength 
her efforts were hopeless, but they irritated him, 
nonetheless. Angry now, he slammed the back of her 
head against the wall, and from the corner of her eye she 
saw the crystals tumble from the rack. Their fiery glitter 

in the shivering candlelight matched the dazzling darkbright 
pain that shot through her skull. Aurian, she 
thought desperately—but the Mage was far too far away 
to help. It would all be up to Zanna now—and what 
could she do against a man so much bigger and stronger 
than herself? 
Again Janok hit her—first with his open hand across her 
face, then, when that failed to cow her, two or three 
lower blows with his fist. That stopped the fight in her. 
Zanna sagged against the wall, gasping for breath, his 
strong grasp all that kept her from doubling over in 
agony. Briefly, she was gone beyond all conscious 
thought. 
"Now!" With an iron grip on one arm, Janok dragged her 
toward the nearest row of beds. An odd, dizzy, 
disconnected thought shot through Zanna's innocent 
mind: after all his brutality, why was he being so 
particular now? He might as well have thrown her to the 
floor, and taken her, and had done with it. Then Janok 
threw her facedown on the bed, keeping her pinned down 
with one hand while his other groped to free himself 
from his fetters of clothing. 
This momentary distraction was all that Zanna had been 
waiting for. She had gone beyond all reason now; she 
was merely working on pure instinct—and it was all the 
more unexpected to Janok, for he thought he had her 
cowed beyond resistance. Writhing away from the palm 

that pressed her down, she managed to turn herself halfaround 
and, with all her might, bit into the arm that 
pinned her. 
Now the tables were turned. Janok howled, cursing, 
flailing at her with his free hand, making her vision 
explode into stars. Zanna held on grimly. Coarse black 
hairs tickled her throat, and the salt-metallic taste of 
blood made her retch, but she still hung on, biting deeper 
and deeper. Though he beat at her and hurt her, he had 
hurt her already—and this was her only chance to escape 
him. What had she to lose? It took a surprisingly short 
time before Janok relaxed his grip and she slid out from 
underneath. 
Tripping over the tatters of her skirt, Zanna scrambled, 
half-stumbling, across the room, the head cook's grasping 
hands and bruising fists snatching at the air an instant 
behind her. She had only one thought in her mind as she 
shot toward the door and the shelf nearby. In the moment 
of hesitation that it took to haul herself up by the smooth, 
slippery edge, Janok had laid hands on her again—but 
though Zanna's groping fingers knocked down the 
tinderbox, she found the knife she had laid down only 
moments before. 
The girl could sense Janok's surprise—almost 
disappointment—as she ceased to fight him. "Ah," he 
muttered, pressing her body against the wall. "I knew you 
wanted it. Of course. They always do." 

"Yes," she murmured, "but I would like to see your face." 
"Naturally." 
Zanna felt his hard hands upon her as he turned her 
around. She felt him press against her, even as her fingers 
clenched round the knife that was half-hidden in the torn 
remnants of her skirt. Then the blade was embedded hilt 
deep in his belly, and Janok doubled over, screaming, his 
blood gushing out all over her hands. At that moment, 
Zanna felt nothing for him but a burning, all-consuming 
hatred. Remembering something that Parric had told her 
long ago, she took a firm grip on the slippery haft and 
thrust the knife downward with all her strength, to slice 
the blade into Janok's guts. He fell to the floor, shrieking 
and clutching himself, rolling and writhing across the 
floor in the spreading pool of his own blood. 
It was taking him a long time to die. Zanna, frozen with 
shock, felt a stab of panic penetrate her numbed mind. 
What if someone heard him? She had to get out—and 
fast. There was no time to look for the correct 
crystal—she simply gathered them all as she found them, 
crawling on her hands and knees to scoop up the 
scattered gems and dropping them into a twist of cloth 
torn from her ruined skirt. As soon as she had them all, 
she fled out of the door opposite the one she'd entered. 
Without any thought now for stealth, Zanna clattered 
down the wooden staircase and into the refectory below. 
There she paused, shudders running through her, her 

back 
Pressed against the outer door like a hunted beast at bay. 
Her head was whirling and her knees had turned to water. 
She looked down at the stinking, sticky blood that coated 
her hands and the front of her body, and doubled over 
sharply, vomiting. When at last she had emptied herself, 
she straightened shakily, automatically wiping her mouth 
on her bloody arm—an act that set her retching again. 
Zanna took great, gulping gasps of air and forced herself 
to be steady. So she had killed a man: well, there was no 
time to think about that now. Her dad needed her, and 
time was running out. 
All sounds from the floor above had ceased. Slowly, 
Zanna began to realize that, if Janok's screams had been 
heard, someone would have come long before now. The 
remoteness of the servants' quarters from both the kitchen 
and the guard post at the far side of the courtyard had 
saved her. Relief washed over her. She dropped to her 
knees in a patch of moonlight from the window, wishing 
that she'd had the sense to remember the candle. Well, 
she'd just have to wish. She wasn't going back up there, 
past Janok's body to get it— not for anything. 
The crystals rattled on the wooden floorboards as she 
spilled them from their makeshift bag. They all twinkled 
enigmatically in the dim, cold light, but only two held 
sparks of bright fire in their hearts: the crimson and the 
blue-silver gems. But somewhere among them was 

another, that held a slumbering spark of green. One by 
one Zanna held them up to the moonlight, peering into 
their jeweled depths, until she found the one she sought. 
Kneeling like a statue in the beam of light, she cupped 
the crystal in her hands, and with a prayer to all the gods 
she knew, she concentrated on the image of the Lady 
Aurian. 
Chapter 12 - A Cry for Help 
What Aurian liked best about the Xandim Fastness was 
the way in which the interior was completely at odds 
with the outside. Though the exterior of the massive 
structure stood foursquare and blocky, consisting of 
straight lines and sharp angles, it was revealed, to any 
with the eyes to see, that within those walls the building 
was not an inanimate human artifact, after all, but a 
living being. The passages and chambers had floors and 
walls that grew into one another with no visible join, 
ceilings that were vaulted and ribbed with what looked 
like arching bone. Everything from windows to 
fireplaces, from lintels to torch brackets, from the 
benches that grew out of the walls at comfortable human 
sitting height to the broad stone shelves that the Xandim 
covered with fleeces and heather to make comfortable 

beds, possessed a seamless fluidity of line that could only 
be organic in nature. 
Chiamh had housed the Magefolk and their companions 
in a complex of rooms toward the rear of the fastness, in 
a square turret that rose above the main bulk of the 
building and abutted the cliffs that towered behind. There 
were two floors in the squat tower, each consisting of an 
interlinking cluster of small chambers reached by a 
twisting staircase with a heavy door at the bottom that 
blocked off access to the turret. The quarters were 
cramped but cozy and easier to heat than the vast, 
echoing rooms in the main part of the building, and 
everyone felt a greater measure of security in staying 
together. Even Parric, much to the evident annoyance of 
the Xandim Elders, had rejected the Herdlord's official 
quarters in favor of lodging with his friends. 
Aurian and Anvar shared two chambers on the upper 
story with Shia, Khanu, and the wolves; Bohan and 
Yazour occupied the room adjoining, and Chiamh slept 
in an annex beyond. Schiannath and Iscalda, still 
somewhat unsure of their position among the Xandim 
after their exile, had elected to remain with the Magefolk, 
and shared the lower floor with Parric, Sangra, and 
Elewin—before the old steward had passed away. 
Following Elewin's death, Yazour had decided to move 
downstairs to be near Schiannath and Iscalda, with whom 
he had become fast friends. This alleviated some of the 

overcrowding on the upper story, for the great cats took 
up an astonishing amount of space, and the wolves 
preferred to claim a small territory of their own, away 
from too much human disturbance. They had a den 
beneath the table, where they had scratched up and 
shredded an area of the woven rush matting to create a 
bed that Aurian had augmented with the remains of her 
tattered, threadbare cloak. 
Chiamh, considering the needs of the nonhumans of the 
party, had chosen these quarters with great care. The gap 
between the window in Bohan's room and the cliff face 
was little longer than two spans, and he had constructed a 
rough but functional bridge across the intervening space 
from a sturdy plank lashed securely into position. Shia 
and the wolves could cross this and gain access to a 
series of narrow ledges and trails that led onto the 
broader reaches of the Wyndveil, where they would be 
able to hunt and roam as they pleased, without having to 
run the gauntlet of the Xandim camped both within and 
without the fastness. 
Though Aurian and Anvar had not been in these quarters 
long, the small chamber tucked away in the depths of the 
fastness was already cluttered with signs of their 
occupancy. Leaning heavily on Parric's authority as 
Herdlord, they were putting together a new set of gear for 
their northward journey. Piles of clothing lay across the 
bed and benches, including britches and tunics of soft 

leather; shirts of linen and of wool; boots of sturdy but 
supple hide; and long, thick mantles of woven wool, 
dyed in the mingled greens and golds of the grasslands, 
with additional cloaks of thin oiled hide that would pack 
small in a saddlebag, to wear when it rained. 
To Aurian, the room looked warm and homely. A sootsmeared 
copper pot of water steamed gently at the edge 
of the blaze in the great fireplace. The table was scattered 
with plates and cups made of horn or bone; a jug of 
water, a flagon of ale and a flask of mead; small leather 
pouches of dried berries, blossoms and leaves for making 
a variety of teas; and emergency supplies of bread, 
cheese and fruit, because it was such a long trek to the 
stillrooms and the pantries. 
The Staff of Earth and the Harp of Winds had been 
propped against the wall in the farthest corner of the 
Mages' bed, safely away from curious hands and careless 
feet. Their mingled radiance, a changeful amalgam of 
green and shimmering silver, conflicted with the warmer 
saffron glow of lamps and fire to cast a rippling light like 
the sun through beech leaves across the faces of those 
assembled in the chamber. Even from her current 
position, several feet away at the far end of the pallet, 
Aurian could feel the magic of the powerful Artifacts 
beating against her back; a tingling, thrilling energy so 
very different from the fire's heat that she could feel on 
her face. 

The Windeye, lounging comfortably on the floor in front 
of the fire, smiled as he looked up at Aurian and Anvar, 
who were seated on the bed, with Wolf in Aurian's lap, 
listening in wide-eyed amazement to Basileus recounting 
the history of the Moldai. Shia and Khanu had not yet 
returned from visiting Hreeza on Steelclaw, and Bohan 
was asleep next door. Parric and Sangra, unable to 
participate in the weird, four-way mental conversation of 
Mages, Moldan and Windeye, had gone off together to 
drink to the memory of Elewin. Chiamh, who had heard 
Basileus tell his tale before, was barely paying attention 
to the Elemental's words. Instead he was peering with 
rapt fascination at the game the Magefolk were idly 
playing between themselves as they listened to the 
Moldan speak. 
Aurian would lift her hand to let a small green fireball 
materialize like an unfolding blossom above her palm 
and, with a quick, flicking gesture, would launch it into 
the air. Obeying the dictates of her will, it would dive 
and dodge in a swift, twisting path between hangings, 
sconces, and furnishings. Anvar would follow suit with 
an incandescent globe of his own in blue fire, and would 
send it after Aurian's fireball, trying to catch the glowing 
sphere as it darted to and fro across the chamber—the 
difficulties of fine control being compounded, of course, 
by the fact that both Mages were also paying attention to 
the Moldan's words. Aurian was using this game to help 

her soul mate improve his facility with Firemagic—
never his strong point, and a form of power that 
could not be boosted by the Harp of Winds, whose 
element was Air. Chiamh, squinting critically up at 
Anvar's wavering, sloppy efforts, which had a tendency 
to weave and plunge erratically around the room emitting 
a trail of cobalt sparks, decided that the Mage was badly 
in need of the practice. 
As the Moldan's tale unfolded, however, the participants 
gradually forgot about their game, and left their fireballs 
to bob aimless and neglected, clustering like a swarm of 
fireflies against the ribbed stone of the ceiling. There was 
no doubt that Aurian and Anvar were both enthralled, 
and Chiamh admired both the power and the cunning of 
the Earth-Elemental in being able to distract Aurian, in 
particular, from asking some very awkward questions. 
The Windeye only hoped that this fortunate state of 
affairs would last; but knowing the Mage as Chiamh had 
already come to know her, he suspected that she would 
not stay distracted for long. 
Aurian, in fact, had a whole series of questions that she 
wanted to ask Basileus. Though she was still annoyed by 
the Moldan's refusal to disclose the substance of his 
private conversation with Chiamh, she trusted the 
Windeye and was beginning to trust Basileus; moreover, 
she recognized immovable stubbornness when she saw it. 
As Anvar had slyly reminded her, such obduracy was 

part of her own character. Though the Moldan had 
assured her that what he had discussed with Chiamh was 
a matter for the Xandim, and noth-ine to concern her, it 
was her nature as a Mage to be curious and to want to 
meddle, nonetheless. That same curiosity, however, had 
led her to shelve the matter for the time being (she would 
probably stand a better chance of prying the information 
out of Chiamh, anyway) in favor of the incredible 
experience of conversing with a being who was as old as 
the hills themselves. 
"And you say this mad Moldan is imprisoned under the 
Academy?" she asked Basileus in shocked tones. 
"Indeed he is—and has been for many a long age. If 
Ghabal was mad before, I can scarcely dare imagine his 
state of mind by now." 
Anvar, who had been lucky to survive a confrontation 
with one of the powerful Earth-Elementals, and had also 
spent hundreds of hours down those very tunnels with 
Finbarr, was similarly horrified. "Gods, I hope Miathan 
doesn't find it down there." He shuddered. "Such a 
discovery might solve our difficulties where the 
Archmage is concerned, but it'll leave us with worse 
problems than ever—if there's even a city left to return 
to, that is." 
"Don't go borrowing trouble," Aurian warned him, 
referring not to the words that he had spoken aloud, but 
to the small, scared thought that she had picked out of her 

soulmate's mind. Anvar, remembering his terrifying 
battle with the Moldan of Aerillia Peak, that had resulted 
in the Elemental's death, had been wondering if Basileus 
knew what had taken place—and how the Moldan might 
react if he found out. 
Before Anvar could reply, however, Aurian was sure she 
heard another mental voice—a thin, weak call that 
seemed to come from very far away. 
"Did anyone else pick that up?" she asked sharply. 
"Pick what up?" Anvar sounded puzzled. 
"I could have sworn I heard, very faintly in my mind, a 
strange voice calling my name." 
"I heard nothing," said the Moldan. 
"Nor I." Chiamh shook his head. 
"I must have been imagining things." Aurian rubbed her 
eyes. "Maybe it's time we all got some sleep. We've 
another difficult day tomor— There it is again!" 
Signaling the others to be silent, she closed her eyes, 
straining her mind to catch the elusive wisp of thought: 
that faint and faraway calling of her name. For a moment 
there was nothing. Had she imagined it? But no. 
Suddenly it came again: 
"Lady… Lady Aurian? Oh, please be there. Please 
answer me—please." 
"There is someone there—and she's calling for help," 
Aurian told her companions. "It's very faint, but with the 
Staff to boost my power, I can probably reach her." 

Quickly, the Mage leaned back across the bed to reach 
the Artifact. 
"Be careful," Anvar warned. "What if it's Eliseth? She 
might be trying to trap you again, as she did in the 
desert." 
Aurian scowled, not liking to recall the time the Weather- 
Mage had almost duped her into killing both herself and 
Anvar. "I almost hope it is Eliseth," she said grimly. 
"Now that I have my powers back, she'll find me a very 
different proposition from last time." 
As her fingers closed round the Staff, the Mage felt its 
power run glowing through her veins like molten fire. 
Her own magic blazed up fiercely within her, augmented 
by the strength of the Artifact. "Anvar, Chiamh," she said 
quickly, "take hold of the Staff so you can link your 
minds to mine. Whatever this is, I want you to hear it, 
too." As she felt their thoughts join her own, she closed 
her eyes and concentrated all her power on the faint and 
faraway whisper of thought. 
When Aurian stretched forth her consciousness toward 
the distant cry, the mental voice seemed to leap toward 
her, as though the caller had been shut away in another 
room, and a door had suddenly been opened between the 
two. The summoner sounded desperate now, and close to 
tears. 
"Here I am." Aurian cut through the anguished pleading. 
"Who are you?" 

"Lady Aurian? Is it really you? Oh, thank the gods! I 
didn't think I'd ever find you. Lady—it's me, Zanna. 
Vannor's daughter…" 
"What? How in the world have you managed to reach me 
like this?" 
"Through a crystal, Lady. The ones you used to summon 
the servants in the Academy. I disguised myself as a 
servant and came here to spy on the Magefolk, but now 
the Archmage has captured Dad…" 
With mounting horror, Aurian listened to Zanna's story. 
How long had it been, she wondered guiltily, since she 
had spared even a thought for Vannor? She had always 
been fond of the merchant, and the thought of him, 
helpless and suffer ing in the cruel hands of Miathan and 
Eliseth, made her blood run cold. And as for Zanna… 
The Mage was utterly staggered by the courage and 
daring the young girl had shown— and appalled to 
discover that she herself had set the example that 
Vannor's daughter had been trying to follow. Why, she's 
little more than a child, thought the Mage—and was 
rapidly forced to revise her opinion as Zanna told her 
how Janok had met his end. 
"But someone may discover that he's missing at any 
time," Zanna finished, "and I've got to get Dad out 
tonight— there'll never be another chance. But how can I 
get him out of the Mages' Tower, and even if I do, what 
then? Dad told me there's a way out through the tunnels 

underneath the library, but the door to the archives is 
always locked, and I can't get in—" 
"Yes, you can," Aurian told her quickly, "and I'll tell you 
how to do it. But keep the crystal with you, just in case 
you need to speak with me again—and, besides," she 
added with a smile, "I'll want to know how everything 
works out. Now listen carefully, Zanna. This is what you 
must do…" 
When she had completed her instructions to the girl, 
Aurian took leave of Zanna with some misgivings. She 
had tried to remain encouraging and positive, but in her 
heart she knew there was a great deal that could go 
wrong with Vannor's escape. 
"Try not to worry too much," Anvar told her. "You've 
done all you can, and Zanna lacks neither common sense 
nor courage. Imagine, a young lass like that killing 
Janok!" His eyes lit up with savage joy, and Aurian 
remembered how he had suffered at the brutal head 
cook's hands—and how, indeed, his ordeal had led to 
their own meeting. 
Before she had time to reply, however, her thoughts were 
knocked out of her head by a stentorian mental bellow 
loud enough to rattle her brains within her skull. 
"Aurian—quick! Your misbegotten Horsefolk are 
shooting at us!" The voice that roared through the Mage's 
mind had come from Shia. 
"Damn and blast them!" Almost before the words had 

passed her lips, Aurian had returned Wolf to his foster 
parents and was out of the chamber with Anvar a split 
second behind her. Chiamh came groping after them as 
quickly as he could manage, but he had more sense than 
to call on them to wait. Instead, he hammered on the door 
of Parric's chambers to warn the Herdlord of impending 
trouble. Parric and Sangra, luckily not yet the worse for 
ale, came out at once, followed by a tousled Iscalda, 
rubbing sleepy eyes. Schiannath and Yazour, however, 
were nowhere to be found. 
The Mages had scarcely reached the bottom of the 
stairway when they were halted by an urgent warning 
from the Moldan: "Wizards—beware. The Xandim have 
taken up arms against you and the Herdlord. They 
already hold the outer doors and are heading this way 
even as we speak." 
Anvar muttered a livid curse. As one, the two Mages 
dodged back upstairs, barring the door behind them. 
Already, Aurian was in contact with Shia: the cats, 
relying on their night-vision, had managed, so far, to 
dodge the arrows and had retreated partway up the cliff 
path. Apparently the Xandim bowmen were trying to 
pluck up enough courage to pursue them—a foolhardy 
business in the daylight, let alone in darkness. The Mage 
quickly told Shia what was happening within the fastness 
and warned her friend not to come any closer. "If they 
keep after you, head for Chiamh's valley— once you've 

passed the standing stones, they won't dare follow you 
farther." 
"Only if there's no alternative," Shia insisted. "I want to 
be near enough to help if you need me." 
On the first landing they met Chiamh and the others, 
looking grim. "Schiannath and Yazour are somewhere 
within the fastness," the Windeye told the Mages. "They 
must be found and warned—if it's not already too late." 
"It is not," the Moldan told those who could hear him. 
"They went to the stillrooms by the back route. As yet 
they are undiscovered." 
When Chiamh passed on the message, Iscalda shouldered 
her way forward. "I will go. Schiannath is my brother." 
"Wait." Anvar stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I'll 
go. Basileus can guide me to them." Seeing Aurian 
opening her mouth to volunteer, he was quick to forestall 
her. "No, love. I'm the obvious choice—you're still 
recouping your energy after being wounded and then 
fighting on Steelclaw. I'll be much quicker on my own." 
Aurian scowled. "Blast you," she muttered. "I hate it 
when you're right. Take care, then—and hurry back." She 
went with him to the bottom of the stairs and hugged him 
hard before letting him out. Reluctantly, she closed the 
door and dropped the heavy bar into place, hoping 
fervently that he would be all right. "Basileus?" she 
called. "You take good care of Anvar, do you hear me?" 
"Have no fear, Wizard— Iwill do what I can," the 

Moldan replied. "But now you must organize your own 
defense. Anvar is not the only one in danger." 
Schiannath had been showing Yazour around the vaults 
beneath the stillrooms and, in particular, that part of the 
network of cellars where the Xandim stored their 
supplies of ale and mead. Though the actual kitchens of 
the massive building were very basic, because the 
Horsefolk preferred to do most of their cooking—and 
eating, for that matter—in the open air, each wandering 
band was expected to supply a tithe of the fruits of their 
hunting and gathering to be stored in the fastness, to feed 
those, such as the old and the sick, who dwelt within. 
These inhabitants, who usually could not hunt for 
themselves, worked to preserve the food so that a store of 
provisions was always on hand for emergencies such as 
drought or siege. 
The old folk were also the brewers of the tribe, trading 
the results of their labors for other necessities from the 
hunters and craftsmen. Their stocks of liquor, though 
generally unguarded, were carefully tallied and fairly 
distributed in a system of barter that most of the Xandim 
were content to honor. Nevertheless, when Schiannath 
and Yazour, sitting swapping battle yarns late into the 
night, had run out of ale, the former outlaw had not 
thought twice about an expedition to the vaults to 
"liberate" some more. Had Yazour but known it, this was 

just the sort of misdemeanor that had always been getting 
his friend into trouble with the Elders and the Herdlord in 
Schiannath's younger days. 
Despite the Xandim's airy assurances that there was 
nothing to worry about, Yazour felt a creeping sense of 
disquiet as they eased open the great trapdoor in the back 
of the farthest stillroom, and ventured down the flight of 
smooth stone steps that led into the vaults. At first, he 
simply decided that the ale he had already consumed was 
inflaming his imagination. It was cold underground, and 
the air had a dry, dead, heavy feel. As they walked along 
the low, arched passage at the bottom, the stealthy patter 
of their footfalls echoed over and over against the 
rounded walls, until they were surrounded by a sound 
like the beating of hundreds of soft wings. The amber 
flame of the torch that flickered in Schiannath's upraised 
hand chased the silver veining in the stone with threads 
of gold, and sent their shadows leaping up the curving 
walls like Beings with a life of their own, reminding 
Yazour most unpleasantly of Aurian's blood-chilling tales 
of the Death-Wraiths. 
With every step he took, the young captain's sense of 
unease was growing. At first he put it down to the 
uncomfortable, closed-in feeling of being underground, 
with the awareness of the gigantic mass of stone above 
his head; but when he and his companion reached the 
place where the vaults opened out around them into a 

maze of interconnecting cellars divided by great arches 
of pillared stone, his warrior's sense of unseen danger 
increased. Anyone—or anything, he thought 
uncomfortably—could hide in this labyrinth of chambers, 
and sneak up on its prey unseen. 
"The food comes first." Schiannath's whisper made 
Yazour jump like a startled rabbit. "They store the ale 
farther within," the Xandim continued, oblivious to the 
effect he was having on his friend's overstretched nerves. 
"They hope that we outsiders will get lost before we find 
it," he chuckled. 
As he walked on through the cobwebbed, cavemlike 
chambers stacked haphazardly with barrels, chests and 
sacks, Yazour inwardly mocked himself for being such 
an old granny. Look at Schiannath, he told himself. He 
isn't scared of the dark! His attempt to buoy his faltering 
courage was singularly unsuccessful. Try as he would, he 
could not shake the crawling between his shoulder blades 
that told him he was the target of unseen eyes. But 
having followed his companion so far now, there was no 
way he could retreat without looking like a cowardly 
fool—and he would rather die than lose face before 
Schiannath—and, more importantly, before Schiannath's 
sister, when she should come to hear the tale. The sooner 
they found the wretched ale, the sooner they could be 
gone—and so Yazour clenched his jaw, loosened his 
sword in his sheath, and continued to follow the Xandim. 

Then out of nowhere came a puff of wind, and the torch 
went out. Darkness fell around them, so thick and heavy 
that it seemed as though some god had dropped a velvet 
cloak across the world. 
"Plague take it!" Schiannath cursed, his words drowning 
his companion's gasp of shock. Yazour, fighting panic, 
could hear the Xandim swearing softly as he groped for 
flint and striker—and then a tiny, metallic clatter as one 
or both implements fell to the floor. 
"You clumsy fool," Yazour hissed in a ferocious whisper, 
groping in his tunic for his own fire-making tools with 
hands that trembled. In the Reaper's name, where had he 
stowed that blasted flint? He couldn't stand the way this 
darkness pressed in on him—and without some form of 
light they stood little chance of finding their way out of 
the cellars at all. 
Schiannath, it seemed, had been thinking along similar 
lines. "Well, at least we won't starve down here," he 
muttered. 
The grim humor did much to restore Yazour's courage. 
"If we could only find that accursed ale, it wouldn't 
matter how long we had to stay. Which is just as well," 
he added sheepishly, "since the idiot who called you a 
fool seems to have left his fire-making gear in his other 
tunic." 
Schiannath burst out laughing. Yazour felt a hand brush 
his sleeve in the darkness, and then his companion's 

strong, warm fingers tightly clasped his own. 
"It won't do to get separated," the Xandim said softly. 
"Now I'm going to move to my left, until we find a wall 
to guide us…" Using the wall to navigate, they turned 
themselves around and began the hopeless business of 
trying to backtrack their way through the cellars. 
It was hard to keep track of time in the darkness. It 
seemed to Yazour that they had been groping their way 
blindly forward for hours—though he knew, from his 
lack of hunger and thirst and the reserves of strength he 
still possessed, that it could not be possible. Nonetheless, 
when he caught the first faint, faraway glimpses of 
torchlight bobbing enticingly ahead of him in the depths 
of the vaults, he could have fallen on his knees and wept 
with gratitude. A hoarse, glad cry from Schiannath 
proved that the Xandim had seen them, too. As one, still 
clasping each other's hands, the two rushed forward 
together, yelling to attract attention. Yazour and 
Schiannath only discovered that they had drawn the 
wrong kind of attention to themselves when they ran 
headlong into a ring of bristling steel. 
Anvar heard the thud of the bar dropping back into place 
behind him, and shivered. Suddenly he felt very 
exposed— and very much alone. "You and your bloody 
heroics," he muttered to himself. Turning to his left, he 
sped off down the passage on flying feet. The sooner he 
got back behind the dubious security of that thick oak 

door, the better he'd feel. 
With the help of Basileus, the Mage found his way 
through the snarl of torchlit corridors that branched like 
arteries within the heart of the fastness. The farther he 
went, the narrower, dustier, and less well lit the passages 
became, until he needed his night-vision and was forced 
to slow his pace because of the worn and cracked stone 
floor. In the same way that he had once guided Chiamh 
through his ventilation ducts, the Moldan sent a slip of 
glowing vapor ahead to mark the route at every 
intersection; but Anvar still found himself thinking 
ungratefully that the Earth-Elemental could have made 
his innards a great deal less complex. The Mage's own 
innards churned with tension even as he ran. Though 
Basileus had promised to warn him of the proximity of 
any armed foes, he was half expecting to run into trouble 
around every bund corner. After what seemed an age, he 
had still not reached a turning that he recognized. "Are 
you sure this is the right way?" he demanded of Basileus. 
"I am taking you through the old back corridors," the 
Moldan replied testily. "Unless you would prefer the 
quicker route—which is swarming with Xandim 
warriors." 
"In that case, this route is fine—so long as we get there in 
time." 
"We are too late to prevent your companions from being 

captured, but as yet they are unharmed. They were 
followed to the vaults and ambushed there, for I had no 
way to warn them. I tried to conceal them by blowing out 
their torch, but, alas, it only made them walk right into 
the hands of their captors, believing they were being 
rescued." The Moldan sighed. "The mistake was mine," 
he confessed. "The ways of Mortals are still strange to 
me—though I believe that ultimately my interference has 
made little difference. Yazour and Schiannath are being 
held under guard in the stillrooms until the rest of you 
have been taken." 
"What? Why the blazes didn't you warn me they had 
been captured?" Anvar protested. 
"I am warning you." Basileus sounded completely 
unruffled. "To worry you sooner would have served no 
purpose. Now, Wizard—stop and pay attention. The next 
two turnings will bring us to the stillrooms. You must 
prepare yourself to fight." 
In the stairwell of the turret, Aurian and her companions 
were also preparing themselves. She and Parric were 
guarding the door, listening with mounting dismay to the 
growing clamor of hostile voices on the other side. 
Already, their surrender had been demanded, and denied. 
Sangra and Iscalda waited with drawn swords farther up 
the staircase, while Bohan remained in the Mages' 
chamber guarding Wolf. The Windeye was sitting 

slumped like a rag doll on the bottom step, his spirit gone 
from his body to ride on the slip of draft that blew around 
the edges of the oaken door, as he watched the enemy 
assemble on the other side. 
"Lady, they are armed with swords, bows and axes." His 
voice echoed hollowly in Aurian's mind. "They carry 
torches, too. We cannot hold them off for 
long—especially not if they use fire. We must prepare to 
flee." 
Aurian gritted her teeth. "Curse you, Chiamh, I'm not 
fleeing anywhere. Not without Anvar." Beside her she 
felt the cavalrymaster stiffen, and before he had a chance 
to open his mouth, she snarled: "Whatever it is, Parric, I 
don't want to hear it." 
Chiamh's eyes snapped open as he returned to his body. 
"I do not propose that we abandon Anvar. Nonetheless, 
we must prepare," he told her firmly. "Our only possible 
exit from this trap is the way the animals take—across 
the plank and onto…" 
Aurian's blood ran cold at the thought of that fragile 
makeshift bridge, and the narrowness of the fingerhold 
ledges and crumbling goat trails beyond. Her curses 
drowned out the rest of Chiamh's words—and were 
drowned in their turn by the crunch of an ax blade biting 
deep into the door. Before anyone had time to react, the 
panels juddered beneath another heavy blow. 
"Come out, you traitorous freak, before I come in to get 

you and those skulking Outland scum that you've 
befriended." 
A third splintering crash sent a thin crack snaking down 
the wooden panel. 
Chiamh's mild brown eyes sparked bright with anger. 
"Galdrus! I might have guessed," the Windeye muttered. 
"Come out, indeed! We'll see about that." His eyes flared 
silver as he twisted the whistling draft to form an illusion 
and strained to project it simultaneously to the other side 
of the door. 
The Mage, in the meantime, was projecting her own 
thoughts—to seek the minds of the wolves upstairs. 
Quickly she projected an image of their danger, followed 
by a series of mental pictures that showed them picking 
up Wolf and taking him across the bridge, up the cliffs, 
and across the plateau to the cats in the safety of 
Chiamh's vale. So long as they were quick enough to 
dodge the eunuch, they would be aft right, and she knew 
that Bohan, who had always vied with them jealously for 
the care of her son, would follow the wolves to 
safety—though (she prayed to all the gods) he would not 
be quick enough to catch them. 
As an afterthought, she made brief contact with Shia, 
who, as Aurian had suspected, was still waiting with 
Khanu at the top of the cliff path. 
"Are you mad?" the great cat muttered when the Mage 
had explained her plan. "Oh, never mind—I'll come 

down to help them, before that clumsy great ox falls off 
the cliff or chops someone's head off by mistake. Khanu 
will guard the cliff path—though your chickenhearted 
grass eaters have shown no signs of approaching us so 
far." 
Shia and the eunuch had always shared a special bond, 
and Aurian felt easier in her mind knowing that the cat 
was on hand to guide and help him. Having done the best 
she could for Wolf and Bohan, she stifled a pang of fear 
for the eunuch, who would be forced to scale those 
perilous cliffs in darkness, and turned back to assist 
Chiamh, who was clearly struggling with difficulties of 
his own. 
Bohan was standing, rigid with tension, near the door of 
the Mages' chamber, straining his ears for a hint of sound 
from the stairwell that would let him know what was 
happening two floors below. His sword, clutched in one 
enormous hand, looked like a toy against his massive 
bulk as he guarded the wolves who protected Aurian's 
son. 
From their den beneath the table, two pairs of eyes, 
flashing green with reflected firelight, observed the 
eunuch even as he watched them. The she-wolf crouched 
slightly behind her mate, shielding the cub that was their 
charge. It was not such an easy task as it seemed. In the 
past few days Wolfs eyes had opened properly, and he 
had turned into a small gray bundle of curiosity, 

exploring his surroundings on stubby, unsteady legs with 
the relentless fervor of all new creatures. And like all 
new creatures who have been cosseted and protected 
from birth, he had no idea now of the danger that faced 
him. He could recognize the shape and scent of Bohan, 
familiar and loved, who stood nearby, and he wanted to 
play. Time and again he tried to escape his guardian and 
reach the eunuch, and repeatedly the she-wolf stopped 
him with a firm paw and a soft but warning growl, 
making the cub whimper in frustration. 
Bohan stiffened at the sound of Wolfs distress. He'd 
always hated to relinquish reponsibility for the cub to its 
lupine foster parents. Lacking Aurian's Mageborn facility 
for communicating with the wolves, he saw them only as 
dangerous wild animals, and did not trust them. The main 
flaw in his thinking—that Wolf himself was such a 
beast—he discounted. The cub was Aurian's son, 
enchanted, and one day he would be returned to human 
shape. If Bohan's beloved Lady said so, that was good 
enough for him. 
Wolf whimpered again, and the eunuch scowled, fighting 
the urge to scoop up the cub and put him safely in his 
deep tunic pocket, as he had so often done. He half 
stooped to peer beneath the table, and the male wolf met 
his approach with a warning snarl that made Bohan take 
a hasty step backward from sheer surprise. As a rule, the 
wolves seemed well aware of those with whom they 

shared their guardianship, and treated Aurian's 
companions as part of their new pack. 
With a sudden flash of bone-white fangs, the wolf leapt 
for the eunuch's throat. Bohan, already off balance, threw 
himself backward, his sword flailing fruitlessly at empty 
air as he fell. In an instant of blinding terror, he waited 
for the ripping teeth to sink into his flesh—but his 
attacker was no longer there. The she-wolf, with the cub 
dangling from her jaws by the loose fur on his neck, was 
dashing toward the open window, her mate a flashing 
silver shadow at her heels. In a bound, they reached the 
sill and were gone. 
Bohan's mind roared out the bellow of rage and anguish 
that his mute throat could not voice. Aurian had trusted 
him to protect her son and he had failed her. Without 
pausing to think of the consequences, he ran to the 
window and climbed out onto the slender makeshift 
bridge. 
A dew of sweat glittered on Chiamh's brow, reflecting 
the eldritch silver blaze of his eyes as he fought to 
maintain his phantasm on the other side of the door. He 
had given up his demon — they were far too familiar 
now with that apparition — in favor of an image of Shia, 
who stood snarling before the door with her long black 
tail lashing and her eyes flashing crimson fire above her 
bared and fearsome teeth. At first it had duped the hostile 

mob — he had heard their cries of fear and alarm through 
the thick wooden panels, and for some minutes now the 
ax blows on the door had ceased. But the deception 
couldn't last much longer. In order to maintain the 
illusion, he had to keep his mind within his body, but 
without being able to see what was on the other side of 
the panels, he had no idea of the accuracy of the image he 
projected, nor how he should make it act in response to 
what was taking place. It was extremely difficult, in any 
case, to work at all, let alone on such an ambitious scale, 
with the slender tendrils of draft that were the only air 
currents small enough to pass through the sides of the 
door frame. 
All too soon, they saw through the deception. There was 
a chorus of jeering yells and angry curses from the other 
side of the door, and suddenly the ax came smashing 
down again, to bite into the weakening wood. Muttering 
a vile oath that he had learned from Parric, Chiamh 
braced himself and tried once more. The phantasm was 
Aurian herself this time: her green eyes blazing and the 
Staff of Earth in her hand emitting bolts of emerald fire. 
Again, the Windeye heard the stifled sounds of a 
scrambled retreat — but his relief was short-lived. He 
leapt back with a curse, his illusion crumbling away to 
nothing as blows rained down on the door, which was 
beginning to splinter under the repeated assaults. Now 
what? 

The Windeye felt a cool hand on his arm and turned to 
find himself face-to-face with Aurian. Her presence 
startled him — he had been concentrating so hard that he 
had forgotten she was there. "Here — let me help." The 
Mage raised her hand, her eyes narrowed in 
concentration — and the thunder of ax blows ceased. 
There was a sudden, ominous silence on the other side of 
the door. 
"What did you do?" Chiamh gasped. 
"I took your would-be woodman out of time." Her eyes 
glittered in the gloom with a dangerous light. "That 
should give them something to think about for a while." 
Chiamh sagged against the wall, realizing only now how 
much his previous efforts had exhausted him. "Couldn't 
you take them all out of time?" he ventured hopefully. 
"Just until we escape?" 
"Would that I could." Aurian shook her head regretfully. 
"I can only work the spell on one thing at a time, and 
within a very short distance. Once I had taken out a few 
of them, the rest would simply retreat out of range and 
wait to ambush us when we came out. We need Anvar to 
do more—with the Harp he has the power to freeze a 
number of enemies, as he did the other night. He left it 
behind, but it's attuned to him, as the Staff is to me. 
There are rules governing the use of the Artifacts. I can't 
wield it alone without wresting it from his control, and 
that's not only dangerous in itself, but for other reasons it 

is the last thing we would want to do. Anvar can make 
much better use of it than I can, and he'll probably have 
every opportunity, when he gets back." 
Their assailants had found their courage again. Both 
Mage and Windeye leapt back, retreating in a frantic 
scramble up the stairs, as a hail of arrows thudded into 
the door. "Blast them!" Aurian cried, as she heard the 
telltale crackle of flame. Already the smell of burning 
wood was drifting up the stairwell. Dark scorch marks 
were beginning to form around several spots where the 
heads of the flaming arrows had lodged in the wood, and 
thin skeins of smoke were drifting through the cracks in 
the door. Chiamh saw Aurian turn pale, and knew she 
must be thinking of Anvar trapped elsewhere within the 
fastness, and herself unable either to defend this one 
sanctuary against his return, or get out past the attackers 
to go to his aid. 
Parric grabbed the Mage roughly by the arm. "Come on," 
he yelled. "We can't defend this place now that the 
bastards are using fire. We've got to get out of here!" 
Chapter 13 - Through Earth 
This isn't going to be easy, Zanna warned herself as she 
crept out of the lower entrance to the servants' quarters 

and darted back across the broken flagstones toward the 
kitchen. Though her talk with the Lady Aurian had 
stiffened her courage and given her hope, the Mage had 
not been able to provide the food and sleep that she 
desperately needed. Zanna's mind was dulled; her limbs 
felt heavy with fatigue—but there could be no rest for her 
in the foreseeable future. The Lady could not be there to 
help her should she make a mistake or run into danger. 
She had only her own wits to rely on now. The hours 
before dawn would be brief indeed for all she had to 
do—and there was no guarantee that she would succeed 
at all. 
It took more courage than she had known she possessed 
for Zanna to go back into that kitchen with its uneasy 
sleepers—and, worse still, its lingering memories of 
Janok. Though she had taken the Mage's advice and 
replaced her torn, bloodstained rags with warmer clothes 
from the abandoned closets in the female servants' 
dormitory, she shivered with more than the cold as she 
carefully lifted the latch and opened the heavy door just 
enough to edge her slight body through the gap. 
The cavernous chamber was darker now, for the fires had 
burned down, but as Zanna slipped inside and closed the 
door behind her, she heard a sleepy, querulous mumble 
from the shadows near the hearth as one of the menials 
stirred and rolled over, disturbed by the sudden draft. 
Without thinking, she dived into the dank, dark space 

beneath the sinks and froze, heart hammering, her 
knuckles pressed tightly to her lips to still the sound of 
her breathing. Eventually the stretching silence reassured 
her that the sleeper had gone back to his dreams, but she 
waited a little longer, afraid of disturbing him again if 
she tried to move out of her bolt-hole. 
Remembering her previous lucky find of the knife 
beneath the sinks, Zanna groped cautiously around her in 
the darkness, but such good fortune could not be 
expected twice in one night. All she found beneath her 
fingers was greasy dirt, and the stiff remains of an 
ancient floorcloth. When she finally encountered a 
cluster of clinging cobwebs whose owner scuttled across 
the back of her hand before dropping to the floor, that 
finished it. She snatched her hand back with a shudder, 
biting her lip to stifle a scream, and decided it was about 
time she got moving—even though the small, detached 
voice of common sense that always lurked in the back of 
her mind was pointing out the irony of someone who'd 
had the courage to stick a knife into a man twice her size 
being afraid of a little spider. 
As she crept out of her hiding place and ghosted through 
the silent kitchen, Zanna went through the Lady Aurian's 
instructions in her mind. It was fortunate that she was 
sufficiently familiar with the contents and organization of 
the room to find what she wanted without a noisy search, 
or the need to risk a light. Nonetheless, she picked up a 

handful of candles and a tinderbox, knowing she would 
need them later. Moving as quickly as she dared, she 
took one of the shallow baskets that were often used to 
carry food and crockery to and from the Mages' Tower, 
dumped her candles inside, and added three goblets, 
wedging them carefully so that they would not rattle and 
clink. 
Crossing the kitchen to reach the pantry, where Janok 
kept (had kept, Zanna reminded herself with a shudder) 
his immediate supplies, was the worst part of the 
business. She had been dreading the moment when she'd 
be forced to pass close to the huddled sleepers near the 
hearth. Holding her breath, she crept carefully past them 
on tiptoe, gripping the handle of her basket so tightly that 
the twined wicker of the handle dug into her palms. Each 
time one of the humped figures near the fire turned in its 
blankets or sniffled or sighed in its sleep, she froze like a 
hunted animal, so that her progress was slow and 
achieved in a series of halts and scurries, like one of the 
mice that darted by night across the kitchen floor—the 
same mice whose frantic scamperings for cover she could 
hear when she finally gained the relative safety of her 
goal. 
It was pitch-black in the pantry, so she closed the door 
behind her and risked a candle, though it was difficult to 
strike a spark when her fingers shook so badly. Securing 
it to a shelf with a glob of dripped wax so that she could 

have both hands free, Zanna rummaged quickly among 
the stores for bread, cold meat and cheese, then checked 
the wooden racking beneath the shelves for wine. When 
the cool, smooth side of a flask met her questing fingers, 
she dumped it into her basket with the rest of her 
gleanings, blew out the candle, and left the mice to their 
feasting with greater sympathy for the little beasts than 
she had ever known before. Retracing the nerve-racking 
journey across the kitchen as quickly as she dared, she 
slipped back outside as silently as she had come, and 
ducked across the narrow alley to the infirmary that had 
once been Lady Meiriel's domain. 
For a dreadful moment, Zanna thought the door was 
locked, but a sturdy shove proved that its handle had 
simply stiffened from disuse. It shot open with a 
protesting groan and a bang that brought her heart into 
her throat. Damn, oh damn! Not in the dead hour of the 
night when the noise would carry. Not when she was so 
near the gatehouse… 
Zanna's inarticulate prayers were drowned by the clatter 
of running feet across the courtyard. Instinctively, she 
looked around for a place to hide, but there was nowhere 
to go except the infirmary—and that would only buy her 
worse trouble than she already had. An attempt to run at 
this point would get her an arrow in the back and no 
questions asked. 
And then it was too late for thinking. A massive shadow 

loomed in front of her, and she shrank back against the 
door frame with a cry of terror as the point of a sword 
was pressed against her throat. 
"Why, bugger me—it's a girl! Marek, stop standing there 
picking your nose, and bring that lantern over here." 
Zanna blinked as a dazzling light shone into her face. 
Beyond it, the two guards were still nothing but 
anonymous, hulking shadows. 
"Aren't you the Lady Eliseth's little maid?" the same 
voice demanded. "Thara's titties, girl—I bloody nearly 
gutted you for a prowler! What in all the festering hells 
are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" 
Almost absentmindedly the guard lowered his sword, and 
its absence came as such a relief to Zanna that she found 
her voice, and her wits, at last. "It wasn't my idea," she 
muttered, with just the right note of sullen resentment. 
"Lady Eliseth can't sleep, can she? So she hauls me out 
of bed—after I've been up half the night in any case 
ruining my eyes with her wretched sewing—and sends 
me down to fetch her something to eat." For proof, she 
held up her basket. 
"Listen, girl—I don't know what your game is, but the 
watch before we came on duty told us that the Lady had 
gone out just after midnight. She slipped past the 
gatehouse and never said nowt, but young Feddin saw 
her all right. And she hasn't come back while we've been 
on duty, so what do you have to say to that?" 

"You must have been asleep on watch, then," Zanna 
retorted brazenly. "Why, the Lady came back hours ago. 
Would you like to come up with me to the tower and 
explain that you didn't see her?" She stood rigid to keep 
her knees from trembling, and prayed to all the gods that 
they wouldn't be brave enough to catch her out in the lie. 
"I wouldn't if I were you," she added, seeing them 
hesitate. "She gets madder than a scalded weasel when 
she can't sleep." For good measure, she pushed back her 
hair from her face to let them see the bruises that Janok's 
fists had left. 
Fortunately, as she had guessed, these muscle-bound 
mercenaries were all very much in awe of the Weather- 
Mage's temper. 
"That's all very well, but what were you doing in the 
infirmary?" the other guard demanded, changing the 
subject hastily. 
Zanna sighed with relief. Here, at least, the truth—or 
almost the truth—would serve. "She wanted some herbs, 
to make a sleeping draft. And I'm late already, because I 
dropped my lantern in the courtyard and I didn't dare go 
back for another. Please—won't you help me find what 
she wants, so I can get back as quick as I can? The way 
she is tonight, I'm scared to keep her waiting." 
"Of course we will, lass," the first guard told her kindly. 
"I'm sorry we stopped you, like, but it's our job. Hey, 
Marek—give me that bloody lantern. The poor girl needs 

to see what she's doing, you know." 
Because the Lady Aurian's instructions had been very 
explicit, Zanna found the herbs she needed with little 
difficulty. Bidding a grateful farewell to the guards, she 
hurried back across the courtyard to the Mages' Tower on 
shaky legs. Gods, that had been a narrow escape—and 
the danger wasn't over yet. Why the blazes had the Lady 
Eliseth gone out tonight, of all nights? Now, Zanna could 
only pray that she'd have time to free her father before 
the Magewoman really did come back, and give the game 
away. 
Zanna had been glad to see the back of the two courtyard 
guards, but her relief was short-lived. The two unsavorylooking 
specimens who guarded Vannor's door in the 
tower sent her heart sinking into her shoes. Peering round 
the bend in the staircase, Zanna thanked her stars that she 
and the Lady Aurian had already come up with a plan to 
deal with this part of the escape, for there was no reason 
for the girl to be wandering around the upper stories of 
the Mages' Tower at this time of night. No reason, that 
is—except one. Zanna took a deep breath, and stepped 
forward to climb the last curving flight of steps to the 
landing. 
"Could you two handsome, hard-working gentlemen use 
some wine to cheer your night? I brought it for Lady 
Eliseth, but she's asleep—and we wouldn't want to waste 
it, would we?" Zanna held out her basket hopefully. 

Since she had never in her life tried to be coquettish, and 
was forced to take her example from the antics of the 
kitchen maids—and memories of the way her elder sister 
used to behave with boys— she could only hope it came 
out right. 
Zanna's knowledge of soldiers was as scant as her 
experience of flirting, or she would have been less 
surprised at the success of her ruse. When it came to an 
offer of wine, the purveyor would need to be a whole lot 
plainer than herself to be rejected. As it was, the faces of 
the soldiers who guarded Vannor's door lit up like 
beacons. They were an unprepossessing pair, the first a 
mangy bear of a man covered as far as the eye could see 
in a mat of curling red hair. The second, smaller and 
wiry, might have been handsome once, but his face was 
disfigured down one side by a ragged red scar that 
twisted his mouth awry. That in itself was not so bad, 
thought Zanna—but his eyes were cold and narrow, with 
the feral, pitiless gaze of a man who lived to kill. 
At least the big ruddy-haired guard was smiling. "Why, 
that's a kind thought, little lass," he said, reaching 
greedily for the flask. 
"Just a minute," the other, more suspicious but less quick 
on the uptake, cut in. "Why in the name of all the gods 
should some skirt be bringing us food and wine at this 
time of night?" 
"Not because she fancies you, that's for sure," his 

companion jeered. "Why d'you think, you idiot?" He took 
a long swig from the flask. "It gets lonely down in them 
servants' quarters, doesn't it, my pet?" He turned to Zanna 
with a lewd wink. 
"Oho," said the small man, catching on at last. "Don't hog 
the lot, then." He made a grab at the flask. "I'm sure the 
little lass can't have meant it all for an ugly old bastard 
like you." 
"Help yourself. It tastes a bit off to me—but I suppose it's 
just the sort of horse's piss that these Magefolk bastards 
would like." The big guard handed over the flask and 
wiped his mouth. "I'm more of a beer man, myself," he 
added. Just as Zanna was reflecting that she needn't have 
bothered looking for the goblets, she found herself swept 
up in a pair of hairy, brawny arms. "And a woman's 
man," the guard went on, leering into her face. 
Zanna gritted her teeth, forced herself not to struggle, 
and, from somewhere or other, managed to dredge up a 
smile. "We'll have to see about that, won't we?" she 
replied—and wondered how she could keep her voice 
steady as she felt his hand creep up beneath her skirts. 
"Here, hold on!" A rough hand grabbed her arm and spun 
her away from her admirer. "What about my turn, you 
stinking sack of dung!" The second guard, scowling 
darkly, thrust the flask of wine into his companion's 
hand. "Here—you didn't have much," he said with mock 
generosity. "You finish it, while I get acquainted with the 

little lady." Forcing Zanna against the wall, he covered 
her face with slobbering kisses while she fought against 
nausea and forced herself to keep still and endure it. 
"Rot you!" The first guard drained the flask and flung it 
away to crash against the wall. "Give her back, you poxridden 
little bastard. I had her first!" With a meaty hand 
that covered most of the smaller man's shoulder, he 
pulled his rival away. 
The little killer grunted a curse and went for his knife, 
and Zanna seized the moment to wriggle free. "Quiet!" 
she hissed. "Do you want to bring the Magefolk down on 
us?" 
As the thought penetrated what passed for their brains, 
the guards stopped grappling and turned to gape at her 
sheepishly. Zanna forced another smile. "There's no need 
for all this fighting," she said winningly. "Why, we have 
the rest of the night in front of us." 
"What a clever little lass you are," the big guard beamed. 
"Come on, lovey—what about a kiss for me?" He 
reached out to embrace her—and toppled, choking, with 
his rival's knife between his shoulder blades. 
The man with the killer eyes planted a booted foot in the 
other's back and wrenched his knife out of the body. 
"And now we have all night—just the two of us." 
Clutching the bloody blade, he advanced on Zanna, 
grinning nastily as she backed away. "Don't be shy, little 
lass. To start with, let's see what you're like under all 

those clo—" 
Suddenly, his eyes glazed over. "Gods, what's 
happening? You bitch, you've poisoned me…" He 
staggered and went down like a felled tree as the handful 
of powdered herbs that Zanna had dumped into the wine 
took effect at last. 
Zanna slumped against the wall, breathing deeply, until 
the dizziness cleared from her brain and the urge to throw 
up was under control. Then, stooping swiftly, she 
scrabbled at the belt of the big, ruddy-haired guard, 
searching for his keys—her task made all the more 
difficult because she couldn't bring herself to look at him. 
A lecherous fool he might have been, but he'd seemed 
harmless enough—after all, her behavior had seemed like 
an open invitation—and he had spoken to her kindly. 
Now he was dead, and it was all her fault. "I didn't want 
this. I only meant to drug them," she muttered helplessly, 
but it did nothing to erase the sick sense of guilt that rose 
up to choke her. 
To confound her expectations, there was no ring of keys 
on the guard's belt, but after a fair amount of cursing and 
a further rummage through the dead man's pockets, 
Zanna finally found what she sought. Praying that it 
really was the right key, she fitted it into the lock—and 
sagged with relief as it turned over with a click. She took 
the key with her as she glided silently into the room 
beyond, and closed the door behind her. 

There was no light in the living chamber save a cluster of 
dull rubies that must be the dying embers in the hearth. 
Zanna, familiar with the placement of the furnishings, 
crossed over to the table and lit a candle—but what she 
saw there in the growing light sent her reeling backward 
with a stifled cry of horror. The once-smooth wood of the 
tabletop had been gouged and splintered, and its surface, 
like the floor below, was stained and spattered with rusty 
smears of blood. "No," she whispered, stricken. "Oh, 
dear gods, no!" Surely, after everything that had 
happened—after all she'd been through—she couldn't be 
too late? 
Zanna fought the most difficult battle of her life not to 
run right then. She didn't want to know, couldn't bear to 
see what might await her in the next room. Yet she had to 
know: she couldn't risk not knowing. "Don't be a bloody 
fool," she snarled angrily at herself. "Would the Lady 
Aurian turn tail like a coward and run?" Holding on to 
the thought of the Mage for courage, she picked up the 
candle—ignoring the stinging drops of hot wax that 
spilled across her shaking hand—and walked resolutely 
into the bedchamber. 
He lay across the bed like a broken toy with limbs askew, 
his body limp and unmoving and his sunken face a 
ghastly, ashen gray. Blood streaked the green silk 
coverlet where it had seeped from a bundle of inexpertly 

wrapped rags that were bound around his right hand. Try 
as she would, Zanna could see no movement of breath 
beneath the gory ruin of his shirt. Try as she would, she 
could not make herself approach him. "Dad," she tried to 
whisper, but the word could not struggle past the choking 
constriction in her throat. She took a hesitant step toward 
him, and another, but it seemed the very air had turned 
solid to resist her. 
"Dad—oh, Dad!" With no memory of how she had come 
to be there, she found herself kneeling by the bed and sob 
bing brokenheartedly into the cool silk of the quilt. Once 
released, her tears could not be stemmed. Without a 
thought for her own danger, Zanna abandoned herself to 
her grief, her body shuddering with great, racking sobs as 
she mourned the father she had come too late to save. 
"What… Who… Zanna?" 
But it wasn't the voice that first penetrated her grief—it 
was the cold, weak hand that stroked and rumpled her 
tousled hair. Zanna sprang backward with a yelp of 
shock, stumbled, and sat down hard on the floor. She 
looked up to see her father, propped weakly on one 
elbow, squinting blearily down at her. 
"It is Zanna. What are you doing here?" he croaked. "I 
thought I was dreaming…" 
"I thought you were dead!" Zanna cried, still half-afraid 
to approach him: not daring to believe that her dad was 
really there, and living, and talking to her. 

The ghost of a smile softened the merchant's haggard 
face. "No, love, I'm not—though the way I feel, I'd 
probably be better off." 
"Don't say that!" Zanna felt a surge of anger. "Damn it, if 
only you knew …" 
"I'm sorry." He reached out to hug her—and fell back 
limply, his face blanching bone-white with agony as he 
moved the injured hand. 
Zanna flew to his side, exerting all her strength to haul 
him up and prop him against the pillows. Sweat sprang 
out on his brow, and she saw him clench his teeth against 
crying out—so that, as he imagined, she wouldn't realize 
how much the movement hurt him. She hugged him as 
hard as she dared, so glad to see him that she wanted to 
weep again—but now that she knew he was still alive, 
there were priorities more urgent than rejoicing, more 
important even than finding out just what the Mages had 
done to him. There was so little time to spare, and hurt as 
her father was, how the blazes could she manage to get 
them both out of the Academy? 
"Is there any water?" Vannor whispered. 
Zanna ran to fetch a goblet and, as an afterthought, added 
a dash of strong spirits that she found in a flask on the 
night-stand nearby. She held it for Vannor as he drank, 
noting with some relief that a little of the color was 
returning to his face. "Dad," she told him urgently, "listen 
carefully. I've come to get you out of here—this is our 

one chance to escape, but we'll have to hurry. I've—" But 
the words stuck in her throat. How could she tell her dad, 
who still thought of her as his little girl, that she had 
killed two men tonight, and they must escape before the 
bodies were found? "Look," she temporized, "the Lady 
Eliseth has gone out into the city, but she could come 
back any minute, and we have no time to waste. If I 
helped you, do you think you could manage to walk?" 
The old well-remembered gleam lit her father's eyes. "To 
get out of this accursed pit of vipers? I'd crawl on my 
hands—" He swallowed the word as if it pained him. 
"Well, I'd crawl, anyway," he finished lamely. "Come on, 
lass—help me up. And bring that brandy with you, if you 
can carry it. We might need it before we're done, if only 
to keep me going." He grinned at her as though she were 
another man, a comrade in arms, and Zanna's heart 
swelled with pride. "I do take it," he added, "that having 
achieved this much, you have a plan to get us out of 
here?" 
"Blast it!" Zanna struck her forehead with her open palm. 
"I almost forgot about the bloody key!" 
"Zanna!" Vannor's reproof was a father's instinctive 
reaction. "You never learned that kind of language from 
me!" 
"Yes I did, though," Zanna chuckled—but as her head 
was buried, at the time, in the depths of the Lady 
Aurian's closet, she doubted that he'd hear her. She 

rummaged quickly through the folded clothing within, 
until she found a faded old gray robe, such as the 
Magefolk wore. Pulling it out of the stack, she dipped her 
hand into the pocket as the Lady Aurian had instructed 
her, and sighed with relief as her fingers closed around an 
intricate shape wrought of ice-cold metal. She pulled it 
out, and there it was, glittering in the candlelight—an 
intricate key that looked like a twisted filigree of 
polished silver. Aurian's key to the archives—and 
Zanna's key to freedom. 
She thought she would never get her father down the 
twisting staircase of the tower. To Zanna's overstrained 
nerves, the descent seemed to take forever. Even though 
he was clinging to the banister with his left hand and his 
daughter supported him with her shoulder beneath his 
arm on die other side, Vannor still stumbled occasionally, 
staggering like a drunken man. Time after time, she 
thought that he would send them both tumbling—and 
though the curve of the stairs would prevent them falling 
right to me bottom, she knew his injury would not 
withstand such a battering, and didn't want him passing 
out from the pain. Added to that danger was the everpresent 
risk of meeting the Lady Eliseth, coming back 
from wherever she had been. 
By the time they reached the bottom of the staircase, 
Zanna could have wept from a combination of relief and 

weariness. In addition to helping her father, she was 
hampered by the basket with its essential food, that she 
had picked up on the landing where she had left it beside 
the bodies—one sleeping, one dead—of the guards. It 
proved useful for carrying the two flasks, one of spirits 
and the other of water, that she'd dipped from the ewer in 
her father's rooms—but even with the wicker handle 
hooked into the crook of her elbow, the basket was 
clumsy and awkward to carry, and it effectively tied up 
the hand that she needed to hold on with, should Vannor 
fall. Already she was trembling from the strain of 
supporting her father's weight—and who knew how far 
they still had to go? 
As they crossed the threshold, the cold night air seemed 
to revive her—that and the escape from the oppressive 
atmosphere of the tower itself. Fortunately the journey 
across the courtyard to the library was not a long one, 
though it took much longer than it should have, at the 
slow and halting pace that was all Vannor was able to 
manage. The moon was almost dark and, in any case, had 
set long ago, so there was no light to betray the fugitives. 
No guards appeared to stop them, and no Lady Eliseth, 
terrifying in her wrath, leapt out of the shadows to 
demand an accounting of the two escaping Mortals. It 
was almost too good to be true; but Zanna, shivering in 
the predawn chill, had a sinking feeling in her bones that 
she had already stretched her luck about as far as it would 

go. She could not rely on it forever—or for long. 
The library, in darkness, was a maze of obstacles, and 
Zanna was forced to find the way to the inner door with 
only her memory as a guide. Time and again she heard 
Vannor's muffled curse, and felt him stagger as they 
collided with unseen hazards—tables, chairs, and 
protruding stacks of shelves. At least, she comforted 
herself, they would not have to worry about leaving a 
trail. The fastidious Lady Eliseth had been spending a 
good deal of time in the library lately, and had come up 
with a spell of Air to get rid of all the cobwebs and dust. 
When they reached the rear wall, Zanna was forced to 
leave her father resting while she groped her way along 
the wall with outstretched hands, feeling for the grille of 
wrought iron that was the archive gate. At last she found 
it, and fumbled for the lock plate by touch alone. After a 
desperate struggle to fit the key into its hole, Zanna felt 
the door swing open on its well-oiled hinges, making not 
the slightest sound to disturb the profound peace of 
knowledge's domain. Quickly, she groped her way back 
along the wall to fetch Vannor and found him by touch, 
slumped at the table where she'd left him. 
"Dad! Come on—you can't sleep now!" Though she 
shook him as hard as she could, it took him a long time to 
awaken. Mumbling a string of lurid curses that, had he 
been in full possession of his wits, he would have killed 
anyone else for speaking within his daughter's hearing, 

he staggered after her, dragging on her hand like a 
shipwreck victim clinging tightly to the one last floating 
spar. Zanna pushed him through into the archives ahead 
of her and, reaching through the metal grille, locked the 
door behind her and pocketed the key with an audible 
sigh of relief. 
It was not over yet, however. Despite the fact that they 
had escaped the Magefolk, for the time being at least, the 
worst was still before them—as Zanna soon found out. 
Dragging Vannor behind her, she groped her way 
through two turns of the passage before risking a 
light—but when she finally dared set a spark to one of 
her candles, she was glad she had waited no longer. The 
fragile flame revealed a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor 
with rough-hewn walls—and, not half a dozen paces in 
front of them, a steep stairway that plunged downward 
into who knew what depths of darkness. 
That was too much. Trembling at the narrowness of their 
escape, Zanna decided that she and her father could go no 
farther without rest—not if all the fiends of the infernal 
pit were howling at their heels. Vannor needed no 
convincing. Even in the time it had taken her to light the 
candle, he had slid down the wall into a huddled heap by 
her feet. Zanna cursed aloud. It's not fair, she thought 
wildly. Through most of her life, her dad had taken care 
of her. How had the tables suddenly turned? 
The thought reminded Zanna of the Lady Aurian. Had 

she, too, felt this hopeless rage, this sense of 
helplessness, when she had been forced to flee Nexis? 
Well, she managed, Zanna thought sturdily—and so can 
I. 
Nonetheless, it took a little time to revive her father. 
Fishing the single goblet from her basket, she mixed 
another measure of water and brandy and held it to his 
lips. The drink seemed to revive him—if only in part. 
Vannor spluttered, opened his eyes, and looked around 
him dazedly. "Where the bloody blazes are we?" 
"In the catacombs, below the library—at least we will be 
when we get down those stairs." Zanna fought the urge to 
clutch her father's sleeve. "Dad—I know you told me that 
the archives lead eventually to the sewers where you used 
to hide out, but do you know the way from here?" 
"No, lass." Vannor shook his head. "Not from up here. 
We should keep going down, that's all I know. Keep 
heading for the older parts and the colder parts—that's 
what Elewin said—until we reach a cave and a crack and 
a tunnel with a rotted iron ladder. It leads to the sewers, 
and then we're halfway out…" 
Wonderful, Zanna thought ruefully. That's a lot of help. 
Still, if we get lost down here, it should be beyond even 
the ken of the Magefolk to find us—and I'd rather suffer 
any fate than fall back into Eliseth's hands. 
Smothering a sigh, she hooked her basket back over her 
arm and picked up the candle in the same hand. Putting 

her free shoulder under Vannor's arm, Zanna helped her 
father struggle to his feet and, half leading, half 
supporting him, she guided him down the steps and into 
the unfathomable darkness that lay beyond. 
Chapter 14- Through Fire 
"How many guards are there?" Anvar asked the Moldan. 
"One round the corner, in the junction of the corridors," 
Basileus replied. "Two in the doorway, and the rest 
inside the stillroom guarding the prisoners—a dozen 
guards in all." 
"A dozen?" Anvar gasped in dismay. How would he deal 
with so many? Aurian, who had been taught by the 
world's greatest swordsman and had practiced the arts of 
combat for most of her life, might have considered such 
odds, but he knew his own limitations. But perhaps he 
could simply take them out of time… Even as he reached 
behind him for the Harp that was usually slung on his 
back, Anvar realized that in all the hurry and confusion 
he had left it behind in his chamber. He swore bitterly. 
How could he have been so stupid? And more to the 
point—what was he going to do now? 
"Fear not, Wizard," the Moldan told him. " I will arrange 
a diversion. Be ready to act when I give the word." 

Anvar flattened himself against the wall and waited, 
swallowing to ease a throat gone dry with nervousness. 
Even as he tightened his grip on a sword hilt that felt cold 
and slippery in his hand, he could feel with his Mage's 
senses, the tingling pulse of life through the silver 
veining in the smooth, dark stone that pressed against his 
shoulders. How in the world, he wondered, was Basileus 
going to distract the guards? What could an inanimate 
being such as the Moldan do to affect the outcome of the 
impending fight? It took all of Anvar's self-control not to 
leave his body right there and then and send his 
consciousness ahead up the passageway to see what was 
happening. He knew better, however, than to make such 
a stupid error. What if more of the rebel Xandim should 
come this way while his body was unoccupied? No—he 
would have to trust Basileus, bide his time, and wait. 
Schiannath could barely contain his anger at the base 
treachery of his compatriots. Even though he was 
helpless—lying, bound hand and foot, next to the 
stillroom wall—it did not stop his mind from struggling 
against his fate. Blood kept dripping down into his eyes 
from a cut in his forehead, and he was bruised and aching 
from the blows of fists and feet, for he and Yazour had 
sold their freedom dearly. But Schiannath was less 
concerned with his hurts than with the gut-wrenching 
fear of being captured and imprisoned, once again, by his 

own people. His return from exile had been like waking 
from the terrors of an evil dream—and now, it seemed, 
the nightmare was starting all over again. What would 
they do to him this time? 
In an effort to control the panic that rose up in him like 
choking bile, Schiannath distracted his frantic thoughts 
by trying to make sense of what was happening. Why 
had the Xandim rebelled against Parric now? Even if the 
Herdlord was an Outlander, he had won his Challenge 
fairly by all accounts—and what was more, he had 
promised to relinquish his rule once his companions had 
been rescued. With the dark of the moon bringing the 
chance of a new leader tomorrow night, what was to be 
gained by this uprising? Was it really so important, this 
Xandim tradition that all aliens must die? As far as 
Schiannath was concerned, the oddly assorted band of 
northerners and their companions had been better friends 
to him than any of his own race—with the exception of 
Iscalda, of course. 
Iscalda! What was happening to his sister now? It was a 
safe assumption that he and Yazour were not the only 
victims of this cowardly attack. What had become of 
Anvar, and Aurian, who had earned his undying gratitude 
for being the one to lead him, all too briefly it seemed, 
back to the acceptance of his people? Had they been 
ambushed, even as he and Yazour had been? Had they 
been captured? Were they hurt— or even dead? 

What did the Xandim have against these Outlanders? 
Why did they hate anyone who did not belong to their 
own tribe? Then Schiannath thought of Chiamh, who was 
one of the Xandim—and yet, before he had learned 
better, the former outlaw had feared and mistrusted the 
Windeye as greatly as anyone else in his tribe. 
Schiannath looked up at the faces of his guards, who 
laughed and joked among themselves to fan the bright, 
false flames of their courage. He sensed fear in their 
studied indifference, their refusal even to acknowledge 
the presence of Yazour and himself—and knew it for an 
irrational, gut-level fear of any person or thing that was 
unknown or unpredictable, or even simply different. 
Curse them all! Schiannath could not believe that this 
could be happening to him—not again—not so soon after 
the last time. The unfairness of it all made him burn with 
anger. Half-blind with rage, he struggled against the 
rough thongs that held him, scoring and abrading the 
tender skin of his wrists. But they had bound him 
tightly—they knew their job too well. 
A movement caught the edge of his vision, and 
Schiannath turned his head to see Yazour also fighting to 
free himself. As their eyes met, the wild hope flashed 
through his mind that if they could stealthily move closer 
to one another, they might be able to untie each other's 
bonds. But one look at their guard—a stranger to 
Schiannath—withered that plan before it even had time 

to take root. Standing close to the prisoners with his 
sword out of its sheath, he never took his eyes from 
them—not even for an instant. Schiannath ground his 
teeth and swore softly to himself. By the Goddess—there 
had to be something he could do! 
Suddenly a cloud of greasy black smoke came billowing 
out of the empty fireplace, filling the room with an acrid 
haze. Schiannath stiffened as his guards cried out in 
alarm. Was there a way to take advantage of their 
distraction? But all such considerations were quickly 
forgotten as more smoke— more and more—kept 
pouring out of the dark void of the stillroom hearth, and 
the chamber was obscured by a heavy, choking miasma 
that clung to everything it touched. Though he and 
Yazour were closer to the ground than their captors and 
were therefore getting less of the noxious smoke, he 
could feel it attacking his own lungs now. His eyes began 
to sting and water as he fought, wheezing and gasping, 
for a breath that he could not take. 
"Now!" The voice of the Moldan resounded loudly in 
Anvar's mind. Taking a tighter grip on both his courage 
and his sword, Anvar rushed around the corner—only to 
find the corridor beyond quite empty of guards. The 
reason for their absence became clear a moment later, 
when he saw the clouds of smoke that were billowing out 
of the stillroom door, and heard the curses and panic

stricken cries that came from within. 
"You've set the place on fire?" he asked the Moldan, 
aghast. 
"No, Wizard—it is only smoke." 
Anvar took as deep a breath as he could manage while 
the air was still clear and braced himself to rush forward 
down the passage. 
"Wait." 
Anvar ducked back around the corner with a curse. Just 
when he'd got his nerve up to go… "What now?" he 
demanded irritably. 
"Remember that you are a Wizard—and skilled in the 
magic of Air," Basileus pointed out with a trace of 
amusement. "You, of all people, need not breathe the 
smoke." 
"Plague take it! I should have thought of that," Anvar 
muttered. With care, he constructed a shield of energy 
around himself that would permit clean air, but not the 
noxious smoke, to pass through. Thus equipped, he set 
off again down the corridor. 
"I should hurry if I were you," Basileus prompted. "With 
regard to the smoke, I might have let my enthusiasm get 
the better of me." 
The Mage didn't need telling twice. Already, great black 
billows were rolling out of the stillroom doorway and 
obscuring the passage. Erupting out of the dark cloud 
came several running figures, who almost knocked Anvar 

off his feet as they pounded past. Evidently the Xandim 
guards had given up trying to deal with the smoke, and 
were beating a hasty retreat. Though he was glad to have 
them out of the reckoning, their panic boded ill for 
Yazour and Schiannath. Anvar broke into a run. 
It was impossible to see anything inside the stillroom. 
Not even the night-vision of a Mage could pierce the 
dark, obscuring clouds. Much as he wanted to call out to 
the two captives, Anvar forced himself to remain silent. 
He had no idea whether or not there were any guards left 
in the stillroom, and the last thing he needed was to draw 
the wrong sort of attention to himself. Following the 
sounds of coughing, retching, and one weak voice (he 
could not tell whose) that cried for help, he groped his 
way across the room, tripping over benches and bumping 
into tables, until eventually he almost fell over the two 
bound bodies lying near the wall. 
Schiannath and Yazour had not been idle. Once their 
guards' attention had been distracted, they had seized the 
opportunity to roll and shuffle along the wall until they 
were close together. With difficulty, they had 
maneuvered themselves until they were back to back and 
had been trying frantically to untie each other's bonds. 
But the knots in the thongs were tight and awkward to 
reach with hands that were bound, and increasing panic 
had made fingers fumble and shake. It soon became 
appallingly clear that they would never make their escape 

before they were overcome by the choking fumes. 
Schiannath had looked into the face of Death so many 
times over the last year that familiarity had blunted part 
of its terror. Instead of giving way to his fears, he 
struggled all the harder to free himself and his 
friend—but there was no way to combat the insidious 
smoke. It crept burning into his eyes and throat and lungs 
until he was wheezing and gasping for breath, and 
blinded by his tears so that he did not see the dark figure 
that appeared out of nowhere to stoop over him. 
"Hold on, Schiannath—I'll soon have you out of here." 
"Anvar!" the Xandim spluttered. Had he not been so 
overjoyed, he could have wept with relief as he 
recognized the Mage's voice. Suddenly Schiannath felt a 
disconcerting tingle run through his body, and the smoke 
that surrounded him disappeared. For the first time in 
long, agonizing minutes he could breathe again, and the 
shock of the transition came very close to a thrill of 
ecstasy. Then the thongs around his wrists parted to the 
keen, cold edge of a blade, and his hands were free again. 
Blotting his streaming eyes on his sleeve, the Xandim 
looked up to see the thinning black miasma held at bay 
beyond the walls of what appeared to be a bubble of clear 
air that encompassed Yazour, the Mage, and himself. 
Yazour looked to be in a far worse state than the Xandim. 
He had barely been conscious at the time of Anvar's 
timely appearance, but now he was taking great, deep 

gulps of air as though it were drafts of the finest wine, 
and a little color was beginning to soften the ghastly 
pallor of his face. Anvar knelt beside him, busily sawing 
at his bindings with his knife. "Get your feet free, if you 
can," he told Schiannath, without looking up. "And 
hurry—we've very little time to spare." 
Schiannath wasted no time in asking questions. Once the 
two captives had been released, they scrambled to their 
feet, Anvar helping Yazour with a supporting arm around 
his shoulders while Schiannath took the Mage's sword 
and went in front. As quickly as they could manage, they 
groped their way through the thinning murk toward the 
door. 
Without warning, a figure burst out of the smoke behind 
them and swung a sword at Anvar's head. Groggy as he 
was, Yazour's battle-trained reflexes held firm. He heard 
the whistle of the blade, yelled, and let his knees buckle, 
dragging the Mage down with him to one side. The 
sword flashed harmlessly past Anvar's right shoulder, to 
meet another blade in a spray of flying sparks and a 
resounding screech of steel on steel, as Schiannath, 
alerted by his companion's cry, pivoted and struck. 
Caught off balance by the sheer force of the blow, the 
attacker stumbled, leaving himself wide-open to 
Schiannath's thrust. For a fleeting instant, the Xandim 
warrior glimpsed his foe's expression of terror and 
despair as he realized his mistake and crumpled to the 

ground, spitted on the point of Schiannath's sword. 
The conflict had begun and ended almost before Anvar 
had time to realize what was happening. He clambered 
rather shakily to his feet as Schiannath pulled his sword 
from his opponent's body, gave the bloody blade a 
cursory wipe on the dying man's tunic, and returned it to 
Anvar, picking up the fallen man's sword for himself. 
"Thanks." The Mage took back his blade from 
Schiannath's strong brown hand. "It's a good thing for all 
of us that you're so bloody fast—and you, too, Yazour." 
He turned to the Khazalim captain, to help him up, but he 
was already on his feet. 
"You must waste no more time," Basileus warned Anvar. 
"Your companions are besieged, and the fight goes 
badly." 
"Come on," Anvar told his companions. "Let's get 
moving—Aurian needs us." 
Bohan had lost the wolves already. He was less 
concerned about the fact that he had also come within a 
hairbreadth of losing his life on the springy, slippery 
plank bridge that bent and bowed alarmingly beneath his 
weight as he crawled across it on his hands and knees. 
Though it was only a short crawl from the fastness 
window to the mountain ledge, much care had been 
needed to avoid a fall, and by the time he had reached the 
other side, the wolves, still carrying Aurian's son, had 

vanished into the darkness. 
The night was still black, with an hour or two of darkness 
yet to go before the dawn. The eunuch pressed himself 
against the steep and sloping face of the mountain and, 
forcing his thick fingers into a narrow, slanting fissure in 
the stone, clung with all his strength to keep himself 
balanced on the ledge that was scarcely wider than he 
could span with one great hand. He had already 
discovered, to his dismay, that the slender crack to which 
he clung narrowed away to nothing in the direction he 
wanted to go—and without a handhold it seemed 
impossible, because of his massive bulk, that he could 
keep his body balanced on the ledge. Bohan closed his 
eyes in anguish. What could he do? Every moment he 
lingered there, afraid to go forward and refusing to go 
back, those accursed wolves would be getting farther 
away with the child that he had promised to guard. 
Though there was no rain now, the rocks were still wet 
and slick from an earlier squall, and a thin, frigid wind 
whined and snarled as it snaked across the Wyndveil's 
bare flanks. Bohan, having spent his life in the broiling 
desert climes of the south, found himself shivering 
uncontrollably, and a knot of panic twisted in his breast. 
Though he told himself stoutly that he could stand any 
amount of discomfort from the cold, the growing 
numbness in his feet and fingers could only add to the 
peril of what was already an appallingly difficult 

climb—and the longer he waited, the greater would be 
the risk of a lethal fall. 
There was nothing for it. Bohan could not bear the shame 
of letting his beloved Aurian know he had lost her child. 
He knew that he must go on somehow and find Wolf—or 
perish in the attempt. Slowly, he began to inch his way 
along the ledge, his right hand reeling out ahead of him 
into the slim crack in the stone; all his concentration 
centered on the narrowing fissure that provided scant 
purchase for his abraded fingers. 
And then, abruptly, the crevice ended. As the eunuch's 
groping fingers met with nothing but smooth stone he 
rocked for a horrifying instant, until his left hand, still 
securely anchored, brought his body back to lean, 
trembling, against the cold rock of the cliff face. But now 
he was putting too much weight on the fragile ledge 
beneath his feet. With a tearing crack, the lip of stone 
broke loose beneath him. 
Parric, familiar with the sight of Magefolk at work, had 
been staying out from underfoot to give Aurian and 
Chiamh a clear field. While they were holding the 
attackers at bay, he had slipped upstairs to Sangra and 
Iscalda and told them to search the rooms and each pack 
up a bundle of necessities: cloaks, weapons, and any food 
that was lying around the chambers. He had known a 
retreat was inevitable and wanted to be prepared. Now it 

seemed that the time had come. 
When the flaming arrows thudded into the door, he ran 
downstairs and grabbed hold of Aurian's elbow. "That's 
enough," he cried. "They're trying to smoke us out! 
We've got to go now, before it's too latel" 
"No!" The Mage wrenched her arm from the 
cavalrymaster's grip. "You take the others on ahead. I'm 
staying here until Anvar comes." 
"Have you lost your mind?" Parric roared. "You don't 
know where he is, how soon he'll get here—or even if 
he's alive." 
"He is alive! Have you forgotten that one Mage can feel 
another's death?" Aurian rounded on the little man, her 
eyes blazing. "Don't argue, Parric. Get the others out of 
here, and I'll wait for Anvar." 
"Damn it, Aurian, you won't! Look at it!" The door was 
thick, and it would take some time for the fire to eat right 
through, but tiny yellow tongues of flame were already 
threading their way up the scorched panels. Chiamh was 
using up the supplies of water from the upstairs chambers 
to try to douse the flames, but the fire was burning hot 
and strong on the other side of the door, and soaking the 
wood on this side could only delay matters for a little 
while. It was growing uncomfortably hot in the stairwell. 
The air was thick and acrid with a haze of choking 
smoke. 
"If you'll let me be, I'll try to quench these flames with 

magic," Aurian snapped. "Now get away from me, and 
let me concentrate." 
Parric, desperate now, racked his brains for a way to 
make the Mage see sense. It didn't help that he was 
consumed by a burgeoning resentment of Anvar—and all 
that Aurian's refusal to leave him implied. Reluctant as 
he was to hurt her, she was clearly beyond all reasoning, 
and there was no time to argue. 
The Mage had turned her attention back to the burning 
door, and Parric seized his chance. He lifted his sword, to 
club her unconscious with the hilt. 
A hand closed round his wrist. 
"No." Chiamh spoke very quietly, but there was a hard 
look in his amiable face that the cavalrymaster had never 
seen before. Then the amber eyes flared silver, and Parric 
felt the sword turn to burning ice in his hand. Swearing 
horribly, he dropped the blade, which clattered on the 
hard stone stairs. 
"Will you be quiet?" Aurian snarled, without looking 
around. 
Chiamh picked up the fallen sword and returned it to the 
cavalrymaster. "For shame," he said softly. "You have no 
right to make such a decision for her. Go, if we cannot 
trust you. I will take care of her." 
Parric looked at the Windeye and shook his head. "No." 
He spoke through gritted teeth. "I'll send Sangra and 
Iscalda, but I'm staying here. If you two idiots persist in 

this insanity, you'll need all the help you can get." 
"Very well—but no more treachery." Chiamh's voice was 
still cold. Parric stifled his angry retort. Clasping his 
sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, he looked over 
the Windeye's shoulder to see how Aurian was 
progressing. 
The Mage had missed the tense exchange. She was 
struggling with problems of her own. It was a simple 
matter to control the flares and fireballs that she created 
with her own magic, but this was wildfire—a natural 
force that was undisciplined and untamable. Aurian bent 
as near to the smoldering surface as she dared to come, 
though the heat and acrid smoke stung her eyes and 
caught in her throat and lungs to make her cough. She 
was trying to use her powers to absorb the heat energy of 
the flames, to cool and shrink them, but soon she 
realized, with a sinking in the pit of her stomach, that the 
fire was already too far out of hand for that. Curse it, 
there had to be another way! If the door was eaten 
through, there would be nothing to keep the attackers at 
bay—and if Anvar should return now with Schiannath 
and Yazour, there would be a wall of fire between them 
and safety. 
"Where are they now?" she asked Basileus, who had 
been keeping her informed as to the movements of her 
missing companions. 
"Coming. Soon they will be here." The Moldan hesitated. 

"What will you do when they reach this place?" 
"I don't know." The Mage's mental tones were edged with 
desperation. "Is there nothing you can do to help?" 
"Alas, it seems that there is not. I have already tried to 
make a draft to quench the fire, but it only fanned the 
flames and made matters worse." 
"Yes, damn it—it would. But wait—hold on a minute…" 
The Moldan's words had given Aurian the glimmering of 
an idea. "Chiamh," she yelled. "Quick—get over here!" 
"I am here." The Windeye's voice came from just behind 
her shoulder, making her jump. If his expression seemed 
a little strained, Aurian was too caught up with her plan 
to pay it much attention. 
"Chiamh, you're our expert with Air—do you think you 
could come up with some means of keeping the air away 
from those flames on the other side of the door?" 
Chiamh's eyes widened with surprise—then his slow 
smile of understanding brightened his face. "Ah," he said. 
"Very clever, Lady. Let me see what I can do." 
As Aurian moved over to make room for him, the 
Windeye knelt to join her near the door. Despite the heat, 
he shivered a little as his eyes glazed over with the 
uncanny, reflective quicksilver hue, his vision blurring 
and shifting to the translucent, sharp-edged, crystalline 
aspect of his Othersight. Dimly, he felt the Mage put out 
a hand to help steady his sagging body as he sent his 
mind forth beyond the burning door. The silver strands of 

air on the other side were blurry with heat and turbulent 
as a tumbling mountain stream as they rose and fell 
swirling around the fire, forming the drafts and currents 
that fed the greedy flames. The actual flames were barely 
visible to Chiamh's Othersight, appearing as faint and 
glimmering wraiths of their former selves. The impatient 
attackers who crowded the corridor at a safe distance 
from the fire could be seen as glowing phantoms, the 
auras of life energy that surrounded them glowing with 
the angry crimson of bloodlust and greed. The Windeye 
shuddered, knowing that sooner or later they would have 
to be dealt with—but first, the fire must be put out. 
Straining with concentration, Chiamh tried to take a grip 
on the twisting tendrils of air and push them out and 
away from the devouring flames. But because his spirit 
was out beyond his body, using so much energy to stay in 
this unnatural state, his powers lacked impetus, and he 
had nothing but the force of his mind to grasp and mold 
the silvery strands. The turbulence caused by the fire 
added to his difficulties, lending the air a force and 
strength of its own with which to defy him. Nevertheless, 
Chiamh persevered, though diverting the powerful 
currents of air was one of the most difficult things he had 
ever done. Though he could not extinguish the flames, he 
could at least slow the fire's advance and gain Anvar the 
extra moments that he needed. 

Conditions were worsening in the stairwell. The moisture 
in the wood had been burned away now, and the flames 
were taking a stronger hold. The crackling of the fire 
grew louder, and Aurian was forced to help herself and 
Chiamh—and Parric, who waited, hunched and 
glowering, some three or four steps farther up—by 
creating, as Anvar had done, a shield around them to 
keep the smoke at bay. 
The Mage, keeping her watch over the Windeye's body, 
knew that Chiamh was in trouble. She could see the 
ravages of the mental battle reflected in his face. Lines of 
strain had etched themselves deeply around his eyes and 
mouth, and his long brown hair, soaked through with 
sweat, hung down in tendrils that she had to keep 
brushing out of his uncanny silver eyes. Though she 
began to fear that he might harm himself, she was 
reluctant to break into his trance lest she make matters 
even worse. She knew, however, from her own 
experiences of overextending herself, that Chiamh ran a 
grave risk of becoming lost in his own magic, with so 
much of his energy being sucked away to fuel his powers 
that he would have no chance of returning to his body. 
"Anvar, where are you?" she sent out a desperate mental 
cry, and prayed that he would be close enough to hear it. 
"We can't hold on here much longer." 
"We're almost there." Anvar's reply sounded faint and 
weary. "We ran into a bit of trouble once or twice, but so 

far we've managed to fight our way through—probably 
because most of the Xandim are massed around your 
door." 
"Thank the gods you're all right." It cheered Aurian just 
to hear him. "Let me know as soon as you come within 
sight of our attackers." 
"Whenever you're ready," Anvar responded wryly. 
"We've reached the corridor junction now." 
"Good. I'll tell you when." Aurian looked round at 
Chiamh, and was relieved to see that, though he was very 
pale, he looked awake and aware, and his eyes had 
returned to their normal shade. "I heard you both," he 
told the Mage. "I'm ready." 
Aurian drew Coronach from its sheath. "When I give the 
word, we're going out there to help Anvar," she told 
Parric. Without giving him a chance to start arguing 
again, she turned back to the door, which, without 
Chiamh's support, was now collapsing in a mass of 
flames. 
"Now!" As she cried the word with both her voice and 
her mind, Aurian blasted the remains of the door with a 
bolt of energy that sent the flaming fragments exploding 
out into the corridor and into the mass of Xandim. They 
scattered, shrieking, beating at flying bits of burning 
wood and the sparks that lodged and clung in their 
clothing and hair. Aurian burst into the corridor 
screaming a battle cry, with 

Parric and Chiamh close behind her. They tore into the 
disorganized cluster of Xandim like a pack of wolves. 
Shia had sent Khanu ahead up the mountain to escort 
Wolf and his foster parents to Chiamh's vale. Then, as 
Aurian had asked her, she had returned to the upper 
levels of the fastness, picking her way along the flywalk 
of narrow ledges of the cliffs behind the massive building 
in search of Bohan. Though she hated to admit it to 
herself—almost as if, in some irrational way, the 
admission would make her grounds for concern a 
reality—she was becoming increasingly worried about 
the eunuch. "Why can he not keep up?" Shia muttered to 
herself. "Great clumsy ox—probably got his feet in a 
tangle…" That thought halted her with a shudder. On 
these ancient, crumbling cliffs, even one mistake would 
be fatal. She was nearing the fastness when the scream 
ripped through the night. 
A scream? Shia's ears went back. It couldn't possibly be, 
but… With a snarl, she went leaping from ledge to ledge 
down the cliff as though pursued by a hoard of demons. 
It was impossible to run on these narrow projections, but 
Shia, seething with frustration, scrambled down at a 
perilous speed, her claws extended to give her better 
purchase. When she reached the narrow chasm where the 
cliff came close to the fastness, her heart turned to ice 
within her. Bohan, his eyes bulging with strain in a face 

gray with terror, hung by his fingers from the last 
crumbling spur of the broken ledge that had clearly 
collapsed beneath the weight of his great body. 
Somehow, as he fell, he had managed to catch the edge 
of the broken stone, and was suspended there over the 
drop. 
Even as she looked on in horror, his straining fingers 
slipped a little farther from the ledge. The cat darted 
forward and sank her fangs into the back of Bohan's 
tunic, digging her claws hard into the stone to stop 
herself from slipping. The eunuch's weight dragged at 
her, wrenching the muscles of her jaws and neck, but she 
held on firmly, taking as much of the strain as she could 
from his arms and hands. It was all she could do to help 
him. Bohan himself would have to gain a better grip and 
pull himself back—but he seemed paralyzed by terror, 
unable to risk what scant hold he had in order to inch 
himself to safety. 
Shia's mind flew back to the tunnels beneath Dhiammara, 
when she had almost plunged into the chasm fighting the 
spider-creature, and he had performed the same service to 
save her life. Bohan had been her silent but staunch 
companion since the day she had escaped from the 
Khazalim Arena, and had shared the days of her freedom 
ever since. He was her friend. She couldn't let him fall. 
Move, you great lummox, she thought desperately. Pull 
yourself up! I can't hold on like this forever. 

Clenching her jaws around the mouthful of cloth, she 
edged back a little, knowing the futility of trying to haul 
up the eunuch single-handed, but with no other option 
but to try. The small, harsh sound of tearing fabric 
seemed to rip across the night, loud as a thunderbolt to 
Shia's ears. 
Bohan! 
The eunuch looked up into her eyes and said, quite 
plainly: "Shia. My friend." His fingers scrabbled 
fruitlessly at the ledge as the last of the fabric tore 
away—and then he was gone. Shia heard the thud of a 
body, striking the rocks far below. 
Then there was silence, save for the keening of the wind. 
Shia sat back on her haunches and howled her grief at the 
uncaring mountains. 
Anvar's world had become a nightmare of smoke and 
blood and flashing blades. Though Aurian had been 
training him in the use of a sword as they journeyed, this 
was his first real battle, and he discovered that as soon as 
he entered the mêlée, all of her carefully ingrained 
lessons simply vanished from his mind. All he could do 
was respond to the challenges of each separate moment: 
the next foe that came at him, the next sword that was 
raised against him. Warm blood dripped from a shallow 
cut in his forearm where he had caught the edge of a 
glancing blade, but in the heat of the fight he felt no pain. 

He blocked a blow, missed an opening and swore, turned 
his blade to meet the return stroke backhanded. He did 
not miss a second time. Aurian's training held true, 
guiding his instincts to slip his sword through his 
opponent's guard to rip the man's belly. The Xandim fell, 
to be instantly replaced by another. 
Anvar's sword had taken on a life of its own, hacking and 
piercing, parrying and blocking, and he was aware of 
nothing save the foes that surrounded him, and the 
shadowy shapes of Schiannath and Yazour to either side. 
Dimly, he knew that they were using their superior 
warrior's skills to help defend him, but there was no time 
now for thoughts of gratitude. His mind could only be 
fixed on his survival, yet somewhere, at the edge of his 
consciousness, he was always aware of the tall, flamehaired 
figure that he strove to reach on the other side of 
the frenzied, milling mob. 
Aurian was coming closer now—or he was coming 
closer to her. With every minute that passed, there were 
fewer foes between them. The Mage dispatched an 
opponent and glanced up to meet his eyes. As the 
companions gathered together, Anvar felt the tingling 
force of the magical shield that she threw up around 
them, and saw the attacking Xandim drop back from the 
barrier of spitting sparks. With a surge of relief that the 
fighting might be over at last, he threw his power behind 
that of his soul mate, to extend and reinforce the shield. 

"Back to the tower," Aurian yelled, in a voice that would 
have done credit to Forral's battle-trained roar. But even 
as the Mages met in the midst of the fighting, everything 
went horribly awry. Anvar glimpsed Sangra and Iscalda 
running down the tower steps, yelling something about a 
broken ledge, and wandered what the blazes they were 
playing at. Aurian, with heir closer link to Shia, received 
the message an instant sooner. Anvar saw her falter, her 
eyes blank, her face stark white. The enemy pressed in 
closer as the shield began to fail. 
"No!" Even as the raw cry of grief was torn from 
Aurian's throat, his own mind was battered by the impact 
of Shia's emotion—and his own. Bohan? Dead? 
"Look out, you fool!" a voice roared in Anvar's ear. A 
sword flashed up to block the blade that was whistling 
down toward him, and a shower of sparks scorched his 
face, narrowly missing his eyes. Anvar scrambled his 
wits together and plunged his own blade into the 
attacker's chest, whirling with the follow-through to see 
Yazour turn to face another foe who was coming in on 
his right. Beyond them Schiannath was protecting Aurian 
in a similar fashion, while Chiamh fought beside them, 
and Parric, flanked by Sangra and Iscalda, defended the 
tower doorway. 
"Aurian!" he yelled—and was relieved to see her eyes 
come back into focus, glittering a wrathful silver. 
Snarling an oath, she flung up the shield once more, with 

such force as to hurl several of the Xandim back along 
the passage. Anvar rushed toward her and seized her 
hand to drag her to safety, lest in her rage at Bohan's 
death she decide to take on the Xandim single-handed. 
Even in such a desperate moment there was comfort in 
that touch—and Aurian evidently had too much sense to 
prolong a fight against such odds. Taking advantage of 
their opponents' terror and dismay, the companions raced 
for the tower stairs. When all had reached the safety of 
the upper landing, Aurian turned, eyes blazing, and flung 
a bolt of fiery energy at the sloping ceiling of the 
staircase below. Anvar's mind was battered anew by a cry 
of indignant pain from Basileus as the roof collapsed in a 
grinding avalanche of rubble and dust. 
Chapter 15 - … And Through 
I'm sorry, love—I can't go any farther. I must rest for a 
while." Vannor's voice was weak with fatigue and pain, 
and Zanna could feel his body trembling against her 
supporting shoulder as she helped him along the tunnel. 
"All right, Dad. If you can go on just a little longer, we'll 
find a room to rest in, as we did before," Zanna told him, 
forcing a cheerful note into her voice. For his sake, she 
tried to keep from betraying her own exhaustion, and the 

fears and worries that crowded her mind. They were 
utterly lost in this maze of cold, damp tunnels, and 
rapidly running out of both food and strength; and 
injured as he was, her father had difficulties enough of 
his own to contend with. After every one of their halts so 
far, it had taken her longer to get him going again, and he 
was needing to rest more and more 
often. Zanna had had no chance to look at his injury—he 
would not speak of what the Magefolk had done to him, 
or let her unwrap the bindings on his hand—but she 
knew that it was bad. He ought to have rest, and proper 
care, and a physician—but it was only a matter of time 
before he would be in no condition to reach the help that 
he so badly needed. 
Zanna lifted her candle higher and looked along the 
passage for the darker shadow of the next doorway. The 
ancient archives beneath the library were honeycombed 
with alcoves, niches, and chambers of all sizes: some 
large enough to stretch far beyond the range of the 
fugitives' candlelight, and some so small that Vannor and 
his daughter could barely squeeze in together among 
ancient volumes and dusty stacks of crumbling 
parchment. In truth, Zanna much preferred the latter. 
They may have been cramped and uncomfortable, and 
needed extreme care with the candle to prevent a 
conflagration, but they were warmer, less drafty, and felt 
much more secure. She didn't have to worry about what 

might be lurking in the darkness beyond the small, safe 
circle of flickering candle glow. She had overheard 
Eliseth complaining that though Finbarr, the former 
Archivist, had set spells to keep out rodents, 
cockroaches, and other small, destructive creatures, the 
magic had now started to decay through lack of upkeep; 
but it wasn't the idea of small beasties that bothered 
Zanna— not too much, at any rate. What did bother her 
was the unshakable conviction that something else was 
down there with her and her father. Something unseen, 
unknown, but unspeakably evil. 
"Oh, for goodness' sake," Zanna muttered to herself. 
"Don't be such an idiot. If you start letting your 
imagination run away with you down here, we'll be in 
trouble for certain." Instead, she put her arm around her 
father and guided him toward the nearest dark mouth in 
the side of the tunnel. 
To Zanna's irritation, the shadowed opening proved to be 
an alcove, not a doorway. Muttering one of Vannor's 
choicest oaths under her breath, she was turning to 
retrace her steps when the light of her candle caught a 
stray gleam low in her line of vision: the dull, cold shine 
of dark and pitted iron. She gave her basket to Vannor, 
leaving him to lean against the wall for a moment while 
she peered close to investigate—and almost went 
sprawling down three deep steps. At the bottom, in the 
corner of the alcove—not in the center of the wall, where 

she would have expected it to be—was a narrow wooden 
door. 
It was locked, of course. Given the obvious secrecy of 
the entrance, Zanna had expected nothing less. All the 
same, it infuriated her. Because access was denied her, 
she felt that she must see what was inside—and it never 
occurred to her that a door, in these eerie depths, might 
be locked for a good reason: to keep things out, as well 
as to hold them in. It was irrational, she knew, but 
suddenly that locked door came to represent all the other 
deprivations, abuses and insults she had suffered at the 
hands of the Magefolk since coming to the Academy. It 
was a symbol of their power over her, of what they had 
done to her father, and of all they had denied her race. 
Bracing her feet and putting her shoulder to the door, 
Zanna gave it a ferocious shove. No one could have been 
more surprised than herself when it shot open with a 
protesting creak and pitched her headlong into the 
blackness beyond. 
The candle went out, of course. It fell from her hand, 
guttered, and rolled away into the darkness. Zanna lay 
there, shocked and bruised, all the breath knocked out of 
her. Her righteous anger was suddenly replaced by the 
chill of fear. What had she done? 
But after the events of this night, she discovered a 
resilience she hadn't known she possessed. Don't be 
ridiculous, she told herself. How many locked and 

forgotten chambers must there be in this ancient labyrinth 
beneath the Academy? The lock was old—it had rusted 
and rotted, that was all, until even her own slight strength 
had been enough to open it. Anyway, Zanna—be 
practical. It was a place to rest. 
"Zanna?" It was the querulous voice of an old man—and 
that frightened her far more than a fall into the darkness. 
Her dad had always been so vigorous… She'd never 
thought he would grow old. 
"Don't worry—I'm here. I missed the step, that's all." 
Zanna climbed painfully to her feet, but had no idea 
which way to go. The darkness was utterly profound. She 
was glad that she had Vannor to take care of, or she 
might have been overcome by the sneaking fear that 
threatened to creep up on her and overwhelm her. It was 
on the tip of her tongue to ask him to strike her a new 
light—but she remembered that with his injured hand, he 
would not be able to manage it. Zanna took a deep 
breath. "Dad—I'm all right, but I lost the candle. 
Can you keep talking to me, or calling out, to guide me 
back to you?" 
"Of course I can, lass." To her relief, he sounded much 
more like his old indomitable self. "Don't be afraid, now. 
Just follow the sound of my voice…" Even though his 
tones were strained with the effort of fighting the agony 
in his wounded hand, Vannor had rallied himself for the 
sake of his daughter. Zanna heard that newfound 

confidence, and rejoiced. 
"Did I ever tell you about the time I met Leynard, and 
made my original deal with the Nightrunners? It was like 
this…" 
At another time, Zanna might have been enthralled by the 
tale. Now all her attention was on the sound of Vannor's 
voice itself. Following what she profoundly hoped was 
the direction of the sound, she stumbled forward, her 
hands groping blindly in front of her. It wasn't easy. She 
made several mistakes at first, until the fading of the 
spoken words proved that she must be going the wrong 
way. After a time, though, her hearing seemed to have 
become preternaturally efficient in the absence of her 
sight. Other senses also came into play—the cold caress 
of the draft that came through the open doorway on her 
skin, and the metallic smell of blood that came from her 
father's hand. 
"And so there we were, all dressed up in our Solstice 
finery—except for Forral and the Lady Aurian, who'd 
been out sparring, would you believe—even on a festival 
day. The crazy fools. Well, your stepmother wasn't best 
suited, let me tell you—and when one of the soldiers 
came to the door and said they'd found a runaway…" 
Zanna half-listened to the story. She'd never heard this 
one before—and it concerned the Lady Aurian. But now 
it simply served as a beacon to guide her to safety. 
"Poor lad—a bondservant they called him, but a better 

word would have been slave. But the Lady protected 
him, and cared for him, and took him as her servant—and 
a good thing too, as it turned out, because in the end, 
Anvar saved—" 
Zanna cursed as she tripped over a step, scraping her 
already abraded hands and banging her knee painfully. 
"Dad?" she called. 
"I'm here, love." His voice was comfortingly close—as 
was the hand that groped for hers a minute later. 
Zanna dared not betray her relief—lest he discover how 
afraid she had been in the first place. "Can you hand me 
the basket?" she asked him. Once she had grasped it, she 
groped inside for the spare candles and the tinderbox. It 
seemed to take endless minutes before she got another 
candle alight— only to find that it wasn't much help, 
because they had strayed into another large chamber. But 
that was no surprise to Zanna, who had been conscious of 
the echoes of Vannor's voice while she had tried to 
navigate herself out of the room. She simply took 
comfort in being able to see at all—and, especially, to see 
her father again. 
"Come on, Dad—we'll rest now." Zanna guided her 
father down the steps and into the echoing chamber. Just 
inside the door, she took him a few paces to one side—to 
be out of the draft from the entrance, but near enough to 
it for a quick escape—and eased him down to rest with 
his back against the wall. Vannor sighed. "That's better," 

he murmured. He accepted the flask from her and took a 
swig of water, while Zanna rummaged in the basket to 
find him some bread and cheese. When she turned back 
to him, he was fast asleep. 
Zanna gently freed the flask from his limp hand. She 
took a drink for herself, nibbled hungrily at a little of the 
bread, and then settled down to watch over the sleeping 
merchant. It was surprisingly lonely, being the only one 
awake in the darkness, but despite her own exhaustion 
Zanna felt that someone should be keeping watch. 
Besides, the unnerving atmosphere of the lonely 
catacombs made it impossible for her to fall asleep. If 
only she could rid herself of the feeling that she was not 
alone—that someone, or something, else lurked beside 
herself and her oblivious father in the darkness. "Well, 
whatever it is—I hope it knows the way out of here," she 
muttered stoutly, trying to stiffen her courage with 
common sense, "because we need all the help we can 
get!" 
It was no good. As time went on, the feeling grew and 
grew in her, until the idea of sitting around waiting for 
some nameless thing to pounce on her became 
unbearable. And to make matters worse, she was feeling 
increasing discomfort from the urgent need to relieve 
herself. Damn, Zanna thought, wishing that she hadn't 
drunk that water. This would have to happen now. Where 
could she go? It seemed an unforgivable sacrilege to use 

a chamber full of ancient and probably priceless books as 
a privy. But there was no way in the world that she was 
going out into that drafty, open corridor, out of sight of 
her dad. She would simply have to find a corner, she 
thought, and do her best to clear a space. 
"I'll only go a little way," she promised herself. Taking 
another candle from the fast-diminishing stock in her 
basket, she lit it at the first and stuck it on the bare rock 
near Vannor's feet. With only that frail slip of light to 
guide her back to safety, Zanna struck out, feeling her 
uncertain way along the wall of the chamber. She had not 
gone far before she started to regret her rashness. The 
vast, echoing darkness pressed in on her, and she was 
startled, over and over again, until her nerves were frayed 
to tatters, by tiny rustlings and patterings beyond the 
range of her light. Once, she tripped over a scattered pile 
of books, and almost lost her candle. 
That was quite enough, Zanna told herself. It had been a 
daft idea anyway, this wandering around in the dark 
when she ought to be resting and looking after her dad. 
And then a dreadful thought struck her. What if, in her 
absence, something horrible had crept up on Vannor 
while he slept? Looking back over her shoulder, she 
caught a glimpse of the tiny seed of light that was his 
candle, and felt somewhat reassured. Nonetheless, she 
had left him alone long enough. Quickly she found a spot 
where the wall angled sharply round into another alcove 

that seemed to be clear of books, and squatted down to 
relieve herself. As she got to her feet, she half turned, 
holding her candle high—and light sprang into the 
shadowy depths of the recess to reveal the tall, thin figure 
of a man who loomed over her, his face a snarling mask 
of horror, the flame of the candle reflected, glittering, in 
his glassy eyes. 
The Mages and their companions retreated from the 
cloud of choking dust that billowed across the landing, 
and sought the sanctuary of the upper chambers. There 
they paused, some sitting, some leaning wearily against 
one another, all of them breathing hard from the terrors 
and exertions of the fight. Though no one had been 
seriously wounded, none of them had come out of the 
battle completely unscathed. After a moment, Iscalda 
found a water bottle in one of the packs and began to rip 
an old shirt into bandages, for it was clear that the Mage 
was too spent, for the moment, to attempt any Healing 
magic. Aurian and Anvar, the only ones who yet knew of 
Bohan's death, clung to one another briefly, sharing their 
relief at finding one another safe, and their sorrow at the 
passing of their friend. All too soon, Aurian lifted her 
head from Anvar's shoulder. 
"Forgive me, Basileus," he heard her say to the Moldan. 
"I hope I didn't hurt you too badly, but I had no other 
choice." 

"I understand." The Elemental's voice was somber. "It 
was no great injury to a being of my vast 
dimensions—but it proved an unwelcome reminder of the 
powers your race can wield. Even now the Xandim are 
hacking at my bones elsewhere, to break a path through 
to where you are, and I would place any blame for this 
business with them, rather than with yourself. 
Nonetheless, the time has clearly come for you Wizards 
to leave this place—for the good of us all." 
"I'm sorry," Aurian sighed. "You're right." Then Anvar 
sensed the mental shift as she turned her thoughts toward 
Shia. 
It took all of Aurian's courage to ask the question, for 
already she feared that she knew the answer. 
"Shia—what about Wolf? He didn't…" 
"No. He is quite safe. Khanu is taking the cub and his 
guardian wolves to Chiamh's tower." 
Relief washed over Aurian in a dizzying wave. She felt 
almost guilty that she should feel so glad when the 
eunuch had perished. "What happened to Bohan?" she 
asked softly. 
"He fell." The cat's mental tones were heavy with sorrow. 
"I think the ledge cracked beneath his weight. I tried to 
save him, but…"It was clear that she was too 
overwhelmed to say more. 
"And I sent him out there." Though she spoke aloud this 
time, the Mage's voice was little more than a whisper. 

Abruptly she gasped, swore, and wrenched herself out of 
Anvar's arms, heading for the window. "Shia—what 
about the ledge?" 
"Gone for some distance, as is your bridge. You will find 
no escape this way." 
Aurian found her companions pressing all around her as 
she leaned out of the window. 
"We tried to tell you," Iscalda was saying. "The plank 
had gone…" 
They were crowding her so closely that the Mage, with a 
stab of panic, felt in danger of falling herself. "Get back," 
she shouted, and pulled herself away from the terrifying 
drop, shaking at the thought of Bohan's fatal plunge to 
the rocks below. With an effort, she wrenched her 
thoughts away from the horror. She must concentrate 
now on surviving the present crisis. 
"Everybody take what you need," she ordered. Dashing 
across to her bed, and the assorted pile of baggage that 
lay beside it, she thrust the Staff of Earth into her belt 
and began to rummage in one of the packs for the whistle 
that would summon the Skyfolk. 
"Here — use mine." Anvar, the Harp now slung securely 
across his shoulders, was a step ahead of her. 
"You signal them." Aurian didn't want to lean out of that 
window again, if she could help it. As she was stuffing 
the contents back into her disemboweled pack, she heard 
the first shrill blast go echoing out into the darkness. She 

only hoped that for once in their lives, those wretched 
Winged Folk would hurry. "How long do we have?" she 
asked Basileus. 
"Long enough — if you are quick. " 
"That's a great comfort," the Mage muttered irritably — 
but was careful not to project the thought. 
"Is there no way I can help you?" Shia's voice came into 
her mind. "It's a long leap in the dark, but I think I could 
reach the window — " 
"No! Don't!" Aurian could not bear the thought of losing 
another friend to the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. 
"Don't worry, my friend. The Skyfolk are coming." 
"You'll be lucky." Shia's mental tones were sour with 
disgust. "I may have been running for my life at the time, 
but I distinctly saw those craven feathered traitors fly 
away when the Xandim began their attack." 
"What?" Aurian spat out a vile epithet that made even 
Parric raise his eyebrows in surprise. 
"What now?" he asked. 
"The bloody Skyfolk have deserted us," Aurian snapped. 
Parric gave her a knowing look that made her want to 
strangle him on the spot. "Well, don't say I didn't warn 
you, after what you said to them the other day. You have 
to know how to handle folk, if you want to be a leader. 
You just can't—" 
"That's sound advice, Parric, coming from the man who 
has skillfully 'handled' the Xandim into attempting our 

murder," the Mage retorted. Seething, she turned her 
back on him and went to join Anvar in the window 
embrasure. The trouble was, she knew that the 
cavalrymaster had a point. 
Without Raven there to control them, the winged escort 
that she had assigned to the Magefolk had been proving 
more and more restive and willful; and the farther they 
went from their mountain home, the more plainly 
reluctant they had been about their duty. Nevertheless, 
this cowardly desertion, just when they were needed 
most, came as a tremendous blow to Aurian's plans. 
Bitterly now, she regretted the scathing words she had 
said to them the day after Wolfs kidnapping. At the time, 
she'd been so incensed by their craven lack of support 
that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her. 
But though they had seemed resentful and unrepentant, 
she had thought she could heal the breach, given time. 
Unfortunately, what with Elewin's death and the attack of 
the Xandim, she'd never managed to find an opportunity. 
"What are we going to do?" Iscalda said. The Xandim 
woman's smoke-smudged face had the pale, set look of 
one who was reaching the end of her courage. 
Luckily for Aurian, who had no reply to give, Schiannath 
answered for her. "If worst comes to worst, we fight." He 
drew his sword and went to stand beside the Mage. 
Aurian was buoyed by his courage, and the comforting 
clasp of his hand on her shoulder, but oh—for them to 

die like cornered rats in this foreign land would be so 
senseless! 
"So don't die, then," she muttered to herself. "There must 
be some way out of this." 
Anvar wasn't giving up. He was still leaning out of the 
window, blowing shrilly on the whistle fit to burst his 
lungs. "Come on, you misbegotten feathered freaks," she 
heard him gasp between breaths. 
"You had better hurry." The Moldan's voice sounded 
grim as iron in her mind. "They have broken through into 
the stairwell. They have only to clear your rockfall. …" 
"Have they, now?" Aurian replied grimly. "Well, I hope 
you have plenty of rock to spare, Basileus—because if 
they clear that rockfall, I can always provide another!" 
"Wizard, I warn you—I will not permit you to injure me 
again!" It was the first time she had heard the Moldan 
sound really angry. "You have—" 
"You said it wouldn't injure you badly—and you know 
I'd never hurt you if I had a choice," Aurian interrupted. 
But even as she was pleading for his understanding, she 
was striding purposefully toward the door. 
Anvar's triumphant yell halted her in midstride. "Aurian 
— they're here. They're here!" 
Whirling, the Mage ran back to the embrasure, where the 
heavy curtains were blowing inward and the air was 
vibrating to the concussive thunder of great wings. In an 
excess of relief she hugged her soul mate. "Well-done, 

Anvar. If you hadn't been so persistent… Hurry, 
everyone — we're getting out and there's no time to 
lose…" 
"Indeed there is not, if you wish our aid in your escape. 
There are only two of us left — the rest have returned to 
Aerillia." 
Aurian turned to see the figure of a single winged warrior 
perched precariously on the windowsill. Beyond him 
another figure hovered — but only one. Her heart sank, 
but if they hurried, there might still be time — so long as 
these Skyfolk could still be trusted. "I'm endlessly 
grateful for your loyalty," she told the winged man, "but 
why?" 
He raised an eyebrow. "Why did we stay? Because we 
are loyal to Queen Raven, and we treat our acceptance of 
her command as a sacred oath." 
"And, besides," the other warrior — a female — added 
from beyond his shoulder where she hovered, "we are 
indebted to you groundling Wizards for slaying 
Blacktalon and ending the winter — and not least, for 
saving our Queen." 
That was good enough for Aurian. It only took a minute 
to get Iscalda in position on the windowsill. They could 
not take her far — only to a safe place on the mountain 
beyond the perilous ledges, for normally it took four of 
them with a net to maintain their flight with a burden as 
heavy as a human. But it would be far enough. Each of 

the Winged Folk took hold of one of her arms and 
hoisted her up and away, their wings beating rapidly as 
they strove to gain height with their unaccustomed 
burden. 
While they were gone, the other humans of the party 
drew lots with broken bits of the straw matting, to solve 
the quarrel over who should be next to go. Aurian and 
Anvar had insisted on remaining to the end, because, 
with their powers, they stood a chance of defending 
themselves if the Xandim should break through. None of 
the others wanted to abandon them. Chiamh was next — 
and could only be persuaded to go because he could 
defend the others and lead them to safety if anything 
happened to the Mortals. Parric followed, fuming, and 
after him Yazour, Sangra, and Schiannath — and by that 
time, the sound of the Xandim breaking through the 
rubble could clearly be heard. 
Only the Magefolk remained. While Schiannath was 
being flown across, Anvar turned to Aurian. "You're 
going next," he told her, "and I don't want any 
argument." 
Aurian opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled 
her. "Three considerations: First, this started out as your 
fight against Miathan. Not only should you be the one to 
finish it, but if what the Dragon said was true, you are the 
only one who can—for no one else can wield the Sword. 
Second, Wolf needs his mother. And third"—he 

grinned—"if they should break through, I can stop them 
by taking them out of time with the Harp." 
"Only so many of them," Aurian argued, "and only for so 
long. Even with the Harp to help you, it would be too 
great a drain on your powers." 
"I can manage for a short time—and with luck that's all 
I'll need. If you must wield the Sword, Aurian, we must 
keep you safe to do so. You know I'm right." 
Aurian grimaced. "I might know it—but I don't have to 
like it!" 
All too soon, the sound of wings presaged the arrival of 
the Skyfolk. As they hovered, waiting, by the window, 
Aurian noticed that their faces were haggard with 
weariness and white with strain. She only prayed they 
had the strength for two more trips. Turning back to 
Anvar, she hugged him convulsively and wondered how 
she would ever have the strength to ever let him go. She 
looked deep into eyes that shone intensely blue through 
the black mask of soot and smoke that smeared his face, 
and kissed him deeply. "You take care of yourself," she 
muttered gruffly, "or you'll have me to answer to." 
Anvar grinned crookedly. "Don't worry—after waiting all 
this time, I'm not going to lose you now." 
He helped her up onto the windowsill, where the strong 
hands of the Skyfolk clamped around her wrists. "Take 
special care of this one—she's precious," he adjured 
them. 

"We've never dropped anything yet," the female warrior 
chuckled. Before Aurian had time for a tart reply, they 
launched themselves with a rush of wings—and the 
Mage's stomach leapt into her throat as she felt herself 
dangling by her hands over a fathomless drop—only two 
handclasps away from oblivion, and Anvar left far 
behind. It was far worse than the net. There, at least, 
she'd felt enclosed, with some support between herself 
and the empty air. But this time there was nothing but the 
void beneath her swinging feet, and the muscles of her 
arms were screaming in protest as they were forced to 
bear her entire weight. What it must be like for the two 
Skyfolk, who had valiantly performed this flight over and 
over, Aurian dared not imagine. They must be in 
agony—and certainly reaching the end of their strength. 
She tried not to think what would happen if that strength 
should suddenly fail. The cold wind blew into her eyes, 
making them water, and plastered whipping tendrils of 
hair across her face—and of course she had no hands free 
to push the strands aside, or wipe away the streaming 
tears. "Where are they going?" she thought wildly—and 
would have asked the Winged Folk, had she dared to 
distract them. "Surely we must be almost there by now!" 
Even more than she longed for the end of her own wild 
flight, she desperately wanted them to get back to rescue 
Anvar. 
And then it was over. "This is the place," a voice yelled 

shrilly above the rushing wind and drumming of 
wings—and suddenly Aurian found herself loosed, and 
falling… 
To land bruisingly on her hands and knees on an expanse 
of soaking turf, after a drop of several inches. 
"It's the Mage! Aurian—are you all right?" The voice 
belonged to Chiamh. In an instant he was beside her, 
trying to pull her upright. 
Aurian wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "Let go of 
me," she muttered ungratefully, and buried her face in the 
wet, dawn-fragrant grass. Right now, she wanted to keep 
as much contact with the blessed, solid ground as she 
could get. For a luxurious moment she stretched there, 
until her worries drove her to her feet. Her remaining 
companions surrounded her—she could see their drawn, 
soot-smirched faces quite clearly now. To her 
surprise—for she had kept her eyes firmly shut during 
the duration of the flight—the sky was brightening in the 
east. Already, the faintest blush of copper stroked the 
fangs of Steelclaw, giving the tortured peaks a weird, 
unearthly glow against the sapphire sky. 
Then all such thoughts were driven from Aurian's mind 
as a huge black shape arrowed down on her, and she 
found herself on the turf once more, flat on her back this 
time, with Shia wrapping strong paws around her body 
and rubbing a bristly black face against her own, all the 
while purring fit to shatter the fragile dawn. "You're safe! 

I thought I'd lose you, too!" Shia drew back and glared 
into Aurian's eyes with her fiery, golden gaze. "Don't 
ever do that to me again—telling me to stay away while 
you are in danger!" 
"I'll do my best," Aurian promised breathlessly—and 
suspected that she lied. Struggling into a sitting position, 
she threw her arms around Shia's neck. "I'm so glad to 
see you!" 
The great cat pressed close to her, and Aurian knew that 
she was seeking comfort from her grief at Bohan's death. 
"He was the first," the cat said softly. "Excepting Anvar, 
you and he were the only remaining companions from 
the start of my freedom." 
"And he was your friend," Aurian replied. "I know how 
close you were. He was my friend, too, Shia—and when 
we have a chance, we'll mourn him fitly." Now, however, 
she was more concerned with Anvar. There was nothing 
she could do for Bohan, but while there was a chance that 
her soul mate still lived… 
He lived indeed. Because she had been preoccupied with 
Shia, she had missed the first distant thrum of wings, but 
Aurian could hear it now, and could see the black speck 
approaching in the northern skies. In another instant, they 
had dropped Anvar at her feet. He looked pale and 
haggard—but unhurt, and very much alive. Thanking all 
the gods, Aurian disentangled herself from the cat and 
pounced on him, in much the same way as Shia had 

pounced on her. "You're here!" She knew how ridiculous 
it must have sounded, but she didn't care. "You're all 
right!" She drew back and peered at him closely. "You 
are all right, aren't you? The Xandim didn't get through?" 
"No, but it was close." Then Anvar's strained expression 
changed to a grin. "I would like to have seen their faces 
when they discovered an empty room!" 
"We'll let them work it out—but in the meantime we 
should be moving." The voice came from Chiamh. 
"When they discover my absence, the first place they will 
think to seek me is my vale." 
"But I thought you said they would be afraid to pass the 
standing stones," Aurian protested. 
"Yes—but if they can, they will try to stop me getting 
that far." 
"It's true." Aurian looked up to see one of the Skyfolk— 
the male—standing beside her. "Already, as we 
completed our last journey, we saw men and horses 
mustering and heading for the cliff path." 
"Curse them." Aurian cried. "Will there never be an end 
to this?" 
"Not yet," Chiamh said softly. "Not until dawn 
tomorrow, when there will be a Challenge, and a new 
Herdlord elected. They must abide by that decision, 
Lady—and they will, so long as the victor is one of our 
folk. Until then, we have only to survive—and hope that 
the victor will be our friend." 

There was no more time to lose. It would be a race now, 
to reach the Valley of the Dead before the Xandim could 
block their way. Chiamh, Iscalda, and Schiannath offered 
to change to their horse-shape, and it was decided that 
Iscalda would take Yazour, Chiamh would take his old 
friend Sangra, and Schiannath, being bigger and stronger 
than the Windeye, would bear the Mages, riding double, 
on his back. That left only Parric—and Aurian's heart 
bled for him—that he, a cavalrymaster and the Herdlord 
of the Xandim, should be forced to fly with the Skyfolk 
while the others rode. There was no time now, however, 
to worry about hurt feelings. All such considerations 
must be put aside in favor of survival. Though Aurian 
knew that Parric was enough of a soldier to appreciate 
the fact, the look on his face made her spine prickle with 
unease. Somehow she knew, for a certainty, that they had 
not heard the last of the matter. 
Even as Aurian was worrying, the Skyfolk took off with 
Parric. Chiamh and Iscalda had already changed. A bay 
stallion and a white mare stood there, impatiently 
awaiting their riders. Schiannath looked at the Mage, his 
teeth flashing white with a grin. "Get ready, Lady—I 
promise I'll give you the ride of your life." 
Before Aurian's eyes, he changed. His form blurred, 
shimmered, and altered—and there stood a great, proud 
war-horse, shadow-etched in dark, dappled gray, with 
black legs and points. Schiannath arched his muscular, 

curving neck and tossed the midnight clouds of his mane. 
To Aurian, it was like a beckoning. She leapt astride his 
warm, broad back, and felt Anvar scramble up behind 
her. The others were already mounted. 
With a bound they were away, Shia racing alongside like 
an extra shadow, keeping up with an effortless lope as 
the sun leapt over the horizon and flooded the plateau 
with a sea of misty amber light. On the crest of that 
golden wave they rode, with the thundering hooves of the 
Horsefolk throwing up diamond-sprays of dew from the 
glittering emerald grass, and the silver spires of the 
mountains rising high above them, crowning the new 
day. 
Chapter 16 - Out of Time 
Zanna screamed and dropped the candle. She fell to her 
knees, cringing like a hare beneath the shadow of the 
hawk, her mind blank with terror. For what seemed an 
endless time she huddled with her eyes shut tight, 
awaiting the end. But when she felt a hand touch her 
shoulder, some buried instinct for survival made her 
fight. She leapt up with a shriek, flailing out blindly with 
her fists at her assailant. 
"Stop that, you idiot, it's me! Zanna!" Belatedly, Zanna 

recognized the voice. "Dad?" she squeaked. 
"It's all right now, love. I'm here." Everything was still in 
darkness, but she felt his arms go round her. She leaned 
against his shoulder, shaking uncontrollably and trying to 
fight off the urge to burst into hysterical tears, while 
Vannor stroked her back with his uninjured hand, 
soothing her as he had done when she was a little girl 
awakening from childish night mares. "What happened, 
love?" he asked her gently. "What did you see that scared 
you like that?" 
Zanna clutched at him, all her fears reawakened. "Dad, 
there was a man in the alcove. I saw him…" 
"Hush, lass. There's no one down here but us. If there had 
really been someone, don't you think we'd have heard 
him? And if he meant to do us harm, we'd have known 
about it by now. I expect you saw a statue or something, 
that's all. I'm not surprised it gave you a shock. Had it 
been me, I'd still be running…" He chuckled, and Zanna 
felt her fears beginning to melt away. 
"Come on," said Vannor. "Do you have the tinderbox in 
your pocket? You knocked my candle right out of my 
hand, but it should be down here on the floor somewhere. 
Let's have some light, and we'll take a look at this man of 
yours." 
Letting go of her, Vannor dropped down to grope for the 
lost candle, and Zanna delved in her pocket for the 
tinderbox. After a few moments of scrabbling, fumbling, 

and a curse or two from Vannor, they managed to get the 
wick to catch alight, and Zanna blinked her eyes as the 
scene came into focus around her in an orb of spreading 
golden radiance that was dazzling after all the darkness. 
"Now, then. Let's see this statue, or whatever it is." 
Awkwardly and left-handed, Vannor drew the sword that 
he had taken from the dead guard in the Mages' Tower. 
(He had raised his eyebrows at the sight of the two fallen 
men, and given Zanna a long and thoughtful look; but as 
yet, thank providence, he had forborne to ask her any 
awkward questions concerning how they had come to be 
in that state.) 
"I'm sorry, love, but you'll have to hold the candle for 
me," he told her. Zanna took it reluctantly, and held it 
high as he turned toward the shadowy alcove. Even 
though she was forced to follow him closely with the 
light, she made sure that he was between herself and 
whatever might be lurking in the niche. Though her good 
sense had accepted her father's explanation, the memory 
of her terror was still fresh enough to overcome her 
courage. 
Unexpectedly, she ran into Vannor's back as he halted 
abruptly, standing stock-still as though he had been the 
one who'd turned to stone. "Seven bloody demons!" he 
cried. "It can't be!" 
Zanna caught at the dangerously tilting candle as he 
staggered back against her, reeling and wide-eyed with 

shock. 
"What is it, Dad?" she gasped. "You look as though you'd 
seen a ghost." 
"I have—or bloody nearly." In his distress, Vannor 
seemed to have forgotten that he was talking to his 
daughter. He sheathed his sword, and rubbed a shaking 
hand across his eyes. "I just don't believe it!" He shook 
his head. "What the blazes is that bastard playing at?" 
"Who?" Zanna demanded. 
"The Archmage," Vannor said angrily. Suddenly his eyes 
focused on Zanna, and he seemed to collect himself. 
"Sorry, love," he sighed. "It was just—well, it was such a 
shock. I was forgetting you didn't know…" 
"Know what?" Zanna almost shrieked at him, "Dad, 
what's going on? What did you see in there?" 
"You'd better take a look." Taking her hand, Vannor led 
her forward. "Don't be scared, now—the poor beggar 
can't hurt you…" 
The rest of his words were drowned by Zanna's cry of 
horror. In the niche a tall figure stood, stiff and lifeless as 
a statue—but unmistakably a man. 
"It's all right, lass." The firm clasp of Vannor's hand was 
a comfort, though the strained tone of his voice belied his 
words. 
"Who is—who was he?" Zanna whispered. She saw what 
shock had driven from her mind the first time she saw 
him: that the strange man was surrounded by a faint, thin 

numbus of shimmering silver-blue that could only be a 
spell. Strands of brighter blue, like tiny tongues of 
lightning, crawled in a fiery network across his body and 
long mane of silver-shot brown hair. Zanna looked at that 
face, twisted in its hideous rictus of terror, and thought 
that she could discern, in the finely carved bone structure 
and the brilliance of the glazed, blue-gray eyes, a look of 
the Magefolk about him. 
"It's Finbarr. Poor Finbarr. Of course—you never met 
him, did you? It was always a standing joke with Aurian 
that we could never pry him out of his archives." Her 
father's voice was choked with what sounded 
suspiciously like tears, though when Zanna stole a glance 
at him, his eyes were still dry. "He saved our lives when 
the Wraiths attacked, and gave us time to flee, but"—he 
frowned in puzzlement—"Aurian said he was killed—she 
felt him die. So why would Miathan waste magic to 
preserve his body like this? It would only make sense if 
Aurian was somehow wrong, and he isn't dead—" 
Abruptly, he turned to Zanna. "Well, whatever the 
explanation is, there's nothing we can do about it. But the 
Lady Aurian should know about this, as soon as may be." 
"Do you want me to try to contact her again?" Zanna 
fished in her pocket for the precious crystal. 
"Not now, love. We've delayed here long enough. I think 
we'd best get out of these tunnels while I still have the 
strength to manage it." He groaned. "Oh, for a warm bed, 

a blazing fire, and a flask of good wine…" 
Zanna took his arm. "You'll have them all, Dad, I 
promise—once we get you out of here." 
"Supposing I ever get out of here," Vannor muttered 
grimly, under his breath. The words sent a chill through 
Zanna, and mixed with the sinking fear she felt for him 
was a flash of scalding anger for frightening her so. It 
made her all the more determined to succeed. Damn 
it—she had rescued her dad against all the odds and 
brought him this far! Zanna gritted her teeth. I'll find a 
way out of here, supposing it's the last thing I do, she 
thought fiercely. But she knew he had never meant her to 
hear his words, and so for his sake, she pretended she had 
not. 
Sadly, they said a last, silent farewell to Finbarr. Though 
she had never known him—and had no idea, even, 
whether the archivist was alive or dead beyond the fetters 
of the spell—it wrenched Zanna's heart to leave him. It 
seemed wrong, somehow, to abandon the Mage to the 
lonely darkness once more. 
Hours later, Zanna had no sympathy to spare for anyone 
save her father and herself. Famished, footsore and 
exhausted as she was, it had begun to feel as though she 
had spent her entire life blundering around in these cold, 
damp, endless catacombs—and that she would be 
doomed to continue until she died. As for her father, he 
had long ago reached the limits of his endurance and was 

somehow keeping himself going only through sheer 
stubbornness and strength of will. For a long time now 
she had been tortured by the painful rasp of Vannor's 
ragged breathing, and the hesitant, scuffing sound of his 
dragging, stumbling footsteps. Zanna looked up at him, 
trying to hide her anxiety. How much longer would it be 
before Dad succumbed entirely to pain and exhaustion? 
What would happen to them both if he did? At long last, 
Zanna's courage began to falter. 
Vannor tried to gather his failing strength, though his 
injured hand throbbed now in a screaming mass of 
agony, and the dizzy faintness from shock and loss of 
blood were hard to fight. Zanna had been so brave so far, 
but he could see now that her confidence was beginning 
to waver, and knew that it wasn't only weariness and 
hunger that were the cause. From the determinedly 
cheerful expression that she turned on him time after 
time—an expression that was belied by the faint line, like 
a pen stroke, drawn down between her brows—he knew 
that her courage was being eaten away by worry over his 
own condition. Poor child, it wasn't fair. She had gone 
through so much for him—had shown more courage and 
grit than he would have expected even from a son. From 
what he had seen outside his prison in the Mages' Tower, 
she had even killed for him—and she little more than a 
child, and a cosseted girl-child at that. He had to keep 

going, if only to repay her bravery and loyalty. 
The candle in Zanna's hand had burned down to a soft 
and guttering stub, scalding her fingers with hot wax. He 
saw her flinch, and flick the hardening drops away, but 
she bit her lip and said nothing. Earlier, he had been halfamused, 
half-shocked, by her futile attempts to curb her 
language, but it worried him more, now, that she was too 
weary to waste energy on a curse. "Just a minute, Dad." 
Putting down her basket, which by this time was 
ominously light, she rummaged quickly inside for 
another candle by the waning glow of the one she held. 
She turned to him, her eyes wide with dismay. "We're 
down to the last one…" 
Suddenly Vannor was overcome by a dreadful Vision of 
himself and his daughter wandering lost in the 
smothering darkness until these accursed tunnels became 
their tomb. Zanna had clearly been thinking along similar 
lines. Her voice broke on a sob of frustration. "Oh, gods," 
she wailed, "we're never going to find our way out of 
here…" 
"Here, Zanna, give it to me." Quickly Vannor took the 
stub of candle from her unresisting fingers before it went 
out completely. "Now, lass—just hold the new one. I 
can't manage with just one hand…" Zanna, bless her, had 
so far shown a toughness that amazed him, and he knew 
that having something to do would help her gain control 
of her impending hysteria. He was right. By the time 

Vannor had kindled a flame on the new wick she had 
managed to calm herself and swallow her tears, though 
she was still shivering with suppressed fear. 
Vannor stuck the candle on a narrow projection in the 
rough-hewn wall of the passage and put his arms around 
her. "Don't lose heart, love. Look how rough these 
tunnels are. We've been going downward for hours—we 
must be in the oldest part of the catacombs by now. 
Come on, now—let's try to go on a little longer. Surely 
this must be the last lap now." 
Sighing, Zanna scrambled awkwardly to her feet, but her 
tired legs would barely support her and she stumbled, 
catching herself against a jutting spur in the tunnel wall 
to stop herself from falling. She paused there, just to 
catch her breath—and found herself coughing and 
gasping. From a narrow crack in the shadow of the spur 
came a cold and noisome draft. "Dad?" Zanna's voice 
shook with excitement. "Dad— come here and look at 
this!" After hours of searching, they had finally found the 
narrow crack in the wall of the catacombs that led down 
into the sewers. 
The discovery gave them new heart. They organized 
themselves quickly, abandoning the now-useless basket 
and taking only the candle, tinderbox, and the bottle with 
their dwindling supply of water. The crevice was so 
narrow that Zanna was forced to turn sideways to 
squeeze through at all, and according to her father the 

drain beyond was narrower still. Though she did not want 
to, Vannor insisted that she go first, and she knew, with a 
sinking feeling of dread, that he was afraid of getting 
stuck and blocking the way out for her. "Look, lass, be 
sensible," he told her when she tried to argue. "If worst 
comes to worst, at least you'll be able to go and fetch 
help." 
Zanna could only look at him helplessly, lost for words. 
If he should be trapped, how would she find her way out 
through the sewers—and for that matter, whom did she 
know in the city who could, or would, come back and 
help her father—even supposing she'd be able to find him 
again? Vannor, however, would brook no refusal, so she 
had no choice but to force herself through the narrow 
crack, holding her breath as much as possible against the 
stench that drifted up from the drain beyond. 
The journey through the sloping conduit proved a 
nightmare beyond Zanna's worst imaginings. It was such 
a tight fit that only the nameless slime that coated the 
inside of the pipe helped her to squeeze through, and she 
could only manage to make any headway at all by 
inching herself along by her fingernails and pushing with 
her toes. To make matters worse, it was pitch-black 
inside, for it was far too damp and drafty to keep a candle 
alight. When the narrow pipe bent to the side at an angle, 
Zanna simply wanted to lay her head down on her 
aching, outstretched arms and howl with frustration—but 

she gritted her teeth and reminded herself that when her 
dad had been hiding out there with the rebels, Parric the 
cavalrymaster had used this route regularly. Well, if he 
could do it, so could she. She gritted her teeth, bent her 
tortured spine until she thought it would snap—and 
pushed… 
Suddenly she felt herself sliding, faster and faster, and 
shot out of the drain mouth, skinning her elbows and 
scraping her shins on the edge of the pipe. Zanna lay for 
a moment, breathless, then burst into sobs of relief—that 
ended just as quickly as they had begun when she 
remembered her father. Only now, after she had made the 
terrible journey herself, did she truly realize what a trial 
it would be for her dad. Only the fact that the stocky 
Vannor had lost a good deal of flesh during his 
imprisonment with the Magefolk might even give him 
the slightest chance of squeezing through, but he had 
only the one good hand to pull himself along… He would 
never do it! Her heart beating fast with fear, Zanna found 
the mouth of the drain by dint of feverish groping in the 
darkness. She put her ear to it and listened. Echoing 
hollowly down the pipe came the sound of muffled 
grunts and curses. For a time Zanna listened in wretched 
silence, understanding the difficulties her father was 
experiencing and not wanting to distract him. Eventually, 
though, she could bear the waiting no longer. He should 
be out by now. Something must have gone wrong. When 

even the cursing stopped, she could bear it no longer. 
"Dad?" she ventured hesitantly, her voice quavering with 
impending panic. "Are you all right?" 
"Of course I'm bloody not!" Then Vannor seemed to 
collect himself. "Sorry, lass. I'm having a bit of a 
problem here, where the pipe bends…" 
Though he was trying to sound optimistic, Zanna could 
hear the harshness of strain in his voice. Nonetheless, she 
found his response not entirely discouraging. As long as 
he still had the energy to curse, all was not lost. "Listen," 
she told him. "You've reached the hardest part now. After 
that it's easy. If you can just angle yourself round that 
corner—" 
"If wishes were diamonds," Vannor snapped, "you'd be 
the richest heiress in Nexis now. I just can't seem to get 
any kind of a purchase on this blasted slime." 
Not all the diamonds in Nexis—in fact, nothing in the 
whole of creation would have induced Zanna to go back 
into that drain. Nothing—save her love for her father. 
"Hold on, Dad—I'm coming…" Without hesitation, 
Zanna wriggled back into the pipe. 
"Don't you dare, girl! Damn it—don't be so bloody 
stupid! You get out of here. Save yourself!" 
Zanna let him bellow. In truth, she had no breath for a 
reply. Getting back up the sloping part of the drain was 
far more difficult than sliding down it. Again and again 
she lost her hold through pure weariness, and slid back to 

the bottom. Again and again she picked herself up, swore 
heartily, and started the climb again. And at last the 
miracle happened. Her groping fingers touched the cold, 
clammy flesh of an outstretched hand that twitched 
weakly in her grasp. 
Vannor's protests had long since ceased. Zanna had been 
praying that he was all right, but had little breath to spare 
for talk. "When I say the word," she gasped, "try to bend 
yourself around that corner." 
"What… what the…" 
"Now!" Zanna cried. Grabbing her dad's wrists in both 
hands, she deliberately relaxed the bracing pressure of 
her legs and feet and let herself dangle, with all her 
weight hanging from her father's arm. There was a 
startled yell from Vannor—and suddenly Zanna found 
herself sliding, faster and faster, hurtling down the pipe 
at a far greater speed than she had previously managed. 
She shot out of the drain like a cork from a bottle with 
her father on top of her, flailing his arms and legs, yelling 
fit to wake the dead, and knocking all the breath from her 
body with his weight. Though it was still pitch-dark in 
the tunnels, exploding lights shot across Zanna's vision, 
and for a moment she knew no more. 
"Seven bloody demons, girl—don't you ever try a trick 
like that again! You might have broken your neck!" 
These were the first words that penetrated Zanna's inner 

darkness. Vannor was cradling her in his arms. 
"But I didn't, did I?" she rallied pertly, wanting nothing 
more than to erase that ragged note of fear from her 
father's voice. 
"No," Vannor muttered, "but the next time you scare me 
like that, you little wretch, I'll break it for you." Then he 
laughed, and hugged her. "Are you all right, lass? By the 
gods, but Dulsina was right when she kept saying how 
much you take after me. Your methods might be a bit 
extreme, but you saved my life then and no mistake! I 
thought I would be stuck in that pipe for good…" 
After a time they collected themselves, and managed to 
find the candle again. It was much battered and cracked 
from having been fallen on, but the wick was holding it 
together, and it was still quite usable. In the light of the 
burgeoning flame Vannor and his daughter scarcely 
recognized one another, so begrimed were they from the 
slimy innards of the pipe. The candle also lit up the 
rusting stubs of the inspection ladder that would be their 
next challenge. They looked at one another, sighed, and 
climbed painfully to their feet to start again. 
Though Vannor had to climb one-handed, which 
presented several dangerous moments, the ladder proved 
far less difficult than the pipe had been. Soon they 
squeezed up through another drain—mercifully, a very 
short one this time—and found themselves in the sewers 
at last. The very familiarity of his old haunts seemed to 

restore Vannor's energy and spirits, though, like his 
daughter, he was staggering with fatigue. He stood on the 
narrow, slippery ledge that overlooked the noisome 
channel, and took a deep breath— Zanna wondered how 
he could, the smell was so bad—looking around the 
dank, squalid, and rat-infested tunnel with the proprietary 
air of a landowner surveying his domain. For the first 
time during the whole of their escape, he looked 
genuinely cheerful. "At last," he sighed. "A home away 
from home. Now we'll be all right." 
Zanna was glad that one of them felt confident. 
"What in blazes do you mean, he's gone?" the Archmage 
thundered. "How did this happen?" He crashed his fists 
down on the table, and the gems that were his eyes flared 
with a fiery crimson light. The very air of the chamber 
seemed to ignite and throb beneath the burden of his 
rage. The Captain of the Academy Guard, big man and 
experienced campaigner though he was, blanched and 
trembled, and the wretched little scar-faced man who'd 
been guarding Vannor's chamber the night before looked 
nothing like a killer now. Cringing in terror, he was 
trying unsuccessfully to edge himself behind the 
impassive figure of the Weather-Mage. 
Eliseth alone seemed unmoved by Miathan's wrath— 
probably, the captain thought sourly, because the 
scheming bitch was letting the brunt of it fall on himself. 

"Well, you needn't look at me," she was saying coolly. "I 
left Vannor as well guarded as always last night—and 
frankly, by the time I'd finished with him, he was in no 
condition to arrange his own escape, let alone get far. 
This whole business reeks of some kind of a plot." She 
shot the captain of the guard a poisonous look from 
beneath her lowered eyelids. 
"Well I had him guarded as usual, too, sir," the captain 
added hastily, deciding that her example was not a bad 
one to follow. "Both the top and lower gates were 
manned, and the road up here was patrolled. How anyone 
could get past that lot beats me." He turned to glare at the 
shrinking, scar-faced guard. "He was there. Why not ask 
him how those two blockheaded bastards managed to get 
themselves ambushed…?" 
"Let us find out." Miathan's voice was steel wrapped in 
silk. He turned the sinister gaze of his dispassionate, 
arachnid eyes on the unfortunate guard. 
Only too glad to be dismissed, the captain hurried down 
the tower stairs. He wasn't fast enough, however, to 
escape the screams of excruciating torment that came 
from the room above. Clapping his hands over his ears to 
shut out the gut-wrenching howls, he abandoned all 
dignity and fled. 
"It was my maid?" For once, even Eliseth's face betrayed 
her shock. 
"From what I wrenched out of the guard's mind"—the 

Archmage glanced contemptuously at the twisted body 
on the floor—"there would seem to be no doubt." 
"But—she was only a kitchen menial—scarcely more 
than a child, and with barely wits enough about her to—" 
"She had wits enough about her to plan and execute the 
escape of the most wanted man in Nexis—thanks to 
you!" Miathan snapped. Despite the crisis, he was 
enjoying the discomposure of the ice-cool Mage. 
"And who was it that charged her with Vannor's care?" 
Eliseth retorted with a sneer. "Not I! That was your idea, 
Archmage—and you put the little wretch in a perfect 
position to carry out her plans!" 
Miathan's scant pleasure in the situation vanished 
abruptly. A Vision of his hands squeezing Eliseth's throat 
flashed briefly through his mind… Then he pulled 
himself together. "Enough!" he barked. "I admit, she 
duped us both. But the question remains—who is she? 
One of Vannor's rebels? Does he have other spies within 
the Academy?" It was an unpleasant thought, that the 
Magefolk were no longer inviolate. He remembered that 
traitor Elewin, and clenched his fists. 
"I'll soon find out," Eliseth promised grimly, "even if it 
means tearing apart the minds of every servant in the 
place. She had to have help, Miathan. How could a slip 
of a girl like that have managed to kill both Janok and a 
trained warrior three times her size?" 
"That's not the only mystery to concern us." The 

Archmage frowned. "How did she get Vannor out of the 
Academy without being seen? And where are they now? 
If you injured Vannor as badly as you described"—he 
scowled at her in displeasure—"then he couldn't have 
gone far." 
"Do you think they're still hiding somewhere in the 
Academy?" Eliseth suggested. 
"It would seem the most likely option—but if they are, 
the gods themselves will not be able to help them. We'll 
seal the place off—no one goes in or out for any 
reason—and have it searched from top to bottom." 
"And what if they aren't here?" the Weather-Mage 
demanded. "We can't search the entire city—we don't 
have sufficient men. And we can't offer a reward for 
Vannor's recapture, because that would mean admitting 
to the Mortals that he's still alive." 
"No—but we can offer a reward for the girl." Miathan's 
eyes glittered. "We'll say that she stole something of 
value from the Magefolk—which is true enough," he 
added wryly. "My release of those provisions yesterday 
worked to our advantage—there are some in Nexis, at 
any rate, who are already blessing my name. We'll offer a 
large reward, both food and gold, to anyone who can lead 
us to the girl. Either Vannor will be with her, or"—he 
smiled with avid cruelty—"we can soon extract from her 
the information that we need as to his whereabouts. I 
intend to get Vannor back, no matter what it takes, and 

when I do, I'll make both him and that wretched girl sorry 
they were ever born." 
Benziorn hurried through the streets of Nexis, losing 
himself among the early passersby, and congratulated 
himself on giving his guardians the slip once again. 
Though Yanis, the young Nightrunner leader, was 
gradually recovering under his care—and thanks to the 
skills that the physician had not forgotten, had lost 
neither his arm nor the use of it—it was becoming more 
and more difficult to escape the vigilance of Tarnal and 
Hebba, who seemed to have a totally unreasonable 
attitude to the idea of a man taking a little drink every 
once in a while. Benziorn shrugged. Well, that was just 
too bad. Though he welcomed the amenities of Hebba's 
household— in fact, he admitted that, after all the 
privations he had suffered, he very much welcomed the 
luxury of a stout roof and a fireside again, not to mention 
Hebba's cooking, when there was anything to cook—he 
was damned if he was going to let her dictate to him with 
regard to his drinking. Was there no respect for a 
physician in Nexis anymore? 
Luckily—for Hebba would not allow so much as the 
sight of a bottle in her house—Benziorn had his own 
secret cache of spirits hidden away in the old fulling mill: 
payment in kind for treating a vintner's warehouse guard, 
a mercenary who'd been suffering the inevitable results 

of spending too much time with the wharfside whores. 
Try as they might, Hebba and Tarnal had been unable to 
discover the source of his secret supply of drink. 
Unfortunately, Tarnal had taken to following him in the 
hope of unearthing the cache… Benziorn chuckled to 
himself. The lad still had a lot to learn. Hebba had gone 
out this morning to the Academy to wait in an endless 
line for the rations that the Archmage, for some reason of 
his own, had seen fit to release, and the young smuggler, 
perforce, had gone with her, to guard the precious food 
from robbery on the way home. Yanis had been 
asleep—which had given his physician the perfect 
opportunity to escape. 
By the time the sun had reached its zenith, Benziorn was 
feeling more than mellow—and he had the rest of the day 
ahead of him. Given the number of hungry folk in Nexis, 
the food distribution was likely to take a good long 
while. Spring sunlight filtered down in dusty bars 
through the nigh, smeared windows of the old mill, 
warming the air and bleaching to near invisibility the 
flames of the small fire he had kindled for his comfort. 
Seated on his folded cloak, with his back resting 
comfortably against one of the great dye vats and a bottle 
in his hand, Benziom almost felt like singing—in fact, 
why not? It had been a while since he'd had a respite 
from his responsibilities. It was almost like a holiday… 
He awakened suddenly, shivering, and saw that the dusk 

was stretching shadowy fingers through the ruins of the 
old building. Benziorn groaned and rubbed his eyes. His 
head was beginning to throb, and his mouth felt as 
though someone had filled it with mud from the river 
bottom. The last thing he remembered was singing—he 
had no recollection of falling asleep—and he wondered 
blearily what had wakened him so abruptly. Then it came 
again—a tortured, grating squeal of metal on stone, loud 
enough to send a fresh burst of pain exploding through 
his pounding head. 
What in the world…? Cursing under his breath, Benziorn 
scrambled quickly to his feet and kicked dirt over the 
smoldering ashes of his fire. Melting back into the 
shadows, he found a crumbling spot in the stonework of 
the wall and boosted himself up to lie flat on the broad 
rim of the massive dye vat—a vantage point from which 
he could scan most of the floor of the old mill. There 
came another grinding squeak, and the muffled sound of 
a man's voice cursing, followed by the crash of 
something heavy falling. The sound seemed vaguely 
familiar… With a shock of belated recollection, the 
physician identified the noise. His mind went back to the 
night when Jarvas's compound had been attacked, and the 
Nightrunners had come up through the grating in the 
floor of the fulling mill… 
Could it be someone seeking Yanis? Benziom shifted his 
position slightly, craning his neck to try to see around 

one of the supporting pillars. A moment later, two figures 
stumbled into sight, silhouetted against the fading light of 
the doorway. They were reeling and tottering as though 
they were the ones who were drunk, supporting one 
another briefly before they sank down in a huddle on the 
mill-room floor. 
Benziorn waited, rigid with suspicion and suspense, for 
another sign of movement, but the intruders did not stir. 
As the light from the doorway faded, he wondered if he 
could safely escape by slipping through the shadows. 
Yanis might need him, and Tarnal would be hunting for 
him now, for sure. Silent as a ghost, he slid down from 
the top of the vat— or at least, that had been the idea. In 
reality, the physician was still suffering from the effects 
of all the spirits he had imbibed. He missed his footing 
and came down hard, landing with a grunt and stumbling 
over one of his empty bottles, which rolled and shattered 
against the side of the vat with a crash that sounded 
deafening in the dusky silence of the abandoned mill. 
Cursing under his breath, Benziorn froze. He heard the 
soft, rustling scrape of someone stirring on the other side 
of the vat. 
"Dad? Did you hear that?" 
"Shhh…" 
There came the hissing, slithering sound of a sword being 
quietly unsheathed—but Benziorn had already identified 
the first voice as that of a young girl. Coupled with the 

drink still in his blood, it gave him courage. The very 
possibility that these people seemed to be afraid and 
hiding too, seemed to imply that they would scarcely be 
an enemy. 
"Who's there?" he called. "Whoever you are, there's no 
need to be frightened. I mean you no ha—" His words cut 
off in a choked squeak as the keen steel of a sword blade 
pressed an icy line across his throat. 
"Move, and you die. Call out, and the first word you utter 
will be your last. Is that clear?" 
"Yes," the physician whispered, trembling. He was 
seized with a desperate urge to look around to see the 
face of his attacker, though he knew it would be 
impossible to identify the assailant in the growing 
darkness—and such folly would certainly mean his 
death. He felt that his knees must give way at any 
moment through sheer terror—yet if they did, the sword 
would slice his throat. A trickle of rank sweat ran down 
his spine. Benziorn held his body rigid, concentrating 
very hard on facing forward and staying on his feet. 
"Now—who are you?" the gruff voice demanded. 
"B-benziorn. A physician… well, a former physician." 
"What?" 
"I don't mean you any harm—I'm not your enemy. Look, 
if you want, I'll go away and not look back. I don't care 
who you are—I'm only a pitiful drunkard now—I can't 
hurt anyone, and I don't take sides. Please, good sir…" 

Even in the midst of his undignified babbling, Benziorn 
felt a flare of outraged pride. How could you sink so 
low? asked a small voice at the back of his mind—yet 
now that his life was at stake, he knew he would abase 
himself as much as was necessary. Since the death of his 
wife and children he had often sworn to himself that he 
did not care whether he lived or died—yet now that the 
time had come to make good his vow, he found, to his 
amazement, that he cared very much indeed. Life, which 
had been a burden to him for so long, had, in the space of 
an instant—and by the narrow margin of a sword's 
edge— become a very precious gift. 
"Benziorn?" mused the voice. "Gods, that name sounds 
familiar. Hold on—aren't you the man who attended my 
wife in childbirth, when the Magefolk Healer wouldn't 
come?" 
Terror knotted the physician's bowels. The owner of the 
sword could only be one man—the only Mortal in the 
city who might have expected to call upon the services of 
Meiriel… A frantic notion of temporizing further—of 
lying, even—raced through his mind and died aborning, 
just as Vannor's wife had died. "At least I saved the 
child," he whispered. "I would have saved his mother, 
too—had there been any way…" 
"Damn you…" 
The sword trembled against his unprotected throat, and a 
thin line of hot blood ran down into the collar of his 

tunic… 
"Dad…" It was the girl's voice again, urgent and 
pleading. "Don't do this. Dulsina told me the physician 
did his best. It wasn't his fault that Lady Meiriel wouldn't 
come. Whatever you do, it won't bring Mother back. And 
after what we've just been through, how can you blame 
him for the actions of the Magefolk? If it's anyone's fault 
that Mother didn't survive Antor's birth, the blame should 
lie with Lady Meiriel—but now she's dead—" 
"She's dead?" 
Benziorn felt the sword drop away from his throat. With 
a whimper, he sagged against the curving wall of the vat, 
too undone even to think of running away. 
"I had no time to tell you," the young girl went on, "but 
they knew, in the Academy…" 
Vannor gasped. "But Parric was with her—and Elewin." 
He cried in anguish. "What happened to them? Are they 
dead too?" 
At that moment, shadows leapt high into the rafters of the 
mill as the saffron light of a torch blazed in the doorway. 
The physician saw the faces of his assailants for the first 
time—and wondered how he could ever have been afraid. 
A familiar voice called: "Benziorn? Benziorn, you 
drunken idiot! Are you there?" 
"Tarnal!" the young girl cried. "Thank the gods it's you!" 
To Benziorn's amused astonishment, she flew into the 
Nightrunner's arms—and a quick, sly glance at Tarnal's 

face proved that the young smuggler didn't object at all. 
Chapter 17 - The Seeing 
Aurian awakened, stiff and tired, with Wolf whimpering 
in her arms. Instinctively she soothed the cub as she 
opened her eyes to see an unfamiliar ceiling of silverveined 
rock, much darker and rougher than that within 
the fastness. Is this a cavern? she wondered blearily, only 
half-awake. Where the blazes am I? Gripped with sudden 
anxiety, she turned to see Anvar asleep beside her, the 
smudges of smoke accentuating the pallor of his 
weariness, and dark circles shadowing his closed eyes. 
Reassured, she was about to turn over and snuggle back 
into the warmth of the furs that were tucked around her, 
when the memory hit her. Bohan. Another comrade lost 
in this senseless struggle. And she had promised to help 
him find his voice again, but there had never been time… 
A memory surfaced from the previous hours, following 
their escape from the fastness: of warm, flickering 
firelight within this cavern, a hot drink, and Shia, greatly 
distressed, telling her that the eunuch had actually called 
out as he fell: "Shia. My friend …" 
The Mage closed her eyes against the pain. Shia had 
always been Bohan's friend—and had proved a better 

friend than Aurian, who had sent him to his death… 
"No, you did not. You were trying to save him." Though 
the voice had picked the thought from her mind, it was 
speaking aloud now. Aurian turned to see the Xandim 
Windeye sitting cross-legged beside the fire, not far from 
the shelf of rock that formed her bed. Chiamh looked 
worse than Anvar—and as bad as herself, she suspected. 
His face was so haggard with weariness that he seemed 
to have aged overnight. Aurian left Wolf in his nest of 
furs beside Anvar and slid out of her warm refuge with a 
sigh. Though she was tired and heartsick, there was too 
much to do to lie abed. Trying vainly to straighten her 
creased and rumpled clothing, the Mage went to join the 
Windeye by the fire. She sat down beside him, gratefully 
accepting a steaming cup of fragrant herb tea. "You're 
right about Bohan, I know," she sighed. "But it's hard not 
to feel responsible." She felt her throat grow tight with 
unshed tears. "We never even had a chance to bury 
him…" 
Chiamh covered her hand with his own. "If you must 
blame someone, Lady, blame the Xandim who attacked 
us. If they had only trusted me… Had they only waited a 
little longer, the matter of the succession would have 
been resolved in any case." He sighed. "Perhaps the fault 
is mine. Had I tried sooner to gain the respect I merited 
as their Windeye…" He shook his head, and she felt his 
grip tighten on her hand. "In any case," he went on, 

"Bohan did have his burial. I asked Basileus…" 
"And I loosened the rocks of the cliff to fall down upon 
the body of your departed friend. Fear not, Wizard. No 
one will despoil his resting place." 
Aurian frowned. "Basileus? How can we still hear you in 
this place?" 
"You rest at the foot of the Windeye's tower—but you are 
still upon the Wyndveil, are you not?" The Moldan 
chuckled. "All this mountain is my body, and Chiamh's 
Chamber of Winds is wrested from my bones. …" 
"Then why couldn't you have helped Bohan?" Aurian 
didn't hide her resentment. It would do no good, in the 
long run, to conceal her feelings from the Moldan. They 
might as well have it out now, for later there would be so 
much else to occupy her attention… 
"Perhaps I might have helped him, Wizard, had my 
attention not been occupied elsewhere," Basileus 
answered sharply. "But you were in danger, too, as was 
the Windeye and your soul mate. There is a limit to what 
I can accomplish." 
"I'm sorry. I'm sure you would have helped Bohan if you 
could. It's just so hard to lose a friend…" 
"You think I do not know that?" 
Aurian thought of the fate of Ghabal, the Moldan 
imprisoned beneath the Academy. She thought of the 
stark, tortured shape of Steelclaw Peak, and remembered 
Anvar's account of the death of the Moldan of Aerillia. 

Yes. Indeed, she did understand the losses that Basileus 
must have suffered. But now her own survival, and that 
of her friends, was at stake. 
"What's happening now?" she asked the Windeye. 
Chiamh shrugged. "It is an hour or two past noon," he 
told her. "The Xandim have encamped beside the 
standing stones, at the mouth of the valley. Khanu is 
watching them. As I suspected, they are afraid to come 
any farther. They await tomorrow's dawn and the 
Challenge for a new Herdlord." 
Aurian sighed. "We had better talk to Schiannath, then." 
She grimaced ruefully. "While we've been so busy 
hatching all our plans, we've never actually asked him if 
he wants to do this." And what—demanded a tiny, 
nagging voice in the back of her mind—if he does not? 
"Lady," Chiamh said hesitantly, "what of the Seeing?" 
"The what?" Aurian frowned. 
"You remember—the day after your child was stolen. We 
came up here and talked, and I promised you—" 
"Oh. Of course." The events of the last two days had 
driven the conversation from the Mage's mind. Chiamh 
had promised to search upon the winds, to see if he could 
find the location of the Sword of Flame… 
"The Seeing must be performed before the Challenge 
takes place, if we do it at all," the Windeye told her 
urgently. "Who knows what may happen to any of us 
tonight, or at dawn tomorrow? If Phalihas should prevail, 

I can measure my life in minutes." 
"If Phalihas wants to harm you, he'll have to get past 
Anvar and me to do it," Aurian vowed. "Nevertheless, I 
think you're right. We ought to get it done as soon as 
possible. It's vital that I find that Sword. We've lingered 
in the south too long now, and the gods only know what 
Miathan is doing in Nexis…" With an effort, she broke 
off that train of thought. One worry at a time… She 
turned to the Windeye with a smile. "Thank you, 
Chiamh—for everything. I don't know how we would 
have managed, these last days, without you." He was not 
the only one she had to thank, Aurian reflected. What 
about the two remaining, loyal Winged Folk, who had 
rescued herself and her companions from certain death? 
She asked Basileus where they were, and discovered that 
they were both fast asleep, perched up in a niche in the 
rugged walls of the great rock spire. 
Thoughts of the Winged Folk gave the Mage a moment 
of anxiety for the rest of her companions, but a quick 
check around the cavern proved that they had all arrived 
safely. All except Bohan had gained the sanctuary of the 
Windeye's refuge. Shia lay asleep on the bottom of the 
bed that Aurian shared with Anvar. Wolfs foster parents 
were nearby, curled together so tightly that it was nigh 
impossible to distinguish one from the other. Schiannath 
was sleeping in a nest of woolen blankets on the floor, 
while Yazour and Iscalda were rummaging through 

Chiamh's hoarded food supplies and putting together a 
sketchy meal for everyone. Sangra lay on the other rockshelf 
bed beneath a mass of furs, one arm outstretched 
into a vacant indentation… Aurian frowned. Where had 
Parric got to? 
"Parric is outside," Chiamh supplied. He frowned. "I 
must warn you—he is unhappy and angered over what 
happened last night, when you would not leave until 
Anvar was safe." 
"Oh, surely not," Aurian groaned. "That's all I need." 
She found the cavalrymaster not far from the great stone 
spire, where a slender cataract arched into a feeder pool 
for the stream that went tumbling down the vale. He was 
sitting on the mossy brink of the pool, flicking pebbles 
into the water. As the Mage approached, the little man 
looked up at her bleakly. 
Aurian sat down at his side, and clasped her arms around 
her knees. "What's wrong?" she asked him directly, 
wishing that he could have found a more convenient 
place to do his sulking. The muted background thunder 
of the waterfall was going to make conversation difficult. 
Parric shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "What do you mean? 
What makes you think that anything is wrong?" 
Aurian tried to lighten the moment with a grin for him. 
"Because you look as though you had lost a horse and 
found a billy goat," she replied. 
Parric did not return her smile. "I'm tired, that's all," he 

muttered, so that the Mage had trouble hearing him over 
the sound of the cascade. 
By this time, Aurian was becoming truly concerned. It 
was most unlike Parric to be evasive—normally, he was 
blunt to the point of obscenity. She decided that it was 
time to bring this matter, whatever it was, to a head. 
"You? Tired? That'll be the day," she scoffed at the hardbitten, 
wiry little man. "You're no more tired than the rest 
of us! You're angry with me, because I wouldn't leave 
Anvar behind last night, to save myself. But why, Parric? 
Surely it must have been the right decision, because we 
all got out safely in the end." 
The cavalrymaster flung another stone into the pool with 
savage force. "You really don't understand, do you?" He 
glared at the Mage. "Forral was my friend. Have you no 
respect for his memory, that you replaced him so 
quickly? Couldn't you even wait a decent interval?" 
For an instant Aurian was utterly stunned. Then she 
found her voice. "Wait for what?" she snapped, as anger 
ignited within her. "The way things are, I don't even 
know if I have a decent interval! Don't you realize what I 
went through when Forral died? Don't you know how 
much I grieved? But Forral himself warned me, long ago, 
that as a Mage I would outlive him—though neither of us 
suspected that the end would come so soon. He told me 
to find someone else and be happy…" She rubbed a hand 
across her eyes. "I resisted Anvar's love at first," she said 

softly, "but in the end I had to admit that I loved him, 
too." 
She shook her head. "Parric, you've been my friend for a 
long time now, but if you can't deal with this, it's not my 
problem. I came to terms with Forral's death in my own 
time—and if that time isn't the same as yours then I'm 
sorry, but it's not your life. It has nothing to do with you, 
or anyone else but myself and Anvar." 
"And if you truly cared about Aurian, you would rejoice 
that she'd found happiness again." 
Aurian spun around, startled by her lover's voice, and 
caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of Parric 
leaping to his feet. 
Anvar stood behind them. "As far as we know," he went 
on softly to Parric, "you're Aurian's oldest surviving 
friend. Whatever you may think of me, the time has come 
to prove that friendship." 
"You stay out of this!" Parric snarled. "It has nothing to 
do with you." 
"You're wrong," Anvar said levelly, never taking his eyes 
from the older man. "Aurian's happiness has everything 
to do with me—and the sooner you get used to the fact, 
the easier it will be for all of us." 
For a moment the air was thick with tension between 
them—then Parric exploded in anger. "I don't have to 
take that kind of talk from a former Magefolk drudge!" 
He elbowed Anvar roughly aside. "Get out of my way!" 

Anvar grabbed hold of his arm, his eyes flashing fire and 
ice. "No, but you do have to take it from one who is 
Mageborn in his own right, and Aurian's soul mate 
besides." 
Parric tore himself away with an incoherent shout of 
anger, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 
"Stop this madness—both of you!" Aurian leapt between 
them. She turned her cold gaze on the seething 
cavalrymaster. "For shame, Parric," she said softly but 
clearly. "What would Forral think? This would sadden 
him more than anything that has happened since 
Miathan's evil began." 
She held out her hands to him, her grim expression 
softening. "Apart from Forral, you and Maya were the 
first Mortal friends I ever had. As a warrior, you know 
what it's like to lose loved ones in battle, but you also 
know that life must— and does—go on." She took a deep 
breath. "If you care about me at all, you should be 
thanking Anvar, not blaming him— for without him I 
would not be here today. Not only has he saved my life 
on countless occasions, but it was Anvar who gave me 
the will to live on after Forral's death." She turned to her 
soul mate with a crooked grin. "He was infuriatingly 
insistent about it, as a matter of fact—right from that 
very first night when we fled downriver, and he wouldn't 
let me drown us in the weir…" 
Parric's hand dropped from his sword hilt. "You—you 

were going to drown yourself?" He looked accusingly at 
Anvar. "Is that true?" 
Anvar shrugged. "She had a bloody good try," he 
admitted. "And, frankly, it wasn't the last time." He 
smiled apologetically at his soul mate, but she was 
nodding in support. 
"Half the time I didn't even realize what I was doing 
when I behaved so rashly," she said, "but Anvar always 
took care of me. He knew me better than I did myself." 
Parric looked from one Mage to the other for a long 
moment, his face expressionless—but Aurian was 
relieved to see that the ugly flush of anger had vanished 
from his skin. Rubbing his hand across his face, he 
shrugged and sighed—then reached out to grasp the 
Mage's outstretched hands. "I'm sorry, lass. I didn't 
realize it was so bad for you. Can you forgive such a daft 
old bugger?" 
"Oh, Parric!" Aurian pulled him into a hug. "You do 
yourself an injustice—I wouldn't say you were 
particularly old," she added with a sly chuckle. 
The cavalrymaster's roar of laughter broke the last of the 
tension that had gripped them all. "That's one thing about 
you that hasn't changed, at any rate," he snorted. "That 
bloody wicked tongue of yours is as sharp as ever!" 
"I don't think I've changed that much," Aurian protested. 
"I haven't really, have I?" 
Parric shook his head. "No, not at heart, lass—though it's 

taken me a long time to get that through my thick skull. 
You just grew up, that's all—and you've grown so greatly 
in power that it frightened me, I suppose, though I 
couldn't admit that to myself. It was easier to get angry 
instead, and blame Anvar, here… I never thought, until 
you just told me, that he might have made you want to 
keep on going after Forral was killed. What with 
everything that's happened, you never did have time to 
tell me the entire story." 
"Maybe I had better tell you," Anvar put in with a grin. 
"Some of her escapades would make your hair stand on 
end." 
"Do you mind?" the balding cavalrymaster exploded. 
"Bloody Mages—you're as bad as she is!" He held out 
his hand to Anvar. "I'm sorry, lad, for what I said to you. 
After the way the others, especially that mad bitch 
Meiriel, behaved, I suppose I was a bit wary of suddenly 
finding yet another Mage on my hands. But I was 
impressed with the way you stood up to me. I never 
really got to know you in the old days, but Forral always 
said you were a good sort. I should have trusted his 
judgment—and Aurian's." 
"Yes, you should have," Aurian said. "But we've all been 
through a lot these last months, Parric. I'm sure we can 
let you off with one mistake," she added with lofty 
condescension. 
"Let me off? Why, you…" Parric spluttered 

indignantly—then saw her smirk at having baited him so 
successfully, in an echo of the old game they had played 
so long ago, back at the Nexis Garrison. 
Aurian raised an eyebrow. "Got you, Parric. You owe me 
a beer!" she crowed. 
"Not again," Parric groaned. "I'll have to remain in your 
debt until we get back to Nexis—if I haven't settled the 
score by then," he threatened, laughing with the Mages. 
Chiamh, watching the three of them walking back to his 
tower together, was relieved to see that they seemed to 
have settled their differences, whatever they had been. 
Sometimes the peculiar ways of these Outlanders baffled 
him beyond belief, but he had grown very fond of them 
all in a short time. 
"Ho, Chiamh," Parric called. "Have you got any of that 
wicked mead you brew? I think the occasion calls for a 
cup or two." 
Aurian laid a hand on his arm, her face suddenly 
sobering. "Not now," she warned. "We have no time to 
spare for drinking—we're still in considerable trouble. 
Anvar and I have a task of our own to perform with 
Chiamh, and then you and he must go down to the valley 
gates and give our decision to the Elders of the Xandim." 
"Too true, alas," Chiamh interrupted. "And worse—I 
must permit Phalihas to resume his human shape, so that 
he can undergo the trial of tonight's vigil. The risk of 
treachery will be greatest at that time." He shuddered. 

"Once Phalihas is changed back to human form, there 
will be no further need for the Xandim to spare me. 
Windeye or not, I will be lucky to escape with my life." 
"You'll be all right," Anvar said firmly. "Aurian and I 
will shield you." 
"Indeed we will," Aurian agreed. "But before we do 
anything else, we must have Schiannath's agreement. 
Suppose he doesn't want to be Herdlord?" 
"I think you need have no fears on that score," Chiamh 
said wryly. "Nonetheless, it is time we asked him." 
"You want me to do what?" Schiannath looked at the 
four— Aurian, Anvar, Chiamh and Parric—who were 
ranged before him, and realized that his jaw was still 
hanging open in sheer disbelief. He closed his mouth 
quickly, but his mind was still reeling. "You would really 
give me another chance to become Herdlord?" he 
repeated their offer, unable to assimilate all the 
implications. "You can truly do this, and the Xandim will 
accept it?" 
"If you are Challenging as an elected substitute for the 
current Herdlord, it is within the Law," Chiamh replied. 
"They must accept it—but they will not like it." 
"They don't have to bloody well like it," Aurian put in. "I 
just want to be sure that you are happy with the decision, 
Schiannath. I won't have you pressured. Are you 
absolutely sure you want to do this? Have you considered 

the risks involved? Chiamh says that last time—" 
"Please, Lady, do not judge me by last time," Schiannath 
told her firmly, wishing that that interfering Windeye 
would learn to keep his mouth shut. "I have suffered 
much in the interim, but I have learned a very great deal 
since then. This time things will be different. Last time I 
fought through hatred, but this time I will fight through 
love." 
To the Xandim's relief, Aurian nodded slowly. "I 
understand, Schiannath—and I believe you. Forral told 
me once, when he was teaching me to fight, that other 
factors being fairly even, a warrior who fights for a true 
cause that he believes in will always win over one whose 
motives are destructive. His passion will give him the 
intensity of focus he needs to prevail. Very well, 
then—it's agreed." She took his hand, "I wish you the 
best of good fortune, my friend." 
Schiannath smiled at her gratefully. Aurian's words 
helped to stiffen his courage—which was just as well, for 
when he came to tell Iscalda of his decision, he was 
completely unprepared for her anger and dismay. 
"Schiannath—no! How could you let them persuade you 
into this folly?" Iscalda's eyes blazed with anger, and 
Schiannath flinched from the look of hurt and betrayal on 
her face. "My dear Iscalda—only listen…" He tried to 
soothe her, putting an arm around her shoulders, but she 

tore herself away from him with an oath. 
"How could you do this—to yourself—to me! Did you 
learn nothing at all from what happened last time? 
Phalihas will not exile you again, you fool! This time, he 
will take your life!" 
"He will not!" Schiannath fought for calm. "This time 
will be different, Iscalda. This time he will not prevail." 
"How can you know that?" Iscalda blazed at him. "You 
put your life at stake—" 
"Yes—for greater gain, in the end." 
"What greater gain?" Iscalda snapped. "For power? For 
glory?" She spat contemptuously on the ground. "How 
like a man, to—" 
"Will you be still and listen?" Schiannath caught hold of 
his sister's shoulders, gripping hard enough to stem her 
torrent of angry words. "Listen to me now," he repeated, 
and took a deep breath. "I confess that the first time I 
Challenged, I did it for all the reasons that you so rightly 
decry. I was young, rebellious and foolish—and in truth, 
I was lucky to escape with my life. I care far more about 
the fact that I almost lost you yours, and put you through 
such suffering for my sake. Now, against all odds, Parric 
has given me another chance to defeat Phalihas—but 
power and glory are my last considerations." 
He paused, and looked deep into her eyes. "The last time 
I Challenged for myself, Iscalda. This time I do it for 
you. If Phalihas is not stopped—and stopped for 

good—he has every right to make good his claim of 
betrothal upon you." 
Iscalda gasped, and turned pale. 
"Yes." Schiannath nodded. "And he will make you suffer 
for his enmity with me. I will not—I cannot—allow that 
to happen. And so I must fight him, this one last 
time—for your safety, and your future." 
Tears flooded Iscalda's eyes, but the stubborn set of her 
jaw remained unaltered. "I don't care," she whispered. "I 
would rather Phalihas subjected me to all manner of 
indignities than see him take your life." 
Schiannath put his arms around her. "With luck," he 
assured her, "Phalihas will do neither. I intend to see to 
that." 
"Do we have to go up there?" Aurian groaned. "Couldn't 
you just perform your Seeing down in the vale?" She was 
standing at the bottom of the cliff path (if you could 
dignify that narrow, treacherous lip of rock—barely a 
slanting fault where the layers of stone had slipped and 
overlapped—with the name of "path", that led up to the 
top of the spire and Chiamh's Chamber of Winds. 
The Windeye shook his head. "There is not enough wind 
down here in the valley—and besides, for a Seeing, 
highest is best. I can See much farther, and with greater 
accuracy, up there at the top of the spire, where the air is 
so much clearer and free to move." 

Aurian looked up at the cliff and shuddered. Unbidden, 
the horrific vision of Bohan's lethal plunge came into her 
mind. The world around her tilted dizzily, and she found 
herself trembling. In panic, she grabbed hold of Anvar's 
hand. "I can't," she whispered. "I'll never get up there…" 
"Surely it can't be the height that's bothering you," Anvar 
encouraged her. "Why, the cliff at Taibeth was far higher 
than this, and so was the tower of the Dragonfolk at 
Dhiammara. You managed both of those all right." He 
put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Is it the 
manner of Bohan's death that's upset you so?" 
The Mage nodded reluctantly, glad to look at her soul 
mate instead of the crumbling cliff, and even more 
grateful that he should be so in tune with her thoughts. 
"You're right—it's the ascent itself," she told him. "We've 
never climbed anything as precarious or as difficult as 
that—and coupled with the fear is the memory of what 
happened to Bohan last night—" Suddenly she stopped, 
gasped, and hugged him, laughing with relief. "Of 
course!" she cried. "Thank you, Anvar—you've just 
found me the solution. We don't have to climb!" Fishing 
in the pocket of her tunic, she brought out the slender 
whistle of carved bone that summoned the Skyfolk. 
There came a shrill cry of acknowledgment from high 
above the Mages, followed by the drumming thunder of 
wings. From their lofty perches high among the crags of 
the spire, the Winged Folk came spiraling down, to land 

in a swirling windstorm at Aurian's feet. They were a 
mated pair, Aurian had discovered on her previous 
night's adventure, when they had transported herself and 
her companions from peril in their beleagured tower of 
the fastness. Ibis, the male, was tall and gangling for a 
Skyman, with white plumage trimmed and edged in 
black, and a serious, considered mien. Kestrel, his mate, 
was small, bright-eyed, and quick, with speckled 
plumage in blending shades of brown. Though she 
smiled more often than her mate and seemed to have a 
greater sense of playfulness and fun, the fierce intensity 
of her manner could be somewhat daunting. As they 
landed, the two Skyfolk spoke simultaneously: 
"Not trouble again!" said Ibis, with a worried frown. 
"You need help?" Kestrel asked. 
"It's not a crisis, but I'd be only too glad of your help," 
the Mage told them. She pointed to the top of the spire. 
"Can you take me up there?" 
They could and did, grasping her arms as they had done 
the night before and lifting her, with little effort over 
such a short distance, to the top of the spire and Chiamh's 
Chamber of Winds, where they set her down as delicately 
as a feather on the flat, wide, windswept platform of 
stone. The Windeye, following his normal route with the 
ease of long practice, was already partway up the cliff, 
and would soon be joining her. While the Winged Folk 
went down to pick up Anvar—who had also elected to 

come up by the easier method—Aurian, making sure to 
keep as close as possible to the center of the floor, away 
from the perilous brink, looked curiously around at the 
peculiar structure. 
The first thing that she noticed—because it was 
impossible to ignore—was the wind, which was so much 
stronger up here on this platform between earth and sky. 
It wailed and whistled shrilly as it poured from the north 
like a swift-moving river, blowing her hair back from her 
face and making her jaws and ears ache with its chill as it 
coursed around her swaying body and ripped her flapping 
cloak back from her shoulders, gnawing into her very 
bones. It buffeted and worried at her as though she were 
being attacked by a living creature. Aurian felt its 
merciless, inexorable force, and shuddered. Who was 
Chiamh, that he could tame and harness such elemental 
wildness? 
Annoyed that she had allowed herself to be so disquieted 
by nothing more than moving air, Aurian took herself to 
task very sharply. "Fancy a Mage succumbing to an 
attack of the vapors," she muttered to herself, and 
chuckled dourly at her own poor joke. To distract herself 
from such foolishness, she forced herself to concentrate 
on her surroundings. In typical Moldan style, the edifice 
looked as though it had been grown organically rather 
than constructed. The circular floor was flat and smooth, 
with a lustrous polish, and four sturdy pillars grew up at 

regular intervals around the periphery, supporting the 
arching roof that was the apex of the spire. The view was 
staggering, blocked only to the south by the cliffs and 
upper summit of the Wyndveil. To the west and east 
were the long, wooded spurs that formed the cradling 
arms of Chiamh's vale, with the snowy heads of other 
mountains beyond. Aurian, facing west, turned away 
with a shudder from the shattered peak of Steelclaw and 
looked north, down the length of the valley and the 
plateau beyond. The view there gave her even less 
comfort. A scattering of colored dots were strewn about 
the sward beyond the mouth of the vale: the Xandim had 
arrived in force. Aurian shuddered, suddenly gripped by 
a formless fear for Schiannath and Chiamh, who would 
have to deal with these, their own people, on the morrow. 
She was so wrapped up in her worries that she did not 
hear the flurry of wings behind her until she felt the 
reassuring touch of Anvar's hand. She gripped it tightly, 
and turned to face him with a rueful grimace as she saw 
her concerns mirrored on the face of her lover. "I know," 
she sighed. "It looks bad down there—but we'll cope 
with it somehow." 
"Of course we will. Not just the two of us, but the rest of 
our allies. Now that we have Parric back on our side…" 
Anvar's grin betrayed his relief, but Aurian detected a 
slight tightening of pain around his eyes. "He was the last 
person I would have expected to…" 

"I should have guessed long ago that something was 
troubling him," the Mage replied. "He and Forral were 
always so close. He just needed time to accept that so 
much had changed. He'll be all right now—I hope." 
Aurian turned to thank the two Skyfolk who had 
transported Anvar to the Chamber of Winds. Knowing 
that she had already alienated the rest of the winged 
couriers, she was more than anxious not to make the 
same mistake again—and besides, she was genuinely 
grateful to Kestrel and Ibis. Now that the others had 
gone, the Mage found herself hoping that this last pair of 
Winged Folk would not keep themselves so isolated from 
the other companions, and would truly become an 
integral part of her little band. 
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the 
Windeye, who was panting heavily from the strenuous 
climb. He hesitated, feeling like a clumsy intruder, when 
he saw the Mages deep in conversation with the Skyfolk. 
They seemed so deeply engrossed in talk that he was 
reluctant to interrupt them. 
Aurian, however, turned at the sound of his harsh 
breathing. "Serves you right—you should come up the 
easy way, as we did," she teased him, with a wicked grin. 
Ibis and Kestrel chuckled. 
"Thank you, no." Chiamh shuddered. "If the Goddess had 
meant me to fly, she'd have given me wings of my own." 
"And if she'd meant me to climb, she'd have given me 

feet like a fly," the Mage countered swiftly. 
"Ah, but flies have wings too," Anvar added, joining in 
their nonsense, "so where does that leave us?" 
"If we Skyfolk may leave you," Ibis suggested, "we 
thought we might fly down the valley to take a look at 
our foes. Wings come in useful for other things than 
carrying burdens—we can also scout much nearer the 
enemy than any of you groundlings would dare 
approach." 
"That sounds like a good idea," Chiamh agreed, "but 
don't get too carried away. Just remember to stay high. 
The bows of the Xandim are very powerful." 
"Never fear." Kestrel grinned. "We Skyfolk are not so 
easily captured." Calling their farewells, the two winged 
couriers launched themselves from the edge of the 
platform, opened their great wings, and soared out of 
sight. 
Chiamh sighed enviously. What must it be like, to be 
able to fly? Then he realized that he already could, in a 
sense, when he was riding the winds—and that reminded 
him that he and the Magefolk ought to be getting down to 
business. "Now that the Skyfolk have gone, we ground 
folk had better concentrate on gathering the winds." The 
Windeye was suddenly anxious to get the Seeing over 
with as soon as possible. As always, the effort of such 
farsight would be a great strain on him, and he had many 

more trials ahead of him in the next few hours. 
Aurian nodded gravely. "What do you want us to do?" 
"Little, I suspect," Chiamh told her. "I have no idea 
whether your powers can access this type of magic. With 
luck you may be able to share the Vision, but if not, then 
simply stay back, listen—and bear witness." He smiled 
ruefully at the Magefolk. "In truth, I welcome your 
presence and support more than anything. For me, a 
Seeing has always been a lonely and terrifying 
experience." 
"A little like riding the winds used to be," Aurian said 
softly, and Chiamh remembered the night at the Tower of 
Incondor when she had joined him on the winds to travel 
to Aerillia. No longer alone, he had discovered a glory 
and joy in his powers that he had never before 
experienced. His life had changed that night, and he was 
grateful to the Mage for her timely and encouraging 
reminder. His eyes met hers in understanding. "Maybe it 
will be the same this time," he told her. "At any rate, 
we'll soon find out." 
Chiamh closed his eyes and concentrated hard upon 
summoning the arcane, mysterious powers of the 
Windeye—then gasped, as though he had taken a 
breathless plunge into an icy stream. The melting chill of 
his Othersight enveloped his body, blurring his vision to 
shimmering silver as his eyes changed from their normal 
hue. As his sight cleared, he took command of himself, 

and peered out into the otherworld that was now 
revealed. 
In sunlight, the images of his Othersight were somewhat 
different from those he saw when his surroundings were 
dark. The streaming currents of the winds showed less of 
their silvery brightness, but glowed instead with sparks 
and shimmers of moonstone, fiery opal, and burnished, 
liquid gold. The stone that comprised the surrounding 
mountains and his Chamber of Winds had a crystalline, 
amethyst glitter, and the living auras of the Magefolk at 
his side shone with the blinding effulgence of two 
jeweled rainbows. Gritting his teeth, Chiamh tore his 
attention away from the perilous entrancement of such 
beauty. He steadied himself by taking long, deep breaths, 
and held out hands that blazed with a dazzling 
iridescence of their own. Squinting against the light that 
came from his inner self, he reached out and grasped two 
handfuls of the flowing strands of wind, clearly 
formulating the question he wanted to ask in his mind as 
he did so. 
Stretching the skeins of living air between his fingers, the 
Windeye controlled and shaped them, molding them into 
a wide, reflective disc that shimmered like a swirling, 
opalescent web between his hands. As he looked deeply 
into it, surrendering his own will to the power of the 
Seeing, he felt it drawing him down and in, further and 
further into the maelstrom of light, until all knowledge of 

himself had been abandoned: left far behind as his spirit 
went spinning away, beyond, in pursuit of the answers 
that he sought. 
Chiamh came back to himself with a jolt, and 
immediately felt the difference. It was working! His heart 
leapt with elation. The mirror of air had turned into a 
living thing between his hands. He had given of 
himself—and now, in return, the wind was surrendering 
its powers of knowledge up to him. The Windeye looked 
deep into the mirror and watched, wide-eyed, as the 
images began to form within its fiery depths: 
Two great stallions—one black, one clouded 
gray—fighting at dawn upon a windswept plateau. One 
stumbled, fell; great hooves struck down, and a swirl of 
crimson blood spiraled out to obscure the vision. Chiamh 
caught his breath. Which had fallen? Which? 
But when the blood cleared, the Vision had changed. The 
mirror darkened to a blackness so profound that the 
Windeye thought he had somehow lost the Seeing—then 
an actinic flare of lightning split the sky, and he saw the 
brutal churning of storm-lashed waves, boiling white as 
they hurled themselves against the jagged rocks of a 
headland. In the next flash, his Othersight pierced the 
black caldron of the waves to reveal terrifyingly 
monstrous shapes swimming beneath the waters, waiting. 
Then all was dark once more until another lightning bolt 
revealed the Mage, standing poised upon the edge of the 

rocks. She dived, with the clean arc of a salmon's leap, 
launching herself right into the teeth of the ravenous 
waves… 
Chiamh gasped in horror. Involuntarily he closed his 
eyes, and opened them again to a sight of such 
breathtaking beauty that the horror of the previous Vision 
was forgotten. It was a unicorn: an unearthly creature, 
translucent and ethereal, seemingly created out of light in 
all its forms. She turned her exquisite head, that glistened 
like frost, to look at him and tossed a mane that was like 
sunrise on a swirl of morning mist. Then, kicking up 
sunbursts from her silver heels, she raced away intc the 
darkness, his only guide the moonspun glimmer of her 
coat, and the starlight that streamed and sparkled like a 
comet tail from her spiral horn… 
Chiamh followed, and burst out into the sunlight that lay 
thick as mead in the cup of a deeply forested green 
valley. The view shimmered as though seen through a 
heat haze, beneath a web of the strongest magic he had 
ever encountered. Despite the unearthly beauty of the 
Vision, the Windeye felt a pang of agonizing fear, like a 
sword thrust deep into his vitals, and had to steel and 
steady himself so as not to flee in terror. He looked down 
from above, with the sight of an eagle, and saw the 
unicorn standing by a slender wooden bridge, which led 
across to an island in the center of a tranquil lake. On the 
island was a jewel—a massive blood-red gem—and 

within it was the silhouetted shadow of a sword. The 
fierce blade, cradled in the pulsing light of the crystal's 
crimson heart, looked as though it had been drenched in 
blood. It hummed to itself, redolent with somnolent 
power, singing songs of victory and sacrifice that became 
manifest and shot like spars of carmine light into the 
heavens. They reached out like bloody fingers to entrap 
and seize the Windeye—and in the power of their fell 
clutch he saw the fate that he had dreaded: the ending of 
the Xandim… 
With a scream of anguish that was ripped from the very 
depths of his soul, Chiamh fled in terror, not knowing 
where he went, or how, only wanting to get away from 
the Sword and the two-edged fate it held. Darkness 
surrounded him, and he plunged into it gladly, desperate 
for concealment, for succor… 
"Chiamh—Chiamh! Wake up, damn you! Come back to 
us, please…" 
Someone was slapping him; then fingers dug bruisingly 
into his shoulders, shaking and shaking him… The 
Windeye felt the firm grasp of a mind—no, two minds— 
clutching at his consciousness—holding him, supporting 
and comforting him, and gradually but firmly drawing 
him back toward the sane and normal light of day. For a 
moment he continued to fight them in blind, mindless 
panic—then, as memory returned to him, he recognized 

the familiar mind-touch of the Magefolk. Gladly, 
trustingly, he surrendered then, and let them bring him 
home. 
Chapter 18 - Horncall and Sunrise 
Chiamh's mouth was dry as he approached the two great 
standing stones that were known in the Xandim language 
as the Gates to the Vale of Death. Beyond them, in the 
narrow maw of the valley's entrance, he could see the 
colorful tents of the Xandim, who were encamped in 
profusion on the green turf to either side of the Gates, 
leaving the broad expanse of the plateau bare for 
tomorrow's Challenge. Before the great stones, mocking 
the gay hues of the scattered dwellings, the red light of 
the sinking sun gleamed like fire and blood on a grim, 
bristling thicket of spear points and drawn swords. 
Though he was still distant, they had seen him. An angry 
murmur went up from the hostile crowd. The ugly sound, 
like the wrathful drone of a shattered nest of hornets, 
echoed within the narrow walls and rolled up the valley 
toward him like an overwhelming tidal wave of 
resentment and loathing. The Windeye paused in the 
spurious shelter of the last stand of trees, righting his 
reluctance to approach any nearer to that wall of pulsing, 

bloodthirsty hatred. He suddenly felt extremely grateful 
that he had the Mages with him, and Aurian's friend the 
formidable cat (whose male companion was back in the 
valley with the two Skyfolk, guarding Wolf and his foster 
parents)—not to mention his other comrades, both 
Outland and Xandim. He needed their support as he had 
never needed it before, for he doubted that even his 
legendary Grandam could have dealt single-handedly 
with such a crisis as this, and Chiamh was already utterly 
spent following the mind-wrenching efforts and 
nightmare terrors of the Seeing he had performed for 
Aurian. 
Had it not been the Time of Challenge, the Mage would 
not have allowed him to come at all. As it was, she had 
been furious with him—now that she had found out 
exactly what a Seeing entailed—for taking such a risk 
with himself—though, perversely, she had been more 
angry with herself for letting him do it in the first place, 
despite the fact that he had deliberately concealed the 
potential dangers from her. Fortunately, the Mages had 
been unable to follow his Seeing with their own powers 
and were forced to rely on what he told them of the 
Vision, so Chiamh had been able to conceal that 
horrifying final image. He only wished he could so easily 
hide the memory from himself. 
Now, as he made his way toward the Place of Challenge, 
the impact of his discovery was truly coming home to 

him, and the Windeye found himself faced with an 
anguishing dilemma, brutally torn between two loyalties. 
He could no longer pretend ignorance—the fate of the 
Xandim now lay in his hands. How easy it would be to 
turn upon his new friends and betray them to the angry 
hordes. By simply performing the same binding spell on 
Schiannath as he had used upon Phalihas, Chiamh could 
vastly increase the likelihood that the Sword of Flame 
would never be found and his people would be safe. The 
Mages and their Outland companions would almost 
certainly be killed—but was such a sacrifice truly too 
much to ask when compared to the life of an entire tribe? 
And have you forgotten the Evil Powers so soon? he 
asked himself. Without Aurian and the Sword they are 
sure to triumph—and what of the Xandim then? But the 
Evil Powers were strange to him, and far away, and had 
he not witnessed the very plain and immediate threat of 
the Sword with his own Othersight? 
"Chiamh? Are you all right?" The Windeye came out of 
his reverie with a guilty start to see Aurian looking at 
him with a frown. "I knew you should have rested 
longer," she said as she slipped a supportive hand 
beneath his elbow. "You look absolutely dreadful. I wish 
you'd at least let me give you back some of the energy 
you lost in the Seeing. You're in no fit state to do this, 
and you know it." Her eyes were shadowed with worry 
and concern, but with her usual courage she tried to 

lighten the moment. "We don't want to lose you, you 
know. I've soared with you over the mountains, and raced 
the wind with you across the plateau—and I had rather 
counted on being able to do both those things again." She 
smiled at him—her own wry, expressive smile that held 
all the love of one friend for another, and was especially 
for him. 
Chiamh could not meet her eyes. You wanted to betray 
her? his thoughts goaded him. You want to see her lying 
dead? How many true friends have you had in your life, 
save these who are with you now? He looked past the 
Mage at Anvar, who seemed similarly concerned, and at 
Sangra, who had helped him through the worst of his 
fears when they came down the mountain in the storm. 
He saw Parric, whom he had risked his life more than 
once to aid, and Schiannath and Iscalda, whom he had 
already betrayed once on the orders of his Herdlord. He 
could not do so again. 
The Windeye straightened his sagging shoulders and 
reached out to take Aurian's hand. "I'll be all right," he 
reassured her with an effort. "This is a time of heavy 
burdens for us all. I will rest tonight, I promise—though I 
ought not, while we keep vigil." 
"Bugger the vigil," Aurian growled. "I won't let Phalihas 
and his men see you sleeping—but sleep you will, my 
friend. I'll see to that. You deserve it, and you need it." 
"Just so long as you don't snore," Parric threatened, with 

a grin. 
"What?" Chiamh raised his eyebrows in mock horror. 
"I'll have you know that the mighty Windeye of the 
Xandim never snores!" Though the burden was still his to 
bear, his heart felt immeasurably lighter now that his 
decision had been made. He answered Parric's comradely 
clap on the shoulder with a buffet of his own, and turned 
reluctantly away from the warmth of his friends toward 
the hostility of his enemies. "We must be moving," he 
told his companions. "The sun is almost setting, and there 
is little time remaining to do what we must." 
It was as though an invisible line had been drawn 
between the standing stones across the mouth of the vale, 
from one tall, sinister monolith to the other. Beyond that 
impenetrable boundary of fear and superstition, the 
Elders stood. Behind them, ranked in line, were the 
regional chieftains of the nomadic Xandim hunters and 
the leaders of the small family communities of fisherfolk, 
salt-panners, and beachcombers who spent part of their 
year in residence down on the coast and traded their 
goods at regular gatherings with the inland tribes. 
Accompanying them was Phalihas, still trapped within 
the equine shape of a great black stallion. At the sight of 
Chiamh the former Herdlord tensed with rage, flattening 
his ears back against his skull while one huge hoof 
pounded restlessly at the ground, tearing the turf to 
shreds. 

Ysalla, leader of the Elders, stepped forth: tall and gaunt 
and brittle as an ancient pine. Though her russet hair was 
more gray than chestnut now, and her weathered face 
was hollowed and lined with age, her manner was still 
haughty and imperious as she addressed the Windeye. 
"Well, tergiver-sator? The dark of the moon is upon us 
again. What word have you for us, upon this Night of 
Challenge? Does that skulking Outland scum that you 
have raised to power intend to keep his word to us this 
time? And what of your own promise? Will you free 
Phalihas? For we have ruled that under our ancient Law 
he was unfairly Challenged and may contend again, if he 
so wishes—but not under the geas of a foul traitor!" 
Chiamh, though he shook inwardly, met her cold gaze 
without flinching. "True to my vow, I will release 
Phalihas." He paused to give the murmurs and cries of 
the assembled Xandim a chance to die away. "And to 
meet him I bring forth another who would Challenge! 
Though the present Herdlord keeps his word and will not 
fight again, under the Law he may nominate another to 
stand in his place." 
"Another Xandim," Ysalla snapped. 
"He is another Xandim." The Windeye's expression of 
impassive calm did not alter as he beckoned Schiannath 
to his side, though he was almost overwhelmed by the 
cries of anger and outrage that erupted all around him. 
"Traitor!" 

"Injustice!" 
"It is forbidden!" 
"He would foist an outlaw on us now!" 
"Schiannath has already failed!" 
"He may not fight again!" 
Chiamh lifted his hand—and a blast of howling wind 
swept all their words away. Into the stunned and resentful 
silence that followed, he spoke again. "May I remind you 
that Phalihas has also failed a Challenge, yet still you call 
upon the Law to let him fight again. The Herdlord, 
Parric, is willing to give up his position, but a resigning 
Herdlord has the right under our Law to nominate a 
Challenger—any Challenger that he may choose, so long 
as it be one of the Xandim—to take his place. You 
cannot deny that it is so." 
For a long moment Ysalla hesitated, plainly desperate to 
deny his words—but she could not. At last, she dropped 
her eyes from Chiamh's unwavering gaze. "It is so," she 
admitted through gritted teeth, sounding as though each 
word had been dragged by force out of the very depths of 
her soul. "If you restore Phalihas, then Schiannath may 
Challenge—and we, the Xandim, will abide by the result. 
But hear me, Windeye"—her eyes smoldered with the 
intensity of her loathing—"if Phalihas should prevail, 
then tomorrow's dawn will be the last that you and your 
accursed Outland companions will ever see. By the Light 
of the Goddess, I swear it." 

"Before you make such a rash vow, you should be sure 
you are able to enforce it," the Windeye replied levelly. 
"I, at least, can keep the promises I make." With that he 
lifted his hands, grasped the air that shimmered around 
Phalihas, and twisted. The horse-shape blurred and 
altered—and standing in its place was the tall, strong 
figure of the former Herdlord. 
"You…" Phalihas screamed, and hurled himself at 
Chiamh, his hands outstretched to grasp and maul. He 
fought the Xandim that held him back, all the while 
spitting out vile epithets and snarling like an animal in 
his rage. The Windeye stood unmoving, never taking his 
eyes from his would-be murderer. 
Ysalla put an end to it. "Stop this, you fool!" she roared. 
"Do you want to ruin everything? If you cross into the 
Vale of Death—or if you shed blood upon the Eve of 
Challenge—you will be cursed, and may not fight 
tomorrow!" 
Phalihas subsided immediately, though his eyes glinted 
with unsatiated rage. "Count the hours, Chiamh," he told 
the Windeye. "You have not many left." 
Chiamh shrugged—a deliberate move designed to keep 
Phalihas angry and off balance throughout the night. "For 
certain, one of us has not." He turned on his heel and 
walked away. 
Aurian, watching, felt her heart swell with pride. 

The sun was dipping low behind the riven peaks of 
Steelclaw, streaking the gaunt and looming monoliths 
with crimson as the two camps of the Challengers settled 
down by the stones for the night's uneasy vigil. There 
was little time left for talk before the darkness brought 
the rule of silence, and Parric hurried to catch the 
Windeye alone while Aurian and Anvar lit a fire, and the 
others were busy setting up their rough camp, arranging 
the watches between themselves so that two would 
always be there to guard Schiannath, and one other 
would be on hand to feed the fire and surreptitiously keep 
the Challenger awake should he falter. Chiamh was 
coaxing a reluctant, nervous Schiannath to eat the last 
meal he would have before his Challenge, but when he 
felt the cavalrymaster's hand upon his shoulder, he 
quickly turned away. 
Parric led them both into the shadows behind the great 
stone. "Look," he began roughly, "I'm just a soldier, and 
not much of a one for words, but if I didn't thank you 
before for all you've done for us, I want to do it now. 
And, well, I wanted to thank you for what you did the 
other night. When I'm wrong, I say it—and you stopped 
me from making one of the worst mistakes of my life 
when I tried to get Aurian away from the fastness without 
Anvar. I'm sorry for what I tried to do, and I'm in your 
debt because you never told Aurian I was such a bloody 
fool. The lass would never have forgiven me—I realize 

that now. You saved me from making a right old fist of 
things, and probably saved Anvar's life into the bargain. 
I'm truly grateful to you." 
At that moment the last shred of sunlight vanished and 
the lonely wail of a horn rang out across the plateau, 
signaling that the hours of silent vigil had begun. Chiamh 
was prevented from making a reply, but his smile and his 
strong clasp of Parric's hand managed to convey both 
friendship and approval as they walked back together to 
the fire. 
Though they had all arranged to take watches, none of 
Schiannath's companions save the chagrined 
Windeye—who insisted, afterward, that Aurian had 
bespelled him—got any sleep that night. In the case of 
Sangra and Yazour, their thoughts were astonishingly 
similar, though their backgrounds were so disparate. 
Each of them, in their own way, was longing for home. 
Sangra was thinking wistfully of the busy, muddy streets 
of Nexis: the taverns, the training, and the rowdy, roughand-
tumble companionship of the Garrison. Yazour sat 
shivering in his thick cloak, missing the shimmering, 
broiling heat, the rhythmic chirpings of the frogs beside 
the river, which made each night less still and lonely, the 
sound of his mother tongue—and the endless, glittering 
horizons of the desert. 
Parric had a good deal to think about, in any case, since 

Annan's revelations of that day had led him to see her 
attachment to Anvar in a different light. He was not, 
however, much given to that kind of introspection, and 
his mind soon strayed back to the more immediate issue. 
Schiannath. The cavalrymaster's sympathies went out to 
the Xandim warrior, who sat, pale and plainly ill at ease, 
on the other side of the fire, forced to fight a battle of 
nerves through the watches of the night with Phalihas—a 
wily and experienced opponent, as Parric knew to his 
cost. Having been through the same grueling ritual, he 
didn't envy the lad in the least, and couldn't help but feel 
a twinge of concern. Schiannath was an unknown 
quantity—save that he had lost to the former Herdlord 
once already, which didn't bode well at all to the 
cavalrymaster. He only hoped that the young Xandim 
would prove equal to the test. 
Aurian, who always observed Forral's lessons about not 
looking at the fire while on night watch, sat tense and 
awake, shivering a little with weariness and the damp 
chill of the mountain night, and peering into the shadows 
beyond the massive standing stones. How could she 
possibly sleep? She had so much on her mind, following 
the revelations of Chiamh's Seeing: how could that 
double-dratted Sword have turned up in her mother's 
Valley, of all places? It seemed as though the fates were 
mocking her. And that was by no means the only matter 
to occupy her attention. Tomorrow would be so vitally 

important—not only to Schiannath and the Xandim 
people, but to the entire course of her future. Depending 
upon the outcome of this duel, she would either be 
making plans to head back north to find the Sword and 
confront Miathan at last, or fighting for her life and very 
likely losing more of her beloved companions in the 
battle. 
At her side, she felt Anvar's hand tighten on her own, in 
response to the pain that had consumed her at the 
unexpected reminder of Bohan. "I'm not dwelling on it, 
truly," she assured him in the mental communion that 
was becoming increasingly easy now that they enjoyed a 
lovers' bond. "I know that would serve no purpose. 
Besides, mourning is a luxury we can't allow ourselves 
just now." 
"You're right." Anvar's reply came into her mind, and 
Aurian blessed the fact that they could speak without 
words, on this night when they must remain silent. "But 
that doesn't diminish our love for Bohan," her soulmate 
added, "and one day, if all goes well, we'll find a suitable 
way to honor him." 
"That's a lovely thought, and very fitting." In echo of her 
words, Aurian sensed Shia's unspoken approval, and saw 
her golden eyes gleaming like gemstones in the firelight. 
The cat was also keeping watch, though she was more 
concerned for the two Magefolk than for the Xandim 
warrior. The Mage laid a hand on Shia's sleek head and 

leaned against Anvar's shoulder, enjoying the closeness 
of her two dear companions. "Can't you two sleep 
either?" 
"Certainly not. I am watching over you," Shia replied 
firmly. 
"Not a chance." Anvar's thought was rueful. "Not with so 
much at stake. Do you really think Schiannath can do it?" 
"He'd damn well better do it," Aurian replied fervently, 
"or we really are in trouble!" She stretched out her long 
limbs with a sigh. "It's this endless waiting that's the 
worst part." 
"Do you want me to do for you what you did for 
Chiamh?" Anvar asked her mischievously, indicating the 
slumbering Windeye. 
"Don't you dare! He's going to murder me when he 
wakes up and finds out, but it's for the best. Poor 
man—he was worn out after what he did for us today. He 
desperately needed to sleep." 
"And he deserves to! I was very impressed with the way 
he handled the Xandim Elders." His mental chuckle 
sobered, and she sensed his hesitation. "But, Aurian… 
didn't it seem to you as though he was keeping something 
from us, after the Seeing?" 
"You caught that, too?" Aurian frowned. "I'd hoped it 
was only my imagination. But I trust him," she added 
firmly. "Anvar, I'm convinced that Chiamh wouldn't 
betray us! Do you doubt that?" 

"Not I." She felt the slight shake of Anvar's head. "But 
what was he hiding, then?" 
"I don't know—but it struck me that whatever it was, it 
terrified him." Aurian fell silent as she pondered the 
possibilities. "I think," she went on slowly, "that if we 
were in peril, he would certainly have warned us. So the 
danger can only be to himself—and that worries me more 
than I can say." She shivered. "I couldn't bear to think of 
anything happening to Chiamh. I've grown very fond of 
him." 
"You mean I have a rival?" Anvar protested in mock 
alarm. 
"Not that fond, you idiot!" Aurian responded to his 
attempt to lighten their mood. He was right—this was no 
time for gloomy, nebulous speculation. "You don't have 
any rivals," she promised him, "and if we didn't have all 
these folk around us, I'd prove it to you!" 
Schiannath, alas, was denied the comfort of mental 
communication. He was forced to keep his vigil in 
silence—and he was spending an uneasy night, with 
Phalihas, only two spear lengths away, glaring at him 
with an unremitting hatred that was far more intense than 
the usual attempt to unnerve an opponent. The young 
Xandim warrior shuddered, feeling the first 
uncomfortable stirrings of doubt. He dropped his eyes 
from the former Herdlord's black gaze and knew, with a 

sinking feeling of shame, that he had already lost the first 
round. What if I can't do it? he thought wildly. If I should 
die tomorrow, what will become of my poor sister? 
He looked up again to see Phalihas staring avidly—not at 
him this time, but at Iscalda—with a sneering expression 
compounded of lust, calculation, and such downright 
arrogance that Schiannath found himself grinding his 
teeth in thwarted fury. The former Herdlord was making 
it perfectly plain that he, at least, had no doubts 
whatsover concerning the outcome of this Challenge. 
Schiannath's self-doubts vanished in a flare of 
incandescent rage that hardened just as quickly into icy 
resolution. Never!, he vowed to himself. Never again will 
Phalihas lay a hand on my sister, for I will defeat him. I 
must!. Setting his jaw, he sought again for his opponent's 
eyes—and this time, such was the strength of his 
desperate resolve, that it was Phalihas's turn to falter and 
look away. Not once, after that, did Schiannath take the 
pressure of his gaze from the Herdlord throughout that 
long, long night. 
Iscalda sat, rigid with apprehension, beside her brother, 
keeping his cold hand clasped tightly in her own. She 
missed the byplay between the two Challengers, for she 
could not bear to look at them, lest she give way to the 
paralyzing thoughts of fear and doubt that constantly 
threatened to erode her courage. If Schiannath should be 
vanquished on the morrow, not only would she lose the 

brother whom she loved more than life itself, but her own 
subsequent fate at the hands of Phalihas did not bear 
thinking about. With her free hand she fingered her 
dagger in its sheath, and vowed to herself that if 
Schiannath died, she would follow him into the arms of 
the Goddess. 
The blast of a horn shrieked its single warning note 
across the plateau. Aurian had been wrapped in thought, 
in that uncertain limbo between sleep and waking, and 
had not noticed that the sky was growing light. The 
clarion call brought her back with a start to a shivering 
body whose limbs were locked in stiffness. Just in time, 
she stopped herself from uttering a heartfelt curse. 
"It's all right now. In the moments between horncall and 
sunrise, you may speak." It was the voice of the 
Windeye. He struggled out of the blanket she had laid 
over him and glared at her. "Was this your revenge, 
Lady, for the time I drugged your wine?" 
"You needed the rest," Aurian told him unrepentantly, 
and was glad that he had no chance to reply. 
The companions gathered around Schiannath, who was 
stamping his feet and swinging his arms to move the 
sluggish blood in his cold limbs. The Xandim warrior 
looked deathly pale in the crepuscular light, but his 
haggard face was set with determination. Chiamh handed 
him the water flask, and he took a quick drink before 

dousing his face and head with the remainder. There was 
no time for more: a faint golden aura was already 
appearing above the eastern slopes, and he must be in 
position before the first rays of sunlight hit the plateau, or 
forfeit the Challenge. 
Quickly, Iscalda embraced her beloved brother. "May the 
Goddess be with you," she whispered, and tore herself 
away from him before her brittle mask of courage could 
shatter. 
"And with you, my sister." Schiannath swallowed hard 
and started forward—then paused to lay a hand on the 
Mage's arm. His eyes held a desperate plea. "If—if 
anything should happen to me," he whispered quickly, "I 
beg you, protect her from Phalihas." 
"I will, I promise," Aurian assured him. Then he was 
gone. 
The world was utterly silent in that moment before 
sunrise, as the two opponents stepped out upon the 
plateau. Then, where two men stood locked eye to eye in 
the tension that preceded combat, two mighty 
stallions—one midnight-black, one a darkly dappled 
gray—faced each other across the stretch of shadowed 
turf: tails streaming, manes flying in the wind as the great 
arched necks flexed and the finely sculpted heads lifted 
proudly. Muscles moved with fluid power in deep chests 
and strong haunches, as lethal hooves tore up the turf. 

The third call of the horn was the triumphant cry of the 
rising sun. As its light blazed up on the horizon, the gray 
turf turned to dazzling green—save where the long 
shadow of Phalihas stretched out to engulf his opponent 
in a swath of darkness. Schiannath shrilled a strident 
challenge and reared, pawing at the air, lifting himself 
high into the sunlight above the black stain of his 
enemy's shade. The glittering dew cast sprays of fire 
beneath pounding hooves as the stallions screamed, and 
charged. 
As the two great horses hurtled toward one another, 
Schiannath lost all vestiges of human consciousness to 
the white-hot ecstasy of pure animal rage. He thundered 
toward Phalihas, intending to dodge and smash into him 
from the side—but the other had the same idea. Both 
beasts veered in the same direction—but Phalihas was 
older, and reacted more quickly to the new development. 
Wrenching himself around on his powerful haunches, he 
bore down on the gray stallion, teeth snapping, and drove 
his head into Schiannath's belly, winding him and 
knocking him off his feet. 
With unexpected agility, Schiannath rolled over and 
scrambled upright, trembling from that instant of panic 
when his feet had left the ground. Phalihas's hooves 
pounded down on the place where his opponent had 
been—but they had missed their target. Schiannath's head 
snaked out. The black stallion screamed in pain and 

outrage as a line of white fire ripped across his flank 
where the other's teeth had slashed him. He whirled 
away, jolted back to cold sanity by the shock—for he had 
clearly not expected Schiannath to take first blood. 
Schiannath came back at him and reared, his sharp 
hooves lashing close to Phalihas's skull. Phalihas ducked 
beneath the flailing bludgeons, went for his enemy's 
throat, but missed his hold. Schiannath's hoof struck 
bruisingly against his shoulder as his teeth met in the 
deeply muscled chest and tore out a lump of flesh. Now it 
was Schiannath's turn to scream and stagger back, 
bleeding. His rolling eye held a new respect for his 
opponent—and the steely glint of a grim determination to 
succeed at all costs against his foe. 
Again and again the stallions charged each other, 
plunging and biting, kicking and slashing. Blood stained 
the trampled turf and the air rang with screams of rage 
and pain as first one and then the other penetrated his 
opponent's guard. The two were evenly matched: 
Phalihas a little heavier, Schiannath slightly taller. The 
older stallion's cunning and experience was offset by the 
greater endurance of the younger beast. Both were 
maimed and bleeding; both were streaked with a froth of 
white sweat and staggering with exhaustion, yet neither 
would give ground, and neither would give in. 
To the companions, standing in an anxious huddle by the 
massive stones, the fight was an unbearable agony. 

Iscalda had never felt so helpless. She could scarcely 
bear to watch her brother being slowly torn apart before 
her eyes, yet watch she must, though her vision blurred 
again and again with tears that she angrily dashed away. 
In her mind she was out there on that bloody field with 
Schiannath—she felt the pain of every wound inflicted, 
and her heart bled as did his ravaged flesh. As the 
stallions' battle took them farther and farther away from 
where she stood, she strained to follow them, squinting 
her eyes in an attempt to penetrate the intervening 
distance. If watching them had been a torture, not being 
able to see was infinitely worse. She felt a hand grip her 
own and hold on tightly, and was grateful for the support 
it offered— yet could not spare a glance to see who was 
trying to help her. 
It must end soon—it must! Schiannath dodged a lunge 
from Phalihas—but not completely. The other's teeth met 
with a click in his ear, and pain lanced through his head. 
He shook himself free with a squeal, blood running down 
his ragged forelock into his eyes, and staggered aside, his 
reactions and movements slower now, his thinking dulled 
and blurred by pain. His sides were heaving with 
exertion, and blood-streaked foam dripped from his open 
jaws. Catching a glimpse of his foe, Schiannath whirled 
stiffly and kicked out, his hind feet smacking into the 
other's ribs with a thud that almost drowned the crack of 
bone. Phalihas tottered and almost fell, the breath going 

out of him in an agonized whistle as Schiannath 
stumbled, unbalanced by the kick. A wrenching pain 
stabbed up his left foreleg. He recovered himself with all 
his weight on the other, for the hoof of the injured limb 
could barely touch the ground. 
The fight broke off as the two stallions stood, heads 
drooping, each of them desperately trying to summon the 
energy to finish his opponent. None of the Xandim would 
interfere from the sidelines—this battle must be fought 
out now, to settle the succession. The last Challenger left 
standing would become the Herdlord—and the other 
would die. 
Schiannath knew he had reached the end of his 
endurance. With his foreleg crippled he had lost 
mobility—and worse, he could not kick. The injury had 
robbed him of a major weapon. It could only be a matter 
of time now, before Phalihas outmaneuvered him. 
Schiannath's heart sank beneath a weight of black 
despair. He had tried, but he had lost… 
Then, through the gray haze of blood loss and fatigue 
that fogged his brain, Schiannath's sensitive equine 
hearing registered the sound of muffled weeping. Iscaldal 
With a jolt he remembered his sister, and the Lady 
Aurian and her companions, who had saved him from his 
dreadful exile. Their lives rested on his success. And 
Iscalda: he was fighting this battle not for himself, but for 
her! What right had he to give in? A thought came to him 

with this renewed determination: if he was in this woeful 
state, then his older opponent must be in a far worse case. 
That faint spark of hope buoyed his flagging spirits, and 
he felt one last reserve of strength trickle into his weary 
limbs. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he took a 
good look at his foe for the first time in what seemed to 
have Been an endless age. Phalihas stood trembling in all 
his limbs, wheezing and choking with the effort to draw 
air into his lungs. Blood was streaming from his mouth 
and nostrils, and his eyes were dull and glazed. 
Schiannath stiffened to a thrill of hope. With the pain of 
his own injury, he had forgotten that last kick into 
Phalihas's ribs. Had it done more damage than he'd 
thought? There was only one way to find out—but first 
he must expose himself. If Phalihas was only feigning, 
and saw that limp… 
Setting his teeth against both fear and pain, he took a 
hesitant, nobbling step forward, then another. His 
enemy's head swung up sharply: a new fire kindled in the 
depths of his dull eyes. Scniannath froze, heart pounding. 
Phalihas gathered himself—and charged. That was what 
Schiannath had been waiting for. As the black stallion 
came lumbering toward him, he sidestepped clumsily, 
and reared with a shrill scream of triumph that changed 
to choking terror as Phalihas's head whipped round to 
close great slablike teeth around his throat. Schiannath 
felt himself toppling, dragged down by the other's 

weight. In the last remaining second, he lashed out with 
one last desperate effort. His uninjured hoof came 
smashing down upon Phalihas's skull—and the two of 
them crashed down together into darkness. 
Iscalda screamed as she saw the stallions fall. She ran 
forward, tearing herself away from the strong hands that 
tried to hold her back. As she broke free, she was aware 
of others beginning to follow, streaming out behind her 
with shouts of excitement or concern, but her anguish for 
her brother lent wings to her feet—and with the start she 
had, she easily outdistanced them all. With an effort she 
stifled her sobs to keep her breath for running, but kept 
her eyes fixed, through a haze of tears, on those two dark 
shapes that lay so ominously still on the blood-soaked 
ground. The final stages of the battle had taken the 
stallions a long way out across the plateau. Iscalda 
pounded on with sweat trickling down into her stinging 
eyes, trying to ignore the catch in her side and her 
shortness of breath. Schiannath!. Though she had no 
breath to speak, the cry was wrenched in agony from her 
heart. Would she never reach him? It was like trying to 
run through water; like her childhood nightmare, when 
she'd fled in terror to evade pursuers, but for all her 
running and running she stayed stranded in the exact 
same place. 
Ahead of her, one of the dark humps stirred. She 

stumbled; looked again. Surely she must have imagined 
that feeble movement? The low, slanting sun was in her 
eyes, obscuring all detail. No! She was not mistaken! 
One of the stallions was struggling weakly, trying in vain 
to rise. With a gasp, Iscalda redoubled her speed. One of 
them was still alive—but which one was it? Which? 
Then she heard, ringing raw and shrill across the plateau, 
a stallion's scream of victory. Iscalda would have known 
that voice anywhere. Schiannath! Unstrung with relief, 
her legs collapsed beneath her, and she fell to the crisp, 
cool turf weeping tears of gratitude. 
Nonetheless, Iscalda was still one of the first to reach her 
brother. Aurian, thundering across the plateau on 
Chiamh's back with Shia racing alongside, caught up 
with her just as she was struggling to her feet. The 
Windeye had kept his wits about him, and taken a 
moment to change to his equine form, and when the 
Mage saw the struggling girl, she was quick to go to her 
aid. 
"Come on!" The Mage reached down a hand and all but 
yanked the exhausted Iscalda up behind her. Then they 
were off again with such speed that, in less than a 
minute, they were at Schiannath's side. The stallion was 
in too much distress to recognize them. He was 
floundering, struggling and plunging and slipping in a 
pool of churned-up mud and gore, trying in vain to get to 

his feet. His dark-gray flanks were unrecognizable 
beneath a thickly plastered coat of blood and clay, and 
his rolling, white-rimmed eyes were glazed with pain and 
panic. 
Muttering a shocked imprecation, Aurian swung off 
Chiamh's back and ran toward the stallion, Iscalda at her 
heels. "Hurry," the Mage yelled. "He's so terrified, he 
doesn't know what he's doing! We've got to try to get him 
up before those idiots arrive." 
He would not let them approach him, despite the fact that 
the great cat was keeping well back, out of his sight. 
When they tried, he struck out wildly with teeth and an 
awkwardly held forelimb that was plainly injured. 
"Schiannath, it's me, Iscalda," his sister cried, but her 
words were lost in the sound of his angry screams. But if 
she could only get him to see her… She turned quickly to 
the Mage. "Aurian, if you can distract him, I'll try to 
reach his head." 
Aurian nodded. "Be careful," she said briefly, and ran 
toward the horse from one side, waving her arms and 
screaming like a banshee. Schiannath flattened his ears 
and turned toward her—and quick as a flash, Iscalda 
darted in and grabbed hold of his muzzle before the 
snapping teeth could reach her. Aurian held her breath. 
Already the crowd of Xandim were starting to arrive, and 
she knew that if Iscalda couldn't reach him soon, she'd 
never do it with a lot of people crowding around. 

Schiannath plunged, trying to shake her off, but his sister 
hung on grimly, refusing to be dislodged. Putting her 
mouth close to his ear, she yelled: "Schiannath! 
Schiannath! It's Iscalda! It's all right, you're safe now. 
You're safe with us. Come back to us—please. You won, 
you're safe…" 
As her soothing litany penetrated the stallion's terrified 
consciousness, his struggles ceased. Beckoned in by 
Aurian, the other companions arrived, gasping for breath, 
and helped the exhausted beast to find his footing while 
Chiamh and Yazour kept back the crowds with the aid of 
a snarling Shia. Once up, Schiannath stood there 
trembling with weakness, his head hanging low, but 
slowly, to the Mage's vast relief, the light of intelligence 
began to creep back into his eyes. 
Not that Schiannath was calmer, Aurian went cautiously 
forward to examine him with her Healer's senses. When 
she had finished, she spoke to him quickly: "Schiannath, 
listen to me. You'll be all right, and I'll help you—but 
don't try to change back yet. You're too exhausted. Do 
you understand? Let me heal you first, and then you can 
think about changing." 
Chiamh, in the interim, was addressing the crowd. "O 
Xandim—I give you your new Herdlord: Schiannath, 
victor of the Challenge. May the Goddess grant that he 
govern you wisely and wefi—and may her curse fall 

swiftly on any who dispute his rule, which was decided 
fairly under Xandim Law." 
There was not much cheering. Judging from the 
expressions of the Xandim—some disappointed, some 
angry— Aurian knew that they had all been counting on 
Schiannath to lose. She wanted to spit in their faces. 
Ysalla came forward for the Elders, her face set like 
stone. "And what is the will of the Herdlord?" The 
savage mockery in her voice was like the lash of a whip. 
In her mind, Aurian caught Chiamh's anguished tones. 
"Can you help him, Lady? Schiannath must address them 
soon, or it bodes ill." 
"I can, but it'll take a while," the Mage replied in the 
same silent fashion. 
"I doubt that we have a little while," the Windeye 
pleaded. Already, a restive murmur was beginning to 
spread throughout the crowd. 
Aurian felt the raw power of their hostile anger and came 
to a decision. "All right. Anvar, you shield our own folk 
as best you can. This bloody lot have energy to dissipate, 
so I'm just going to borrow—" 
"Aurian—you can't! The Mages' Code—" 
"Oh, bugger the Mages' Code—just this once. It's in a 
good cause. I've done this before, in the Nexis riot, and 
the Khazalim Arena. They'll take no hurt at all…" Even 
as she was reassuring him, she was readying herself. 
Surreptitiously, she took hold of the Staff of Earth that 

was tucked, as always, into her belt. Laying the other 
hand on Schiannath's drooping head, she reached out 
with her will to the aura of smoldering rage that hung 
over the crowd and took it into herself, forming a channel 
through which the purloined energy could be passed to 
the gray stallion by way of her hand. As she had 
promised Anvar, it took very little—and the crowd had 
more than enough to spare. Moreover, the exchange of 
energy had an unexpected benefit. As she drained away 
the power that fueled their anger, Aurian noticed a 
change come over the assembled Xandim. They seemed 
more relaxed: less uncertain, less unhappy, and definitely 
far less hostile. Fleetingly, she found herself wondering if 
the happy outcome to the Nexis riot had been entirely 
due to the coming of the rain—and then put the thought 
aside to ponder later. 
As the transfer of energy came to completion, Aurian felt 
Schiannath's trembling cease. His head came up alertly 
from beneath her outstretched hand. Though it still 
remained for her to heal him, his ears were pricked and 
his eyes were bright as he looked around the encircling 
Xandim and snorted sharply. 
"All right," Aurian told him softly. "Now you have the 
energy, you can transform yourself. Go to it, Herdlord— 
we're all so very proud of you." 
Aurian stepped back a little, to give him room to change. 
The great gray stallion set himself, his dark eyes clouded 

with concentration—then his outline seemed to waver 
and shrink upon itself, until in its place stood Schiannath 
the warrior. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He 
was white-faced, bruised and battered, with his clothing 
ripped to shreds and bloody wounds all over his 
body—yet there was a regal dignity and power in his 
bearing that marked him indisputably as Herdlord. 
Aurian waited, watching, and wondering what he was 
going to say. Everything depended upon the next few 
moments, and the impression that Schiannath was about 
to make on his people. She prayed with all her heart that 
the young Xandim warrior would find the right words. 
Lifting his head with weary pride, Schiannath looked 
around at the assembled ranks of Xandim. Suddenly he 
was the focus of hundreds of eyes, and he could feel their 
hostility and suspicion striking against him in a palpable 
wave. What have I done? he thought wildly. They don't 
want me! Only the presence of Iscalda, Chiamh, and his 
Outland companions gave him the courage to stand 
steadfast. He took a deep breath to address his people, 
wondering, for a panic-stricken instant, what he was 
going to say to win them over. Then, as he looked again 
at the Windeye, who had once been as much of an 
outcast as himself, the answer came to him. Taking a 
deep breath, he began: 
"Last year, a very wild, rebellious, and foolish young 

man lost a Challenge on this plateau, and was banished 
into the mountains as an outlaw. You all knew that 
wretch—you all, alas, can remember his errors and his 
escapades." He grimaced wryly, and a tentative chuckle 
trickled through the ranks of watching Xandim. 
Schiannath caught Iscalda's eye. "That man is dead." At 
his words, the laughter ceased abruptly. Suddenly, 
everyone was listening as Schiannath went on, more 
quietly but still clearly: "The Schiannath that you knew 
died in those mountains, as surely as if he had stepped 
over a precipice, or fallen prey to the Black Ghosts." He 
bowed apologetically to Shia, who was rumbling 
fiercely, and heard a gasp of amazement from the crowd 
as the snarling instantly ceased. 
Schiannath made the most of their awe. "It was I who 
bested Phalihas today, and I am not that misguided, 
feckless youth who was exiled from his tribe. Your new 
Herdlord has learned the hard lessons of patience and 
courage; honor, love, and responsibility for others. I ask 
only the chance to prove myself, as the Xandim must 
prove themselves in these difficult, perilous times. Under 
my rule, we need no longer fear our neighbors: the Black 
Ghosts and the Skyfolk. There will be peace between us, 
so that our peoples may flourish and support one another 
against evil—for evil is coming. For too long we have 
kept ourselves from the world, guarding our secret—but 
now the world is reaching out to us, and unless we fight, 

it will overwhelm us. In the north, a great storm is 
rising—a dire malevolence from which my Outland 
companions once fled. Even now it approaches, and were 
it not for the warnings of our brave and faithful Windeye, 
we would be caught unprepared. But for our own sakes, 
we must prepare. There must be no strife among 
ourselves now. Even as the new age dawns, you have 
been given a new Herdlord—a man whose nature has 
been forged anew in the fires of pain and adversity. Once 
I knew nothing but to take from my tribe. Now I want 
nothing but to give of myself and serve my people. O 
Xandim—will you accept me?" 
There was an instant of breathless silence—and then 
Schiannath was overwhelmed by the cheers. Stamping 
their feet and rattling their swords upon their shields, 
they cried his name again and again as they flocked 
around him. Iscalda ran to her brother, her face shining 
like the sun with relief and pride. 
Aurian had no idea that she had been holding her breath 
until she felt it all go out of her in a huge sigh of relief. 
She turned to Anvar with sparkling eyes, wanting to 
share the delight of the moment—and instead found 
Parric, who had approached, unnoticed, while Schiannath 
had been speaking. 
"Well I'm buggered," the cavalrymaster muttered. "I wish 
I had made a speech like that!" 

"You would have—if they'd given you enough mead 
first," she chuckled. Sobering, she turned to Anvar. 
"Wasn't that amazing? I'm so proud of Schiannath that I 
could burst!" 
Her soulmate nodded. "He's quite a man—and it's been 
quite a day! It certainly looks as though there'll be no 
obstacle to our plans now." 
"You're right…" Even as she said it, Aurian suddenly felt 
a premonitory prickle of unease. Looking around, she 
realized that someone was missing from the throng of 
celebrating companions. Chiamh stood apart, watching 
the Xandim honor their new Herdlord, his face gray and 
twisted with a look of utter despair. At the sight of him, 
Aurian shuddered. "At least I hope not," she added, so 
quietly that no one heard her. 
Chapter 19 - The Infiltrator 
Hebba turned pale and let out a little shriek. "Gods save 
us—it's the master!" She sank down weakly in the chair 
beside the fire, fanning herself with her apron. Zanna, 
recognizing an attack of Hebba's vapors, ran to comfort 
her old friend the cook. It was almost like being back 
home. 
From somewhere, Vannor found the strength to chuckle. 

"It's all right, Hebba—I'm not a ghost." 
"No—but with all respect, you look like one, sir." With 
his arm under Vannor's shoulder, Tarnal guided him 
across to the other soft chair, supporting the merchant as 
he had supported him all the long, weary and nervewracking 
way up through the city. 
"Pull yourself together, Hebba," the young Nightrunner 
said sharply, as Vannor sank down with a sigh of relief 
and closed his eyes. "Stop flapping and give that chair to 
poor Zanna—she needs it more than you. We need hot 
water—and have you got some taillin? We've got to 
sober up that idiot Benziorn as quick as we can. Vannor's 
hurt." 
"Hurt? The master? And half-starved too, by the look of 
it—him and the poor little lass." The mere thought was 
enough to restore the old cook's wits. Vacating her chair 
as though it had suddenly turned red-hot, she helped 
Zanna into it, settling her with a rug across her knees and 
then finding another for Vannor. She began to bustle 
about the kitchen in a businesslike manner, setting water 
to boil and rummaging in cupboards for food and utensils 
and linen for bandages, clucking like an old hen all the 
while to conceal her distress. "That Benziorn! The goodfor-
nothing! Why I even give him houseroom, I don't 
know. Why, the wretch is no more use than a hat in a 
hurricane!" 
She turned to glower at the physician, who was still 

hovering sheepishly in the doorway, unsure of his 
welcome—as well he might be. "Get in, if you're 
coming," she snapped at him, banging a pot down onto 
the table to punctuate her words. "And shut that 
door—the master's in a draft. Call yourself a physician? 
You should know better…" 
Vannor relaxed and let her nattering flow over him, 
concentrating on the delicious warmth of the fire that was 
seeping into his chilled bones. Though he was filthy and 
aching, thirsty, starving and exhausted; though his 
injured hand was throbbing unbearably as the feeling 
flooded back into his limbs, he was overcome with an 
incredible sense of euphoria, and a gratitude for his 
deliverance so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. 
What unutterable and unhoped-for luxury, to find himself 
and Zanna safe, and alive, and back among friends again! 
Zanna, too, was feeling as though she had ventured into a 
dream. First dear Tarnal, and now Hebba—and she had 
managed to rescue her dad, after all! Though common 
sense told her that the blissful interlude must of necessity 
be brief—for the hunt would soon be on for her 
father—she put the thought firmly away from her. 
Tomorrow would take care of itself. Damn it, she had 
earned this respite, and she was going to make the most 
of it. 
Hebba came to her with a cup of taillin. "There, my 

lovey, this will tide you over. I'm making you some soup 
right now…" 
Zanna sipped the hot drink appreciatively. Surely, 
nothing in her life had ever tasted so good. It was laced 
with strong spirits and sweetened liberally with honey, 
and as she drank it, she could feel the warmth spreading 
right down to her achingly empty stomach. When she 
glanced up through the fragrant steam, she saw that her 
dad also held a cup in his hand. He winked at her across 
the hearth and lifted his drink to her in a silent, heartfelt 
toast. 
Tarnal was walking a staggering Benziorn up and down 
the room, muttering imprecations under his breath. He 
had a cup on the table, and one on the shelf by the door, 
and was feeding the spluttering physician with strong 
taillin at every turn. Zanna smiled as she watched him, so 
intent and angry, with his brows drawn down over his 
gray eyes in a scowl at Benziorn's intransigence and his 
hair glowing burnished gold in the lamplight. He caught 
her eye, and his angry frown changed to a reassuring 
grin. "Don't worry, Zanna," he told her. "I'll have this 
wastrel sobered up in no time. He's a good physician 
when he's not in his cups, and he'll fix up your dad in no 
time, you'll see." 
It was so good to see him again. Although they had only 
been apart for a matter of months, he seemed to have 
matured in her absence, and strikingly so. I wonder if I 

seem the same to him? Zanna mused. Had she been 
meeting him now for the first time, she would be 
thinking of him as a man, not as a lad. She noticed that 
he was tall and strong enough to haul the struggling 
physician along behind him as he paced grimly back and 
forth. Suddenly, Zanna wondered what the blazes he was 
doing in Nexis. Because of the urgency of getting Vannor 
to a place of refuge, there had been no time for 
explanations as they had come up through the town. And 
where was Yanis? What was he doing now? Thinking of 
the handsome, dark-haired leader of the Nightrunners, 
Zanna lapsed into a dream… 
She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, 
the kitchen was filled with a delicious aroma, her 
stomach was growling, and Hebba was shaking her 
gently by the shoulder. "Come on, lass—I know you 
need to sleep, but you'll do it all the better for some good 
hot soup inside you. That Benziorn's gone to look at your 
dad, and so you just eat up, then we'll make you up a 
proper bed—though the good gods only know where, 
what with Dulsina's young nephew in the best room…" 
As she had done so often at home, Zanna shut out 
Hebba's flutterings, concentrating instead on filling her 
empty stomach with the wonderful soup—until the name 
of Yanis fell upon her ears like a thunderbolt. "What?" 
Perversely, the old cook stopped talking at once. "What 
did you say," Zanna repeated carefully, "about Yanis?" 

Hebba looked at her as though she had just fallen out of 
the skies. "Why, his fever's up again, poor lad, and what 
with that no-good physician nowhere to be found all 
day—" 
"Just a minute," Zanna interrupted her sharply. "You 
mean, Yanis is here?" 
"Why, yes—tucked up in the spare room next door, poor 
lamb, and—" This time, she was interrupted by the crash 
of splintering pottery, and the banging of the door. Hebba 
looked down at the shards of her best bowl amid the 
puddle of soup that was spreading across the hearth, and 
planted her fists on her ample hips. "Well," she said, to 
the empty room at large. "That young lass has been 
learning her manners from them smuggler lads, and no 
mistake." 
To Zanna's horror Yanis stared wide-eyed at her without 
a trace of recognition. His limp, dark hair clung to a face 
that was flushed and sheened with sweat, and the 
bedclothes were twisted about his body from his restless 
movements. The stained bandage around his arm gave 
her the reason for his fever. Zanna felt a chill go through 
her. She couldn't lose him—not Yanis! Her fear was 
abruptly replaced by a flare of anger. Surely Tarnal had 
said that Benziorn was a good physician? If he was really 
any good, how could he have let his patient get into this 
state? And that useless, drunken sot was at this very 

minute treating her father? Zanna's blood turned cold at 
the thought, and she had to steel herself not to rush from 
the room and demand an accounting of Benziorn. 
Calm down, she told herself firmly. Think. We're 
fugitives now, my dad needs help urgently, and good or 
bad, Benziorn is the only physician we've got. We're 
lucky to have him, at that. Once she'd come to think 
things through, she also realized that Yanis had only been 
neglected this long because of herself and her father. 
Even Hebba had been too busy to make him comfortable. 
Well, at least Zanna could do something about that. 
Carefully, she straightened the Nightrunner's twisted 
sheets and rearranged his pillows, trying to disturb him as 
little as possible, and firmly keeping in check her desiremade 
possible at long last—to hold him, to touch his 
face, to stroke his hair. She found water in a jug on the 
table beside the bed, and a cloth to bathe his face. She 
tipped some of the water into a mug and managed to get 
him to swallow a little, though most went down his chin. 
Having made up the fire and filled and trimmed the lamp, 
it seemed that she had reached the limit of what she 
could do for him at present. He certainly seemed to be 
resting more comfortably now. With a guilty start, Zanna 
remembered her father. Benziorn should nave finished 
looking at him now. She ought to go and see how he 
fared. She was just heading toward the door, when Yanis 
began to murmur. Zanna turned back, her heart lifting 

with hope. Was he coming out of his delirium? 
It seemed not. Yanis was restless again, rolling from one 
side to the other, undoing her efforts to straighten his 
bedding and muttering fretfully all the while in slurred, 
unintelligible tones. All her efforts to soothe and reassure 
him were of no avail, and she began to grow frightened. 
She was about to go and fetch Benziorn or Hebba when, 
to her relief, he seemed to grow calmer again. As his 
speech became more clear, Zanna leaned closer to listen. 
What was he saying? 
Yanis's eyes flew open, and he stared 
uncomprehendingly into Zanna's face. "Emmie?" he 
called weakly. "Fire, climb down… Safe journey, 
beautiful sad Emmie…" 
Zanna shot bolt upright. Who the bloody blazes was 
Emmie? Some woman—that was clear enough. Maybe it 
was just some old granny that he'd helped downstairs to 
the kitchen fireside—one of the smugglers, perhaps—but 
no. She knew perfectly well that there was no 
Nightrunner with that name. And he had called her 
beautiful… Suddenly, Zanna felt cold all over—then 
flushed hot with furious humiliation. What had this idiot 
been doing in her absence? He hadn't the sense of a 
newborn babe! Well, she told herself very firmly, she 
was much too sensible to worry about the escapades of a 
stupid smuggler. She had much more important 
things—like her dad—to look after—and she'd be willing 

to wager that this Emmie, whoever she was, couldn't 
have single-handedly rescued Vannor from the clutches 
of the Mages. 
Yanis had fallen silent now, but he was still thrashing 
about in his covers, turning his neatly made bed back into 
a jumble of twisted linen. Zanna looked coldly at the 
mess and its fevered perpetrator. Let this Emmie come 
and straighten it for him, if she was so bloody 
wonderful—she had wasted quite enough time on Yanis! 
She turned her back and forced herself to walk away 
without a backward look. She needed her rest, too—she 
had only just realized how unutterably weary she 
was—and she had to find her father. He needed her, at 
least. Only when she couldn't find the door handle did 
she stop to wipe her eyes. 
"The fire must be smoking," she muttered to herself, and 
left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. 
Benziorn and Tarnal were waiting for her in the kitchen. 
Zanna took one look at their grave faces, and all thoughts 
of Yanis fled her mind. "Dad…?" she whispered. Tarnal, 
his eyes shadowed with concern, leapt up and took her 
arm, leading her gently to the chair. Perversely, Zanna 
wanted to hit him. She wrenched her arm from his grasp 
and leapt back up to her feet. "What is it?" she shouted. 
"What's wrong?" 
Tarnal opened his mouth and shut it again with a helpless 
shrug—and for the first time, Zanna saw the shimmer of 

tears in his eyes. He looked expectantly at the physician. 
Benziorn leaned across the hearth and took hold of 
Zanna's hand. "Your dad was just telling me how you got 
him out of the Academy," he began conversationally. 
Zanna stared at him in disbelief. Something bad had 
happened to Vannor—she just knew it—and this lunatic 
wanted to waste her time with idle chatter? Yet, to be 
fair, he did not seem like such an idiot now that he was 
sober. He seemed fatherly and sensible: someone who 
respected her. Someone she could trust. "What's wrong 
with my dad?" she demanded through gritted teeth. 
"I was astounded," the physician went on as though he 
had not heard her, "that such a little lass had the courage 
to accomplish so much for her father when he needed 
her. But it's not over yet, Zanna. Now Vannor needs your 
courage and assistance again." She felt his strong fingers 
squeeze her own. "His hand is too badly damaged for me 
to save it," he told her bluntly. "It'll have to come off." 
"No!" Zanna gasped. Her strong, vigorous father, 
maimed and crippled? It was unthinkable. Though her 
eyes burned with tears, she managed to keep her voice 
steady. "Are you really sure? Is there nothing you can do 
to give him a chance?" 
"I'm sorry," Benziorn told her. "I know what you're 
thinking. He's only a hopeless drunk—what can he 
know? Surely someone who has the faintest notion of 
what he's doing could save that hand. But you'd be 

wrong. Whatever else I am, girl, I'm a damn good 
physician who already saved the arm of your young 
smuggler friend in there—you ask Tarnal. I used to be 
the foremost Mortal Healer in Nexis, before the Wraiths 
took my family and I lost myself in the bottle. I know 
that you're not the sort of person who can be fobbed off 
with a few soft words. You'd rather have the truth, so you 
can know what you're facing—and that's what I'm giving 
you. That hand is nothing more than a lump of mangled 
meat. The bones are smashed and splintered, the muscles 
pounded to oblivion, and where the tendons are, the gods 
only know. After your little jaunt through the sewers, 
infection has set in, and is spreading rapidly. Vannor had 
to make a decision—his hand or his life—and he had the 
sense not to mess about. We were only waiting for you, 
to begin. Vannor needs you with him in there, girl—he 
asked for you— but if you don't think you can cope with 
it—if you'll be sick, or faint, or get all emotional on 
us—you'd be better staying away. Your father needs you 
strong now." Benziorn raised his eyebrows challengingly. 
"Well? What is it to be?" 
"I'll come, of course," Zanna replied without hesitation. 
"Just tell me what you want me to do." 
The moors at night were a cold and eerie place. The low, 
black, barren humps of the hills stretched on endlessly in 
all directions, and there was nothing to break the force of 

the thin, cold wind that whistled mournfully across the 
slopes. Bern shivered, and pulled the hood of his cloak 
up around his face to hide the vast, dark spaces that 
surrounded him. This accursed wilderness was no place 
for a city man! The baker, who had never taken an 
interest in horsemanship, wished now that he had not left 
all the errands involving riding to his older brother in 
their youth. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, 
trying to find a bit of his backside that had not already 
been rubbed raw, and wished that he knew where he was. 
Once he'd left the road, he had usually camped by 
night— but this time, just as the sun was setting, he had 
seen a smudge of darkness on a distant ridge that looked 
as though it might be the trees that the Lady had told him 
to watch for. 
Foolishly, he had thought he could reach it before the 
darkness fell. He'd been wrong. 
Not for the first time, Bern wished that he had never 
agreed to undertake the Lady Eliseth's mission—until he 
thought about the cellar of his bakery, packed to the 
doorway with all that lovely grain. He smiled to himself. 
The thought of the men and women that he was about to 
betray perturbed him not at all. He had only to get 
through this, and when he got home, he'd be the only 
working baker in Nexis. Why, he could ask whatever 
price he liked for his bread, and no one could object. Just 
thinking of all the riches that could be his on his return 

helped to stiffen his resolve. Besides, he must be almost 
there by now. On the horse that the Lady had provided 
for him, and following her directions, he had made good 
time. If he turned back at this late stage, he would have 
much farther to travel, and nothing to show for it at the 
end—and though he would rather die than admit it, even 
to himself, the mere idea of crossing the cold-eyed 
Magewoman turned his bowels to water. 
What was that? The distant wailing was low and eerie, 
raising prickling gooseflesh on his skin and transporting 
his mind back to childhood tales of the ghosts and 
demons that haunted the moor by night. Bern's fingers 
tightened on the reins. Then the sound came 
again—much closer now—and, suddenly, ghosts would 
have been a comfort. Wolves! This time Bern had no 
difficulty in recognizing the sound. Neither did his horse. 
Uttering a shrill neigh of fear, it took off with a bound 
that almost unseated its unwary rider, and bolted. 
All thoughts of wolves fled from the baker's head—he 
was too preoccupied with simply staying in the saddle. 
Clinging desperately to the horse's mane and jolted about 
with every stride, he was borne helplessly onward, 
galloping blindly, at breakneck speed, across the rough 
terrain. Bern's hood blew back from his face, and the cold 
wind pierced his clothing as his cloak flapped uselessly 
behind him. He plucked up his courage to let go of the 
mane and hauled desperately on the reins until he thought 

his arms would tear free from his shoulders, but it had 
not the slightest effect on his terrified mount. He lost one 
stirrup, then the other, and began to slip inexorably 
sideways. Suddenly the horse lurched forward over some 
hidden obstacle, and pitched head over heels. Bern went 
flying and landed hard. He remembered nothing more. 
When he opened his eyes, he was dazzled by daylight. 
For a moment, the baker wondered where he was. He 
was freezing cold and drenched with dew; he ached all 
over, and his head was throbbing abominably. Another 
man might have wondered what he had been drinking the 
night before, but Bern was far too tightfisted with his 
money to waste it on ale as his father had done, and too 
surly and single-minded about his work to seek 
comradeship and conviviality. Besides, he had no friends, 
and viewed them as an unnecessary luxury. 
With a groan he rolled over—and the first thing he saw 
was the body of the horse lying nearby, cold and stiff, its 
neck skewed at an angle so grotesque that it brought his 
stomach into his throat. It was only then that Bern 
remembered the previous night—and the wolves. The 
wolves! In panic, he tried to struggle to his feet—and 
then realized that if they hadn't got him last night, while 
they'd been hunting and he'd been unconscious, there was 
little danger now. 
But even that brief, frantic effort had exhausted him. The 

baker sat for a while with his eyes closed until his head 
stopped spinning, and when he opened them again and 
looked around, he saw to his surprise that he had almost 
reached the forest, after all. It was there ahead of him, on 
top of the next rise. He had no idea whether horses could 
see in the dark—his obviously couldn't, he thought 
sourly, glaring at his fallen mount—but it had probably 
smelled the trees, or whatever horses did, and had been 
making for their dubious shelter when it had fallen. 
Well, at least the stupid creature had almost got him 
where he wanted to go, Bern thought. He pulled himself 
stiffly to his feet and limped over to the body, 
unfastening his blanket and pack from behind the saddle 
with numb fingers. He threw the blanket around his 
shoulders as an extra cloak and rummaged in his pack 
until he found some cheese and a heel of hard, stale 
bread. He washed down the unpalatable breakfast with 
water from his bottle, thinking wistfully of porridge and 
bacon—though the latter had not been seen in Nexis for a 
long, long time. But these accursed rebels must have 
some food—and the sooner he found them, the sooner he 
could eat. Refastening his pack, he slung it across his 
shoulder and, after a bad-tempered kick at the moribund 
horse, was on his way. 
Three hours later, Bern was still outside the forest. It 
simply would not let him pass. Bruised, begrimed, and 
bleeding, he threw himself down on a hummock with his 

back to the impenetrable wall of trees, and swore horribly 
for several minutes. What the bloody blazes was going 
on? At first he had tried simply pushing his way through 
the tangled thicket, but the interwoven branches, all 
seemingly armed with sharp, hooked thorns, had blocked 
his path. When he tried hacking a way through them with 
his sword, they sprang back into his face, clawing at his 
eyes—and once a heavy branch had fallen, narrowly 
missing his head. In desperation, he had tried fire, but as 
soon as he had kindled a small blaze, a freak gust of wind 
had blown it out, whirling smoke and sparks into his 
eyes. By now, Bern was at his wits' end. What in the 
world was going on? Anyone would think that the bloody 
forest was alive! 
All at once, an arrow came zinging through the air. 
Almost parting Bern's hair, it planted itself in the turf 
beyond the hummock. "Ho, stranger!" called a voice. 
"What's your business here? Get to your feet and turn 
around slowly—and keep your hands well away from 
your sword." 
Shaking, Bern did as he was told. To his utter 
astonishment, the tangled undergrowth had vanished, and 
a narrow path, arched over with leafy branches, had 
opened in the ranks of trees. (But where had all the 
leaves come from? It was too early yet, and there was no 
sign of them from the outside of the forest.) In the 
opening stood a tall, bearded young man clad all in green 

and brown, wielding a bow that was almost as tall as 
himself. He held another arrow nocked to the string, 
aimed at Bern and ready to fire. 
"I said state your business!" the archer shouted 
impatiently. 
Bern pulled himself together. "I come with news from 
Nexis," he blurted. "News of Vannor!" 
The arrow dipped and wavered for an instant. Fional 
pulled it quickly back into line and squinted at the 
stranger down the long, straight shaft. His heart had leapt 
to hear Vannor's name, but he tried hard to keep his 
emotions in check. This could be an ambush—or a trap. 
"Who are you, and what do you know of Vannor?" he 
demanded. 
The invader's face took on an expression of sorrow. "I'm 
sorry," he sighed. "To be the bearer of such grave tidings. 
Vannor is dead. He was captured and slain by the 
Magefolk." The arrow fell from the archer's nerveless 
fingers. For a moment, the world stood still for Fional. 
All sound ceased in the forest around him. Swallowing 
hard, he finally found his voice. "Dead?" he whispered. 
"Are you sure?" 
The stranger nodded. "I'm certain," he replied. "My name 
is Bern. I was a servant at the Academy, and as soon as I 
found out what had been done to Vannor I came to warn 
you. I barely escaped the Magefolk with my life… 
Please—let me in. They know who I am now, and I 

daren't go back to Nexis!" 
Fional frowned, and tried to gather his reeling wits. 
There was more to this business than Vannor's death, and 
any decision he made now, when he was at his most 
vulnerable, might have serious repercussions for the 
rebels. He looked again at the stranger. The man seemed 
genuinely terrified, but… "How did you know where to 
find us?" he demanded. 
The stranger was sweating visibly now. "There's talk all 
over the city about how Angos's mercenaries went to the 
Lady's Vale and never came back—but that wasn't how I 
came to find you. Vannor himself told me where you 
were, before he was slain. He begged me to come to you 
and warn you of his plight—but I had no chance to get 
away until it was too late. Nonetheless, I came as soon as 
I could, for Vannor's sake. It is only right that you should 
know his fate—and even if it is too late for a rescue, 
there is still the matter of revenge. Should such a good 
man die for nothing?" 
The archer cursed softly to himself. This did not bode 
well! Should he allow this man—this complete 
stranger—to enter the secret stronghold of the rebels and 
lure them away from safety to avenge Vannor's death? 
Fional's own mind was still too raw from shock to work 
out the implications of such a venture—he hardly knew, 
yet, what he thought. But if this Bern now knew the 
whereabouts of the rebels, it would be safer in any case 

to have him under their eye. And at least he had seen 
Vannor before the merchant's death… Dulsina would 
want to talk with him, for certain. She had been going out 
of her mind with worry ever since Vannor had failed to 
return. Poor Dulsina! How would she react to this terrible 
news? He could hardly bear to tell her. 
Fional made up his mind. Quickly, he notched another 
arrow to his string. "Put your weapons down at the edge 
of the trees and come with me," he told the stranger. "For 
the time being, until you prove you can be trusted, you 
must consider yourself my prisoner." Even though the 
man was weaponless, the archer was not foolish enough 
to trust him completely. He whistled, on a shrill, high 
note, and a dozen wolves came melting out of the forest's 
shadows. Snarling menacingly, they surrounded the 
captive. "Make one false move," Fional warned him, 
"and they will tear you to pieces." 
The stranger turned pale, and shuddered. "I won't, I 
promise," he vowed. 
"After you." The archer gestured with his bow and the 
man walked on obediently, surrounded by his guard of 
wolves, along the path that opened up ahead of him 
between the trees. Fional followed, grieving. 
Nonetheless, he kept his arrow at the ready. 
"What is that idiot doing?" D'arvan muttered to Maya. 
From the shelter of the trees he had watched the 

stranger's approach, and it had taken him little time to 
decide that he didn't like the look of the man at all. The 
Mage had used every trick he knew to bar his entry to the 
forest, and had almost discouraged him sufficiently to 
make him go away when Fional had arrived and ruined 
everything. Then had come the news that Vannor was 
dead—and for a time, there had been no room in 
D'arvan's thoughts for any other consideration. Only the 
sight of Fional leading the stranger into the sanctuary of 
the forest had shocked him out of his sorrow. Later, there 
would be time for grief. Now, there was the matter of this 
invader to be dealt with. Was the forest in danger from 
this man, or were the Mage's suspicions unfounded? 
D'arvan sighed. "The trouble is," he told the unicorn, 
"that I can't really keep him out now without killing him, 
and that would not be wise at present—not if he really 
knows what has happened to Vannor. Besides, we know 
no real harm of him… Am I making the mistake of 
confusing the messenger with the message he bears—or 
can it be that my instincts do not mislead me?" 
The unicorn tossed her head and whinnied softly, 
seemingly in agreement—but in agreement with what? 
D'arvan wished—oh, how he wished—that she could talk 
to him. Not only did he miss his Maya desperately, but 
he could use her common sense right now. This was the 
first time, in his role as Forest Guardian, that he had 
found himself at a loss, and it worried him. So far, 

friends and foes had been easily recognizable, but this 
man was an enigma. 
D'arvan rested an arm across the unicorn's withers. "I 
don't like this at all," he told her. "There's something 
about that man…" He shook his head. "He will bear 
watching—closely." So saying, he suited word to deed, 
and made his way toward the rebel camp, the unicorn 
following at his heels. 
Chapter 20 - A Queen in Waiting 
What do you mean, they decided to come back?" snapped 
Raven, her voice echoing sharply among the rafters of 
the great throne room. "Who told them they could do 
that? How dare they! And what has happened to the 
Mages?" 
Sunfeather flinched—and he was not the only one. All of 
the Queen's Council of Advisers—with the exception of 
Elster, who seemed calm as always, and Aguila, Captain 
of the Royal Guard, whose impassive face rarely 
betrayed his emotions—looked decidedly uncomfortable, 
if not distinctly nervous. 
"Your Majesty, I'm sure that you distress yourself 
needlessly," said Sunfeather, his suave demeanor belied 
only by the haste with which he spoke. "As Wingmarshal 

of the Syntagma, I took it upon myself to question the 
couriers myself on their return, and—" 
"Did you, now?" Queen Raven glared at him. "Then you 
have taken too much upon yourself. Where are the 
couriers? Why were they not brought to me at once?" 
"My—my Lady, I did not wish to disturb you with such 
trifles." For once, Sunfeather was at a loss. Since the 
departure of the groundling Wizards, the Queen had 
seemed much more malleable, and he had been growing 
increasingly confident of his power over her. He'd 
thought that he had charmed her with his handsome looks 
and courtier's manners, but suddenly he had the sinking 
feeling that he might have miscalculated. 
"This is not a trifle!" Raven shouted, hammering her fists 
down on the table in front of her. "Bring them to me at 
once!" 
"But Majesty, they are sleeping after their long 
journey—" 
"At once, I said!" The Queen locked eyes with 
Sunfeather—and she was not the first to look away. 
"Very well, Majesty. If that is your wish, I will have 
them sent for," the Wingmarshal replied with cold 
dignity. 
"No, Sunfeather." Raven spoke quietly now, but her 
voice had an edge of steel. "I told you to fetch them. This 
council will await your return—with the couriers." 
Sunfeather opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it 

rapidly when he saw Aguila half rise, his hand upon his 
sword. Though his expression remained as impassive as 
ever, the Captain of the Royal Guard's eyes were 
sparkling with malicious amusement. 
Tight-lipped and fuming with anger, Sunfeather stalked 
out of the chamber. How dared she humiliate him in front 
of the entire Council? One day, he thought grimly, I'll 
make her pay for this. Why, after that scandal with the 
Khazalim groundling, she has no right to the throne at 
all—and unless she mends her manners toward me, I'll 
see that she isn't Queen for long! 
In the awkward silence that followed the Wingmarshal's 
departure, Raven cudgeled her brains for a way to take 
control of the meeting—but she had no idea how to 
begin. Elster gestured for a servant to refill the wine 
cups. When the youngster had finished her task and gone, 
Aguila, speaking out of turn, much to Raven's 
annoyance, turned to the Acting High Priest. "Did you 
know about this business?" 
Skua shrugged. "Sunfeather did mention it when the 
couriers returned, but I had to oversee some matters 
concerning the rebuilding of the temple, so I left him to 
deal with the situation as he saw fit. Even as acting High 
Priest"—he glared resentfully at Raven, who still had not 
confirmed his position—"I have responsibilities. My time 
is not my own…" 

"Really," Aguila drawled. "Well, at least you fared better 
than I. The first I heard of it was just before this meeting, 
when I asked Sunfeather if he knew why Her Majesty 
had called us together. And what of you, Cygnus? You 
are the Wingmarshal's friend. Was he keeping you 
equally in the dark?" 
Raven glared at him. It was typical of him—of all of 
them—to start talking across her, taking over the meeting 
and ignoring her as though she wasn't even there. "That's 
not the point," she cut in, wanting somehow to take back 
control. "What I want to know is—" She was interrupted 
by two things: a sharp kick on the ankle from Elster, and 
the return of Sunfeather, with the four winged couriers 
behind him. 
Raven rose to her feet. "Well?" she demanded sternly. 
"What have you to say for yourselves? Why did you 
disobey my orders and abandon the Magefolk and their 
companions?" 
The culprits fidgeted uncomfortably under her harsh 
gaze. Raven gritted her teeth. "You may begin," she told 
them, "by telling me what happened to the Mages after 
they left me, until you left them." 
The couriers looked at one another, then one of the 
winged men stepped forth. "The world is a fearsome, 
hostile place, Your Majesty, beyond the boundary of our 
mountains. You would do well to hearken to what we 
say…" 

Raven listened as he recounted what had taken place after 
the Mages had left Aerillia. As the tale unwound, her 
heart grew heavier and colder with dread for her former 
companions, until it seemed as though it was sinking to 
her very feet. When the winged man's story ended with 
the attack in the Xandim Fastness, she could not believe 
it was over. 
"And you just abandoned them?" she demanded. "You 
don't even know if they survived? You offered them no 
help at all, despite the orders you were given?" 
The winged couriers looked at the ground and shuffled 
their feet. 
"Speak up," Aguila barked. "The Queen asked you a 
question." 
One of the Winged Folk looked up, her expression 
sullen. "If it please Your Majesty," she began, "no one 
mentioned anything about orders when we went with the 
groundlings. We were given to understand that we were 
volunteers." 
"That's right," another winged man chimed in. "And no 
one mentioned anything, when we volunteered, about 
fighting with the great cats, our lifelong foes; or getting 
caught up in wizardly battles; or risking our lives in some 
attempt by the Horsefolk to overthrow their leader. With 
the greatest respect, these matters are not the concern of 
the Skyfolk. And as for being cursed out by that female 
demon of a Wizard… Well, Your Majesty, it was just too 

much." 
"I notice it doesn't seem to have been too much for your 
two loyal companions, who elected to remain behind," 
Aguila growled. "The blood of the Skyfolk runs thin 
these days, if that is all the extent of your courage." 
"Sir, that is scarcely just," the winged woman protested. 
"We are loyal warriors of the Syntagma. But when we 
volunteered, Wingmarshal Sunfeather told us that if ever 
we wanted to come home, it would be permitted—" 
"He told you that you could leave the Mages whenever 
you liked?" Raven demanded furiously. "Those were not 
my orders." 
"Upon my honor, Majesty, I told them no such thing!" 
Sunfeather protested loudly. "Full well I knew what your 
orders were. These cowards must have willfully 
misunderstood me." 
"Perhaps you didn't explain it to them clearly enough," 
Aguila drawled. "Are you sure you understood Her 
Majesty's orders yourself?" 
Sunfeather flushed scarlet with rage. "Of course I 
understood…" His words tailed off, and he shut his 
mouth hurriedly as he realized how neatly Aguila had 
trapped him. 
"This is all very well," Cygnus cut in quickly, rescuing 
Sunfeather from his floundering, "but it brings us no 
nearer to deciding the punishment of these miscreants." 
"Punishment for the couriers?" Aguila lifted a sardonic 

brow. "Since the confusion seems to have stemmed from 
the Wingmarshal's orders, perhaps he should, in all 
decency, share their fate." 
Sunfeather's hand went to his sword. "Are we to act upon 
the words of a lowborn piece of dung who has risen 
much too far above his natural state?" he snarled. "Your 
Majesty, I ask permission to make Aguila pay for these 
insults with his own base blood—" 
Aguila grinned mirthlessly. "Anytime—if you think 
you're up to it—" 
"Be quiet—both of you!" Raven thundered. "How dare 
you bicker and trade insults in my throne room like a pair 
of quarreling fledglings!" Following her outburst, she 
realized that everyone was looking at her expectantly, 
and suddenly she found herself blushing and floundering 
for words. 
"Lady?" Skua seized the initiative. "May I make a 
suggestion? Why not make these couriers pay for their 
defection by making atonement to Yinze himself? 
Because so many of our folk have been pressed into duty 
in the fields, I am desperately short of assistance to 
rebuild the temple." 
Raven jumped at the opportunity to get out of this 
interminable wrangle. Her head ached, and she was sick 
to death of the very sight of her advisers. All she could 
think about was whether Aurian and her companions 
were safe. At least Skua had given her the chance to 

make a decision at last—even though her conscience told 
her it was not the right one. "Yes, yes," she said hastily. 
"I thank the Acting High Priest for his timely words of 
wisdom. It shall be as he advises. I deliver the miscreants 
into his charge—and once the new temple has been 
completed, they can return to the Syntagma. Whether 
they resume their former ranks or not depends on how 
they behave in the interim. That is my decree." Letting 
her breath out in a sigh of relief, she sank back into her 
seat. 
Aguila's mouth had tightened into a thin, hard line. He 
was glaring at her so angrily that she looked away, 
unable to meet his accusing eyes. Behind the cover of his 
hand, Sunfeather was smirking. Raven bit her lip. She 
had got it all wrong in some way, that was plain—but 
how? 
Cygnus was relieved that his friend had escaped the 
Queen's censure for his part in the affair. Who'd have 
thought that Raven would prove so difficult? Thank 
Yinze that she lacked sufficient experience to see what 
was going on! And as for that Aguila—he was truly to 
blame, stirring matters up as he had. The time was fast 
approaching when the Commander of the Royal Guard 
would have to be put back in his lowly place. 
The sudden realization that the Queen was still speaking 
brought Cygnus out of his reflections with a jolt. 

"Whatever you may think about my association with the 
Mages, I have made a promise I must keep," Raven was 
saying, "so someone else must be sent to see if the Lady 
Aurian is safe, and to help her if they can. Someone who 
can be trusted, this time, to send back proper messages, 
and not to desert his post at the first sign of trouble. Can 
anyone think who we may fitly send?" 
Cygnus's heart leapt within him. At last—beyond all 
hope, his chance had come! He had been livid when the 
Queen had named him as her taster, thus ruining for good 
any chance he might have of winning the position of 
High Priest. Since then, he had found his greedy thoughts 
fixing again and again upon the Harp of Winds. If the 
Artifact were only his… 
"Your Majesty—for the love and loyalty I bear you, I 
will go." The words were out of Cygnus's mouth before 
he even knew what he was doing, and for an instant he 
felt the clutch of panic. But his instincts had not played 
him false. 
Raven's face lit up with her smile—and then she 
hesitated. He could see her lips tug down at the corners, 
and knew she was hating herself for that moment of 
indecision. "Loyal Cygnus—you are such a good friend 
to me. But are you sure? I can ill spare you…" 
Cygnus inclined his white head in a bow. "Majesty, it 
would be my privilege. And as one who already knows 
and is friendly with the Mages, who better could you 

send?" 
The Queen of the Winged Folk nodded. "You have my 
eternal gratitude—and when you return from your 
mission, you will be rewarded as you deserve." 
I will indeed, thought Cygnus—but not in the way that 
you imagine, if all goes well… 
When the meeting of the council finally ended and the 
winged men had departed, Elster lagged behind. "Your 
Majesty," she said gravely, "may I speak privately with 
you?" Without waiting for a reply she took hold of 
Raven's wrist and practically yanked her from the 
chamber. Instead of going onto the vast covered porch 
and flying the quicker and more public route to the 
Queen's rooms, as they were wont to do, the physician 
shepherded her young charge through the labyrinth of 
little-used corridors within the palace, never once letting 
go of her arm. 
When they were finally alone in the Raven's sumptuous 
chambers, and a servant had poured wine for them both 
and been dismissed, leaving the flask behind at Elster's 
behest, Raven turned to her mentor. "All right," she 
muttered. "By the expression on your face, I can tell that 
you have something to say." 
Elster took a long draft of her wine, shook her head, and 
sighed. "What am I going to do with you?" 
"What do you mean?" Raven demanded. "What have I 
done wrong now?" 

"You mean you really don't know?" The physician raised 
an eyebrow. "Foolish girl—did you have to antagonize 
Sunfeather like that?" 
Wine spilled on the inlaid surface of the ebony table as 
Raven slammed down her cup in temper. "And just what 
was I supposed to do?" she exploded. "Sit there meekly 
and smile at all his veiled insolence? Yinze take it, 
Elster—how am I supposed to rule if I can't antagonize 
Sunfeather, not to mention those other arrogant, smug, 
manipulative bullies on the Council?" 
"Wipe up that wine, Your Majesty," said Elster mildly, 
"before it stains the table. It's not that you must never 
cross them," she went on. "But what counts is the way 
that you do it. Today you were right to put Sunfeather in 
his place—he was trying to conceal important 
information from you, and that you must never allow. 
But you didn't have to humiliate him at the same time. 
You only needed to be firm. Once he saw that you 
wouldn't let him get away with such tactics, it would 
have been enough. He wouldn't have liked it, but he 
could respect such a move on your part. Sending the 
Wingmarshal of the Syntagma out on a mere servant's 
errand, however, was inexcusable. Believe me, 
Raven—if you set out to alarm the Council with such 
high-handed behavior, you will have the shortest reign in 
the history of the Skyfolk." 
Raven looked at the old physician in silence, her mouth 

set in a stubborn line. "It's not fair," she muttered at last. 
"The way they act toward me, no one would ever think I 
was the Queen—and you're not much better. You treat 
me like a child…" Her eyes flashed with a spark of 
anger. 
"If you act like one, that's all you can expect," Elster 
responded swiftly. "Now, heed me, Raven. Until today, 
Sunfeather and the others thought you were nothing more 
than a spoiled child who could be manipulated. Therin 
lay your power. When men are off their guard, they 
usually can be defeated, and not even realize what has 
happened until it is too late. You would do well to take 
your example from Aguila, instead of hackling at him all 
the time—that one has his wits about him." 
The Queen made a small sound of derision. "Aguila? 
Wits? Why he's nothing but a boorish, lowborn—" 
"And that's my point." Elster leaned across the table, 
interrupting the girl in the midst of her tirade. "You see?" 
she said quietly. "He has you fooled as well as the rest of 
them." 
Raven stared at the physician, openmouthed. 
"Close your mouth, dear. Queens definitely do not gape." 
Elster took a sip of her wine. "Now, instead of sitting 
there glaring at me, think back to that meeting, after you 
sent Sunfeather away. With one simple, seemingly casual 
question, Aguila managed both to establish his own 
innocence in this affair, and put Skua in a very awkward 

position—at least that would have been the case had you 
been paying attention. Had you not interrupted when you 
did, he might also have discovered for you whether 
Cygnus was part of this plot to conceal the truth from his 
Queen." 
"Oh." Raven blushed crimson. "I didn't think—" 
"But you must think, if you want to rule." The physician 
rapped the table with the base of her goblet for emphasis, 
then reached for the flask to refill it. "The trouble is," she 
mused, as she poured, "you need time to learn how to 
rule— and time is just what you don't have, with those 
vultures surrounding you. You need someone strong 
enough and wise enough—and with sufficient 
authority—to support you, until you find your feet. Yinze 
blast it to perdition! Now look what I've done!" Suddenly 
realizing that she had flooded her cup, she put the flask 
down with another muttered oath. 
"You should wipe that up," Raven told her with a pert 
grin, "before it stains the table." 
Elster chuckled. "You see—you can be sharp enough 
when you want to—that's plain by the way you always 
keep acting like a dizzy girl so you can put Skua off from 
assuming the position of High Priest officially." Fishing a 
very businesslike kerchief from a pocket in her robe, she 
began to mop up the spilled wine. "While he's still only 
Acting High Priest, you have him nicely in your power." 
"Oh, Aguila told me to do that." 

The physician glanced up sharply. "Did he, indeed?" She 
frowned thoughtfully. "Anyway, girl, stop trying to put 
me off. Before I was interrupted"—she looked seriously 
at Raven—"I was saying that you can't keep on alone like 
this. Apart from anything else, you'll need an heir, you 
know. You must stop prevaricating, and take a consort." 
"What?" Raven shrieked. "How could you, Elster? How 
could you even suggest such a thing after what happened 
with Harihn…" Her voice tailed off in distress. 
Elster leaned across the table and took hold of the young 
Queen's hand. "You must put that dreadful business 
behind you, Raven," she said firmly. "You are still 
young—" 
"How can I take a consort now, you old fool? Winged 
Folk mate for life! I'm ruined…" 
"Utter nonsense!" Elster retorted bracingly. "In that 
respect, at least, Blacktalon was right. Groundlings 
cannot be said to count… Or do you want to ruin your 
life and lose your kingdom over one stupid mistake?" 
Tears overflowed Raven's eyes and ran down her face. 
"But I could never love again," she whispered tragically. 
The physician sighed, and raised her eyes heavenward. 
"You youngsters! Who said anything about love? Find 
someone you can like, respect, and work with—that's all 
you need. Queens have no business even thinking about 
love." 
"Fine words, coming from someone who never took a 

mate at all," Raven sneered. "So who have you decided I 
should choose?" she challenged bitterly. "I presume you 
had someone in mind before you even started this 
conversation. Someone else, no doubt, who will 
manipulate me, with you the chief puppet master of them 
all." 
"If you have any sense at all, you'll choose Aguila." 
Elster's words cut like a sword stroke through the young 
Queen's ranting. Raven stared at her, her eyes wide with 
dismay, too thunderstruck even to protest. 
"Think." The physician pressed her advantage. "You like 
him—you've admitted as much to me on several 
occasions. He's very fond of you, and what's more, he's 
loyal and commands the loyalty of the Royal Guard in 
turn. He's intelligent—and he won't take any nonsense 
from those other backstabbers who advise 
you—especially not once he outranks them as Royal 
Consort." 
Raven burst out laughing. "Elster, you can't be serious. 
This is a jest—go on, admit it. Why, he's nothing but a 
lowborn commoner. And he's old" 
The physician raised an eyebrow. "Aguila? Old? I'm old, 
you little idiot! He may be a few years older than you, 
my girl—but that doesn't make him ancient! And as for 
his birth—well, anyone who could rise from his 
beginnings to become Captain of the Royal Guard, is 
truly a man to be reckoned with! You couldn't have 

anyone better on your side—and what's more, you could 
always trust him to be on your side." 
She looked at the young Queen gravely. "Listen, Raven. 
While we are speaking of age, I must remind you that I 
won't always be here to help and advise you. Being 
Queen is the loneliest business in the world, child—and 
while I'm still around to plague you, I want to make 
certain you'll have someone to lean on when I'm gone." 
Seeing Raven's stricken face, she smiled to lighten the 
moment. "Besides," she added mischievously, "I have no 
fledglings of my own. How will I be remembered if you 
don't have a little Princess to name after me?" 
"Oh, Elster!" With a sob, Raven flung her arms around 
the old physician. "You're not going to die!" 
"Not for a good while yet, I hope—unless your aim gets 
better with those winecups you fling at me in temper, 
when I tell you things you don't want to hear." Elster 
chuckled. "No, but seriously, child—do as I advise you. 
Take Aguila as your consort. It will be the best decision 
that you'll ever make. I promise you, you won't regret it." 
"But Elster—" Raven bit her lip. "After that business 
with Harihn… what if Aguila doesn't want to marry me?" 
The physician laughed-out loud. "Not want to marry 
you? My dear child, of course he'll want to! Why, any 
one of that nest of vipers you call your advisers would 
cut off his wings tomorrow to become your consort—but 
out of the lot of them, Aguila is the only one who loves 

you." 
When Elster finally departed, she left Raven with a good 
deal to think about. The winged girl went to the window 
and stood, deep in contemplation, staring blindly out at 
the city that she ruled. Should she do as the physician 
advised? After Harihn's betrayal, she had abandoned the 
idea of ever taking a consort. She'd had far too much to 
occupy her mind in these first, difficult days of settling 
into her rule to even consider the matter of an heir. But 
Elster, as usual, had spoken wisely. Raven bit her lip, 
struggling with her feelings. That was all very well, but 
after Harihn, could she bear to take another man to her 
side—and to her bed? The words of Flamewing, her 
mother, spoken in anger so long ago, came back to her: 
"You were brought up to recognize that you have duties 
to your people and to me throne, one of them being that 
you must marry to advantage." 
The ruler of the Winged Folk sighed. Elster had also told 
her that Queens had no business thinking about love. 
Well, so be it. They were right—both of them—and it 
was time she grew up and faced the facts. 'It could have 
been much worse, Raven reminded herself. Not long ago, 
she had been faced with the unthinkable prospect of 
having the cruel High Priest Blacktalon forced upon her 
as her consort. Then, she had had no choice, but now it 
was different. And Aguila had been kind to her, cheering 

the lonely little Queen almost as much as Elster had in 
these last, difficult days… Elster had even said that he 
loved her, which had come as a shock—but she wasn't 
ready to think about that yet. He was certainly the only 
one who didn't seem to want to use her, though. 
Raven realized that she had made her decision. She 
would do it. Suddenly, she thought about the reactions of 
Sunfeather and Skua when they heard the news, and a 
malicious grin spread itself across her face. Those two 
were going to be so sick… She chuckled to herself, 
feeling more cheerful than she had in days. Elster, as 
usual, had been right. 
Chapter 21- Just Like the Old Days 
In a very different city, far to the south, another Queen 
was contemplating her future. 
Sara awakened with a jolt, torn out of the nightmare by 
the sound of her own screaming. Her eyes flew open, 
blind to everything, for a moment, but the closing scenes 
of her dream that were still imprinted on her inner eye. 
As full consciousness crept back to her, she realized that 
she was looking through a mist of gauzy white draperies 
that hung limp in the stifling heat, diffusing the bars of 
strong afternoon sunlight that invaded the chamber 

through the lattice of the shutters. Sara rolled over on the 
wide bed, almost weeping with relief, clutching the 
tangled silken sheet to herself for additional security. She 
was home. She was safe. It had only been a dream. 
She pushed aside the light coverlet and reached for the 
loose white robe of gold-embroidered silk that lay across 
the bottom of the bed. Slipping it over her head and 
smoothing the clinging fabric down over her sweating 
skin, Sara swung her legs off the low couch, enjoying the 
comparative coolness of the blue-and-white tiles against 
her bare feet. Fighting her way through the layers of 
white gauze that hung down from the canopy above, she 
emerged into the stifling gloom of the shuttered chamber. 
Standing on tiptoe, Sara raised her arms above her head 
and stretched until her joints cracked in complaint. Ah… 
that felt better. She twisted the thick, heavy mantle of her 
golden hair into a rough knot at the nape of her neck and 
pulled the clinging robe away from her sticky shoulders, 
before padding across to the low table. As always there 
was water there, and a pitcher of fruit juice that had been 
cool when she had gone to sleep—for like the Khazalim, 
she had learned better than to drink wine or spirits in the 
heat of the day. On this particular day, however, Sara felt 
the need for something stronger. Taking a flask from a 
nearby cabinet, she filled a goblet to the brim with wine 
before crossing the room to the great windows that 
stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up half the wall. 

As she folded back the shutters, dazzling sunlight poured 
into the chamber in a flood of molten gold. Sara blinked, 
and shaded her eyes until her vision had adjusted to the 
stronger light. The air that had entered the room was no 
cooler than the stifling air within. If anything, it was 
hotter—but she had grown used to that by now. Feeling a 
need for space, as though the four walls of her chamber 
still trapped the echoes of her nightmare, Sara went out 
on the balcony and leaned against the rounded top of the 
marble railing. 
The maze of white buildings, courtyards, gardens, and 
low towers that formed the Khisu Xiang's seraglio were 
still and deserted in the afternoon's oppressive heat. The 
soft, silvery patter of fountains, the rhythmic rasp of 
cicadas and the chirruping of a drowsy bird were the only 
sounds that invaded the heavy silence. Beyond the walls 
of Xiang's vast palace, dropping down tier after tier into 
the shadowed, red-walled canyon of the river, stretched 
the city of Taibeth, of which she was now Khisihn—the 
Queen. Some Queen, she thought bitterly. Why, I may be 
the royal wife of the Khisu, but I'm as much a prisoner 
here as—her glance flicked back into the shadowed 
room, where her bright-hued finches slumbered in the 
heat, within their golden cage. 
Don't be stupid!. Suddenly, Sara was furious at her own 
weakness. She thought of her clothes, her jewels—the 
power that was hers within the constrained, unnatural 

little world of women that was hidden behind these high 
white walls. Would you rather be back in Nexis, she 
demanded scornfully of herself, dressed in rags, and 
sewing and scrubbing and trailing all the way to market 
for your father? Would you rather still be married to that 
dolt Vannor, with his sly little sneak of a daughter and 
his endless demands that you share his bed? Would you 
rather have been married to Anvar? 
A shiver ran down her spine. Clutching the goblet in both 
hands, she took a long swallow of wine to steady hands 
that had suddenly begun to shake. She had dreamed 
about Anvar. The reminder was enough to disturb her all 
over again. For a long time now, Sara had succeeded in 
putting him out of her mind entirely—ever since he and 
that red-haired harridan of a Mage had stolen the 
ferocious Black Demon from the Khisu's arena, 
befriended Xiang's rebellious son, the Prince Harihn, and 
thrown the entire city of Taibeth into utter turmoil before 
making their escape into the desert. Why did he come 
back to haunt her now, of all times—just when she 
needed all her wits about her to survive these next few 
months? 
With a shudder, she forced herself to remember the 
dream, in the hope that once she had confronted it, she 
could expunge it from her mind. She had been in Nexis, 
with Anvar, in the shop of his father Tori in the Grand 
Arcade. The events had been the same ones that had led 

up to the death of Anvar's mother in the fire—but instead 
of Ria, it had been Sara herself who'd been the victim of 
the blaze. She remembered screaming and screaming as 
the flames leapt around her, catching greedily at her 
clothes and hair—but in her dream, instead of 
extinguishing the fire, it had been Anvar who had started 
it, and Anvar who was burning her. He was standing over 
her, gloating, a ball of Magefire in his hand. "Now you 
will never have a child. …" 
With an anguished cry, Sara dropped her face into her 
hands. 
"Lady—what in the Reaper's name are you about? Come 
away from there at once! Have your wits been stolen by 
the desert winds that you stand thus for all the world to 
see?" The reedy, piping voice that broke through her 
meditations was snappish with alarm. Sara gasped, and 
whirled—but it was the voice itself that had startled her, 
not the identity of the owner. 
There was no mistaking the shrill, lisping tones of Zalid, 
chief eunuch of the seraglio, procurer of women for the 
Khisu—and in this place, the only person she could trust. 
Just at this moment, Sara couldn't have been more 
pleased to see him—though it looked as though he was 
far from returning the compliment. The swirling designs 
in gold paint that adorned his bald head were blurring at 
the edges in the heat, and the many sparkling necklaces 
that he wore were jingling with his agitation. His chubby, 

frowning face was creased with anxiety. 
"Come inside at once, Lady," he scolded. "Where is your 
veil? Have you already forgotten how ill you were last 
time from the sun? And for shame, to stand brazen and 
barefaced before the world, like a harlot on your balcony. 
Is this the behavior of a Queen?" 
When Sara turned to face him, he gave a yelp of dismay; 
indeed, he was so agitated that he abandoned all pretense 
at courtesy. "The padding! You fool, how could you have 
forgotten? In your heedlessness you will kill us all!" 
"Be still, Zalid!" Sara snapped. "Don't be such an old 
woman. Why, I don't really need the padding yet. And 
who is there to see me, you imbecile? The entire seraglio 
is asleep." 
Zalid's blow caught her completely by surprise. His hand 
flashed out, striking her so hard across the face that she 
staggered back against the marble railing. While she was 
still unbalanced, he grabbed her arm and spun her back 
inside the room. Sara fell, only a last-minute reflex 
saving her from striking her face on the hard tiled floor. 
She pulled herself shakily to her feet, her head still 
spinning from the force of the blow. She was blazing 
with anger that nevertheless had a cold, pulsing seed of 
fear at its core. "How dare you strike me?" she snapped. 
"I'm the Khisihn, and when Xiang gets back—" 
"When Xiang returns and his spies that infest this palace 
tell him what they saw on your balcony, he will have you 

tied in a sack and dropped in the river to feed the great 
lizards." 
The cold implacability of the chief eunuch's words 
stopped her ranting as effectively as though he had hit 
her again. Zalid advanced on her, his dark face pale with 
anger. "Just because the Khisu is away, you may not 
allow yourself to grow careless, woman—not even for a 
moment. This plot was your idea. I warned you before 
we started of the difficulties involved, and the constraints 
that would be upon you— and now that we have started, 
there is no going back. I have no intention of losing my 
life through your stupidity. You may no longer sleep 
unclothed, or walk naked through these apartments like a 
brazen northern whore. You must become accustomed to 
that padding now, before it becomes essential. You will 
wear it at all times—no matter how it inconveniences 
and galls you. Now go and put it on—immediately." 
When Sara hesitated, he advanced upon her menacingly, 
spitting out the words in his anger. "You should bear in 
mind," he hissed, "that though you might be Queen, in 
the Khisu's absence I am in charge of his women. There 
are many ways you can be beaten without scarring—and 
the marks will long have healed ere Xiang returns. Now 
go—and if I ever again see you on that balcony without 
proper robes and padding and decent veils, I will punish 
you until your screams can be heard all the way to that 
godless northern cesspit from whence you came." 

Sara stared at him, appalled. He meant it—and in fact, 
she realized, with cold, sinking fear in the pit of her 
stomach, on the flimsiest of excuses he would beat her 
anyway. She had dragged Zalid into this plot of 
hers—and now that he was in too deep to back out again, 
he was terrified, and wanted to take it out on her. 
Shaking with fear, she rushed into her robing room and 
found the tangle of straps that held the thinly stuffed and 
slightly weighted sack securely to her stomach. She 
fastened it on, already hating the unwieldiness and trying 
not to think about the next five months, when the weight 
and padding must be markedly increased. Once it was 
hidden beneath her loose robe, she stared at her silhouette 
in the tall mirror of polished silver and scowled, 
wondering how in the name of all the gods she'd thought 
she could get away with this. And yet what choice did I 
have? she thought despairingly. 
When she had maneuvered and plotted to become Queen, 
she had never considered the fact that she could not have 
children. But neither had she reckoned on the Khisu's 
desperate desire for another son—another heir—to 
replace the luckless and despised Harihn. As each month 
passed without a hint that the longed-for child had been 
started, Xiang had begun to turn colder toward her; less 
patient and more careless and cruel. When he started to 
neglect her, and turn back once more to the beauties of 
his harem, Sara knew that she would have to act quickly 

to preserve her position— and Zalid, with his power and 
influence within the harem, was the only one who could 
help her. Luckily, because he had been one who'd 
brought her to Xiang in the first place, his fortunes were 
very much tied up with her own. Being the discoverer of 
the new Queen had brought him a good deal of riches 
and prestige—but Xiang had no use for those who failed 
or disappointed him, and if that Queen should be found 
wanting, not only would Zalid lose his livelihood but 
quite possibly his very life. 
Between Sara and the eunuch, Ae plot had gradually 
been hatched. Zalid had found the Queen her own 
personal, and very bribable, physician, and was 
squandering much of his own gold and her jewels upon 
the man in the happy knowledge that the wretch would 
not live many more months to enjoy their benefit. Sara 
only had to pretend to turn moody, as pregnant women 
often did, and Xiang happily acceded to her request that 
her body servants be replaced by a single mute slave girl. 
The odd custom of this land, that women were 
sequestered during pregnancy, had worked in their favor, 
as had other, unexpected events. 
Xiang had been overjoyed by Sara's false 
announcement—but swiftly following his first rush of 
triumph came the rankling awareness that the other, older 
heir still lived. Though Harihn had vowed never to 
return, the Khisu had brooded blackly upon his son's 

continued existence, and the threat that it posed to the 
unborn Prince—for of course, in the manner of those 
who always got their own way, he was convinced that the 
child would be a boy. Enough time had passed now for 
Xiang to forget the fear that Aurian had instilled in him. 
For days after her departure the city had been a 
bloodbath, while his soldiers quelled the uprising of the 
slaves that the Mage had freed and got things back on a 
proper footing. Once this had been accomplished, 
however, with none of the dire repercussions that Aurian 
had promised, he had dismissed her as a threat. When the 
sudden ending of the sandstorms had opened up the 
desert route to the north, he had decided to take his army 
and eliminate Harihn once and for all. 
Xiang's departure had come as a considerable relief to the 
Queen and her fellow conspirator. Aman, the vizier, who 
had taken charge in the Khisu's absence, knew what was 
good for him and kept well away from the seraglio. 
When it came to his women, Xiang had a well-deserved 
reputation for jealousy. That left Sara and Zalid free to 
act—and it was much easier now to keep up the 
subterfuge. The eunuch had agents among the poor, in 
the lower quarters of the city, who were keeping an eye 
on several girls due to give birth at about the right time. 
As soon as one dropped a son… Sara smiled to herself. 
What a joke on Xiang, that the next ruler of the Khazalim 
would be a beggar's brat! By the gods, if she could bring 

this off it would be worth it! 
Heartened by the thought, she washed her face and 
collected herself before going back into the other room to 
confront the eunuch. She must not let him see how badly 
he had frightened her. As she passed the mirror, she 
caught a glimpse of the bruise that was darkening on one 
side of her face, and scowled. One day she would make 
him pay for that! As the beloved mother of Xiang's heir, 
she would have far more power than she possessed now. 
In the meantime—Sara grimaced. Zalid had certainly 
found a way to ensure that she wore those accursed veils! 
The other chamber felt much more pleasant now, with 
the approaching cool of evening. The eunuch was 
standing looking out over the very balcony that he had 
forbidden her to use. Anger dissipated the last traces of 
Sara's lingering fear. She drew herself up to her full 
height and looked at him coldly. "Have you no duties to 
perform?" she snapped. "I want cooled wine, a light 
meal, and my slave girl to draw my bath." 
Zalid turned to her with an insolent bow that was hardly 
worth the name. "Your will, my Queen. And do you not 
want the news I came to bring you? News of your 
beloved Khisu?" His smile was mocking—he had no 
illusions about Sara's true opinion of her royal husband. 
Sara's heart leapt into her throat. "There's news? What is 
it? Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 
"Pray do not distress yourself, Lady—not in your delicate 

condition." His manner was so falsely unctuous that she 
wanted to strike him. 
"Get on with it!" she shrieked. 
"As you wish. A homing bird arrived today with a 
message that Xiang had reached the far side of the desert. 
They not only found signs of Harihn's occupancy at 
Dhiammara, but there are clear signs on the edge of the 
forest that the Prince and his companions survived the 
crossing. That being the case, the Khisu is determined to 
follow his trail farther northward." The eunuch bowed 
again, not making an effort to hide his smile. "Alas, my 
Lady, it seems we must steel ourselves to bear sad 
tidings. The absence of our beloved Lord must be 
extended." 
Sara sat down on the edge of the bed, weak-kneed with 
relief. No matter what abuse she had to put up with from 
Zalid, it seemed that the gods were still smiling on her 
plan. Companions, the eunuch had said. So when Xiang 
finally caught up with the runaway Prince, he would have 
Aurian to contend with. She wondered what would suit 
her best: to have Xiang return to indulge her for giving 
him an heir—or to have him dead, and be the mother of 
the newborn Khisu of the Khazalim, with all the power 
attendant on such a position. Either way, she stood to 
win. Sara smiled to herself. It looked as though the next 
few weeks would be very interesting indeed. 

Xiang was unnerved by the forest. This place was like 
nothing in his experience. He was used to the open 
spaces and endless horizons of his barren land, where the 
only sounds were the chirring of the cicadas and the 
susurration of the shifting desert wind. Here the trees 
pressed in on him, surrounding him in gloom and cutting 
off the warmth of the sun. On all sides there were shifting 
shadows—swift flickers of movement that startled the 
horses and made the Khisu jump and whirl, hand on 
sword hilt, to face a threat that turned out to be nothing 
more than a branch that was tossing in the wind. 
That same wind in the trees was like the distant whisper 
of surf, creating a constant background sound that 
drowned out the warning of any approaching dangers, as 
did the unfamiliar chuckling chatter of the rushing 
streams. Strange beasts and birds rustled the undergrowth 
and cried shrilly from the treetops overhead. The hooves 
of the horses were muffled by soft loam that concealed 
hazardous holes and roots and fallen branches. The way 
ahead was blocked time and again by tree trunks, 
deadfalls, and patches of thorny, impenetrable brush, so 
that the band of Khazalim warriors were forced to turn 
aside from their chosen path. Before long, they had lost 
all sense of direction and were wandering blindly though 
a thick green maze. 
The Khisu was a worried man. His troops were wearied 
from the grueling race across the desert, and as unnerved 

by this alien place as himself. From time to time, he was 
certain he had heard distant shouts and screams coming 
from other parts of the forest. Three times now he had 
sent messengers to locate the remainder of his forces. 
None of them had returned. With regrets that were 
growing greater by the minute, Xiang pushed grimly on, 
surrounded by only a handful of his men. Of the two 
hundred soldiers he had brought with him, these scant 
few were all that were visible through the rustling, 
screening foliage. The Khisu suppressed a shudder. 
Never in his life had he felt so alone; so hemmed in, yet 
conversely, so exposed. 
By this time, the Khazalim forces had penetrated deep 
into the forest. All sight of the blessed open spaces of the 
desert had long since been left behind them. When they 
came at last to a broad, open clearing, Xiang relaxed a 
little. How good it was to see the sun again, and have 
open space around him! Without warning, an arrow came 
whirring through the trees and struck with deadly 
accuracy though the eye of the guard who was riding 
beside him. 
"Down!" Before the echoes of his warning had time to 
die away, Xiang was off his horse and lying flat on the 
forest floor. For a moment all was chaos: confused and 
shouting men, and horses hurtling in every direction with 
shrill neighs of terror, trampling the hapless warriors who 
were trying in vain to conceal themselves from the 

deadly bolts that rained down from the trees. The sounds 
of the forest were drowned by the screams of dying men, 
and the loam underfoot ran red with blood. 
Xiang, cringing on the ground with a mouthful of leaf 
mold, was beside himself with fear and fury. In all his 
life, no one had dared to do this to him. No one! Except 
that wretched woman—but that was not a thought to 
dwell on— especially now. An arrow came thudding into 
the ground, inches from his face, and shock and outrage 
made him gather his wits. Quickly he loosened the 
brooch at the neck of the sumptuous cloak that marked 
him as royalty and slipped out from under the dangerous 
garment. Praying that he would be unseen in the 
confusion of running horses and falling men, he rolled 
toward the edge of the clearing with its thick fringe of 
bushes. The undergrowth that he'd been cursing a 
moment before he blessed now as he squirmed deeper 
into its concealing shade. 
Eliizar was pleased. The day was going well. The plans, 
over which he had labored through so many sleepless 
nights, seemed to be working perfectly, and he was 
infinitely grateful for Anvar's warning. His little 
community, which consisted of Harihn's surviving 
warriors and the household staff that the Prince had 
abandoned in the forest, had been well prepared and 
organized in the defense of their newfound home. 

Though Eliizar had hated to take men from the allimportant 
tasks of building the new settlement and 
clearing and cultivating hidden pockets of land within the 
forest, today had proved that the sacrifice had not been in 
vain. Lookouts had informed them in ample time when 
the Khisu had left the desert. Once Xiang and his men 
had entered the thick woodland, it had been easy for the 
settlers to split up the invading forces, luring the 
scattered groups farther apart and ever deeper into the 
labyrinth of trees. Then the Khazalim interlopers had 
turned swiftly from predators to prey. 
Small groups of warriors had been concealed beneath a 
camouflage of woven branches, so that they could spring 
up beneath the very feet of Xiang's soldiers and gain the 
inestimable advantage of surprise. Pit traps had been dug 
and covered—but there were few of these, for they were 
expensive in labor—and, besides, Eliizar had wanted to 
appropriate as many of the Khazalim horses as he could 
for his little community. Settlers lurked up in the 
branches with weighted nets to drop down on the riders, 
and slender ropes had been strung between the trees at 
neck height for a riding man, and at trip height for a 
horse. Eliizar had handpicked the most skilled of 
bowmen and placed them at strategic points. 
Even the women had their role to play in the defense of 
the forest. Eliizar, having been forcibly given the 
example of Nereni's courage and fortitude, had learned 

his lesson. Not only had they aided the diggers by 
carrying away the loose, betraying soil and disguising the 
traps and their approaches with fallen leaves, but they 
had woven the ropes and nets, and the camouflage for 
hidden warriors. The younger and more nimble girls, 
made agile by months of foraging in the woods while 
their men were at Incondor's Tower, were among those 
who waited in the treetops with their nets and ropes. 
A band of older women, led by the redoubtable Nereni, 
lurked in concealment with blowpipes armed with 
stinging darts that could madden the horses so that men 
were unseated and thrown to the mercy of Eliizar's 
waiting warriors. The secret of making these had been 
given to Nereni by Finch and Petrel, the two winged 
couriers mat Raven had sent with the little band of 
settlers. They were the selfsame pair of Skyfolk who had 
conveyed Nereni to Aerillia on that fateful day, and who 
by now had been so thoroughly pampered by her cooking 
and her care that they would do virtually anything for 
her. Another group of the more timid women, who had 
no stomach for fighting, were back at the camp, boiling 
water, preparing salve, and making bandages for when 
the wounded should come home. 
Not, Eliizar fervently hoped, that there would be many of 
those. As it was, the numbers of his settlers were pitifully 
small to found a new community, but that was exactly 
what he intended to do. He had had enough of cruel 

tyrants, treacherous Princes, and magical adversaries. He 
wanted to live out his years in peace now—and those 
who had joined him felt the same. If they had to fight to 
establish that freedom, then so be it—and this was a 
battle that Eliizar intended to win. 
Though they were outnumbered, the settlers had several 
advantages over the marauding Khazalim. They were 
forewarned and prepared, they were not coming to the 
fight at the end of a long journey, and they knew the 
terrain, which was inimically favorable for ambushes and 
traps. They were fighting for their land and their 
freedom—and they had one additional advantage that the 
Khazalim could not even imagine. The two winged 
couriers, though they took no part in the fighting 
themselves, soared above the forest, hovering above the 
treetops to fix the positions of the invaders and bring 
word of the battle to Eliizar. Thus it was that the leader 
of the settlers could pinpoint the location of the Khisu, 
recognizable in his robes of royal purple that stood out so 
well against the forest greenery. When the Winged Folk 
brought him the news of Xiang's ambush, Eliizar 
stiffened. "What of the Khisu?" he demanded. 
Finch shook his head. "We did not see him. We only 
found his cloak, abandoned in the clearing." 
Eliizar cursed. If Xiang should escape, then the forest 
community would sooner or later be destroyed. The 
Khisu would not rest until every man and woman had 

been annihilated. "You had better take me there at once," 
he told the Skyfolk. 
By the time the winged couriers landed with Eliizar, the 
battle in the clearing was over. Bodies strewed the pinemast 
across the sweep of open space, some alive and 
groaning from the pain of their wounds, others lying still 
and twisted, never to move again. Eliizar's archers, led by 
Jharav, moved among the bodies, collecting weaponry 
and distinguishing the living from the dead. The oneeyed 
swordmaster frowned. In all his planning, he had 
given no consideration to the fact that some of Xiang's 
men would inevitably survive the battle. He supposed 
that those who still lived should be given the chance to 
join the settlers—but what of those who demurred? They 
certainly could not be permitted to return to their homes. 
Eliizar shuddered. The idea of executing his countrymen 
and fellow soldiers in cold blood was not a pleasant one. 
Well, there'd be time enough to worry about that later. 
For now, he would have his hands full finding Xiang. 
Jharav was standing at the edge of the clearing with the 
Khisu's purple cloak in his hand, scanning the 
surrounding earth in search of any tracks or other clues to 
his enemy's whereabouts. His frown rivaled Eliizar's 
own, for he was one of the Prince Harihn's ex-troopers, 
and Xiang had been his enemy long before he had joined 
the settlers. As the swordmaster approached, the grizzled 
warrior looked up from his contemplation of the ground. 

"My sorrow," he said heavily, "that I let this viper 
escape. In the thick of the fighting, he seems to have 
crept off through the undergrowth." 
"We will find him," Eliizar reassured the man. "The men 
must search—" 
He was interrupted by the return of the Skyfolk. 
"Eliizar," Finch was shouting, even before he had landed. 
"Help is needed. A large group of the invaders has 
broken through our defenses over to the east, and is 
heading toward the settlement!" 
"Reaper's curse!" Eliizar snarled. "The women there are 
undefended! Everyone—leave the fallen! Back to the 
settlement!" 
Within an instant, the clearing was deserted once more as 
the defending settlers raced for home. Eliizar 
commandeered a captured Khazalim mount and leapt 
astride. The animal squealed and sidestepped, terrified by 
the Skyfolk, and he wrenched its head round, holding it 
in tightly. "Petrel, Finch—gather our other warriors from 
the forest and send them back to the settlement. Make 
sure they bring all the women!" Then he released his 
frantic mount and was off like an arrow, spurring away 
through the trees. 
The settlement, as yet, was barely deserving of the name. 
It was nothing but a cluster of woven shelters that 
huddled in a broad clearing near a stream, with other, 
more sturdy timber dwellings in various early stages of 

construction. So far, only one permanent building had 
been completed, and that was currently being used as a 
meeting place and a retreat for everyone in bad weather. 
Today, it was doubling as an infirmary. 
The women who had remained behind were attending to 
the first few wounded who had already been brought in. 
Those outside who were tending the fire looked up in 
surprise and consternation when Eliizar galloped into the 
clearing with Jharav and a handful of other mounted 
warriors hot on his heels. The swordmaster leapt from his 
lathered mount and flung the reins into the hands of the 
nearest man. "Hide the horses!" He turned to the knot of 
startled women by the fire. "The enemy is coming. Take 
what you need and get inside the longhouse. No matter 
what happens, I want absolute silence from everyone in 
there. Keep the wounded quiet in any way you can. Now 
go!" The frightened women scurried to obey him. 
By this time, groups of warriors and the women who had 
been taking part in various ambushes were running back 
into the clearing, warned by the Winged Folk. Eliizar 
gathered them together. During his wild race through the 
forest, he had been thinking quickly. Summoning Jharav 
to his side, he began to explain his plan. By the time he 
had finished, most of his warriors had returned. He 
looked quickly from one to another, expecting questions, 
but none came. All of them understood. Eliizar's heart 
swelled with pride. Every one of them was more than 

ready to lay down his life for… Suddenly Eliizar realized 
that one familiar, beloved face was missing. His heart 
froze within him. "Nereni!" he gasped. "We must find 
her!" 
Jharav laid a restraining hand on his arm. "It is too late, 
Eliizar—we must take our places. Already the enemy 
approach." 
Nereni, her little band of three other women and the two 
young soldiers who guarded them, had concealed 
themselves so well in the undergrowth near one of the 
forest trails that they had been missed in the general 
panic of the call to return. So they stayed in position, 
according to their orders, waiting for other victims to 
happen along, or for word that it was safe to disperse. At 
first the waiting was easy, for they were buoyed by their 
success, and understandably proud of the role they had 
played in the defense of their settlement. 
The mixture of herbs and tree sap—a secret of the 
Winged Folk, with which they had coated their 
darts—had worked perfectly, itching and burning in the 
tiny wounds until the horses of the invaders had become 
maddened, throwing and trampling their riders or bearing 
them helplessly away to fall prey to the warriors who 
waited farther along the track. Although the young 
women—who had hitherto occupied all their lives with 
gentle, feminine tasks in the service of the Prince 

Harihn—had turned pale and sick at the sight of the 
ensuing gore and violence, they soon overcame their 
revulsion in the knowledge that they were defending their 
men and their homes. Nereni, who could sympathize with 
their distress, having seen far worse in her travels with 
the Magefolk, was proud of the courage they had shown. 
As time went on, however, the women began to grow 
restive. A long time had passed since any victims had 
come their way, and there had been no sight or sound of 
their own folk. Had they been forgotten? And what 
should they do now? The two young soldiers, with scant 
experience between them of warfare, were little help. 
Eventually, after a long and intense debate conducted in 
whispers, the ambushers decided that they must have 
been overlooked and should head for home. After all, 
there had been no sign of life in their part of the forest for 
ages. Surely it must be safe now to emerge from their 
refuge. 
For a time, all went well. Nervously, at first, they pushed 
their way with difficulty through the tangled underbrush 
to one side of the track. Thin branches snagged them 
with thorns, tearing their skin and catching in their hair 
and clothing. The going was dreadful underfoot, with 
nettles and briars, roots to trip them, and concealed, 
uneven hummocks and hollows in the ground to turn an 
unsuspecting ankle. After a time, they had had enough. 
After all, they had seen nothing on the trail to alarm 

them. Scratched, begrimed, and sweating, they 
abandoned the slow and difficult route with relief, and 
came out on to the open track itself. Nereni was 
beginning to relax now, convinced that they had made 
the right decision, after all. It had worried her, for a time, 
that they were disobeying orders, and she had found 
herself at a loss without the support and experience of her 
former comrades. How she missed them—especially 
now. Still, it seemed that she could manage on her own, 
after all… 
Rounding a sharp bend in the trail where two paths 
joined, they walked right into a dozen Khazalim warriors. 
It was hard to tell who got the biggest shock. For an 
instant, the two groups stood looking at each other: 
Nereni's group transfixed in horror; the invaders 
suspecting some kind of trick. Then it dawned on them 
that their opponents were really no more than they 
seemed: two callow youths and a handful of women. As 
one, they charged. 
Shrieking, the women scattered into the bushes that 
bordered the track as one of the young soldiers was cut 
down where he stood. The invaders' horses could not 
penetrate the undergrowth, and the Khazalim wasted 
precious seconds having to dismount. Her heart 
hammering in panic, Nereni forced her way through the 
bushes, careless now of thorns and whipping branches, 
dragging Ustila—at barely fifteen, the youngest of the 

girls—behind her, and with the surviving young soldier 
at their heels. Piercing screams came from somewhere 
off to their left, and Nereni's stomach knotted in terror 
and revulsion. One of the women, at least, had been 
caught. Ustila broke into sobs and stumbled, and the 
older woman yanked her savagely to her feet. "Come on! 
Do you want to share her fate?" Mercilessly, she pulled 
the girl onward. 
The sounds of pursuit were growing louder behind them 
now. The younger girl was dragging with exhaustion, and 
Nereni herself was in little better case. She ran on 
blindly, lacking the energy to push the sweat-soaked hair 
out of her eyes. Her legs were weak and aching, and her 
face and limbs bled freely from a hundred scratches. 
Each breath was a gasping torment. But unless she 
wanted to share the other poor woman's fate, she had no 
recourse but to run—and run she did. It was one thing 
she had learned from Aurian—to keep on going, no 
matter what. 
Suddenly the earth dropped away beneath Nereni's feet. 
Flailing in panic, she found herself sliding down a steep 
bank—then rolling, as her feet went out from under her. 
She could hear Ustila shrieking as the others tumbled 
down behind her. Then something hit her, hard—and the 
next thing she knew, the girl and soldier were both on top 
of her. Fighting for breath, Nereni struggled to slide out 
from under the tangle of bodies. As rough bark scraped 

her shoulders, she looked up into the towering branches 
of the immense old tree that had broken her fall. Now 
that the others were beginning to disentangle themselves, 
she finally managed to get free of them, using a low 
branch to pull herself to her feet, and discovered that they 
were at the bottom of a broad, steep-sided dell—a trap if 
ever there was one. 
"Hurry!" She bent down to help the girl to her feet, but 
triumphant cries from above froze her in position. Even 
as she straightened, four Khazalim warriors came sliding 
down the bank. Nereni used a word she had learned from 
Aurian and backed against the tree, pulling Ustila to her 
side. She drew the knife from her belt, hiding the hand 
that held it in a fold of her skirt. The young 
soldier—though her heart went out to him, she could not, 
in that black moment, remember his name—scrambled to 
his feet and drew his sword, placing himself between the 
women and the enemy: a futile gesture, but brave. Nereni 
heard his death scream but did not see him fall, for by 
that time, the other Khazalim had surrounded her. 
The warriors of the Khisu stopped dead at the edge of the 
great clearing and stared at the settlement in amazement. 
This cluster of woven huts, the women working around 
the fire, and all the other signs of a young but burgeoning 
community were the last things they had expected to find 
in the forest. The wily, scarred old veteran, who had been 

Xiang's second-in-command for years, reined in his 
horse. He held up his hand and gestured, and the fortyodd 
soldiers that he had managed to save from the 
ambushes and collect together melted back into the 
forest, awaiting his signal to advance. Yet something 
made him hesitate. He had not survived and kept his 
command all these years by rushing blindly into any 
situation. 
He frowned and played absently with his long mustaches, 
as he often did when he was thinking. Just what was 
going on here? In all his years of venturing north to raid 
the Horsefolk, the forest had been deserted. He was 
amazed that the pampered Harihn had elected to settle 
here, of all Reaper-forsaken places, yet the men who had 
ambushed his troops— and done it very well, he was 
forced to admit—were certainly Khazalim. 
In all the ambushes, however, there had been no word of 
the Prince. The spineless puppy was probably skulking 
here, the warrior thought scornfully, as usual letting his 
men take all the risks. For a long moment he watched the 
women, all decorously veiled in the Khazalim manner, 
going calmly about their homely tasks, guarded only by 
two sleepy men who stood with drawn swords on the 
steps of the larger wooden building. Clearly, Harihn had 
never expected any of the enemy to penetrate this far. 
The fool must have been confident indeed. The veteran 
captain grinned mirthlessly to himself. Well, the Prince 

was going to be in for one big shock. Dropping his hand, 
he gave the signal to advance and spurred his mount, 
charging into the clearing with his soldiers swarming at 
his heels. 
In a flash, the women at the fire shed their skirts and 
veils to reveal themselves as men and warriors. Even as 
their swords flashed in the sunlight, there came a hail of 
arrows from the smaller woven shelters that mowed 
down the charging soldiers as soon as they were in the 
open. Those left standing found themselves divided from 
each other, and fighting for their lives against groups of 
stern-faced warriors who once had been their 
countrymen. The captain's horse screamed and went 
down, an arrow in its neck. The veteran rolled clear of his 
thrashing mount and back up to his feet, his saber still in 
his hand—and came face-to-face with a ghost from his 
past—Eliizar, the one-eyed swordsman who had once 
been his commanding officer. "You!" the captain gasped. 
Eliizar nodded. "I am glad that you remember me," he 
said grimly. His sword flashed down so quickly that the 
veteran barely defended himself in time. He parried 
clumsily and scrambled backward, almost tripping over a 
fallen body. Eliizar followed, his sword a whirling blur 
of light, the other responding with the speed of pure 
desperation. To his dismay, the captain discovered that 
despite the lack of an eye, the swordmaster had lost none 
of his old skills. White-hot agony ripped through his 

guts, and a flood of weakness overwhelmed him. 
Through a darkening fog of pain he saw Eliizar's sword 
dripping crimson. The veteran staggered but kept his 
footing. 
Eliizar stepped back and looked at him consideringly. "It 
need not be a mortal wound," he said. "You always were 
one of the best, and we need good men for the new life 
we are making. Yield, and I will spare you. Join us, here 
in the forest." 
The veteran spat in his face. He raised his wavering blade 
again, determined to sell his life dearly. "Betray the 
Khisu? Never!" 
Eliizar shook his head sadly. His sword swept down 
again, and the captain saw no more. 
The swordmaster looked down at the body of his fallen 
foe and shook his head sadly as he leaned, panting, on his 
blade. I'm not as young as I was, he thought ruefully. Not 
only do I lack the endurance I once had, but I feel no joy 
now, in the slaying of a worthy opponent. How can a 
man rejoice in such a waste of life? 
Catching his breath, Eliizar turned to survey the progress 
of the battle—and found that it was over. Bodies were 
strewn about the clearing, most of them wearing the 
uniform of the Khisu. A group of survivors was being 
held at sword point by the settlers, and the women were 
emerging cautiously from the longhouse to tend the 
groaning wounded. One of them stooped over a still form 

and stiffened in shock. "Eliizar," she called urgently. 
The wounded man was Jharav. His face was gray, and he 
breathed in wheezing, bubbling gasps. The front of his 
leather jerkin was stained with crimson. As Eliizar leaned 
over him, he opened his eyes. "Good fight," he 
whispered. "Just like the old days…" 
Eliizar cursed under his breath. Jharav needed help 
quickly. He needed Nereni… The swordmaster froze. 
Where was Nereni? 
They had not counted on a woman fighting. The first of 
the Khazalim to lay hands on Nereni got the knife 
between his ribs, but two others—one with his arms 
stained crimson to the elbows with the young lad's 
blood—laid hold of her and dragged her down, raining 
blows upon her and tearing at her clothing. The other 
warrior must have caught Ustila. Even as she fought her 
assailants, Nereni could hear the girl shrieking. The 
tearing cries gave her the anger-driven courage to fight 
all the harder. Aurian had taught her a trick or two in the 
time they had spent imprisoned together. She managed to 
wrench an arm free, and jabbed her rigid fingers into the 
eyes of one of her attackers. Bile rose in her throat as she 
felt his eyeballs yield beneath her fingers. He reeled 
backward, howling, his hands clasped to his face as gory 
fluids leaked between them. Wild with rage, his 
companion drove a fist into Nereni's jaw, and she choked 

on the blood that flooded her mouth. Holding her down, 
he was too close to draw his sword—but suddenly a knife 
was glittering in his hand. 
Nereni had known from the start that it was hopeless. 
Even if they had raped her, they would have killed her 
afterward. At least she had spared herself that pain and 
humiliation. Eliizar would have been proud of her… 
The knife rose, flashing blood-red in the sunset 
light—and dropped from convulsing fingers as the man 
choked, eyes bulging, clawing vainly at the thin cord that 
was looped around his throat. Even as he was jerked 
away from her, a wiry hand pulled Nereni to her feet, and 
she found herself looking up into Petrel's storm-dark 
eyes. She doubled over his arm, retching and spitting out 
blood and a tooth that had been knocked loose by her 
attacker's fist. When she straightened, blotting her 
streaming eyes with a rag of her torn skirt, she saw Finch 
removing his foot from the Khazalim's back as he wound 
up the bloody cord. Ustila, her clothing torn, was 
huddled, sobbing, among the roots of the great tree. Her 
assailant lay beside her, a Skyfolk dagger with its 
distinctive carved-bone haft protruding from his back. 
Not far away, the man Nereni had blinded lay dead, his 
skull smashed by a large stone. Petrel spread his great 
white wings, blotting out the horrors from her sight. 
"Come, brave Lady," he said gently. "The worst is over 
now. We will take you home." 

A frantic Eliizar was organizing search parties when he 
heard the sound of wings in the distance, and saw the 
Skyfolk swooping toward the clearing, dipping 
dangerously near the treetops with their human burdens. 
As Petrel landed with Nereni he rushed forward, his heart 
turning to ice at the sight of her tattered, bloodstained 
clothing and her bruised and swollen face. 
"Nereni!" As he took her in his arms he could feel her 
shaking, but she lifted her chin proudly and scrubbed the 
tears from her eyes with her sleeve in an impatient 
gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Aurian. "I'm all 
right," she said thickly, through swollen lips. "The 
Skyfolk saved us, just in — " Over his shoulder, she 
caught sight of Jharav. "Eliizar, no! He isn't…" 
"No, but he is badly wounded," Eliizar told her gently. 
"I must help him!" Brushing aside his protests that she 
was also in need of care, Nereni rushed to the side of the 
wounded man. 
The swordmaster turned to the Winged Folk. "I can't 
thank you enough," he began, but Petrel forestalled him. 
"Think no more of it," he told Eliizar. "Today, for the 
first time in centuries, the Skyfolk have actively joined in 
the affairs of a groundling race. Finch and I have 
discovered that we can care — and fight — for someone 
not of our own kind, and that felt good to us. If it please 
you, we would like to bring our mates here, and any 

others that we can persuade to, come, and settle in the 
mountains at the edge of the forest to be your friends, and 
to join in your endeavors: the two communities, in the 
sky and on the ground, acting to help and support each 
other." 
Eliizar's jaw dropped open. Not only was this the longest 
speech that he had heard one of the Winged Folk make, 
but its content astounded and delighted him. Smiling, he 
held out his hands to the two winged warriors. "Join us 
and be welcome," he told them. "I can think of nothing 
that would please me more." 
An hour later, the clearing had been transformed as, 
despite their exhaustion, the settlers hurried to clear the 
aftermath of the battle from their home and from their 
lives. Food was being cooked on several fires, and savory 
smells were beginning to drift on the darkening evening 
air. The wounded had been settled in the longhouse under 
the devoted care of the remaining women, and Nereni 
had reported that Jharav was still clinging to his life. "If 
we can get him through tonight," she had told Eliizar, "I 
believe he has every chance of recovery. The Reaper 
knows, the old fool is tough enough— and stubborn 
enough—to pull through." 
The remainder of the evening's work had left Eliizar far 
less happy. A plume of greasy smoke arose from a 
nearby clearing, where the bodies of friend and foe were 

being burned on separate pyres. Despite his misgivings 
about the wisdom of the move, he had offered the 
captured survivors of Xiang's forces a chance to join the 
settlers—but he need not have worried. All had remained 
unswervably loyal to Xiang, and had refused to break 
their oath of allegiance. To a man, they had taken the 
only honorable way out that he'd been able to leave them, 
and had fallen on their blades. Eliizar was sickened by 
the waste of so many good men. Once again, he blessed 
Aurian for giving him the opportunity to leave the land 
that had been responsible for so many atrocities. The 
events of this day would haunt him to the end of his life. 
But these were no thoughts for a day of victory! The 
swordmaster had walked apart from his people to the 
edge of the clearing, hoping that the solitude would help 
settle his mind when, to his relief, he heard the sound of 
the Winged Folk coming home. They had offered to do 
one last sweep of the forest before the light was gone, to 
make sure that none of the invaders had slipped through 
the net, but they had been gone far longer than necessary 
for that and, as darkness had fallen, Eliizar had begun to 
grow worried. 
"Good news," cried the impatient Finch, speaking, as was 
his habit, before he'd even reached the ground. "We have 
located your missing King!" 
"At least we believe so," added the more cautious Petrel 
as he landed. "If the fool had been less impatient and 

waited until moonset, we might never have found him. 
But we could see him in the gemglow, riding off across 
the desert as though demons were on his tail." 
Eliizar stiffened. "How far has he gone?" he demanded. 
"Can you take me to him?" 
"Of course!" said Petrel. The less robust Finch flexed his 
wings and sighed. "For you we will contrive—but this 
had better be today's last errand. I could sleep until the 
seasons turn and spring comes round again!" 
From the air, the Glittering Desert was an amazing sight. 
Across the rippling sea of gem dust, the light of the newrisen 
crescent moon ignited sparks of fire in ruby, 
sapphire, emerald, and diamond-brilliant radiance. Spars 
of dazzling light were reflected up into the air to dim the 
glory of the heavens—and Eliizar, dangling beneath the 
laboring Winged Folk, could descry, far out across the 
sand, the dark blot of a swiftly moving figure. The 
Skyfolk, with their raptor's vision, had already seen it. 
The swordmaster felt the change of pressure in his ears as 
they swooped down on their prey. 
Xiang, intent on his escape, never thought to look up at 
the skies. Eliizar waited until he was above the Khisu as 
the weary Winged Folk made one last valiant effort to 
match their victim speed for speed. He took his knife and 
sliced the bottom of the net, dropping down upon the 
fleeing King and knocking him from his saddle. 

They both fell hard—but the swordmaster, at least, had 
been expecting it, and his dagger was already in his hand. 
He wasted no time on dueling with Xiang—with a fighter 
of his caliber it was the first stroke, and the first stroke 
only, that counted. The Khisu was a killer born, and 
besides, Eliizar had seen too much death for one day to 
indulge in unnecessary heroics now. As the two men hit 
the ground, still entangled, he slashed at Xiang's throat 
with his dagger, hoping to get in a mortal blow on the 
first strike, but his arm was jarred by the fall and the 
blade missed its mark. Cursing, Eliizar loosed his hold 
and sprang to his feet, his sword coming out of its 
scabbard even before he was fully upright. 
Xiang's eyes widened as he recognized his attacker. 
Quick as a striking snake he scrambled to his feet in a 
spray of incandescent sand, roaring: "I should have killed 
you when I had the chance!" He was almost as quick as 
Eliizar—almost. Before his sword had fully cleared his 
scabbard, Eliizar's blade bit into his neck. His head came 
to a rolling halt in the gem dust a dozen feet away. 
Eliizar leaned on his sword and looked down upon his 
vanquished King and foe. "I always used to tell you not 
to waste time talking in battle," he muttered. There came 
a thunder of wings from above, and Finch and Petrel 
landed beside him, the backsweep of their wings raising a 
whirl of glittering sand that drifted down to cover the 
Khisu's body. 

"Thank Yinze that's over," said the irrepressible Finch. 
"Now can we go home?" 
Petrel glared at him, and touched a hand to his forehead, 
in homage to Eliizar. "All is well, O Master of the Forest 
Lands. The battle for our new land has been won." 
Eliizar looked down at the mortal remains of Xiang the 
Tyrant. "Yes." He smiled grimly. "Now it truly has." 
Chapter 22 - The River Runs 
Since Benziorn had cut off Vannor's hand, the days had 
passed for the merchant in an inescapable labyrinth of 
agony and anguish. The worst of it was that he could feel 
the hand as though it still existed, even though he could 
see the bound and ugly stump that lay on top of the 
covers. If he closed his eyes, or looked away, he could 
feel his fingers clenching and unclenching. And for 
something that wasn't there, it hurt like perdition, despite 
the concoctions Benziorn gave him, that were meant to 
dull the pain. 
Though he knew full well that the physical injury would 
heal, given time, Vannor's mind was shattered by the 
loss. Gone were his days as leader of the rebels. What use 
could he be to anyone now, crippled and maimed as he 
was? How could he continue to fight against the 

Magefolk when he couldn't even use a sword? 
Why me? was the litany that kept repeating itself over and 
over again in his mind. Why did this have to happen to 
me? Why couldn't it have happened to a cutthroat or one 
of those thieving human dregs from the waterfront— or 
to those evil Mages themselves? 
Vannor could bear to see no one—not even his beloved 
Zanna, though she insisted on coming anyway. The hurt 
in her eyes when he railed against her pierced his heart, 
yet he couldn't help it. He didn't want anyone, and 
especially his beloved daughter, to see him like this. He 
could no longer see a future for himself—only darkness. 
His only surcease was sleep now, but sleep was slow in 
coming despite the soporifics that Benziorn gave him. If 
Vannor were honest with himself, what he really wanted 
was to die—but the core of stubbornness that was so 
much a part of his nature would not permit him to seek 
death. 
So here he lay, on another day much like the rest; 
drowning in the depths of self-pity: lying awake with the 
agony of his hand and the greater agony of his thoughts, 
and wondering if there would ever be a way out of this 
torment. For a long time now, the merchant had been 
dimly aware of the soft murmur of talk in the kitchen 
below his room, but suddenly, as the voices were raised 
in furious argument, they intruded on his notice and he 
began to make out what they were saying. 

"Leave the city?" Zanna shouted. "You can't possibly be 
serious! My dad is in no fit state to make such a 
journey!" 
Benziorn sighed patiently. "I'm his physician, lass—do 
you think I don't know that? Moving him now is not what 
I would choose, but we're no longer safe here. Do you 
want your father to be captured again by the Magefolk?" 
"Damn you!" Zanna snapped. "You're not being fair. I 
can have no possible answer to that—and well you know 
it. Look," she begged. "It's scarcely three weeks since 
you performed the amputation. He still needs rest, and 
time… How the blazes do you expect him to clamber 
around in the sewers with only one hand?" 
"Why, the little lass is right," came Hebba's querulous 
tones. "The poor master, bless him, is still sick abed! 
How can you think of sending him down them dirty, 
stinking drains?" 
Vannor half smiled to himself—the first time he had 
smiled in days. Clearly, the others had told the cook she 
must come with them for the sake of her own 
safety—and there was no way in the world that the timid, 
nervous woman would take kindly to a journey through 
the sewers. 
"We'll help him," Yanis volunteered. "Don't worry, 
Hebba—he'll manage. We all will. Why, even though my 
own arm is only just healing—" 
"So how can you help someone else, you idiot?" cried 

Zanna in exasperation. "You've barely recovered from 
that fever!" 
"It'll be all right, Zanna—you'll see." It was Tarnal's 
voice. Vannor could imagine the serious, solicitous 
young man putting a comforting hand on his daughter's 
arm. "I will help him," the smuggler said softly. "We 
both will. If we meet with any difficulties on the way, 
you and I can help Vannor, and Benziorn will assist 
Yanis. But Benziorn is right. We can't risk remaining in 
Nexis any longer. You and your father are fugitives, and 
with every day that passes, Miathan's net is tightening. 
Already the soldiers are searching houses on any excuse, 
and we know that there's a reward out on your head. 
Hebba's neighbors must have realized by now that she's 
no longer living alone here. How long do you think it 
will be before the gossip begins to spread and folk start 
putting two and two together?" 
"But what about infection?" Zanna pleaded. "In the 
sewers—" 
"Zanna, let's not pretend any longer." Benziorn's voice 
was soft with concern. "Admit it—it's not Vannor's body 
you're worried about, it's his mind. Though we'll help 
him in every way we can, to a certain extent he'll have to 
cooperate, and at the moment he's so lost in his selfpity—" 
His words were broken off by the sharp impact of flesh 
on flesh. "How dare you say that about my dad!" Zanna 

yelled. "Why, he's the bravest man I know! No one else 
could have undertaken that journey through the 
catacombs and sewers the way he did, wounded as he 
was, and made it through! He'll be fine—you'll see—he 
just needs time…" 
The words trailed off, swallowed in a sob. A door 
slammed sharply, and there was a thunder of feet on the 
stairs, and then Vannor heard the sound of brokenhearted 
weeping in the adjacent room. Suddenly, the merchant 
was deeply ashamed. Why, in all this time, he had been 
thinking about himself, and had never considered how 
deeply he must have been worrying Zanna! Poor 
lass—her mother already dead, and her dad worse than 
useless to her… 
Then, like a thunderbolt, it struck him. He was not 
useless, after all! Someone still needed him, still 
depended on him to be brave and strong—and still 
believed, with utter faith, that he could do just that. "Get 
up, you bloody selfish old fool," Vannor muttered 
wrathfully to himself. "This is no time to be lying in bed 
feeling sorry for yourself and whining about the 
harshness of the world. Your daughter needs you…" 
But despite his brave notions and newfound 
determination, getting out of bed was far more difficult to 
accomplish than the merchant could ever have imagined. 
The grueling underground journey to escape the Mages 
was as nothing compared to the problem of simply 

hauling himself upright on legs that had turned, it 
seemed, to two limp strings, while the room spun dizzily 
around him. Inwardly, Vannor railed against his 
weakness—and found that the anger helped, not only to 
impel him toward his goal, but to scour away so many of 
the all-consuming doubts and fears that had so unmanned 
him in these last few dreadful days. 
Vannor clung with his one hand to the post at the foot of 
the bed and cursed vilely, wondering how he was ever 
going to manage to let go without falling over. How the 
bloody blazes could he make it all the way to the next 
room? He managed to shuffle as far as he could reach 
while still holding on to the bed—and suddenly the door 
did not seem so very far away. Taking a deep breath, he 
let go and lurched across the room, only his staggering 
momentum keeping him from falling flat on his face. He 
reached the door only just in time and leaned against the 
blessed, solid wood, hanging on to the handle like a 
drowning man and breathing heavily as sweat trickled 
down his forehead. 
The merchant paused for a moment, collecting himself 
and gathering his strength for that one last, gargantuan 
effort that would take him to his daughter's chamber. 
Why, by all the gods—he was more than halfway there 
already! He had only to get across the tiny landing… 
Suddenly, Vannor realized that, for the time being at 
least, his phantom hand was no longer there. His own 

troubles had become insignificant when compared to the 
distress of his daughter. For the first time in what seemed 
an eternity, the merchant managed a wry smile. Zanna, 
even without knowing it, had rescued him again. 
In the darkness of the cramped little bedroom, Zanna lay 
on the bed, muffling the sound of her weeping into the 
pillow. She had reached the end of her endurance—she 
had been brave for so long now, for her dad's sake, but it 
seemed that she just couldn't hold up her courage any 
longer. What will we do now? she thought despairingly. 
Oh, if only there was some way I could help him! 
Suddenly, she heard the door open behind her. "Go 
away," she snapped, without lifting her face from the 
pillow. "Leave me alone, can't you?" 
She felt a weight settle on the edge of the bed, and then a 
gentle, familiar hand ruffled her tangled hair. "It's me, 
love. Don't cry anymore." 
"Dad!" Zanna shot upright and flung her arms around 
him. 
One-handed, Vannor hugged her. "Everything's going to 
be all right, lass—don't you worry. Just give me a day or 
so to get my legs back under me again, and then we'll be 
on our way." 
Getting out of Nexis was not going to be easy. The 
patrols of guards in the streets had been markedly 
increased since Vannor's escape, particularly at night, 

and Zanna's description had been circulated all around 
the city—with a large enough reward to ensure that folk 
would be looking twice at every girl her age. To that 
problem, at least, it was Yanis—of all people—who 
found tne solution. "Then why does she have to be a 
girl?" he said. "Why can't she go disguised as a lad?" 
"What?" exclaimed Hebba, scandalized. "And cut off her 
lovely hair, and all! Why, the very idea!" 
"Well," said Benziorn, with an apologetic smile in 
Zanna's direction. "It does seem to be the only 
solution…" 
"Don't worry, Hebba," Zanna said stoutly. "I can always 
grow it again." 
But later, when her thick mane of shorn curls was lying 
on the kitchen floor and she looked at herself in Hebba's 
tiny mirror, she felt far less brave about the scheme—in 
fact, she was utterly aghast. Dear gods! she thought. That 
can't be me! I look like a scarecrow! With the 
defensiveness of a young girl who had always known 
that she wasn't pretty, she had long ago stopped worrying 
about her appearance, but now that her hair had been 
hacked off—badly—by Hebba, the plainness of Zanna's 
features seemed more pronounced than ever. What would 
Yanis, so handsome himself, think of her now, compared 
to the girl Emmie whom he had called for in his sleep? 
He'd said that the stranger was beautiful… 
And Hebba was no help. Even now, she was fluttering 

around Zanna, clucking with dismay. "Poor little lass, 
what have we done to you? All your lovely hair—what a 
dreadful thing to happen, and at your age. Why, what 
young man would look at you now—you look just like a 
lad yourself, and no mistake! How the master could have 
allowed it… I told him, I did. Oh, if only he had listened 
to me!" 
Zanna could bear it no longer. "Shut up, you stupid old 
woman! It was necessary! Better this than being 
recaptured by the Magefolk." 
"Well, I'm sorry, I'm sure," snapped Hebba. "Still, you're 
bound to be upset, I expect." She flounced out of the 
kitchen in a huff, banging the door behind her. 
The hated reflection in the mirror suddenly blurred as 
Zanna felt her throat grow tight with tears. She 
swallowed hard, not wanting to betray herself to the 
menfolk when they came back into the kitchen. You fool! 
She told herself angrily. What you told Hebba was 
right—it was necessary. Fancy getting so upset over such 
a little thing, after all you've been through these last few 
weeks! If your face isn't good enough for the so-called 
leader of the Nightrunners, then that's his loss. But even 
common sense was little comfort, and she dreaded what 
she would see in the faces of the others when they 
returned. 
Vannor was the first to enter, and from the cautious way 
he put his head around the door, Zanna knew that Hebba 

had been telling tales. The very notion made her seethe. 
"Well?" she snapped. "Go on. Have a good laugh, and 
get it over with!" 
Gravely, Vannor shook his head. "I don't see anything to 
laugh at. I never could understand this notion of yours 
that you aren't pretty—there's more to beauty than 
looking spectacular, like your sister and Sara…" A slight 
frown crossed his face at the memory of his lost young 
wife. "Anyway," he went on, "don't let Hebba upset you. 
She's all heart and no brains, as Dulsina used to say. You 
look just fine, love—and if it really bothers you, 
remember that your hair is something you can grow back 
in no time…" 
As his voice tailed away, Zanna's eyes went guiltily to 
the bandaged stump of his hand. Though he tried to hide 
it from her, she knew he was still suffering a good deal of 
pain from the injury. Her own resolution 
hardened—which was just as well, because she needed it 
when she saw Yanis's mouth twitch in ill-suppressed 
amusement. Tarnal, however, cheered her a little. "Why, 
I never noticed, under all that hair, what lovely eyes you 
have," he exclaimed. 
Zanna could have kissed him. 
The escape from Nexis was set for the following day, and 
the fugitives sat up late that night around the kitchen fire, 
making plans. Hebba, with Zanna in her lad's disguise, 

and Tarnal— who had insisted on accompanying the 
women in case of trouble—would leave early in the 
morning, when folk were out in search of food and the 
streets were at their busiest, in the hope that they could 
lose themselves in the crowds. Tarnal was to convey 
them safely to the fulling mill and leave them hidden in 
the sewers, to wait there until nightfall, when Benziorn 
would come down with Yanis and Vannor. In the 
meantime, Tarnal would make his way out of the city via 
the sewers to the few outlying merchant mansions that 
had been built too far out of Nexis to be enclosed by 
Miathan's great wall. Once there, he would scout their 
little riverside boat-houses in search of a pleasure-craft to 
steal. 
"And let's hope he does find one," Vannor put in at this 
point, "otherwise it'll be a bloody long walk all the way 
to Wyvernesse." He had reluctantly allowed the others to 
talk him into heading for the smugglers' hideout rather 
than the rebel camp, because it could be reached by 
water, sparing him the hardships of the long trek across 
the moors. It was the only workable solution—but that 
didn't mean he had to like it. Not only did he want to be 
back with his own folk, but the thought of what could 
happen to a small boat on the open sea, even hugging the 
coastline, made his blood run cold. 
Zanna made no reply. She was far too busy worrying 
about Tarnal. His would be by far the most dangerous 

role in their escape, having to creep through the grounds 
of the well-guarded mansions—especially in broad 
daylight. When all the details of the plan had finally been 
settled, and Zanna crept gratefully into bed, she was so 
weary that she could barely think—yet for a long, long 
time she found herself tossing and turning restlessly, as 
her concern for the young Nightrunner made it 
impossible for her to sleep. 
The following morning, when Vannor shook her awake 
in the dimness before dawn, Zanna was far too tired to 
worry about anything. Shivering and reluctant, she 
climbed into the mismatched selection of lad's clothing 
that Hebba had been able to scrounge together for her. It 
felt strange, not having skirts to swirl around her 
legs—very free, yet at the same time oddly constricting. 
It was lucky, she thought ruefully, as she fastened a band 
of fabric tightly across her breasts and pulled on a loose, 
ragged tunic to hide the evidence, that she didn't have 
much there to conceal. 
When she left the cramped litle room she had shared with 
the cook and came downstairs, the others were already in 
the kitchen, huddled round the fire drinking taillin and 
speaking in subdued voices. Hebba, who was bustling 
around trying to get breakfast, kept dissolving into tears 
at the thought of leaving her beloved home. On that 
score, however, Vannor had been very firm. If the 
Magefolk should ever find out that she had harbored the 

fugitives, her life would instantly be forfeit. Whether she 
liked it or not, he was determined to have her safe. 
When he saw his daughter, Vannor's eyebrows went up 
in surprise. "By the gods, lass—I never would have 
recognized you!" He pulled her roughly into a hug. "Do 
you know," he said softly, for her ears alone, "when you 
and your sister were born, I was young and daft enough 
in those days to wish for a son. Well, I want to tell you 
now that you're far braver and more clever, and more 
precious to me, than any son could be. I couldn't be 
prouder of you." 
Zanna held his words in her heart, and they helped boost 
her courage when, for the first time in three weeks, she 
stepped over Hebba's threshold and into the perilous and 
hostile streets. Suddenly she felt utterly naked—and it 
wasn't just the unaccustomed clothing. She felt as though 
her very thoughts must be transparent to the eyes of 
every passerby. Then Tarnal winked at her. "You're a lad, 
remember—just keep thinking of that. And a very 
convincing one you are, too—though I like you much 
better as a girl." 
Zanna grinned back at him, and concentrated on her role 
as they threaded their way down through the city streets. 
She was a lad, she told herself firmly—and she was out 
with her… her brother, she supposed Tarnal would be. 
They were helping their granny get safely to the 
market… Solicitously, she took Hebba's heavy basket, 

and hooked her hand through the old cook's arm. Beneath 
her cloak Hebba was trembling, and Zanna was suddenly 
very glad of the shawl that draped the woman's head, 
concealing her face in shadow. They had made her wear 
it to hide her eyes, which had been red from weeping at 
the thought of leaving her home—though the gods only 
knew, grieving widows were a common enough sight in 
the streets of Nexis after the hardships of the unnatual 
winter. Nonetheless, Vannor's daughter realized that her 
dad had been wise to insist on Hebba wearing the shawl. 
Not only did it conceal her bloodshot eyes, but it also 
would hide the look of terror that was doubtless on her 
face at this very minute. 
Zanna was so lost in her thoughts that at first she didn't 
hear the tramp of booted feet until Tarnal's elbow poked 
her sharply in the ribs. "Soldiers!" he hissed at her. "Act 
normal. Remember, the lad has nothing to fear." 
She was glad of the timely warning—it gave her time to 
compose her features into what she hoped was an 
expression of amiable stupidity. Zanna gaped at the 
patrol in admiration as they marched past, wishing, as 
would any lad her age, that he could be a soldier, and 
wear a shiny sword. 
By the time they were safely past, she wished that she 
was wearing skirts, so that she could let her knees knock, 
as they were trying to do, without anyone seeing. Tarnal 
gave her a heartening grin. "Well done," he whispered. 

"They didn't suspect a thing!" 
They passed two more patrols before they reached the 
waterside, and by that time Zanna, elated with the 
success of her disguise, was very, very glad indeed that 
she had not let vanity prevent her from cutting her hair. 
But when they reached the fulling mill and Tarnal lifted 
the grating to let them descend into the noisome, 
dripping, slime-coated drains, her elation vanished 
abruptly at the thought of descending into the sewers 
again. The memory of that last nightmare journey, 
dragging her wounded dad through the cramped and 
stinking tunnels, was still too recent. In coping with 
Hebba's fears and hesitations, however, she forgot her 
own. Somehow, between them, she and Tarnal managed 
to get the rotund old cook down into the tunnel—with 
Hebba weeping, wailing and protesting every inch of the 
way until Zanna wanted to slap her. 
Then, all too quickly, it was time for the young 
Nightrunner to leave them. Zanna walked with him as far 
as the dim light that filtered through the grating would 
reach, and when it was time for him to leave her, Zanna's 
fears for him returned to her in an overwhelming rush. 
Impulsively, she flung her arms around him and hugged 
him hard. "You be careful," she told him fiercely. 
Tarnal grinned and hugged her back. "Don't worry, I will. 
I'll see you tonight." Then he was gone, leaving a kiss 
upon her brow. Absently touching the place on her 

forehead where she could still feel the imprint of his lips, 
Zanna watched his light until it disappeared around the 
next bend in the tunnel, then went back with reluctant, 
dragging steps to comfort Hebba. 
Taking thankful gulps of blessed fresh air, Tarnal 
emerged at last from the outlet of the drain, a short 
distance downstream from tie great barred arch of the 
river gate in Miathan's newly constructed city wall. He 
slithered as quickly as he could down the steep bank of 
the river's edge and vanished into the dappled shadow 
beneath the willows that dipped into the water. From 
there he made his way swiftly downriver, pausing only 
long enough to wash the slime from his boots. 
Though he was worried about his companions, especially 
Zanna, and grimly aware of the dangers that awaited him, 
Tarnal felt an unaccountable lightness of heart to be free 
of the city at last: to be free of the grime and smoke and 
crowds, to see the sunlit sparkle of the water, to hear the 
sound of birdsong, and the cheerful lapping song of the 
river. It might not be the open sea, which he'd been 
missing so badly he even dreamed about it, but at least it 
was moving water—and that was something! 
Tarnal crept on cautiously, not allowing the pleasures of 
the open air to distract him from his task. Once he was 
round the first bend of the river, and safely out of sight of 
the guarded gate, he slipped out of his clothes and boots, 

and stuffed them, together with his sword, into a bag of 
oiled canvas that he had made at Hebba's house. Twisting 
the neck of the sack tightly, he tied a piece of thin rope 
around it and, holding the free ends firmly between his 
teeth, waded carefully into the river, testing the bottom 
and the current as he went. The water was icy cold 
against his shrinking skin, the current tugged at him 
strongly, and the heavy bag dragged at his aching jaws 
and threatened constantly to pull him down. Tarnal, 
however, had lived all his life beside the sea and was a 
powerful swimmer, well accustomed to cold water. He 
swam across the river on a slanting course, letting the 
current help him rather than fighting it, and reached the 
tree-lined southern bank without mishap. Hauling 
himself out of the water with the help of a low-hanging 
bough, the Nightrunner scrambled up the steep slope 
until he found a sheltered, level spot. Pulling his clothes, 
only slightly damp, from the canvas bag, he dressed 
again and buckled on his sword. After a few minutes to 
rest his aching limbs, he got to his feet once more and 
headed downriver toward the outlying dwellings of the 
merchants. 
So far, everything had gone according to plan, but as the 
hours went by and the sun dipped past noon, Tarnal 
became more and more disheartened. The first boathouse 
he encountered was open to the river but proved to be 
empty. When Tarnal peered cautiously over the low 

stone wall that bordered the grounds of the second 
mansion, he saw a gardener working close by the 
boathouse, trimming the ornamental hedges in a 
desultory fashion. From the scant progress the idler had 
already made, he looked as if he'd be mere all day. 
Ducking down behind the wall and keeping low, the 
Nightrunner sneaked past the man and continued what 
seemed to be turning into an endless trek—especially 
when the third boathouse—which he'd climbed an almost 
unscalable wall to reach and then spent a nerve-racking 
hour trying to break into—proved also to be empty. 
Keeping well within the cover of the trees that thronged 
the waterside, Tarnal made his way downriver, trying to 
ignore his sinking heart and his growling belly, until he 
caught a glimpse, through the bushes at the top of the 
bank, of a high brick wall mounted with iron spikes, 
which guarded the last of the outlying mansions from his 
thieving kind. Despite his weariness and hunger, the 
Nightrunner grinned. He would see about that. Such 
elaborate precautions were a good omen—they usually 
indicated that there was something within worth stealing. 
He ran along the bank, skirting the wall until, as he had 
expected, it turned in his path, down toward the river 
itself, where it gave way to high black iron railings that 
guarded shallow steps down to a little wooden jetty, on 
the far side of which was an ostentatiously constructed 
boathouse—built, no doubt, of the same stone as the 

house and with scrolled iron water gates to match the 
railing. 
Damn! The blasted thing would have to be on the far side 
of the jetty, necessitating a hazardous trip across an open 
space. Tarnal sighed. Well, nobody had said that this was 
going to be easy. Divesting himself once again of his 
cloak and then the rest of his clothing, including his 
boots and sword, he rolled them into a bundle and thrust 
them safely between the roots of a tree, high up the bank 
where the earth was dry. Shivering a little in the cool 
spring wind, he looked doubtfully again at the stretch of 
open space along the railing, and wished he could have 
waited until after dark. But Vannor had warned him that 
many of the merchants kept huge and savage dogs, which 
were let loose when dusk closed in, to roam the grounds 
by night. No—risky though it was, the boat would have 
to be stolen during the daylight hours, or not at all. 
Silent and stealthy as an otter, the Nightrunner slipped 
from the bank and into the river, clad only in a loincloth 
and a slender lock pick that he carried fastened to a thong 
about his neck. Swimming underwater, he let the current 
take him down along the iron-fenced bank until he saw 
the shadowy wooden piles of the jetty through the murky 
water. There he surfaced, gasping but safely sheltered 
from hostile eyes, to take a few deep breaths before 
diving down again to complete his swim toward the 
boathouse. 

Due to the unexpected swiftness of the current, Tarnal all 
but overshot his mark. At the very last minute, he spotted 
the iron bars of the water gates, and shot out a hand to 
grab one, practically drowning himself in the process. 
Finally he managed to get his other hand to the bars and 
hauled himself up until his head was out of the water. 
Clinging to the gate for dear life, he hung there choking, 
spitting out water, and trying desperately to muffle the 
noise of his coughing and spluttering. At last he got his 
breath back, and rubbed his head against his arm to push 
the dripping hair out of his eyes. 
Peering through the bars into the gloom within the boathouse, 
Tarnal spat out a vicious and heartfelt curse. After 
all his efforts, this blasted place was empty too! 
Groaning, he sank back into the water to the full reach of 
his aching arms. Now he would have to swim all the way 
back again, and return damp and weary to the sewer in 
the chill of evening. And how could he break the news to 
the others—especially Zanna—that he had failed them? 
Worse still, how would they manage to get Vannor and 
Hebba all the way to Wyvernesse now? 
For a long, hopeless moment, Tarnal simply hung there, 
resting his head on his arms and lacking the heart to go 
on, though the freezing water was rapidly sucking the last 
of the energy from his body. The sun was sinking toward 
evening now, slanting low through the trees and turning 
the river into a rippling path of beaten copper. His spirit 

darkened with defeat, the Nightrunner was oblivious to 
the lambent beauty of the evening, but common sense 
finally triumphed over his black mood, and told him he'd 
better get out of the water— and fast. As he raised his 
head, he noticed that the sunlight on the water was now 
striking a dappled reflection right into the boathouse. 
Tarnal blinked, incredulous, simply unable to believe the 
evidence of his eyes. There, on the walkway at the very 
back of the building, was a rowing boat laid upside down 
on trestles, freshly caulked and painted while it had been 
taken out of the water for winter, and waiting to be 
launched. 
"Thank you, gods—oh, thank you!" the Nightrunner 
whispered aloud. Almost weeping with relief, he reached 
up to pick the sturdy padlock that held the chained gates 
shut. More than once he had cause to be thankful that his 
burglar's tool was fastened to the thong, as it slipped 
again and again from his numb fingers until he was 
swearing with frustration. Eventually, however, his 
perseverance was rewarded. The chain and lock fell with 
a soft splash into the water, and the gates swung open on 
oiled and soundless hinges. 
Single-handed, it was a struggle to get the boat into the 
water, but Tarnal worked with desperate haste. Dusk was 
falling now, and the dogs would be out at any minute. 
Even though they could not get into the boathouse from 
the land side, they would certainly know that he was 

there. Once he had the little craft afloat, with its oars 
inside it, he looked around and found a coil of rope and 
an old tarpaulin, both of which would come in handy. 
Perhaps, using one of the oars, they could even jury-rig a 
little sail when they reached the open sea… 
His weariness forgotten in the surge of hope renewed, 
Tarnal sculled quietly out of the boathouse in the 
gathering twilight. Once he reached the concealing 
shelter of the trees on the other side of the jetty, he ran 
the boat aground and moored it securely before 
scrambling up the bank to grope for his clothes. Getting 
into the warm, dry garments was a luxury akin to ecstasy. 
It gave him the final reserve of strength he needed to row 
back upriver to await his friends. 
For Zanna, cold and uncomfortable on the slippery 
walkway of the damp and stinking sewer, the hours 
stretched on and on in an endless agony of waiting. 
Though after a time she was both thirsty and hungry, and 
Hebba had plenty of food packed in her basket, the mere 
idea of eating in this foul and filthy place was enough to 
make her gorge rise. Frantic as she was with worry over 
the dangers of her father's journey through the perilous 
night streets, and the risks that Tarnal was running trying 
to steal a boat in broad daylight, Hebba's doom-laden 
whining soon drove her to distraction. Eventually, she 
decided that the only way to shut the wretched woman up 

was to pretend to go to sleep. 
"Hebba—I'm sorry, but I can't keep my eyes open any 
longer," she interrupted the older woman's complaints. 
"You should try to get some rest, too—we've a long night 
ahead of us." Yawning hugely for the benefit of the cook, 
she snuggled as best she could into her cloak, and 
pillowed her head on her arms. Almost as soon as she 
closed her eyes, her late night and early rising had turned 
pretense into reality. 
Zanna was jerked awake by the clutch of Hebba's fingers, 
digging bruisingly into her arm in the darkness. Gods, 
she thought fuzzily. How long have I slept? 
"Listen," Hebba hissed. Zanna could feel her trembling 
violently. "There's someone coming!" 
Now that she was properly awake, the girl could hear the 
sound of dragging footsteps coming from above. "It'll 
only be Dad and the others—I hope," she tried to 
reassure herself— but nevertheless, she drew the knife 
that Tarnal had left with her, glad that the darkness 
masked her actions from Hebba. The woman was scared 
enough already. Farther down the tunnel, she heard the 
tortured scrape of the grating being shifted. "Zanna—it's 
us!" a hoarse voice whispered—and suddenly she felt 
unutterably foolish for letting herself become infected by 
Hebba's fears. "Dad," she whispered joyfully, "we're just 
along the walkway." 
"Light the lantern, love, will you? We daren't risk a light 

up here, and we can't see a bloody thing—especially not 
the ladder! It's blacker than Miathan's heart inside these 
blasted tunnels, and I can't climb down one-handed in the 
dark." 
Even with the aid of the light, and the assistance of 
Benziorn below him and Yanis above, Vannor still had a 
difficult time getting down the ladder. In the end he gave 
it up and dropped the last few feet, cursing as the impact 
jolted the bound stump of his arm. Zanna noticed that he 
was wearing the leather gauntlets that they had prepared 
for him, the right one bound securely in place and stuffed 
to the fingertips with rags. They had been Benziorn's 
idea—to help protect Vannor's injury from the infections 
that proliferated in the sewers, and to disguise from any 
prying eyes the fact that he lacked a hand. If word of 
such a man should get back to the Magefolk, the 
consequences would be dire indeed. 
"Stand clear!" Yanis called softly from above, breaking 
into Zanna's train of thought. She barely had time to step 
back quickly, before two heavy packs (much to his 
indignation, Zanna, discovered, they had refused to let 
Vannor carry one) came hurtling down from above to be 
caught by Benziorn. The Nightrunner leader followed, 
easing the grating back into place before scrambling 
swiftly down the ladder. 
"Done it!" he said cheerfully. "It wasn't so bad after all, 
getting here—though I must admit that my heart was in 

my mouth when that patrol came by and you pretended to 
be drunk, Vannor, and we made out that we were 
carrying you home." As Yanis spoke, Zanna caught the 
flash of his smile in the lamplight, and was consumed by 
a surge of irritation. How could the idiot be so 
complacent? They still had to get through the sewers 
yet—and in the meantime what about poor Tarnal, who'd 
been risking his life out in the open? What if he hadn't 
been able to find a boat? What if he was lying out there 
somewhere in the darkness, hurt—or even dead? With a 
shudder, Zanna turned her mind away from such 
appalling thoughts. He'd be all right, she told herself 
firmly. Tarnal, at least, had sense. 
Wearied as Vannor was from his long journey through 
the city streets, he had no desire to linger in the sewers a 
minute longer than he had to. So on they went, with 
Zanna lending a supporting arm to Hebba and carrying 
her basket while Benziorn helped the merchant. Yanis, 
who was most familiar with the route, took both of the 
packs and went ahead with the lantern down the dank and 
dripping tunnel. 
How Zanna hated those sewers! Though her second long 
journey beneath the city was proving less difficult than 
the first, she still had to deal with the stench, the slime, 
and the scuttling, squeaking rats—not to mention Hebba's 
hysterics on account of the latter, which nearly plunged 
the pair of them, more than once, from the slippery 

walkway into the slurry-filled channel. Since they were 
already at the level of the river, there was no climbing to 
be done, though there were some tricky places to 
negotiate where the walkway narrowed at the junctions 
of tunnels. Nonetheless, their progress seemed painfully 
slow to Zanna, for Vannor was reaching the end of his 
endurance and had to stop and rest more and more 
frequently as time went on. 
Just as she was beginning to give up hope of ever seeing 
daylight again, she caught a waft of fresher air, fragrant 
with the pungent mixture of wet grass and wild garlic. 
Zanna's tired heart lifted within her. At last, they were 
coming to the end of this dreadful place! Within 
moments they had reached the sewer outlet, and she had 
time for one deep breath and a rapid glimpse of jeweled 
stars caught in a black net of tree-tops before Yanis 
pulled her quickly down the bank and into the shelter of 
the willows. In the darkness beneath the trees she could 
hear her father cursing softly, with a desperate edge of 
worry to his voice. Immediately, Zanna realized what had 
happened, and her blood turned to ice within her veins. 
Tarnal was not there to meet them! 
By the time she turned her attention back to her 
surroundings, Yanis was speaking. "Well, it's no good us 
waiting here, this close to the city walls. Trust Tarnal to 
go and mess things up! I should have gone myself. 
Vannor, can you carry on a little farther tonight? Maybe 

if we can somehow make it down to Norberth in easy 
stages, we can steal a boat from the port…" 
Already his voice was fading as he led the way along the 
slippery bank in the darkness, the others close behind 
him. Even Hebba was trailing obediently after him, too 
tired by far now to complain. Zanna gritted her teeth and 
followed, quietly seething. How could Yanis be so 
bloody heartless? In her own distress, she had missed the 
anxiety in his voice, which he'd masked with anger. It's a 
good thing the beast is so far ahead, she fumed. Why, for 
two pins, I'd push him in the river! 
Lost in her angry thoughts, she followed blindly. The 
going was difficult, with tussocks and roots to trip over 
in the darkness, and patches of slippery mud. Before too 
long, Zanna's knees were scraped and bruised from 
falling over so many times, her hands wore dripping 
gauntlets of black mud, and both her feet were soaked 
from straying too near the river's edge. She didn't care 
about any of it—she was too frantic over Tarnal's fate to 
worry about such trifles. 
Then, from the darkness ahead, she heard a low, 
delighted cry from Yanis. "By all the gods—there's a 
boat here under the trees!" 
By now the moon was rising, and as Zanna hurried 
forward, she saw the Nightrunner leader silhouetted 
against the silvery water as he reached out to pull on the 
rope that moored the little boat. Suddenly a dark shape 

rose up in the bows, causing Yanis to drop the rope with 
a cry of alarm and reach for his sword. 
"Yanis? Is that you?" The sleepy voice made Zanna's 
heart leap for joy, for it belonged to Tarnal. 
A minute later, a happy reunion was taking place on the 
riverbank—or, at least, Zanna was happy. "What do you 
mean, you fell asleep?" Yanis was demanding 
indignantly of his friend. "What kind of a stupid trick is 
that? Here's us trailing all this way in the dark while you 
lie there snoring like a pig… And is this little washtub all 
that you could get? I didn't expect to row all the way to 
Wyvernesse." 
Tarnal's gray eyes flashed dangerously in the moonlight. 
Without saying a word, he grasped Yanis by the 
shirtfront and hurled him bodily into the river. "Swim, 
then, you ungrateful bastard," he told his spluttering 
leader as the dripping Yanis scrambled, cursing, out of 
the shallows. Zanna had to stuff her cloak into her mouth 
to muffle the sound of her laughter. 
After that, things went more easily, though they had a 
struggle to lift their craft down the narrow portageway 
that bypassed the weir. "I'll wager you're glad I didn't get 
a bigger boat now," Tarnal goaded the panting Yanis as 
they staggered beneath the boat's ungainly weight. They 
managed to sneak through the port of Norberth before the 
sun rose, and laid up through the hours of daylight in one 
of the little coves along the coast. Though they were 

hungry and damp, they dared not risk a fire, but they 
were all far too weary to pay much heed to such 
hardships. Besides, the weather seemed unseasonably 
warm. Rolled in their blankets in a hollow of the 
sheltering dunes, they slept most of the day, trading 
watches, before setting out again on a still and stifling 
evening in the fading light of a lurid, purple sunset. 
Luckily the coastal current had been with them, and so 
far the sea had stayed calm enough not to swamp the 
little boat, though Hebba had remained rigid with terror 
throughout the entire trip. Now, however, just before 
they were due to set out once more from the sandy cove, 
Zanna noticed Yanis and Tarnal looking at the sea and 
frowning before going off into a huddle to talk in low, 
worried voices. "What's wrong?" she asked them, looking 
at the ocean with a puzzled frown. It seemed fine to 
her—there was barely a ripple to disturb the sluggish, 
oily swell. "Surely it's calm enough?" 
"Aye—for now," Yanis muttered. "But it's setting itself 
to blow up into the mother of all storms before this 
night's out. The question is, do we risk going now, and 
pray we can get there before the storm front reaches 
us—or do we stay here and wait until it's over? By the 
look of sea and sky, it's going to be a bad blow; and even 
when it's over, it could take days for the sea to calm itself 
again." 
Zanna could have wept. Not now—not when they were 

so close! At that moment Vannor joined them. "Do my 
eyes deceive me, or does that sky have a particularly 
ominous look to it?" 
Yanis nodded. "There'll be a storm, all right—but what 
shall we do? Stay here, or risk it and go on?" 
"You and Tarnal are the seamen." Vannor shrugged. 
"We'll abide by your decision. But if we stay here, we'll 
have no food and no shelter. I'd say it might be best to set 
off now and try to make it to Wyvernesse before the 
storm hits. After all, we can always put in farther up the 
coast if things get too dangerous—and we'll be all the 
closer to our destination." 
Quickly, they got into the boat and set off again, doing 
their best to hide their worry from Hebba. To get on 
faster, the able-bodied divided themselves into pairs, 
taking an oar each: Yanis with Benziorn, and Zanna, who 
had become at home in boats during her stay with the 
Nightrunners, rowing with Tarnal. Zanna felt a surge of 
pity for her father, who remained at the tiller. She could 
tell from his glowering, abstracted expression that his 
inability to help the rowers only reminded him that he 
was crippled now. Though it made her back and arms 
ache, and she was sweating and gasping for breath in the 
heavy, stifling air, she was glad when it was her turn to 
row. That way, she did not have to look at the ominous 
mass of heavy, bruised-looking clouds that were filling 
the sky to the west and blotting out the stars. 

The first sign of change came with a freshening of the 
wind. Though it was more comfortable to row now, 
Zanna felt a shiver of dread race down her spine. Soon 
the sea was becoming increasingly choppy, and the little 
craft began to rock and pitch in the heaving swell, 
making it difficult to handle the oars. Waves began to 
slap against the bows, splashing spray over the sides of 
the boat. All of them now, except for Tarnal and Yanis, 
the two experienced sailors, were beginning to feel 
queasy. The two of them took over the rowing, for they 
knew better than the landsman and woman how to handle 
the pitching craft. Hebba began to moan and whimper in 
fear. Zanna handed her the bailer, and soon the old 
woman was far too busy scooping water out of the 
bottom of the boat to complain. 
The wind was increasing with every moment now. It was 
so dark that they could barely see each other, for the 
clouds had spread from horizon to horizon, blotting out 
the stars. In the distance they heard the first low grumble 
of thunder. Vannor tugged at Yanis's arm. "Don't you 
think we had better put in?" 
Yanis shook his head. "We've left it too long. It's all reefs 
along here—there's nowhere to land." He took a brief 
glance over his shoulder. "That's the last headland, up 
ahead—see the standing stone?" he panted. "If we can 
only make it round there, we'll be all right." 
"Vannor, you'd better give Zanna the tiller now," Tarnal 

added, his voice jerky with the exertion of rowing. "She's 
more experienced than you, and she's sailed these waters 
before. She knows the way in through the rocks. Put your 
hand over hers—that's right. She'll need your strength to 
steer." 
Zanna blessed him for the last suggestion. She had heard 
her dad's sharp, hurt intake of breath when Tarnal had 
suggested he give up the tiller, and knew he would be 
feeling more of a burden than ever. But even in their 
extremity the Nightrunner had been considerate of 
Vannor's pride. 
They made it round the headland before the full force of 
the storm hit them, though they foundered for a terrifying 
moment in the crashing seas that hammered the rocky 
point. Zanna clung desperately to the tiller as the small 
boat crested the side of a mountainous breaker, and 
braced herself against her father, grateful for his strength 
to help her keep the craft on its heading. Hebba's shriek 
drowned the whistling of the wind as they dropped down 
the other side, hitting the water with a gigantic splash. 
Yanis and Tarnal, their faces taut and crimson with 
strain, pulled desperately on the oars to keep themselves 
from the jagged rocks as another, and yet another great 
wave lifted and hurled the frail shell that was all that 
stood between them and the hungry seas. 
And then, with shocking suddenness, they were around 
the point and into calmer water that had subsided to a 

rolling swell. Zanna knuckled the stinging seawater from 
her eyes and steered as she had never steered before 
through the treacherous maze of rocks that sheltered and 
concealed the entrance to the secret cavern of the 
Nightrunners, straining her mind to recall the positions of 
the rocks before the cavern, and her eyes to catch the 
white flashes of foam that marked the locations of those 
rocks in the darkness. Once she cursed as she heard the 
keel grate on stone—and then, when they were almost 
safely through, the boat leapt to a shuddering halt that 
threw all of them into a heap in the bottom of the boat. 
There was the sharp, brutal splintering sound of a 
cracking plank, and even as she picked herself up, Zanna 
felt the icy swirl of water round her feet. 
"Keep steering," Tarnal yelled, as he pushed the boat off 
the rock with his oar. "We're almost there. She'll make it 
yet!" 
And so it proved. As the weary voyagers paddled their 
foundering craft into the cavern, the entire smuggler 
community, with Remana weeping tears of joy at the safe 
return of her son, turned out to meet them on the curving, 
silvery beach within the vast and echoing cave. Willing 
arms reached out to pull the wallowing, leaking boat to 
the shore and welcome back the wanderers. 
Yanis had his eyes fixed on the beautiful, flaxen-haired 
stranger who stood with Remana on the beach, a huge 
white dog by her side—but Zanna didn't notice. She was 

looking at Tarnal. "You did bloody well to get us 
through," he told her. 
"In darkness, and a sea like that, I couldn't have steered 
better myself. Now you can truly call yourself a 
Nightrunner!" Zanna grinned happily, her heart swelling 
with pride. "It's good to be home," she said softly. 
Smiling, Tarnal extended a hand to help her to the shore. 
Chapter 23 - Storm Front 
The elements were in turmoil. The slick black rocks of 
the Xandim coastline were lost between the grinding 
white fangs of the breakers. Swelling, steel-gray waves 
hurled themselves against the obdurate stones of the 
shore. The gale whined in shrill counterpoint to the surfs 
thundering boom and the roar and hiss of the vanquished 
waves. Salt mist from the wind-whipped spume laid a 
sheen of moisture on Aurian's skin and stung Anvar's icy 
face as he squinted into the gloom. The Mage licked the 
taste of the sea from his lips and pulled the hood of his 
cloak more closely around his face. "I suppose it had to 
happen sooner or later," Aurian shouted, augmenting her 
words with mental speech so that Anvar could hear her 
above the howl of the tempest. The two Mages had 
walked apart from Chiamh and the great cats to discuss 

this new problem that faced them. "It was only to be 
expected after Eliseth forced her winter on the world for 
so long, and then we created an unseasonal spring. I 
suppose it'll take some time for the elements to settle 
down." 
"I only hope we haven't done too much damage—this is 
quite a storm. It's already been blowing for two days and 
nights…" Anvar bit his lip, frowning out across the 
heaving ocean. He wondered how his soulmate could 
sound so calm. 
Aurian shrugged. "Eliseth started this. In trying to correct 
what she had done, I doubt we could do much more 
harm. In the end, the world is far greater than we can 
encompass, even with our magic. The weather is simply 
settling back to its proper pattern. Only… I wish it hadn't 
decided to do it now. This couldn't have happened at a 
worse time for us." She glanced back over her shoulder at 
the expectant crowd of wet, chilled, and bedraggled 
Xandim who had been unable to pitch their tents in the 
gale, and now thronged the headland behind the Mages. 
Anvar understood her concern. The last days had not 
been easy for any of the companions. As Herdlord, 
Schiannath had persuaded a good number of the Horsefolk 
to accompany himself and Chiamh north, to help 
Aurian in her quest, but there had been many other 
dissenting voices. If the Mages delayed too long in 
finding transportation across the sea, even the volunteers 

might easily have second thoughts. 
"Want me to get rid of it?" Anvar's hand crept inside his 
cloak to touch the Harp of Winds, slung across his back 
on cunning straps wrought by the skilled Xandim 
leatherworkers. A thrill of starsong in the back of his 
mind sent pleasurable shivers through his body as he 
touched the crystalline frame, and he gritted his teeth to 
resist its allure. Because he had not, as yet, completely 
tamed the power of the Artifact, the Harp was always 
trying to tempt him with its siren music into unleashing 
its magic upon the world. 
"Anvar—wait!" Aurian captured his hand in her own. 
Anvar had lately discovered that she was aware, from her 
own early experiences with the Staff of Earth, of his 
difficulties in controlling the Harp, and she had helped 
him tremendously in recent days. He sighed, and she 
squeezed his hand sympathetically. "Don't worry—you'll 
get your chance shortly," she told him. "But since this 
blasted storm has been blowing two solid days already, 
who knows how much longer it may last? If we can get 
Parric's Nightrunner friends to send their ships for us, we 
may need you to calm the ocean so that they can get 
across. Too much tampering at this stage might bring us 
worse problems later." 
"Then how will you reach the Leviathan?" Anvar 
protested. He had a feeling that he didn't want to know 
the answer. He was right. 

"I'm going to go find him now." Aurian's mental tones 
brooked no argument. Already she was reaching up to 
unfasten her cloak. "I'm damned if I'm going to wait 
around any longer." 
"Aurian, don't be stupid!" Anvar snatched at her hands. 
"You'll kill yourself!" His old terror of deep water rushed 
back to overwhelm him. 
"I won't." Gently, Aurian pushed his hands away. "If I 
really thought so, I wouldn't even consider this, believe 
me— not now that I have you and Wolf." Her mental 
tones were softened with a smile for him. "It's impossible 
to drown a Mage, remember? Besides, the storm was 
worse than this on the night of the shipwreck, and we 
both survived that with the help of the Leviathan. All I 
have to do is avoid getting dashed to pieces, and if you 
look down there on the eastern side of the headland, 
you'll see a kind of inlet where the water swirls round. If 
I enter the water in the right place, the current should be 
pulling me away from the rocks." 
"What?" Anvar demanded. "Have you lost your mind?" 
"No—just my patience," Aurian retorted, scraping her 
wet, windblown hair out of her eyes for what seemed to 
be the hundredth time. "Judging from the last time I met 
the Leviathan, it may take them a while to make up their 
minds to help us. If I can make contact now and state our 
case, we can all go back to that fishing settlement we 
passed to wait in comfort; and all being well, the 

messengers can be on their way just as soon as the storm 
blows out." 
Anvar sighed. He recognized that obdurate glint in his 
soulmate's eye and knew that no matter how long he 
attempted to dissuade her, the result would be the same 
in the end. It would save a lot of time if he simply bowed 
to the inevitable, trusted her judgment, and let her get it 
over with. "Go on, then—but for the sake of all the gods, 
be careful." 
Aurian kissed him. "For the sake of you and Wolf, I 
will." Then she was gone, running along the headland 
down the narrow track worn by the Xandim fisherfolk. 
By the time he caught up with her, delayed by the 
puzzled queries of Chiamh and Shia, she was already on 
the rocky shore of the inlet, shedding her clothing. 
"Ugh!" she muttered through chattering teeth. "Me and 
my bright ideas." 
"Serves you right," said Anvar callously, taking her cloak 
and the linen shirt and leather tunic and 
breeches—Xandim garments all—before they could 
blow away. He weighted them down with her sword and 
boots, but thrust the Staff of Earth, which she gave 
carefully into his hands, into his own belt, where its 
proximity to the Harp made both Artifacts combine their 
energies in a blaze of joyful radiance, setting the very air 
thrumming and sparkling with their conjoined and 
augmented power. 

"Stop that!" Anvar muttered irritably, wanting to keep all 
his concentration for Aurian. As he extended his will to 
damp the surge of power, the incandescent green-white 
blaze died away, leaving only a soft, defiant humming. 
When he looked up, Aurian was already a pale and 
distant figure, picking her cautious, barefoot way along 
the jutting reef of rocks that protruded into the little bay. 
"You might have waited." Anvar sent his mental message 
in injured tones. 
"Why? To freeze to death?" came the abstracted reply. "I 
can talk to you just as well from—ouch! These blasted 
rocks are sharp!" 
The next minute she was gone, diving out over the end of 
the rocks into the churning waves. Anvar sighed and, 
clutching her bundled clothing to his chest, sat down on a 
nearby boulder to await her return. She was right, he 
thought, shifting uncomfortably. The blasted rocks were 
very sharp. After a time Shia and Chiamh joined him, 
having sent the others back toward the settlement. As the 
shrouded sky darkened toward night, they waited 
together on the storm-swept beach. 
As Aurian had struggled, shivering, along the wicked 
knife-edged rocks, she had wondered how she was going 
to find the courage to take that first, agonizing lungful of 
water that would adapt her breathing to survive beneath 
the sea. As it turned out, she need not have worried. 

When she entered the water, the sea was so cold that she 
gasped involuntarily, and after a moment's frantic 
thrashing in pain and panic, she found herself breathing 
quite naturally beneath the ocean. 
It was as well that the struggle had been brief. Already, 
the current was changing, trying to pull her back to be 
battered against the cruel rocks of the reef. Staying 
underwater, out of reach of the crashing waves above, 
Aurian began to swim outward, fighting the current with 
all her strength. Because she didn't have to surface into 
the teeth of the storm, the going was easier than she had 
expected, and soon she began to settle into a rhythm. Had 
it not been for the thick murkiness of the water, cloudy 
with sand churned up from the bottom by the waves 
above, and the unrelenting coldness of the northern 
ocean, she would have quite enjoyed the swim. 
When the Mage had traveled farther out from the shore, 
she found that the deeper water was much clearer, and 
the conflicting currents no longer tugged her this way 
and that. She could dive down deeper now, to calmer 
water where the fury of the storm above was little more 
than a distant memory. At last she decided she had gone 
far enough, and settled in the water to call the Leviathan. 
Reaching out with both her voice and her mind, Aurian 
began to sing the poignant, plangent, swirling song that 
would travel for leagues through the storm-tossed waters, 
summoning the Whalefolk from their far wanderings. 

Especially, she called to Ithalasa, the old friend who had 
rescued her from the shipwreck and had given her sage 
counsel and a great deal of additional help besides. 
For a long time she sang, and then she listened, praying 
that she would hear a distant reply. But so far, there was 
nothing. Aurian suppressed a stab of impatience, 
remembering that the fierce emotions of the landdwellers 
were anathema to the Leviathan race. But it was 
so hard to have to wait! While she knew that part of her 
water-breathing adaptation would let her survive in the 
freezing sea far longer than she would otherwise have 
done, there was still a limit to the time she could spend 
submerged before the deadly cold took its toll—and her 
life. And as well as needing Ithalasa's assistance once 
more, she was simply looking forward to seeing him 
again. She had much to tell him, concerning the finding 
of the Staff and the Harp, and her search for the Sword of 
Flame. 
Aurian rested a little, for the singing of the high, plaintive 
whalesong had drained her both physically and 
emotionally. Then she began again, starting all over at 
the beginning of the lengthy cycle of song—and this 
time, about halfway through the pattern, she received an 
answer. 
The distant call was so faint that as yet she could hear it 
only with her mind, and not her ears. Aurian waited for 
the singer to come nearer, changing her own song now to 

one of welcome. Soon, the dimly heard voice became 
more distinct: 
"Mage? O Mage?" It was Ithalasa. 
"Ithalasa! Oh, how glad I am to hear you again!" Aurian 
cried joyfully. "How incredibly fortunate that it should be 
you." 
"Not fortunate, Mage—but it explains our long delay in 
answering you," the Leviathan replied. "A pod of my 
sisters heard your song far out in the ocean and decided 
that, once again, I should be the one to represent our 
kind, for I had talked with you before. They called 
me—and I came." 
Within minutes he was with her, surfacing briefly to 
blow and then take another mighty breath before diving 
back down to her. His massive, streamlined body hung 
motionless in the current save for the sweeping motion of 
his curving flukes. His vast bulk dwarfed the Mage as 
she swam, holding herself in position as he did, beneath 
the gaze of a deep, wise, twinkling eye. 
"Now," said Ithalasa, with great good humor, "what is 
your need this time, Little One? I see no shipwreck here." 
"You wouldn't—I swam out from the Xandim coast to 
find you," Aurian explained. 
"Did you so? And in this storm!" The Leviathan's tones 
were tinged with surprise—and not a little respect. "Then 
your need must be pressing indeed." 
"It certainly is—but more immediately pressing is my 

need to get out of the water before I perish with cold," 
Aurian told him. She could only see him now through her 
Mage's vision, for already the waters had darkened with 
the onset of night. Her extremities were numb and white, 
and she could feel her thought processes growing 
gradually more sluggish. "I don't think I can stay here 
much longer, Ithalasa. Would you mind taking me back 
to the shore, so I can talk to you from there?" 
"It will be my pleasure. It will be good to swim with you 
again, Little One." Helpfully, the Leviathan extended a 
great, curved fluke. "Can you climb up on my back, as 
you used to do?" 
Numb and weakened by the cold as she was, Aurian 
would have found it a struggle to do what once she had 
accomplished so easily, had it not been for the buoyancy 
of the water. Pushing herself off from the extended fluke, 
she swam upward until she saw his broad, gray back 
beneath her. The Leviathan swam slowly toward the 
surface, pushing her up with him, making a slow ascent 
so that her body could become accustomed to the change 
in pressure. At last he broke through into the open air, 
and the Mage found herself lying limply on his back, 
choking, retching, and coughing out water as her lungs 
made the change back to breathing air. 
Now I know what a drowned rat must feel like, Aurian 
thought. She lay there limply, lacking the energy to 
move, gasping and shivering; for in the cold wind she felt 

no warmer than she had in the sea. Waves broke over her 
as Ithalasa forged his powerful way back to land through 
the heaving waters, and time and again she almost found 
herself washed back into the ocean, for on his expanse of 
mottled, barnacle-covered back there was little to hold on 
to save for the slight ridge of his dorsal fin, which was so 
pronounced in other clans of the Leviathan race. 
Out of consideration for her wretched state, Ithalasa 
refrained from asking the Mage any questions as he took 
her to shore, though she could feel the undercurrents of 
avid curiosity bubbling beneath the calmness of his 
surface thoughts. Soon—though she could have wished it 
had been sooner—a vivid sheet of lightning lit up the sea 
for miles around, and Aurian could make out the dark 
smudge of the Xandim coastline in stark relief on the 
horizon. When the next flash came, the land had grown 
very much closer. 
The water was deep enough to allow Ithalasa to come 
partway into the inlet, and Aurian had only a few yards to 
swim to reach the outthrust reef from which she had 
started. She was glad it was no farther. Anvar, waiting at 
the end of the rocks, reached down a strong hand to grasp 
her arm and pull her out of the water. She was glad of 
that, for without his help she never would have managed. 
Dimly, she heard his voice in her mind as he greeted the 
Leviathan—then she became aware of a blissful warmth 
as he wrapped her cloak around her. He picked her up 

and carried her safely across the slippery, sharp-edged 
rocks, back to the safety of the beach, where she saw 
Shia, Chiamh—and, to her great delight, a massive 
driftwood bonfire that blazed bravely in the teeth of the 
storm, kept alight through Anvar's magic. 
Anvar put her down beside the fire and began to towel 
her roughly with the cloak, restoring circulation to her 
bloodless limbs before wrapping his own, dryer cloak 
around her. Aurian's joy became complete when the 
Windeye handed her a mug of his steaming herb tea, 
lavishly laced with honey and strong, rough Xandim 
spirits. Anvar steadied it in her shaking hands while she 
forced the mug between her chattering teeth and took a 
swallow, feeling the warmth spreading all the way down 
through her chilled body. Within a few minutes she was 
feeling very much better, although she felt very drowsy, 
and she wondered if she would ever truly be warm again. 
Sleep, however, would have to wait, for the patient 
Leviathan had been neglected long enough. With Anvar's 
help she struggled back into her clothes, not resisting 
when his assistance turned into a quick embrace. "I'm so 
glad to see you again," she murmured—"and I'm glad 
you resisted telling me you'd warned me this would 
happen." 
"Well, I did—but at least you succeeded, so I'll let you 
off this time." He grinned at her. "Feeling better now?" 
Aurian nodded. "It's time we went to talk to Ithalasa." 

" I am glad to see that you found your mate again, after 
all your quarrels and mishaps in the south," was the 
Leviathan's opening comment to Aurian. He listened to 
their tale of how they had found each other, and showed 
no surprise whatsoever to learn that Anvar was also a 
Mage. Ithalasa rejoiced to hear of the safe delivery of the 
Mage's child, who was currently back in the fishing 
settlement with his lupine guardians. (Sangra had been 
left to keep an eye on them, muttering darkly all the 
while that she was a warrior, not a bloody nursemaid.) 
Since both Shia and Chiamh were adept at mental talk, 
the Mages were able to introduce their companions to the 
Leviathan, and he greeted them graciously, and with a 
great deal of curiosity—especially as to the unusual 
nature of the Windeye's powers. But when Aurian and 
Anvar, standing together out on the storm-lashed rocks, 
told him how they had won the Staff of Earth and Harp 
of Winds, all other concerns were forgotten. They could 
feel Ithalasa's growing excitement, tinged nonetheless 
with an undercurrent of concern, beating strongly in their 
minds. 
" I thought I could feel the power of High Magic!" he 
exclaimed. "And what of the Sword of Flame?" 
"That's why we need your help." Quickly, Aurian 
explained their predicament. 
"I see," Ithalasa mused. "So you must get a message to 
your friends across the northern ocean, and then they 

can send ships to fetch you?" 
"That's right," Anvar said. "You couldn't take all of us— 
not the cats and the Xandim, too. And Wolf is far too 
small to attempt such a journey." 
"But how can I convey a message? I can only 
communicate with you Magefolk." 
"Well," said Aurian, "we hoped that you might take one 
or two of us to Wyvernesse so they could tell the 
Nightrunners." Immediately she felt the Leviathan's 
hesitation, and her heart sank, although she'd been 
expecting something of the kind. 
"Yes, Little One," the great voice echoed in her mind. "As 
you have guessed, such an act on my part will constitute 
another interference by the Leviathan in Wars of Power. 
After the Cataclysm, we vowed never again to become 
involved in the affairs of the Magefolk—and already we 
have done so, for without our help you would never have 
gained the first two Artifacts. Before I can take you to 
find the sword, I must consult again with my people." 
"I thought so," Aurian sighed. "But Ithalasa—are you 
sure that you want to become involved again?" 
"Little One, I am sure. For my part, I trust you to use the 
Weapons wisely. Whether my brethren will do so remains 
to be seen…." He hesitated—but when he spoke again, 
his voice was decisive. "No—already I know what their 
answer will be. Last time they permitted me to help you, 
because they did not believe that you truly could find the 

lost Artifacts. This time it will be different, for already 
you have the Harp and the Staff— and the dangers of 
another Cataclysm have become very real. They will not 
let me intervene again—and so they must not know. 
Return to this place as soon as the storm blows out, and I 
will convey your messenger." 
"But wait," Aurian objected. "If they find out what 
you've done, will they not punish you? Ithalasa, I can't let 
you take that kind of risk for us!" 
"You are right," said Ithalasa. "If they find out, I must 
certainly pay the penalty—-but the risk is mine to take. 
Come, Little One—what choice have you, other than to 
accept? How else will you get back across the ocean?" 
Aurian knew he was right—there was no choice—but 
that didn't make her feel any better about the business. 
Nonetheless, she accepted his brave offer with all the 
gratitude that he deserved, before the Magefolk made 
their farewells. Through the blowing curtains of rain, 
they saw the mighty Leviathan erupt gracefully from the 
water as he leapt high in answer. Falling back into the 
waves with a splash of fountaining foam that was loud 
enough to be heard above the keening of the storm, 
Ithalasa was gone, racing swiftly for the open seas. 
Both Mages were soaked and shivering by this time, and 
Aurian was glad of Chiamh's offer of a ride back to the 
home of the fisherfolk, who welcomed the companions 

of their Herdlord lavishly with hot food and blazing fires. 
The largest house was given entirely over to their use, for 
Schiannath's father had been born of this coastal clan, 
and they had taken his victory in the Challenge as their 
own. When they finally managed to escape the effusive 
hospitality of the fisherfolk, the Mage had never been 
more grateful in her life to climb into a warm, soft bed 
with Anvar—but when she got there, she couldn't sleep 
all night for worrying about the Leviathan, and the risk 
that he had willingly taken to help her in her quest. 
The storm continued to rage all through the next day and 
into the following night, whistling in the dripping thatch 
and battering the sturdy stone-built dwellings of the 
Xandim fisherfolk. Living on the coast with its 
capricious weather, the fishing community did not favor 
tents except during the summer—a fact for which Aurian 
was extremely grateful. Though she chafed at the delay, 
it gave her time to appraise her companions of what had 
resulted from the talk with Ithalasa. The Mages—Aurian 
with Wolf upon her lap—gathered with Chiamh, Shia 
and Khanu around the great central firepit that warmed 
the communal living space of the large stone house, 
together with Parric, Sangra, Yazour, and the Xandim 
Herdlord and his sister. Sharing a flask of mead between 
them, they began to make their plans. 
Since there would be some delay while the Xandim were 
brought across, Aurian and Anvar were reluctant to travel 

to the north too soon, lest Miathan and Eliseth should 
sense the presence of the Artifacts and strike at the 
Mages while they had no companions to support them. 
Though they were sorry to miss the journey with Ithalasa, 
it was decided that Parric and Sangra would go in their 
stead, for they had already stayed with the Nightrunners 
and had a claim on their friendship. Chiamh would go 
with them, to communicate with the Leviathan. His 
powers as a Windeye might also be needed if the weather 
turned bad again during the crossing. 
Once everyone had reached the north, however, they 
were to make for Eilin's Valley with all possible speed. 
Aurian wanted to waste no time in her attempt to claim 
the Sword. What would happen afterward was still a 
matter for conjecture. They discussed the possibilities 
long into the night, before finally deciding that for now, 
they must leave the future to take care of itself. 
The following morning, the companions awoke to find 
that the storm had broken at last, and they emerged into a 
sodden landscape of dune and marram grass that had 
been battered mercilessly by the fury of the elements. 
After a hasty breakfast the companions walked down to 
the headland in cool and hazy sunlight that was obscured 
again and again by a high, thin scum of scudding clouds. 
The Windeye glanced up with a frown at the uneasy sky. 
"I fear this run of evil weather has not finished with us 
yet—but so long as the Leviathan swims as fast as you 

say, we should have time to make the crossing before the 
next storm comes." 
"I hope so," Aurian replied with a shudder. 
"If it starts to blow again before you reach Wyvernesse, 
try to make contact with us," Anvar told Chiamh. "I'll do 
my best to hold it back with the Harp until you're safely 
across." 
When they reached the bay they found that the massive 
waves had vanished, though the sea was still choppy, 
with a tumbling mane of white foam upon the crest of 
each swiftly running wave. "Storm or no storm, it looks 
like we're in for a bloody wet crossing," said Parric 
gloomily—and then his words tailed off as he caught his 
first glimpse of the long, dark shape of Ithalasa, waiting 
patiently in the sparkling sea beyond the rocky point. "By 
the balls of Chathak!" the little cavalrymaster muttered. 
"I didn't realize it would be so big!" Sangra, too, was 
suddenly looking rather pale, and Aurian chuckled at 
their discomfiture. "Don't worry," she assured them. "He 
can't bite you—he doesn't have any teeth." 
"He doesn't have to," retorted Sangra. "He could swallow 
us in a single gulp." 
Aurian signed, and gave it up. Some people would never 
understand that Ithalasa, for all his vast size and alien 
appearance, was a wise, gentle and intelligent being. 
Sadly, she thought of the sacrifice that Ithalasa was 
making to help these ungrateful land-dwellers. She only 

thanked the gods that Chiamh had been willing to 
undertake the journey with the warriors. If they could 
converse with the Leviathan, she was confident that they 
would soon lose their fears. 
"Little One—are your companions ready?" Ithalasa 
prompted her gently. Suddenly Aurian realized that he 
was as anxious as Parric and Sangra to get this journey 
over. "They are," she told him. 
Though the fisherfolk had provided a small wooden boat 
to row the voyagers out to the Leviathan, so that they 
could at least start their journey dry, the Mage herself 
swam out to commune with him one last time before he 
left. Even Anvar had no idea of what passed between 
them in those final moments, but when Aurian emerged 
from the ocean to wave farewell to her departing friends, 
he suspected that the redness of her eyes was not entirely 
due to the salt water. Picking up her cloak from the rocks 
where she'd left it, he draped it around her shivering 
shoulders and hugged her close to him. "You know, if 
you keep on doing this, you're going to catch your death 
of cold," he told her gently. 
Aurian looked out wistfully across the water to the sleek, 
departing shape of the Leviathan. "It would be worth it," 
she said softly. 

Chapter 24 - Southpaw 
Zanna settled back into the old routines and friendships 
of the Nightrunner hideout as though the months of her 
absence had never happened. At first Remana had been 
very cool with her, but her anger had been mostly due to 
worry over the fact that she had run away. When the 
matriarch of the smugglers discovered Zanna's role in 
Vannor's rescue, her manner thawed abruptly, and the 
two of them became fast friends again, with Remana 
treating her, once again, as the daughter she'd never had. 
There were many friendships to be renewed—the chief 
and most delightful of which was her reunion with her 
pony, Piper. Just now all the smugglers' ponies were 
down in their cavern, sheltering from the wicked 
weather, and so he had been on hand to renew their 
acquaintance. 
Zanna spent a good deal of time with Piper—or as much 
as she could spare from her dad, whose recovery had 
been set back by the grueling encounter with the storm. 
He had taken a chill from the icy soaking he had 
received, but under all Remana's cosseting, and the 
constant care of Benziorn and the blond girl Emmie, he 
was gradually growing stronger, and Zanna hoped to be 
able to take up Tarnal's offer to go riding with her as 
soon as the weather cleared. 
At least it would get her away from Yanis, Zanna thought 
sourly. He was driving her to distraction, hanging around 

Vannor's chamber all day making sheep's eyes at 
Emmie—who, to be fair, seemed completely oblivious to 
his attentions. Zanna felt a curious ambivalence toward 
the serious, sad-eyed girl who, according to Remana, was 
older than she looked, and had lost her husband and both 
her children to Miathan's depredations. Zanna felt sorry 
for her after that and also deeply appreciated what 
Emmie was doing for her father—yet she knew that by 
rights she ought to resent the older woman for her 
beauty, and for taking Yanis's attentions away from 
herself. 
Yet during the time that they had spent cooped up 
together in Hebba's house, Zanna had found herself 
becoming more and more irritated by the thoughtless, 
self-centered behavior of the Nightrunner leader. 
Besides, he wasn't very bright—and although she had 
known that before, it had never bothered her until now. 
Zanna blushed to remember that casual announcement 
made months ago to her father, that she intended to 
marry Yanis. What an idiot she had been! Without a 
mother to advise her, there was no one now to tell her 
that she was simply growing up—with all the trials and 
contradictions it entailed—and so Zanna was left to 
puzzle out her difficulties on her own. 
In all her confusion, Tarnal was the solid anchor in her 
life. He always seemed to be there when she felt most in 
need of a friend, and she was always glad to see him. It 

also meant a lot to Zanna that the young smuggler was so 
considerate of her father, whom he held in great respect. 
Tired of the awkward atmosphere within the caverns 
between Emmie and the Nightrunner leader, she looked 
forward to having Tarnal's company all to herself as a 
relief from Yanis's foolishness, and waited impatiently 
for the weather to change. On the day after the storm had 
broken at last, she was glad to accept his invitation to go 
riding on the cliffs. 
Wrapped up warmly against the bite of the wind that 
stung her glowing cheeks and ruffled her short-cropped 
hair, Zanna galloped her pony along the cliff top, racing 
Tarnal to the distant landmark of the solitary standing 
stone. Oh, but it was wonderful to be out in the fresh air 
again! Piper seemed to think so too—the pony was full of 
energy after his long confinement in the caverns, and 
needed this run to calm his fidgets. It seemed to be 
having the same effect on Zanna's fidgets, for by the time 
she had reached the bottom of the mound on which the 
great stone stood—as near as she dared to approach on 
horseback, for the ponies were afraid of the sinister 
megalith—she was feeling happier and more free than 
she had felt in months. 
Laughing, Zanna turned to Tarnal, who came galloping 
up behind her. "I won!" she crowed. "That fat slug of 
yours will have to pick up his hooves if he wants to beat 
my Piper…" 

Zanna's words tailed off as something—a long, dark, 
unfamiliar shape far out at sea—caught her attention. It 
certainly wasn't a ship, though it was big enough, and 
from the way it moved, it seemed to be alive. 
"Tarnal—what on earth is that?" she cried, pointing. 
"It looks like a whale." The Nightrunner was frowning in 
puzzlement. "But they never come into these waters. 
What the blazes is it doing here? Why is it all alone? And 
why is it staying on the surface all the time? Do you 
think it's sick?" 
Together they sat and waited on the cliff top, 
dismounting to let their ponies crop the grass as they 
watched the behemoth approach the coast. At one point 
in their vigil Zanna noticed that Tarnal had taken hold of 
her hand, but it felt so pleasant that she made no effort to 
pull away. Suddenly, she felt his fingers tighten on her 
own. "Zanna"—his voice was little more than a hoarse 
whisper—"please tell me I'm not imagining things. I'm 
sure I can see people riding on that whale…" 
His eyes were keener than her own, but after a few 
minutes Zanna could see them too. "They are people! 
But who could command such power over a creature of 
the deep?" She turned to the Nightrunner in sudden 
panic. "Tarnal—do you think it's the Archmage? What if 
he's found us?" 
Cursing, Tarnal pulled her to her feet. "Quick! We must 
get back to the caverns! We've got to warn them!" 

Zanna flung herself up onto Piper's back, wrenching at 
the reins as the startled horse reared. Then they were 
galloping, racing back toward the Nightrunner 
hideout—both she and Tarnal praying that they could 
make it in time, before the speeding Leviathan reached 
the shore. 
It was Sangra, whose turn it had been to keep a lookout, 
who first spotted the distinctive shape of the cliff top 
megalith that marked the location—for those privileged 
few who knew of its existence—of the smugglers' secret 
home. "There it is!" she cried. Parric awakened blearily 
and rolled over, only just saving himself from sliding off 
the Leviathan's curving back. Sangra put out a hand to 
steady him, and he scrambled back to safety, muttering 
epithets, before sitting up to look in the direction of her 
pointing finger. 
"You're right!" he cried. "Who'd have thought this beast 
could swim so fast? This is one up on that miserable 
bastard Idris, who took us south in that leaky old washtub 
he calls a ship." Turning, he shook the Windeye into 
wakefulness— which took some doing, because Chiamh 
had spent most of the night sitting up in delighted 
conversation with Ithalasa. 
"Chiamh? Chiamh, wake up, you idiot! We're here!" 
"What? Already?" Chiamh mumbled, sounding 
disappointed. Parric ignored that. The Windeye—though 

a pleasant enough lad and harmless, bless him—had 
always been a strange one. For his own part, the 
cavalrymaster couldn't wait for this wretched, miserable, 
wet, uncomfortable, bloody boring journey to be over. 
Suddenly remembering where he was, he put a guilty 
damper on such thoughts, lest the Leviathan should 
somehow hear him. Parric was still very much in awe of 
the immense creature. 
"Can you ask our friend to make for that standing stone 
on the cliffs?" he asked the Windeye quickly, and with 
unusual politeness. 
"What cliffs?" asked Chiamh, squinting shortsightedly at 
the horizon. Parric sighed. This was a problem that he 
hadn't considered. 
"You know," Sangra said gently, for she was fond of the 
Windeye, "you should ask the Lady Aurian if she 
couldn't use her healing powers to help you to see 
properly." 
"We did talk about it," Chiamh said, "and she offered— 
but I'm afraid that if she gives me normal vision, I might 
lose my Othersight. I just daren't risk it." He sighed. "I'm 
afraid it might be better to leave well alone." 
"Never mind that for now," Parric interrupted 
impatiently. Already, he could see that the Leviathan was 
veering off course. "What are we going to do about 
getting to the Nightrunners?" 
"Well, since neither the Leviathan nor I can see this stone 

of yours, you're going to have to guide us," Chiamh told 
him good-naturedly. "Just tell me whether we should 
head right or left, and when to go straight on—and I'll 
pass the message to Ithalasa." 
It wasn't the perfect solution, but they managed—and 
before very much longer Parric could make out the deep 
bay in the cliffs, with its scattered guardian reefs, that 
concealed the Nightrunner caverns from prying eyes. 
"Thank the gods we're home at last!" he said feelingly. 
"Not meaning any offense to your southern lands," he 
added hastily to the Windeye, "but home is—well, home, 
if you know what I mean." 
Chiamh sighed. He could not help but envy Parric's talk 
of home. Because of his powers he had always been an 
outcast among the Xandim, and had never really felt as 
though he'd belonged anywhere—at least, not until these 
new Outland companions had arrived from the north. 
Suddenly he wondered what would happen if Aurian 
should defeat her foes and complete her quest. What 
would he do then? There was no going back to what he'd 
been before. For the Windeye, the future looked 
unbearably lonely. 
"You will contrive," the kindly voice of Ithalasa intruded 
into Chiamh's bleak thoughts. "Who knows what the fates 
will hold for you? But whatever happens, and wherever 
you go, there will always be a welcome for you with 

Aurian and Anvar. Besides"—and Ithalasa 
chuckled—"through some freak of interbreeding in the 
past, you seem to hold some of the powers of the 
Magefolk—and after this sad business there will be few 
of that race left indeed. Will it not be your duty to find a 
mate, and father children, to carry those powers on into 
the future?" 
Abruptly, the Leviathan changed the subject—and just as 
well, for Chiamh's mind was reeling at his unexpected 
suggestion. "Windeye, I cannot pass those reefs that 
guard your destination. Will you ask the humans what 
they want me to do?" 
Parric cursed when Chiamh passed on the news. "It looks 
as though we'll have to swim for it." 
"Never mind," said Sangra, "we're wet enough already— 
another soaking won't make any difference." 
"I know that—but arriving like a washed-up piece of 
flotsam in the Nightrunner cavern isn't exactly the 
triumphal entry I'd expected," the cavalrymaster 
grumbled. "Besides, its going to take days to dry my gear 
out—and this bloody seawater is playing havoc with all 
my knives." 
Sadly, Chiamh said good-bye to Ithalasa, and passed on 
the farewells and thanks of the others. Then he slid, for 
the last time, down the Leviathan's curving sides and 
joined Parric and Sangra in the icy water. As soon as they 
were clear, Ithalasa turned and headed back toward the 

open sea, diving swiftly and striking the water with his 
elegant, curving tail in farewell. The Windeye watched 
him go, treading water until the Leviathan vanished 
completely beneath the waves. He only prayed that 
Ithalasa would not be called to account by his own 
people and made to suffer for assisting Aurian and her 
companions. But Chiamh had little time to think of such 
matters, for as soon as the weary travelers swam into the 
maze of rocks that filled the little bay, they were met 
with a hail of arrows that came hurtling down with 
increasing accuracy from the cliffs above. 
"Gods!" Sangra cried, and dived beneath the water. 
Parric saw Chiamh flounder in panic, getting a mouthful 
of sea. Keeping his wits about him, the cavalrymaster 
dodged into a narrow space between two rocks, to protect 
himself from the deadly bolts that rained down on all 
sides. Rashly, he stuck his head out, and an arrow 
whistled past his ear, too close for comfort. Damn! They 
were getting the range now. "Hoy!" he bawled in his best 
parade-ground bellow. "Don't shoot, you bloody idiots! 
It's me—Parric!" 
The barrage of arrows faltered—and then stopped 
completely. The cavalrymaster heaved a sigh of relief, 
and looked round anxiously for his companions. They 
seemed to be all right—save that Sangra was holding 
Chiamh's head above the surface while he spluttered and 
coughed up water. Then Parric heard the creak of oars, 

and a small boat emerged into the sunlight from the 
shadows of the narrow cavern entrance. At the tiller was 
a blond-haired smuggler lad he vaguely recognized and 
to his delight it was Vannor's young daughter, her hair 
cut short like that of a lad, who rowed the boat, wielding 
the oars with an expert flourish. 
Giving her entire attention to the business at hand, the 
girl held the small craft steadily in place while the lad 
reached down to help Chiamh and Sangra clamber in. 
Parric swam toward them, knowing that there was very 
little space for a boat to maneuver between the 
submerged reefs, and clambered carefully aboard. 
Only then did Zanna give her oars to her companion. 
"Parric!" she exclaimed delightedly, squirming round to 
hug him. "I'm so glad you've come back safely." 
"And I'm glad to see you, lass." He ruffled her cropped 
hair affectionately. "I see that you've become a warrior, 
as you always wanted. A lot of the women cut their hair 
short on campaign. It's the mark of a true professional." 
He chuckled at Sangra's indignant exclamation. It had 
been a standing joke at the Garrison that, throughout all 
her years as a warrior, no one had managed to persuade 
her to part from her long, gold braids. "Short hair saves a 
lot of messing about," Parric continued blithely. "Why, 
even Aurian herself has cut her hair since you saw her 
last. Said it was too hot for her down in the far south." 
"Really?" Zanna cried. 

Parric grinned at her expression of delighted amazement. 
Of course—he had forgotten that Aurian had always been 
very much of a hero for the young lass. Clearly, the 
knowledge that she was keeping such exalted company 
meant a lot to Zanna. "Really," he assured her. "And it 
looks as good on the Mage as it does on you. By the 
gods, lass—but you're a sight for sore eyes after only 
having Sangra and a bunch of foreigners to look at for 
months." He glanced at his companions with a teasing 
twinkle in his eye. "Zanna, this is Chiamh—but I'll 
introduce you properly when we've landed." As they 
passed into the narrow, echoing tunnel that led into the 
cavern, his expression darkened with a scowl. "And 
where the blazes is that bloody idiot Yanis?" 
"Waiting on the beach," Zanna told him. "He said he 
wanted to give you a fitting leader's welcome." 
"I'll give him a welcome he won't forget in a hurry," 
Parric growled. "Has the fool forgotten how to use his 
eyes?" 
Zanna chuckled as they emerged from the tunnel into the 
vastness of the cavern. "I'm afraid that was our fault." 
She glanced at the young smuggler, with an expression in 
her eyes that made Parric wonder. "We were out riding 
on the cliffs," she went on, "and when we saw you on the 
whale—well, we thought it must be the Archmage." Her 
voice sank to a haunted whisper, and there was a shadow 
of terror in her eyes that the cavalrymaster could not 

account for. But there was no time to inquire further, for 
at that moment a familiar voice came booming out from 
the shore: 
"Parric, you old bastard! Have the southerners had 
enough of you, then?" 
"That's Vannor!" The cavalrymaster's eyes widened in 
amazement. "What are you doing here, you fat old 
money-grabber?" he bawled across the water—and 
suddenly his words tailed off at the sight of the 
merchant's missing hand. 
"Parric, be careful—please," Zanna whispered urgently. 
"He still can't accept it… He feels so useless now." 
"By all the gods," Parric growled, his eyes bright with 
pain and anger. "Who did this to him? I'll string the 
bastard up with his own guts…" 
"I don't think so," Zanna's voice was grim. "It was 
Eliseth." 
As the boat scrunched onto the shingle, Parric leapt out, 
brushing aside the Nightrunner leader who had stepped 
down to meet him. He went straight to Vannor and 
clasped him in a rough embrace, pounding the merchant 
on the back until Vannor yelled in protest. 
"I never thought I'd be so glad to see your ugly face," the 
cavalrymaster said—and then stepped back, his eyes 
going deliberately to his friend's right arm, which ended 
in the bandaged stump. "Well, of all the bloody nerve!" 
he grumbled in injured tones. "Just because I'm a 

southpaw, suddenly everyone wants to get in on the act. 
The next thing we know, you'll be wanting me to teach 
you all my tricks of fighting left-handed!" 
In the horrified silence that followed, Vannor's 
expression was a mixture of rage and utter shock—then 
suddenly his face broke into a grin. "Well, since I did 
have the nerve to copy you, you foulmouthed little runt, 
perhaps you'd better teach me some of those tricks that 
you mentioned—if you have any, that is." 
"Oh, I have them, all right," the cavalrymaster promised. 
"The dirtiest tricks that never got into the book. And I'll 
teach you them all, my friend—but it can wait until after 
we've done some serious drinking!" Putting his arm 
around Vannor's shoulders, he was about to lead him out 
of the cavern when Sangra, who had been tactfully 
soothing the injured pride of the indignant young 
Nightrunner leader, called him back. "Hold on a minute, 
Parric. Aren't you forgetting something? Your serious 
drinking is a fine idea, and I'm all for it in due 
course—but it must wait until we've talked to Yanis." 
"Bugger!" Parric muttered. "You can see why I never 
made commander. For a minute there, I had forgotten." 
He turned back to the crowd of curious and expectant 
smugglers, forgetting that, in all propriety, he should first 
give his news to their leader. "Listen, all you 
Nightrunners," he shouted. "We've come here all the way 
from the Southern Kingdoms with a message from the 

Lady Aurian. She's returning to the north—and she needs 
your help." 
Even though the cavalrymaster was well accustomed to 
bawling across parade grounds and battlefields, his voice 
was drowned in the uproar that followed. 
Being so short in stature, Zanna suffered her usual fate of 
being thrust aside as the crowd of Nightrunners, all 
asking questions at once, advanced on Parric. Cursing, 
she attempted to push herself between the mass of bodies 
that blocked her view of the cavalrymaster and her father, 
but she might as well have been trying to fight her way 
through the solid rock at the back of the cavern. Oh well, 
she comforted herself. Since she was Vannor's daughter, 
at least she'd have a chance to speak with the newcomers 
later. For now, it was simply enough to know that the 
Mage was returning, and that she would be seeing her 
soon. Why, it might even be that she, Vannor's youngest 
daughter, would have a chance to help the Lady Aurian 
in her fight against the evil that had seized the land! 
Turning to find Tarnal in order to share her excitement 
with her friend, Zanna found that he, too, had vanished in 
the general melee. Instead, she found herself looking 
directly into a pair of warm, rather vague brown eyes that 
looked both gentle and perplexed. Standing next to her 
was the stranger who had come with Parric and Sangra 
on the back of the whale. 
A tingle of excitement and trepidation went through 

Zanna. She'd had little time to think about Parric's 
companion during the tricky business of steering her little 
boat safely into the great cavern, but here was a real 
foreigner from an unknown land across the seas—the 
first man she nad ever met who was not of her own race. 
She looked at him for a moment, suddenly feeling 
nervous and not a little shy, conscious that she was 
staring rudely, but unable to help it. Then the strange 
young man peered at her shortsightedly, put out a hand 
whose sleeve was still dripping seawater, and smiled. 
"Are you not the kind young lady who rescued us from 
the ocean?" he asked in a lilting, oddly accented voice. 
No one could possibly be afraid of a man who had such 
an amiable smile. Zanna accepted the proffered hand and 
introduced herself. "And are you truly a friend of the 
Lady Aurian?" she added breathlessly. 
The stranger's smile broadened. "Indeed, I count myself 
honored to be a friend of the Mage. My name is Chiamh, 
and I am Windeye of the Xandim." 
"Windeye? What's that?" 
Chiamh shrugged in mute apology. "It is too long and 
complex a matter to explain now. I am a kind of seer, if 
you will." 
Since the young girl had no idea what a seer was, or what 
one did, she was little the wiser. She was about to press 
for an explanation, when suddenly Chiamh sneezed. 
Zanna realized, with a pang of guilt, that the poor man 

was soaked and shivering, and in the general excitement 
she had never thought to do anything for his comfort. 
"Why, you're wet through! I ought to be ashamed of 
myself," she told him contritely, "keeping you talking 
here when you need dry clothes, and something hot to 
drink. If you'll come with me…" 
"Perhaps I ought to wait for Parric," Chiamh began 
hesitantly. 
"Nonsense. He'll be along directly—and in the meantime, 
there's no sense in your catching your death of cold. 
Believe me, they'll be chewing over this business for 
hours yet. You won't miss much." And with that, Zanna, 
much relieved to be doing something useful while she 
was excluded from the general discussion, took hold of 
the Windeye's arm and firmly led him away into the 
warren of caverns. 
Having settled Chiamh, Zanna slipped out of the guest 
chamber and came round the corner of a corridor just in 
time to see Remana showing Parric into another guest 
room. She saw Vannor, close on the headwoman's heels, 
slip inside after the cavalrymaster, leaving Remana shut 
out on the threshold. A shiver ran through the young 
girl's frame. Judging by the expression on Dad's face, she 
knew what he wanted to ask the cavalrymaster behind 
closed doors. Zanna swore softly. She had forgotten 
about bloody Sara! But of course Vannor's wife had been 
sent to the south with Aurian—did this mean that when 

the Mage returned, Sara would be coming back too? 
Zanna caught herself up sharply. She ought to be 
ashamed of such selfishness! Whatever she might feel 
about her stepmother, it would break poor Dad's heart if 
Sara didn't return! As Remana's footsteps died away 
along the passage, Zanna crept out and positioned herself 
with one ear pressed against the door. Though her 
conscience pricked her, for she knew it was wrong to 
listen to other people's private business, she pushed the 
thought firmly aside. If Sara was coming back, she 
simply had to know! 
Ever since he had first heard Parric's astounding news 
that the Mage was on her way home, one desperately 
urgent question had been raging at the forefront of 
Vannor's mind. It took every ounce of self-control that 
the merchant possessed to wait until Remana had finally 
managed to disperse the persistent crowd and conduct the 
visitors to chambers where they could change their 
sodden clothing before speaking with Yanis in private. 
But once Sangra had been settled in her accommodation, 
and the headwoman of the smugglers ushered the 
cavalrymaster to the room that had been prepared for 
him, Vannor pushed his way in on Parric's heels and 
closed the door behind him, leaving an indignant Remana 
to fume outside. 
"What?" Parric looked round, startled, as the door 

slammed. "Oh, Vannor. It's you. I don't suppose you 
know where they keep the drink in this place?" 
To Vannor's mind, his friend's brightly casual tones rang 
false. The merchant's heart sank. He knew that, if there 
had been any good news, Parric would have told him 
immediately, instead of trying to avoid the subject. 
Though he quailed inside at what he might hear, Vannor 
could bear the suspense no longer. "Parric—what about 
Sara?" he asked directly. "Do you have any word of my 
wife?" 
The cavalrymaster swore softly. "Yes," he replied with 
equal bluntness. "And I'm not going to tell you she's 
dead, Vannor, so you can set your mind at rest. 
Nonetheless, old friend, it's news you should hear sitting 
down. Go on: sit!" he added in a growl. 
Numbly, Vannor let himself sink into a carved wooden 
chair. 
Parric stood fidgeting in front of the fire, his wet clothes 
steaming gently in the heat. "She never was any good for 
you, you know," he began awkwardly. 
The merchant half rose from his seat, hot words of anger 
on his lips—but Parric's next words froze him into stone. 
"She's gone, Vannor. Left you for good. Aurian and 
Anvar say she deserted them in the far southlands—to 
marry a king." 
Vannor sank limply back into the chair, his thoughts an 
inchoate whirl of denial, bitterness, and rage. After a 

moment he became aware that Parric, his weather-beaten 
face creased with concern, was trying to push a cup into 
his hand. The merchant grasped it almost tightly enough 
to crack the glaze, and downed the strong distillate in a 
single gulp. 
Parric, at his elbow, instantly refilled the cup. This time, 
Vannor sipped more slowly, and after a moment, he 
found himself beginning to laugh. "So a mere merchant 
wasn't enough to satisfy her ambitions. Well, I always 
knew, in my heart, that she never wed me for my good 
looks and charm. Zanna, bless her, tried to warn me," he 
added bitterly. "But there's no fool like an old fool they 
say—and a rich old fool is twenty times worse." 
Vannor rubbed a hand across his eyes, dismissing their 
watering as the effect of the strong spirits. Doubtless, it 
must also be due to the drink that he suddenly felt lightheaded, 
as though a massive burden had been lifted away 
from his shoulders. Surely, there could be no other 
reason! Taking a deep breath, he held out the cup again. 
"One more, Parric, if you please," he said wryly. "As far 
as wealth and good fortune are concerned, it looks like 
the little bitch has outdone the lot of us. Had she been a 
man, you know, the two of us would have admired—or at 
least respected—such ruthless and single-minded 
ambition. Let's drink a toast to her, to speed her on her 
way." 
The cavalrymaster scowled. "I'm all for speeding her on 

her way," he muttered, "but personally, I'd rather drink to 
her never coming back." 
Though Zanna grieved for her father, plain common 
sense told her that Sara's betrayal was for the best. She 
would do everything in her power to help him get over 
it—and she wouldn't be the only one! As she slipped 
quietly away from Parric's door, she couldn't suppress a 
mischievous chuckle. What would Dulsina make of this 
when she heard? Oh, I wish I could be the one to tell her, 
Zanna thought. For herself, she was so relieved that she 
wanted to sing and dance. It had been a daily torment to 
look on in silence, while that ruthless little guttersnipe 
made a fool of her dad. "May the gods help that King, 
whoever he is, if someday she meets an Emperor!" Zanna 
muttered. But Parric was right. Who cared what Sara 
did—so long as she did it well away from here? 
The sound of voices raised in argument brought her 
abruptly out of her thoughts. Zanna looked up, to find 
that she was passing the open door of Yanis's chambers. 
"Well, of course we must help the Lady Aurian!" The 
voice belonged to the Nightrunner leader. "Surely after 
seeing what the Magefolk did to Vannor, you must want 
to help in their overthrow. And you folk who have stayed 
here, safe and protected in this stronghold, don't know 
the half of what's going on in the city and the lands 
around. Why, surely—" 
"You're right. I don't know—and I don't want to. The less 

we're involved in this business, the better it'll be for all of 
us." 
Zanna recognized the grating, whining voice as that of 
the old smuggler captain Idris. 
"As you said, Yanis," the captain went on, "the 
Nightrunners are protected here—this is our stronghold. 
As long as we stay hidden, we're safe—but already our 
caverns are swarming with the lowest dregs of humanity 
from Nexis, and thanks to Vannor, there are half a 
hundred folk up in the Lady's Vale who know our 
secrets. What do you think would have happened if the 
merchant's little lass hadn't managed to get him out of the 
Academy when she did? We'd have had the accursed 
Archmage down on us by now—that's what. And now 
that little turd Parric has betrayed our whereabouts to 
some stinking foreign spy. If you were any kind of 
leader, you'd be putting the interests of your own folk 
first, for that's how we Nightrunners have always 
prospered. You mark my words, if we get mixed up with 
the bloody Magefolk and their disputes, then nothing but 
trouble will come of it. I should know—I damn near lost 
my ship the last time I had a Mage on board." 
"Why, you bloody-minded, shortsighted old fool," 
Remana began wrathfully, but her voice was drowned by 
a chorus of protests, presumably from the other 
Nightrunner captains, who seemed to agree with Idris's 
tirade. Zanna recognized Gevan's voice and, seething 

with rage, was just about to burst in and tell them what 
she thought of them, when the sound of Yanis's voice 
made her pause with one hand on the door. 
"Have you quite finished, Idris? Then it's my turn to 
speak." Though the smuggler leader did not shout, his 
tones were forceful enough to halt the general clamor. 
"Have the Nightrunners really turned into a bunch of 
whining cowards?" he demanded. "Have you all skulked 
here, safe in your burrows, for so long that you've 
forgotten the courage and daring for which we are 
renowned? I'm ashamed of the lot of you! Had my father 
still been alive, he'd have had you thrown into the sea for 
shark bait, for at least then you'd be some use in the 
world! What the Archmage is doing imperils us just the 
same as it threatens those who fled to us, or those still in 
Nexis, or the rebels in the Vale. If we just sit here on our 
backsides and do nothing, how long do you think it will 
be before he discovers us—and what chance will we have 
when he does? I tell you, if we don't join with our allies 
now to make an end of him, then he'll finish us, soon or 
late. Miathan has already taken our livelihood—next it'll 
be our lives, and those of our children. Now, I don't want 
to hear any more of this griping and coward's talk. We're 
going to help the Lady Aurian, and there's an end to it. 
That's the only way we can still hold our heads up and be 
proud to call ourselves Nightrunners!" 
A stunned silence greeted his words; then, one by one, 

the captains began to call out their agreement—all save 
one. 
"You damned young fool," Idris roared. "You'll get us all 
killed!" But save for Yanis's mate Gevan, he no longer 
had any support within the chamber. Zanna drew back 
from the door into the shadows, lest the disgruntled 
captain should come storming out, but she was still close 
enough to hear him speak. 
"Well, if that's how you all feel about it there's nothing 
more to be said. Let this idiot lead you to disaster if you 
will—but I'll tell you one thing: I'm not carrying any 
bloody Magefolk or stinking foreigners on my ship!" 
"That you won't," Yanis agreed heartily. "Because it's no 
longer your ship, Idris—it never was. As well you know, 
all our vessels are Nightrunner property, and if you don't 
have balls enough to join this venture, then it's high time 
you retired and let a younger man step in. I'm giving your 
command to Tarnal—and that decision stands, whether 
you change your mind about the Magefolk or not." 
"Why, you—" 
Zanna heard the sound of a scuffle and leapt forward, her 
heart in her mouth—but was forced back into her hiding 
place by the emergence of two men grasping the ranting 
old captain between them. They never saw her as they 
bore him away. She was forced to wait until the other 
captains had emerged behind them, some agreeing 
heartily with their leader's actions, others, usually the 

older men, shaking their heads in doubt. 
As soon as they had gone, Zanna rushed into the 
chamber. Yanis, looking very white, was seated near the 
fire, with Remana staunching the blood from a long 
shallow cut along his jaw. Tarnal, plainly shaken, stood 
nearby, turning a jagged knife over and over in his hands. 
"You know," he said, "Idris certainly meant to kill you. 
It's a sorry thing, but the old man's mind has turned. 
You'll have to keep him under lock and key from now 
on." Then he looked up at the sound of Zanna's footsteps, 
and his face brightened to see her. 
"Tarnal, I heard," she cried, running to embrace him. 
"Your own command! What wonderful news!" 
Remana looked at her sternly. "Zanna, were you 
eavesdropping?" 
"Yes, I was," Zanna replied unrepentantly, "but only 
because you left the door open. I heard the voices as I 
was passing. How soon will the ships leave, Yanis? Will 
Tarnal be going?" 
Yanis gave her a quelling look. "What's it got to do with 
you?" he demanded. "This is Nightrunner business, girl, 
and—" 
"Because I'm going too," Zanna interrupted him firmly. 
"That you are not!" The smuggler leader leapt to his feet. 
"I'm not taking you anywhere! Didn't you get into enough 
trouble when you ran off to Nexis? You'll stay right here, 
my girl, where you're safe, and—" 

"Zanna can go if she wants to." Now it was Tarnal's turn 
to interrupt. "Be sensible, Yanis—remember the courage 
she showed in Nexis, when she got Vannor out of the 
Academy." He put an arm around Zanna's shoulders and 
stared down his leader's glare. "You can't leave a 
dauntless lass like this at home, keeping house! She can 
go in my ship—with me." 
Seeing Remana nod her agreement, Yanis sighed in 
defeat. "Who'd be the Nightrunner leader?" he 
complained. "I tell you, anyone who wants the job can 
have it right now—except you, that is." He pointed an 
accusing finger at Zanna. "The way you're going, you'll 
be running the place soon enough." He shook his head 
ruefully. "Well, I had better go and see about getting the 
ships ready, for we sail on the morning's tide—if that's 
quite all right with you, madam." 
Zanna grinned. "Oh, it's perfectly all right with me," she 
told him happily.
Chapter 25 - The Caldron 
The headland looked very different in the sunshine, 
Aurian thought. She stood there watching, as she had 
done every day since Parric left, for a sight of distant 
sails. After a while, Shia came up to join her. "You know 

this is folly," the great cat remarked. "You must give 
them time to get here, my friend. Why not come back 
down and join us in the settlement? Wolf is missing you, 
and even Anvar has got tired of watching." 
Aurian sighed. "I suppose you're right," she admitted 
grudgingly. "I just hate this endless waiting. I want to get 
back to the north…" 
"And you are worried about Ithalasa," Shia added with 
her usual perception. "But all was well with him when he 
returned to tell you that he had delivered your 
companions safely. And by standing here to do your 
worrying, you do him no service. So far, he has kept his 
mission secret, but if another of the Leviathan should be 
passing, and pick up your thoughts…" 
"All right, all right," Aurian muttered resignedly. "Let's 
go back to the settlement." 
As she turned away from the headland, the air was rent 
by the thunder of wings, and a cry of greeting came from 
the skies above her. The Mage looked up, startled, for the 
two Skyfolk were no longer numbered among her 
companions. After Schiannath had become Herdlord, she 
had sent the winged couriers back to Raven with her 
blessings and thanks. Crossing the ocean to an unfamiliar 
land had been too much to ask of them, and sensing their 
reluctance, she had sadly let them go. They had already 
done enough for her, though she could have used their 
assistance where she was going. So who could this be? 

Aurian shaded her eyes with her hand to peer up into the 
bright sky. Had Raven sent a message? 
Then, to Aurian's astonishment, Cygnus was landing 
beside her in a blur of white wings. 
"Greetings Mage. I come from the Queen," the winged 
man told her, "with an offer to accompany you to the 
north, if you will have me." 
"Why, I would be delighted to have you join us," Aurian 
told him, much cheered by the sudden appearance of the 
winged man. Maybe everything is going right for a 
change, she thought. 
She still thought so two days later, when three lean 
Nightrunner vessels appeared on the horizon, their sails 
glowing bravely in the fading sunset light. Aurian, who 
had been sharing her vigil with Anvar, watched their 
slow approach in a fever of anticipation, thinking that 
soon they would be carrying herself, her companions, 
and the Xandim, back to the north. To complete her 
pleasure in the moment, she became aware of the 
thoughts of Chiamh, reaching out across the ocean in 
greeting. 
As the ships finally dropped anchor in the gathering 
twilight, she ran down with Anvar to meet the Windeye, 
who introduced them to Yanis, the Nightrunner leader. 
"I'm truly glad to see you," Aurian told Chiamh sincerely, 
releasing him from a hug. "But you didn't have to trail all 

the way back again to fetch us." 
"I did," said Chiamh smiling. "I was missing you 
Magefolk—and someone was needed to guide the ships. 
Parric and Sangra said they had had enough of the sea to 
last them a lifetime—you understand, of course, that I've 
left out all their curse words," he added with a rueful 
grin. "But there is someone else here who wanted to 
come to meet you…" 
He beckoned, and Aurian turned to see Vannor's 
daughter, rowing across from the adjacent ship with a 
young blond Nightrunner. 
"Ho—Zanna!" The Mage ran down the beach to meet the 
boat, marveling as she did so at how much more mature 
and independent the young girl seemed since they last 
had met in the Solstice market in Nexis. "So you did 
manage to escape," she went on with barely a pause for 
breath, as she helped pull the boat up onto the shingle. 
"That was well-done indeedl My, but I'm relieved to see 
you. I've been worrying about you and Vannor ever since 
that night you sent me the message. And what happened 
to that crystal of yours?" 
"I'm sorry, Lady—I lost it somewhere in the sewers." 
Aurian put out a swift hand to steady her, as Zanna, 
trying to speak and clamber out of the boat at the same 
time, came close to taking an unexpected swim. 
"Steady, love," Anvar interrupted, laughing. "Give the 
poor girl a chance to get ashore." 

The Mage clasped the young girl's hand warmly. "Sorry, 
Zanna. That was my fault. I'm just too impatient—I can't 
wait to hear about your adventures." 
Zanna could scarcely allow herself to believe that she 
was setting foot on foreign soil at last, having completed 
her first proper sea voyage in a Nightrunner ship. Ever 
since the southern coastline had come into view as a thin, 
dark line on the horizon, she had been growing more and 
more excited— and meeting the Mage again, and being 
treated as a companion and equal, had completed the joy 
of her day. "This is Tarnal, Lady Aurian," she introduced 
her companion. "He's a Nightrunner captain—and a very 
good friend." 
The Mage looked from one to the other. "So I see," she 
replied cryptically. "I'm delighted to meet you, Tarnal." 
Luckily, at that moment, Yanis rescued Zanna from her 
embarrassment. "Have the captains your permission to 
come ashore, Lady? If we're to sail at dawn, we don't 
have much time to get organized." 
"You're right," Aurian agreed. "If you'll come with me to 
the settlement, I'll introduce you to Schiannath, the 
Xandim Herdlord." In turning, she paused and laid her 
hand on the Nightrunner's arm. "Yanis, I can't tell you 
how grateful I am for your help," she said softly. 
Zanna, watching, saw the young man glow with pride. 
There were further wonders in store for Zanna when she 

reached the low-walled, windswept fishing settlement, 
and met the handsome Xandim Herdlord and his flaxenhaired 
sister. The winged man, however, exceeded 
anything that her imagination might have conjured. 
Cygnus seemed woven from the stuff of legends. When 
she first saw the slight, fine-boned young man with the 
white wings, she clutched Tarnal's hand tightly, 
convinced that she must be dreaming. Her mind reeled 
with incomprehension at the sight of the wolf cub who, 
the Mage assured her, was Aurian's own son, cursed by 
the hated Archmage. But what awed her most was the 
sight of the two formidable great cats who sat, erect and 
curious, by Aurian's side. To actually converse with Shia, 
with the Mage acting as interpreter, was the most 
incredible experience of her life. 
The ships were to sail on the dawn tide, but no one got 
any sleep that night. The communal room of the 
fisherfolk dwelling was filled with talk, as Yanis and his 
captains conversed with the local Xandim—Zanna had a 
feeling that the Nightrunner was extending his markets, 
and that he would soon be back—and the Mages told 
their own tales, and asked anxiously for news from the 
north. 
This brought Zanna to the moment she had been 
dreading. So far, Aurian was still unaware of what had 
happened to Vannor—but the girl knew how close the 
friendship had been between the Mage and her father. 

She was aware that the Lady would be extremely upset 
by the story of Vannor's maiming, and wanted to break 
the news to her in private. 
"Lady?" Zanna interrupted Aurian's conversation with 
Yanis, not caring how rude she sounded. "Will you walk 
outside with me for a moment? There's something I have 
to tell you—alone." She saw Yanis open his mouth, 
about to protest, but Tarnal quickly laid a warning hand 
on the Nightrunner leader's arm. The Mage exchanged a 
swift, startled glance with Anvar, then nodded and, to 
Zanna's great relief, followed her outside. 
During the last hour or so, Aurian had noticed that Zanna 
seemed to be gravely troubled by something. Curious, 
and not a little alarmed, she walked with the girl a little 
way beyond the dwellings, followed at a distance by the 
ever-watchful Shia. The Mage smiled to herself at her 
friend's protective zeal, and hoped that Zanna would not 
be too alarmed by their uninvited companion. 
Zanna, however, seemed too perturbed even to notice the 
cat. As they walked together in the moonlight toward the 
point, the girl told Aurian, brutally and without 
embellishment, exactly what the Weather-Mage had done 
to Vannor. 
As the hammer blows of Zanna's words fell on her ears, 
and she visualized—all too clearly—her old friend's pain 
and suffering, the world seemed to stand still for the 

Mage in a single, agonizing instant of grief and rage. 
When she came back to herself, her hands were shaking 
and clenched tightly into fists. Noticing that Zanna was 
cowering away from her, Aurian forced herself to relax. 
She knew, that as a wielder of the Artifacts, her rage 
must be terrifying to behold, and didn't want to scare the 
girl. 
"It's all right, Zanna." The Mage spoke softly. "Once 
more, Eliseth has added to what she owes. But the time 
of reckoning is approaching fast." 
"Good." There was a spark of fire behind the young girl's 
eyes. "I'm glad to hear it—and I'll help you in any way I 
can." 
"I knew I could count on you." Aurian smiled, and put 
her arm around Zanna's shoulders. "Your father was 
lucky to have you there to help him through such a 
horrifying experience. How is he faring now?" 
"At first he lost his confidence, and was afraid of being 
crippled and useless," Zanna admitted, "but he's getting 
better all the time." 
"And how did he react to the news of Sara?" Aurian 
asked quietly. 
Zanna shrugged. "Badly, at first—but all in all, he took 
the blow better than I would have expected. I would not 
have come away and left him—except that Parric is 
helping him far better than I can, at the moment." She 
looked up at the Mage with a rueful grin. "In fact, it'll 

probably take us about two days to sober them up!" 
Aurian laughed. "That sounds more like the Vannor I 
remember. Come on—let's go back to the others. It's only 
a couple of hours until we sail." 
When at last the ships embarked in the soft blue light of 
dawn, Anvar stood with Aurian in the bows of Yanis's 
vessel. They were talking softly, for many of their fellow 
voyagers had already taken the opportunity to snatch 
some sleep. "I know that courtesy demanded that we 
travel with Yanis," Aurian was saying as she looked out 
across the waters at their companion ships, "but I wish 
we could have gone with Tarnal." 
"Why?" Anvar was surprised. "What's wrong with 
Yanis?" 
"Nothing—he's a fine young man…" Aurian had the 
grace to look abashed. "It's just that I was curious to see 
how Zanna and Tarnal were getting along. I like 
him—and I'm very fond of Zanna. She deserves to be 
happy." 
Anvar chuckled. "I think that situation definitely doesn't 
require your meddling, my love. It looked to me as 
though they were getting along just fine!" 
"It looked that way to me, too," Aurian mused. "Did you 
notice—" 
"I noticed you noticing him," Anvar couldn't resist 

teasing her. 
The Mage lifted her chin and glared at him. "Well—and 
why not? Tarnal is worth noticing. He reminds me of 
you, a little—only he's handsomer, of course!" 
"You wretch!" 
"That'll teach you!" 
Simultaneously they broke into peals of laughter, and 
hushed each other hastily, muffling their mirth with a 
kiss. 
"Do you remember the last time we voyaged like this, 
together?" said Anvar. "Little did we think, when we fled 
Nexis, that we were heading for the southern lands, 
where such incredible things would happen to us." 
"I never guessed then that I'd end up falling in love with 
you—or that we'd meet such wonderful friends." Aurian 
looked at the Windeye, who was peering nearsightedly 
over the stern at the receding Xandim coastline, and at 
Shia and Khanu, who were curled up asleep on a 
tarpaulin nearby with Wolf and his foster parents. The 
Mage noticed, with some amusement, that despite her 
reassurances, the Nightrunner sailors were giving that 
particular area a wide berth. "I hope we get the chance to 
come back some day," she went on, 
"especially to see Hreeza—but right now, I'm looking 
forward to going home." 
"It's still not over yet," Anvar reminded her with a frown. 
"No," agreed Aurian, "but at least it feels as if we're 

making progress. And once we find the Sword, who 
knows what will happen?" 
Her words, though spoken in all innocence, sent a 
premonitory prickle of dread sheeting across Anvar's 
skin. 
Eliseth shrieked curses, and threw the crystal across the 
room. "She's back! I don't believe it!" But there was no 
room for doubt. She had seen it in the crystal with her 
own eyes— and with increasing practice, her scrying was 
becoming very accurate nowadays. The Weather-Mage 
began to pace back and forth across her chamber, 
thinking furiously. It had been humiliating enough when 
Vannor and his daughter had escaped her. Her face now 
bore the ravages of an extra ten years—the mark of 
Miathan's rage. She intended to pay him back for 
that—but now that Aurian had returned, her time was 
running out. 
Eliseth had lost all faith in Miathan's effectiveness as an 
Archmage. More than once, he'd had a perfect chance to 
end Aurian's life, but had always refused. And look what 
had happened. The accursed renegade and her halfblooded 
abomination of a paramour were practically 
knocking on the very door of the Mages' Tower! 
If only I possessed the Caldron, Eliseth thought 
desperately. After his dreadful error that had resulted in 
the Night of the Wraiths, Miathan had always seemed 

afraid to use the Artifact again… If he had only learned 
to control it, as she would have done had the Caldron 
been hers… If only he had taken the trouble to spend as 
many hours in the dusty, freezing archives as she had 
done, poring over ancient, half-decipherable scrolls to 
research the Caldron's powers… Abruptly, the Weather- 
Mage stopped pacing. Well, why not? she thought. Why 
shouldn't I possess it? Have I not earned it? Would I not 
make better use of it? It's wasted on that doddering old 
fool! 
But here common sense asserted itself. That fool was not 
so old and feeble that he couldn't snuff out her life like a 
candle, if he caught her crossing him. Eliseth resumed 
her pacing. After a time, her eye lit on the pile of scrolls 
on the table, that she had taken from the library to 
continue her researches in comfort. The glimmerings of a 
plan began to form in her mind… 
Miathan looked up in surprise and annoyance as the 
Weather-Mage entered his chambers without knocking. 
What in the world was she thinking of? It was still a 
disgustingly early hour of the morning—in fact he had 
not been to bed yet, for as was his wont these days, he'd 
spent the night in contemplation, in the restful solitude of 
his garden. He had just been thinking about going to bed 
now—and here she was, interrupting him. 
"Yes?" he demanded testily. "What the blazes do you 

want at this hour, Eliseth?" 
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Archmage…" Smoldering 
beneath her civility, he could sense a blaze of suppressed 
excitement. "It's this document," she went on, holding 
out a scroll. "I found it last evening in the library—I've 
been up all night trying to decipher it. It relates to the 
Caldron—it should help you to control its powers, and 
use it in safety." 
"What?" Suddenly Miathan was wide-awake. "Let me 
look at that!" 
"Certainly." The Weather-Mage handed the scroll to him, 
but when he unrolled it, he found that it was written in a 
language so ancient—and with an ink so faded—that he 
could barely decipher a word of it. Little did he guess 
that Eliseth had made certain he could not. 
"Don't worry." She slipped the document from his 
fingers. "I can only understand it myself because I've 
been studying Finbarr's notes over the last months, 
hoping to find a way to help you." 
Very likely! Miathan thought to himself. Trying to help 
herself, if he knew anything about it. Yet she had brought 
the scroll to him… 
"It says that there's writing hidden on the side of the 
grail," Eliseth was saying, "that describes the Spells of 
Power to control the Caldron—" 
"Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me!" Miathan snorted. 
"If you fetch the grail," Eliseth prompted, "I can try to 

use the scroll to bring out the secret writing. Surely it's 
worth a try," she cajoled. 
"Now, just a minute." At this point, Miathan's suspicions 
definitely were stirring. "Why don't you make a 
translation for me," he temporized, "and then I'll see how 
well it works?" 
"That's just like you!" Eliseth flared, losing her temper 
completely. "You never trust me—you want to keep me 
out of everything! It was my hard work that found the 
scroll; my eyes that got strained translating the accursed 
thing. And now you want me just to hand it over to you 
without so much as a please or thank-you? Well, you can 
go to perdition, Miathan. If you won't let me be a part of 
this, you can whistle for your scroll—and the priceless 
knowledge it contains." Taking the brittle parchment in 
both hands, she made as if to tear it across. 
"Wait—wait!" Miathan shouted hastily. What if the 
temperamental Weather-Mage should prove to be right 
after all? "All right," he sighed. "Have it your own way." 
As the Archmage went off into the adjoining chamber, 
Eliseth, relieved to be out of his sight for a moment, 
allowed herself the luxury of a sigh of relief. Then she 
heard the grate of shifting furniture, followed by a soft 
but distinctive click, and raised her eyebrows. So the 
Archmage had a hidden panel in there, did he? Well, 
she'd investigate that later. Who knew what other secrets 
it might hold? Then the thought flew out of her mind as 

Miathan came back into the room carrying the blackened, 
tarnished grail. 
As he placed the Artifact on the table between them, 
Eliseth could feel the power that thrummed through it, 
belying its sorry condition. Without touching it, she 
examined it closely. "Couldn't you have cleaned it up a 
little?" she complained. 
"I tried," Miathan said with a sigh. "I've tried many 
times, but since that night it stays as black as ever." 
"Well, there's no trace of secret writing that I can see— 
but, then, there wouldn't be. Let's see what our document 
says…" Eliseth turned away, as if looking for the 
scroll— and suddenly whirled back, her fingers extended 
and pointing at Miathan as she threw all her powers 
behind the spell that would take him out of time. 
Miathan, if he'd had suspicions, had been expecting an 
attack on the Caldron, not on himself, and had prepared 
his defenses accordingly—as Eliseth had hoped. As the 
Archmage froze in position, taken out of time by her 
spell, the grail flared with a brief white light and then 
went dark again. She extended a cautious hand toward 
the Artifact, with all her senses attuned to the slightest 
hint of more defensive magic—but there was nothing 
there now, save its own thrumming power. 
As the realization of what she had done truly came home 
to her, Eliseth laughed aloud in triumph. "As for you," 
she told the frozen Archmage, "you can go down into the 

catacombs and keep Finbarr company, until I decide how 
to dispose of you." She knew, with a chilling certainty, 
that Miathan must never be unbound from the spell. Her 
life depended on it. 
But now there was other work to be done. These next few 
days would be busy, for she must keep an eye out with 
her crystal for any sign of her enemy's movements, while 
also working with the grail, to wrest its powers to her 
will. Eliseth smiled to herself. There might be challenges 
ahead of her, but she was looking forward to the next few 
days immensely. 
Though evening had long since shadowed the ocean 
outside, the great cavern of the Nightrunner hideout 
knew neither day nor night. As always, it remained 
shrouded in its perennial darkness, which was only 
alleviated by the many lamps that glimmered at intervals 
around the curve of the sea-smoothed walls, or twinkled 
high on their poles set into the shingle. Vannor paced the 
beach, alone, anxious, and impatient for the ships' return. 
Over the preceding hours his surliness had chased his 
companions away one by one, until only the stalwart and 
stubborn Parric had remained. Eventually, even the 
cavalrymaster had been deterred by his friend's dour and 
un-forthcoming attitude, and had gone grumbling off in 
search of bottle and bed, leaving the merchant to the 
solitude he had been craving. 

On this particular night, Vannor's hopes and fears were 
more than enough company for one man. Though he had 
been endlessly grateful for Parric's companionship and 
support over the last few days, the little man's notions of 
assisting is friend had involved shadowing the former 
rebel leader everywhere he went, talking 
incessantly—and, by his own example, encouraging 
Vannor to drink more than was good for either of them. 
"I know he's only trying to help," the merchant muttered 
to himself, "but sometimes a man needs time to be alone, 
to think." 
There was certainly a good deal to think about. Zanna's 
increasing taste for adventure, for instance—not to 
mention her growing partiality toward that blond young 
Nightrunner. Where would it all end? Though Vannor 
was forced to admit to an increasing liking for the lad, 
this was not the kind of future he had planned for his 
beloved daughter! And on a far more serious note, would 
Zanna even have a future? Would any of them? What 
would Aurian have in mind when she returned? 
Vannor was looking forward to their reunion with a 
mixture of pleasure and trepidation. On one hand, he had 
always been remarkably fond of the lass—yet on the 
other, her return was sure to bring back sorrowful 
memories of Forral. Parric's tidings had given Vannor 
time to grow accustomed to the notion of the Mage's new 
attachment to Anvar, whom he had always liked in any 

case, and the merchant felt a great deal of sympathy with 
Aurian due to his own experiences of bereavement 
following the death of his first, beloved wife—and the 
resurgence, on meeting Sara, of feelings that he had 
thought were lost forever. Nonetheless, it would seem 
strange to see her with a lover other than his old friend. 
Also, though her news of his own faithless wife could 
cause him nothing but pain, how could he resist asking 
her about Sara? What was worse, the merchant dreaded 
the prospect of the Mage's pity, when she saw how he 
had been maimed. 
With such thoughts to torment him, the eventual arrival 
of the little smuggler fleet could only bring relief to 
Vannor. When the sound of shouted orders and the 
echoing creak and splash of oars finally reached him, he 
turned toward the shadowy cavern sea gate, the sound of 
his own racing heartbeat like thunder in his ears. 
One by one, the lean gray Nightrunner vessels slipped 
into the great pool beneath the cliffs. Vannor was utterly 
oblivious to the crowd who, having been alerted by the 
sentinel on the cliff, were streaming out through the 
tunnels onto the beach in order to greet the homecomers. 
Though Zanna was hailing him from the deck of Tarnal's 
craft, he only had eyes for the nearest ship—and the tall, 
flame-haired figure that stood watchfully in the prow. 
Aurian did not wait for the boats to bring her ashore. 
Plunging from the bows of the ship with a joyous cry, she 

swam ashore with powerful strokes and engulfed Vannor 
in a hard—and very wet—embrace. Then, laying a gentle 
hand on the merchant's arm, she looked down steadily at 
the mangled stump, and then back up into his eyes. 
"We'll make them pay for that, you and I," she said 
softly. "No matter how much they try to hurt us, they can 
never beat us down." 
In her demeanor there was no trace of the pity that the 
merchant had so dreaded: only a depth of sympathy and a 
steely determination to set the matter right in whatever 
way she could. Vannor suddenly thought of the night that 
Forral had been slain, and remembered what Parric had 
told him of Miathan's curse upon the Mage's son. 
Aurian's understanding of his plight went far beyond any 
useless pity. Vannor swallowed the lump in his throat, 
and hugged her again. "Too bloody right, they can't!" he 
muttered. 
The next few days were busy ones for Aurian. Now that 
she had returned, she wanted to put her search for the 
Sword in motion, and she had no time to waste. Thanks 
to the generosity of the Nightrunners and Remana's 
careful and efficient organization of supplies, she quickly 
arranged for the provisioning of her little band during the 
crossing of the moors. With Vannor, however, she had 
less success. He insisted on joining her, and would not be 
dissuaded. "I'm fine now," he argued. "Getting my 

strength back by the day, and Parric is teaching me to 
fight left-handed. I wouldn't be a burden to you." From 
the tacit plea in his voice, she knew that was his greatest 
fear, now that he had lost his hand. 
As Anvar—who had been spending a good deal of time 
improving his acquaintance with the older man, much to 
their mutual pleasure—pointed out to the Mage, there 
was more at stake than Vannor's safety. He needed 
desperately to prove himself. 
"He's more upset about Wolf, too, than he'll ever let you 
know," Anvar added quietly. "And not just because 
Miathan's curse has caused you so much heartache. 
Vannor wants to strike a blow at the Archmage, for what 
he did to Forral's son." 
Sighing, Aurian gave in. She had always put up a brave 
front when it came to the matter of her child—only 
Anvar, of all her companions, knew what it had cost her 
to abandon him to the care of the wolves, who were so 
much better fitted to be his parents while he took this 
nonhuman form. Vannor had been far more perceptive 
than she had realized—who was she to deny him his 
chance at revenge? She only prayed that she had made 
the right decision, though Parric consoled her greatly by 
promising never to leave the merchant's side. After that, 
of course, Zanna wanted to come, too—but this time the 
Mage put her foot down firmly, as did the girl's father. 
"What?" Aurian teased Vannor afterward. "You want to 

stop her from being as big a fool as yourself?" 
Though Yanis, Tarnal, and a dozen other smugglers 
volunteered to join her, Aurian reasoned that if the Sword 
was truly in the Vale, her success in finding it would not 
depend on numbers. Her Xandim were enough for 
her—and, besides, if things should go wrong, it was vital 
that some of Miathan's opponents should survive. 
Besides, she particularly wanted Tarnal to stay behind, as 
he was clearly the best person to console Zanna, and to 
forestall any brave but foolish notions on her part of 
following her father into danger, as she had done before. 
Parric and Sangra, with their greater military experience, 
were anxious to know what the next stage of the 
campaign would be, once Aurian had claimed the Sword 
of Flame, but the Mage was unable to answer their 
repeated queries. "Until I actually have the Sword, I can't 
gauge the extent of its powers," she told them. "I would 
guess that we'll unite with the rebels in the Vale, and then 
come up with some kind of plan for marching on Nexis." 
"Will your rebels consent to fight with us, once they have 
learned the secret of the Xandim?" Schiannath asked. "Or 
will fear and suspicion prevent them? So far, we have 
kept our true natures hidden from these 
Nightrunners—but how much longer will we be able to 
do that?" 
"Parric and the Mages will convince them—surely." 
Chiamh put in hopefully. "At least, in these lands, the 

folk are no strangers to magic." 
"Schiannath could be right, though." Anvar frowned. 
"They may be familiar with magic, but under the 
Archmage's rule, they have no reason to love it." 
"If you let me take a force of Nightrunners to sail 
,upriver, we can break into the city from the sewers," 
Parric volunteered. "That way, while you attack the outer 
walls, we can already have men—Mortal 
fighters—inside the city." 
"I had hoped to avoid that kind of battle," Aurian sighed. 
"You may be right, though. If the Sword is so powerful 
that Anvar and I can't overcome the Archmage without 
incurring the appalling magical destruction that took 
place during the Cataclysm, then we may be reduced to 
the efforts of our Mortal friends." 
Vannor, always an important and respected contributor to 
these discussions, looked at her long and hard. "It's their 
world, too, Aurian," he said quietly. 
Aurian nodded her acceptance of his rebuke. For the 
moment, she was too ashamed to speak. She could only 
thank the gods that she had these good companions, who 
would always prevent her from falling into the arrogance 
and error that had been the curse of her forebears. She 
held out her hand to him in mute apology, and he grasped 
it with a smile. 
"I know, lass—you didn't mean it the way it came out," 
he reassured her. 

Though she was comforted by her old friend's words, 
Aurian didn't cease to worry. With so many uncertainties 
before her, and so much potentially lethal power at her 
disposal, how could she not? 
At last—after what seemed an endless round of 
discussion, preparation, and fruitless debate—Aurian and 
her band were ready to leave the Nightrunners. The Mage 
said a reluctant farewell to her son, for Wolf and his 
foster parents were staying behind in safety, though the 
wolves were clearly not at home in the crowded caverns 
of strange humans. Remana, though somewhat taken 
aback by the notion of having a family of wolves under 
her care, had promised to try to find them a quieter place, 
and to keep an eye on them. 
Then, at last, it was time to go. 
As she rode out across the cold, dark moors, Aurian felt 
incredibly relieved to be moving at last. She would have 
been far less happy some hours later, if she could have 
looked back to the Nightrunner haven. In the silent hour 
before dawn, two gray wolves, one of them carrying a 
cub, emerged stealthily from the hidden entrance to the 
ponies' cavern. After casting around for a time to find the 
scent, they loped off across the bleak expanse of 
heathland, following the Mage's trail. 
But other eyes, hostile eyes, saw Aurian set forth toward 
the Valley. 

In the Mages' Tower in Nexis, Eliseth clasped her crystal 
in hands that were gloved, to hide the blistered burns that 
had been the result of her efforts to tame the Caldron. 
Time and again, as she had striven to master it, the 
Artifact had defied her, flaring out at her in a blaze of 
searing magical energy that had defied all her attempts at 
shielding and had blackened and scarred her questing 
fingers. With Miathan out of the way, however, time and 
determination had been the allies of the Weather-Mage. 
Following Aurian's deadly attack on the Archmage so 
long ago, that had resulted in the destruction of his eyes, 
Miathan's will had been gradually weakened, worn down 
not only by constant pain, but by the ever-present 
awareness of the hatred and contempt in which she held 
him for encompassing Forral's death and cursing her son. 
It had been Aurian's loathing and defiance that had 
undermined his hold upon the one Artifact that he 
possessed, to the extent of making Eliseth's task so much 
easier. 
Now, at last, the Weather-Mage was making headway. 
Though her mastery of its powers was as yet uncertain, 
her own relentless will had overcome the Caldron's 
capacity to protect itself with excessive force, and though 
she could feel, as it stood on the table before her, the 
pulsing waves of resentment and reluctance that 
emanated from its blackened depths, she knew, if the 
need were desperate enough, that she could bend it to her 

desires. 
And now it seemed that the need was upon her. The 
Weather-Mage looked again into the depths of her 
scrying crystal, where she could distinguish the troop of 
shadowy shapes that rode across the moors toward the 
Vale. So Aurian was moving at last. No matter how deep 
the darkness, or distant the Vision, Eliseth would have 
recognized the shape of her nemesis anywhere. But why 
the Lady's Valley, rather than Nexis itself? For months 
now, some impenetrable barrier of magic had shielded it 
from Eliseth's perception. Frowning, she began to 
wonder. What could Aurian be seeking there? What did 
the renegade Mage know that she, herself, did not? 
The Weather-Mage put down her crystal thoughtfully, 
then summoned the captain of her mercenaries to prepare 
his troops with all hast. Whatever Aurian was seeking in 
the Vale, she would find that Eliseth was there ahead of 
her. 
Chapter 26 - Lightning Strike 
Dawn was gilding the curled fronds of the new green 
bracken, and the skylarks were climbing in dizzy spirals 
to shower the earth with song. The early sun shone 
unchallenged in the east, its splendor defying the 

heaviness of the air—unusual for spring—and the dark, 
forbidding mass of storm clouds that were forming on the 
western horizon. As Aurian crested the final rising swell 
of moorland and looked down across the last mile toward 
the home of her childhood, Schiannath, who was carrying 
her in his horse-form, hesitated on the brow of the hill 
and came to an uncertain halt as he felt her body grow 
tense with doubt and dismay. 
"Now what's wrong?" Shia demanded. Her temper was 
shortened, as was Aurian's own, by the long, grueling 
three-day run, traveling all night and only stopping 
briefly by day for food and rest in a cheerless, tireless 
camp. Khanu, who had also been running at the Mage's 
side, looked up questioningly. 
Aurian stared in disbelief at the dark, impenetrable tangle 
of trees that surrounded the Valley and filled the bottom 
of the great bowl of obsidian stone. "I just don't believe 
this—I would hardly have known the place. 
Anvar—what can have happened here? It all looks so 
different?" The Mage turned to her soulmate, who had 
been riding at her side, borne by Esselnath, the Xandim 
warrior who had volunteered to carry him—in his horseshape 
a magnificent chestnut stallion who glowed like 
fire in the golden early light, his coat as deep a burnished 
red as Aurian's hair. 
Anvar rubbed at eyes that felt hot and gritty from three 
long nights of riding with no sleep. "It was the Phaerie 

who brought the Wildwood in to guard your mother's 
Vale—I remember telling you, ages ago, after Hellorin 
and Eilin rescued me from the Aerillian Moldan and sent 
me to find the Harp." His face darkened in a frown. "You 
know, they told me that D'arvan and Maya had been left 
here as guardians— but I thought they only meant 
guardians of the Valley. Why the blazes didn't they tell 
me that the Sword was here? Think of all the trouble it 
would have saved if we had known." 
"I suppose they couldn't—I think the location of the 
Sword was something I had to discover for myself," 
Aurian said thoughtfully. "Besides, we would still have 
been forced to pass through the lands of the Xandim." 
She glanced cautiously around to make sure that Cygnus 
was out of earshot. "You remember how the Skyfolk 
behaved toward us. They weren't capable of carrying us 
all the way across the sea in any case, but even had it 
been possible, they would never have consented to do it." 
"I suppose you're right," Anvar said. "At least if D'arvan 
and Maya are the guardians, we should have no difficulty 
getting through the forest." 
"I hope not, but…" A shiver of unease ran up Aurian's 
spine, and she clenched her hands in Schiannath's crowblack 
mane until he shook his head in protest. "Anvar, 
what if D'arvan and Maya were put there to guard the 
Sword itself? I couldn't bear to think I would have to 
fight my friends." 

Anvar looked grave—then his jaw tightened with 
determination. "Well, there's only one way to find out…" 
"Yes," Shia added tartly, "and it isn't standing out here in 
the open in broad daylight like a pack of fools. Come, 
Aurian, this is no time for hesitation…" 
Her words tailed off as she was distracted by a rush of 
wingbeats overhead. Cygnus, who had been scouting 
ahead, came hurtling down from the skies. "Move!" the 
winged man shouted. "Run! An army approaches, led by 
a silver-haired woman! They are heading this way at a 
gallop round the southern side of the forest. If you do not 
hurry, they will cut you off!" 
"Damn!" Aurian cried. "Eliseth! Come on!" With a 
bound, Schiannath was racing downhill at a breakneck 
pace, with Anvar and Esselnath but a pace behind. 
Together they thundered toward the shelter of the forest, 
their hair—fiery red and burnished gold—streaming 
behind them like bright banners in the early-morning sun. 
Behind them galloped their companions and the Xandim, 
while Cygnus circled like a vulture overhead. Already, 
coming into the open beyond the dark mass of trees, 
Aurian could see Eliseth's army, speeding toward them 
from the west like a wave of darkness, with the storm 
following fast upon their heels. 
D'arvan and Maya, as was their custom, were watching 
the sun rise over the lake, seeking comfort in one 

another's company and the peace of the fresh new 
morning. They had taken to avoiding the rebel 
encampment lately, unable to bear the grief of Vannor's 
friends at the news, brought by Bern, of their leader's 
death at the hands of the Magefolk. D'arvan sighed, 
wishing his worries wouldn't intrude themselves upon 
this magical moment of the day. It seemed that the heart 
had gone out of the rebels when they had heard that the 
merchant no longer lived. The Mage wanted to help 
them, but how could he? They could neither see him nor 
hear him— and even if they could, what words of his 
would be sufficient to allay their grief? 
Suddenly the unicorn stiffened, her silver ears pricked 
forward, as D'arvan caught the sound of an agitated 
murmuring among the ranks of trees behind him. The 
word was being passed back through the forest of an 
armed and mounted troop who were circling the 
Wildwood from the west. A moment later came the word 
of another wave of invaders, riding down like the wind 
out of the east. 
"From the east?" the Mage muttered to Maya, frowning 
in puzzlement. "But there's nothing that way but fishing 
settlements. Where can they be coming from—and who 
in the name of all the gods can they be?" He felt a stab of 
anxiety. Eliseth and the Archmage had been quiet far too 
long—he had been half expecting something of this kind 
for some time. "This has surely got to be some kind of 

trick!" Leaving the unicorn to guard the bridge according 
to her task, he hastened away toward the eastern side of 
the vale. 
Neck and neck, the two Horsefolk with the Mages that 
they carried came bounding to an abrupt halt, almost 
beneath the very eaves of the forest, with their 
companions racing up behind them. There was a 
moment's hesitation. There was no obvious way into the 
Wildwood through the dense and tangled growth, and the 
sinister darkness of the forest was bristling with threat. 
Anvar looked at Aurian. "What do we do now?" 
Aurian shrugged helplessly. "You were the one who met 
the Forest Lord—I was hoping that you might know." 
Already they could hear the thunder of hoofbeats 
growing ever louder as the enemy drew closer. Already 
they were near enough for the Mages to make out the 
flash of sunlight on naked steel, and to recognize the tall 
figure that rode at the head of the advancing foes, her 
silver hair streaming behind her in the wind. 
Vannor shouldered his way to the front of the crowding 
Xandim. "Don't worry—if the forest remembers me, I'm 
sure it'll let us in. It had better." He stepped forward. 
"Hey," he yelled, sending a flock of startled birds 
rocketing out of the treetops with shrill cries and a 
reverberant clatter of wings. "It's me—Vannor. Let me 
pass!" 

Even as he hurried toward the edge of the forest, D'arvan 
stopped, his mind reeling in shock to hear the sound of 
Vannor's voice. But Vannor was dead—or was he? The 
Mage had harbored suspicions about Bern when the man 
had first arrived. Had the wretch been lying all along? Or 
was this simply a ruse of the Archmage's devising, to 
trick his way into the Wildwood and try to seize the 
Sword? D'arvan broke into a run. He would have to find 
out—and quickly. 
The companions stood at bay at the edge of the forest as 
Eliseth and her cohorts hurtled down upon them. Parric 
leapt from his mount and positioned himself at Vannor's 
vulnerable right side. Half of the Xandim, most of whom 
had been in horse-shape to travel more speedily, began to 
change quickly back to human form, taking bows and 
swords from the packs they had been carrying strapped to 
their backs. Grim-faced, they leapt astride their equine 
companions and turned to face the foe. Iscalda—in horseshape 
with Yazour on her back— took up a position 
close to Aurian and her brother. Shia snarled and flexed 
her claws, positioning herself in front of the Mages. 
Aurian, on the plunging Schiannath, drew her sword. 
"Don't use the Artifacts yet—not until we have no 
choice," she called to Anvar. "Wherever Miathan is, it's 
better if he doesn't know we've got them." She turned to 
the merchant. "Vannor—whatever happens, you stay 

here. Keep trying to get us into the forest, no matter 
what." 
The Windeye, who had been carrying Sangra, whinnied 
shrilly and tossed his head. As the woman slid from his 
back, he resumed his human shape. "Lady—let me…" 
Stepping out into the path of Eliseth's approaching 
warriors, he moved his hands rapidly in the air. The 
foremost horses reared and screamed, dislodging their 
terrified riders as the shape of Chiamh's demon 
materialized in the air in front of them. The charge 
disintegrated into a rout as horses hurtled into one 
another and men fled, screaming in terror. 
Only Eliseth was unmoved by the vision. "Come back, 
you fools," she shrieked, wrenching the head of her 
plunging horse and holding in the panic-striken beast so 
mercilessly that blood dripped from its torn mouth. 
"There's nothing there! It's only an illusion!" Suddenly 
she looked past Chiamh and caught sight of Vannor, and 
her face turned white with rage. "How?" she hissed. 
"How did you escape me, Mortal? Well, you shall not 
escape me again!" 
Lifting her hand, she reached up to the gathering clouds 
and launched a sizzling bolt of lightning through the air 
at the unprotected Windeye. Aurian, moving more 
quickly than she had ever moved before, flung up a 
magical shield to surround him, and the bolt impacted 

against the barrier, dissipating in a shower of spitting 
sparks. But because the shield was also blocking 
Chiamh's powers, the demon vanished abruptly, and the 
attackers began to take heart once more. 
Anvar, in the meantime, had launched his own bolt of 
force at the Weather-Mage, forcing her to abandon her 
attack and shield herself—until the captain of the 
mercenaries picked himself up off the ground and 
unslung his bow from his back, firing arrow after arrow 
into the ranks of the companions who stood at bay, 
trapped against the forest's wall. Two, three, four of the 
Xandim screamed and fell. Urged on by their 
commander's shouted orders, his remaining troops 
followed his example, and in moments a deadly hail of 
arrows was streaking down upon the Xandim, forcing the 
Mages to extend their shields to protect their 
companions. 
Now that both Aurian and Anvar were on the defensive, 
the Weather-Mage was free to act once more. Again and 
again, she launched her deadly bolts at the fragile barrier 
of the shielding, while the arrows kept raining down. 
Schiannath and Esselnath displayed their own remarkable 
brand of courage, standing firm with the Mages on their 
backs, though they rolled their eyes and trembled at the 
barrage of magic that was so terrifying to them while 
they were in equine form. The white mare Iscalda, 
stalwart as ever, remained firmly by her brother. 

Though she was warmed by her companions' courage, 
Aurian's heart was sinking. Despite the fact that they 
were two to Eliseth's one, she and Anvar were hampered 
by the need to protect so many. They were forced to 
spread their powers so thinly to cover everyone that 
gradually, inexorably, their magical barrier began to 
waver and fade beneath the repeated onslaughts of their 
foe. 
Grimly, Aurian and Anvar held firm—until suddenly, to 
their horror, they realized that Eliseth was drawing on 
more and more power to oppose them. Where is she 
getting it from? Aurian thought desperately—and then 
she recognized the surging, barely controllable power of 
the High Magic. "Anvar," she whispered, her voice 
cracking in horror. "She's got the Caldron!" 
"Why don't you just give up?" Eliseth taunted, her eyes 
ablaze with triumph and her flawless face disfigured by a 
gloating sneer. "You pathetic, soft-hearted, spineless 
fools— you can't keep this up much longer! If you 
surrender now I may spare the miserable lives of the 
rabble that follow you. Miathan can always use more 
Mortal slaves." 
"Eat dung, you stinking, verminous sack of bones!" Shia 
snarled, projecting her mental voice toward the Weather- 
Mage. "May maggots gnaw what passes for your brain!" 
Eliseth jumped as the cat's abuse echoed unexpectedly in 
her mind. Her magical attack faltered for a moment as 

she scanned the ranks of her foes, puzzled as to who had 
sent the message. Aurian, who had been far too busy 
concentrating on her shield to formulate a suitable reply, 
glanced at Shia. "Very nice," she muttered. "I couldn't 
have put it better myself!" It was all she had time for 
before Eliseth, white with anger at the insult, renewed 
her attack with redoubled force, sending white flares of 
energy rippling across the magical barrier, which was 
beginning to smoke and spark. 
Anvar turned to Aurian, his face taut with strain. "We 
can't keep this up much longer—not against the 
Caldron." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Soon we'll be 
forced to use the Artifacts—" 
"I know." Somehow, Aurian managed to force the words 
out. "But not until the shield goes…" 
But the shield was already beginning to buckle. With a 
sinking heart, Aurian realized that they had only a few 
more minutes… 
As he reached the edge of the forest, D'arvan could hear 
the whistle of arrows through the air. He was almost 
knocked from his feet by the reek of evil magic. Gasping, 
he took in the scene before him. Aurian—it was Aurian, 
returned, and with her, Anvar and Parric… And, by all 
the gods, there was Vannor—definitely the merchant and 
not some illusion. He was very much alive, and 
screaming curses at the unyielding forest that denied him 
entry. But who were these strangers that came with 

them? No matter. The Mage's eyes went to Eliseth, her 
eyes ablaze with hate and triumph, attacking Aurian's 
crumbling shield… 
D'arvan acted quickly, calling to the Wildwood. The 
trees, uneasy about the battle that was waging at their 
feet, resisted him. Grasping the Lady Eilin's staff tightly, 
the Mage put forth all his power until, slowly and 
reluctantly, he felt the forest yielding to his will. 
Vannor, incredulous, saw the widening opening in the 
ranks of trees. His heart leapt fiercely within him. "Come 
on," he called to the huddled, beleaguered Xandim. "This 
way— hurry!" They needed no second telling. Vannor 
was forced to jump quickly to one side as they rushed 
past him into the shelter of the forest, until only Parric, 
the cats, Chiamh, Yazour, and Iscalda remained. Eliseth's 
face turned ugly with rage as she saw that she was being 
thwarted. Fueled and impelled by her wrath, the force of 
her bolts increased against the disintegrating shield. 
Vannor, realizing that the Mages and their two Horsefolk 
could not retreat until everyone was safe, urged the 
remaining companions after the fleeing Xandim. "Move, 
you bloody idiots," he roared. "Don't just stand 
there—you're holding everyone up!" 
Luckily they saw the sense in what he was saying, and 
reluctantly obeyed him. Shia stopped beside him to wait 
for Aurian, fixing him with a baleful glare that froze his 
blood. Chiamh also waited. "When I change, get on my 

back quickly," he told the merchant. "I will bear you 
swiftly away from our foes." Once everyone else had 
scurried to safety, Vannor mounted Chiamh, who turned 
back from the edge of the forest. "Aurian, Anvar—now!" 
the merchant shouted. "Everyone's safe. Get out of 
there!" 
Schiannath and Esselnath wheeled as one, and came 
hurtling back toward the safety of the trees. Behind them, 
the shield collapsed in a final shower of sparks, and a 
scorching bolt of lightning ripped up the turf at their 
heels. Eliseth gave a scream of rage when she saw her 
prey escaping. She spurred her horse to follow, hurling 
thunderbolts and curses, but it was already too late. The 
trees of the forest closed ranks quickly, their branches 
entwining and a bristling barrier of thorns and briars 
springing up around them as the way snapped shut before 
Eliseth's face. Cursing, the Weather-Mage turned 
away—and did not see the two wolves, a bow shot away 
from where she stood as they ran from behind the cover 
of a gorse bush. Dangling securely from the female's 
mouth by the loose skin on its neck was a very young 
cub. Soundlessly, they slipped into the forest, following 
Aurian's trail—and the trees parted swiftly to let them 
pass, and closed again behind them. 
Still shaky from the narrowness of their escape, the 
companions went on into the shadowy depths of the 

Wildwood—too weary to talk, not daring to 
stop—following the easy path that had opened up ahead 
of them. At the brink of the Vale itself, where a beck 
from the moorland threaded its way between the trees to 
tumble down the black walls of the crater in a 
shimmering cascade, D'arvan opened up a clearing for 
the fugitives so that they could regroup and rest a little 
before making the final descent into the Valley. He stood 
back from the edge of the open space, invisible to the 
clustered Xandim, and waited, fidgeting with impatience 
and consumed with curiosity, for the Mages to arrive. 
When they reached the clearing, on Horsefolk who were 
stumbling with fatigue, Aurian and Anvar slid down 
from their mounts to let Schiannath and Esselnath change 
back to their human shapes. "Thank the Goddess for 
that!" Schiannath pushed back a straggle of dark, curling 
hair from his sweating forehead. "I must confess that 
there were times, back there, when I thought I'd never get 
the chance to wear my human form again." 
"Herdlord, you were a true hero back there." Aurian 
embraced him. "Had it not been for the courage of 
yourself and Esselnath, to stand firm despite all that 
Eliseth could throw at us, Anvar and I could never have 
kept up our shields. We would all have perished. We owe 
you our lives." 
"As I owe you mine, Lady—for without your shields we 
would have stood no chance," Schiannath replied 

gravely. "Having known only you and Anvar, not to 
mention the Windeye, I never realized how potent a force 
magic could be when turned to evil. I came to help you 
willingly, but today, for the first time, I truly understand 
how vital our quest is to the fate of the world." 
As the Horsefolk went off to the stream to drink, Aurian 
and Anvar hugged each other in wordless relief—but in 
their hearts they knew that the reprieve could only be 
temporary at best. "How long do you think we have?" 
Anvar asked the Mage. Aurian shrugged. "Who can say? 
The forest seemed pretty determined to keep her out, but 
we're dealing with Eliseth, here—and now she possesses 
the Caldron, too. Knowing her, I don't think it will daunt 
her for long." 
"There's one thing that puzzles me," Anvar muttered, 
with a frown. "If Eliseth has the Caldron, what has 
become of Miathan? He wouldn't voluntarily give such 
power into her hands, so what has she done with him? 
And how did she manage it? He must still be alive, for 
we never felt him die…" He grimaced. "It would be the 
ultimate irony if we ended up having to rescue the 
Archmage from Eliseth." 
"If we do," said his soulmate grimly, "Miathan had better 
pray for someone to rescue him from us." 
Quickly, Aurian Healed the wounded who had been hit 
by the first of the enemy arrows, and thought sadly of the 
three who were no longer with them. But this was no 

time to be dwelling on sorrowful thoughts. As soon as 
everyone had been attended to, she and Anvar gathered 
their companions together. "Time is pressing, and we 
can't stay here any longer," Aurian told them, raising her 
voice over a chorus of curses and groans. "Vannor, Parric 
and Sangra—you take half our forces and go to the rebel 
encampment. Gather them as quickly as you can and 
head for the lake—we'll meet you there. If Eliseth does 
manage to get into the forest, we don't want her 
anywhere near the Sword—especially not when I'm 
trying to claim it. Anvar and I will go directly to the 
island with Chiamh, Yazour, the cats and the remaining 
Horsefolk. Cygnus, I want you circling over the forest to 
bring us news of the enemy, and keep up 
communications between the two groups in case anyone 
runs into trouble. Now, sort yourselves quickly, 
everyone—and let's get on with this." 
Parric, hearing an echo of Forral in every word she said, 
caught Vannor's eye and shared a smile as they went to 
pick out the troops that would go with them. 
D'arvan, watching from the shadows of the trees, felt his 
heart falter when Aurian spoke of the Sword of Flame. 
Dear gods—then she must be the One! But in order to 
claim it, she must fight Maya, who, in the shape of the 
invisible unicorn, was bound by Hellorin's geas to defend 
the island and its bridge against anyone who approached. 

Only if the One could find some way to see the unicorn, 
could Maya be released from the spell… And he, 
D'arvan, had no way to warn Aurian of the identity of her 
assailant. 
The Mage of the Forest felt himself beginning to tremble. 
This was dreadful news—that two close friends should 
be thrown into such peril and contention for the sake of 
the Sword. For the first time, he began to clearly 
appreciate the two-edged nature of this terrible Artifact, 
and he had a dire suspicion that it had further secrets to 
unfold. And for the first time, D'arvan found himself 
wondering if it would not have been better if the Sword 
had never come to light. 
At least he could be with them—perhaps when the battle 
started, there would be some way he could intervene. He 
was just beginning to follow Aurian and her companions 
as they picked their careful way down the steep, rocky 
walls of the crater, when he heard the first sinister growls 
of thunder, and perceived the rapidly increasing agitation 
of the nearby trees. As he became attuned to their agony 
and anger, D'arvan went cold all over with horror. Eliseth 
had found a way to break into the Wildwoodl His 
assistance was needed on the eastern border of the forest, 
lest all be lost! For a moment, D'arvan hesitated, 
impossibly torn between two agonizing choices: should 
he go to help Maya and Aurian, or rush to the defense of 
the Wildwood? But, he realized, he truly had no choice at 

all. It was doubtful that he'd be permitted to interfere in 
the claiming of the Sword—events would weave 
themselves as they must. But Eliseth could not be 
permitted to intervene… 
With a muttered oath, D'arvan turned away from the 
drama that was about to play itself out within the crater, 
and rushed back to help defend the eastern border. 
Eliseth, seething with frustration at being thwarted by 
Aurian and this accursed forest, had first reacted by 
taking out her temper on her troops, cursing at them and 
snouting abuse as she urged them to greater efforts in 
their fruitless attempts to hack a way into the thorny 
tangle of undergrowth. After a time, when she had 
realized that her ranting and railing was accomplishing 
nothing but the alienation of her followers, she had 
calmed down a little, and begun to think the situation 
through. 
Clearly these trees must be protected by some magical 
force from within the Vale, for axes and swords had no 
effect on them whatsoever, and she had already been 
losing her men. Several had been either throttled or 
blinded by thorny briars; not a few had been felled into 
unconsciousness by branches that had broken off and 
dropped on them; and one who had unwisely tried to 
kindle a fire against the dry bark of a dying old beech had 
been crushed when the entire tree had seemingly 

uprooted itself and fallen on him. Eliseth thought she 
must have guessed the identity of the forest's protector— 
Eilin, Aurian's mother. That accursed rebel Earth-Mage 
who had turned her back on the Magefolk long ago 
would naturally be doing her best to protect her daughter! 
"Damn her!" the Weather-Mage snarled. Suddenly this 
battle had taken a far more personal turn—for it must 
also have been Eilin who had caused the death of 
Davorshan, Eliseth's lover at the time. "I'll show her." 
She turned to the mercenaries. "Stand back," she ordered. 
"I intend to break a way into this accursed forest if I have 
to blast every tree to cinders!" 
An angry rustle passed through the branches of the Wildwood, 
as though the trees had heard and accepted her 
challenge. Their mistake, thought Eliseth grimly. She did 
not intend to be kept from her goal by this mere pile of 
kindling! Standing well back from the trees, the Mage 
reached out to the lowering storm clouds above, and the 
dull, booming echoes of thunder began to roll, echoing, 
around the Valley. With a cry of triumph, Eliseth 
extended her fingers into claws and pulled splintering 
forks of lightning down from the skies. 
The bolts came sizzling down from sky to earth, striking 
the trees near the edge of the forest, exploding them into 
flying splinters and igniting them in roaring gouts of 
flame. Eliseth's Magefolk senses could pick up their high, 
thin shrieks of agony as the fire began to catch and 

spread from bough to shriveling bough. Smiling a cold 
smile that nonetheless held great satisfaction, she 
continued to pull down bolt after bolt of lightning from 
the tortured skies, kindling the trees like torches. As 
though she was back at her own fireside, Eliseth held out 
her hands to the shimmering heat of the flames. Since she 
had not felt the death pangs of a Mage, she must assume 
that Aurian had escaped the fire—but it didn't matter. 
Very soon now, she would be in the Valley—and then it 
would be time to settle some old scores. 
Chapter 27 - The Sword of Flame 
Finding the rebel encampment was simplicity itself for 
Vannor. Just as they had done for him when he had last 
been here, the trees simply opened up a path in the 
direction he wanted to take. The rebel leader looked 
around him, suddenly feeling happy, despite the peril 
they were in, and the ominous grumble of the storm 
above. He was not useless after all: his life had not been 
over when he'd lost his hand—far from it. Parric had 
been teaching him to fight left-handed—and though he 
had more sense than to trust his life yet to these newlearned 
skills, he had still come through his first battle 
without dishonor—and, more important, still in one 

piece. Apart from which, the expression of thwarted rage 
on Eliseth's face when she had seen him had been well 
worth waiting for. 
Vannor was also glad to be back in the Valley that had 
proved to be such a haven for himself and for his little 
band of rebels. How he was looking forward to seeing 
them all—but especially Dulsina, who must be worried 
sick about him by now. No doubt he'd better steel himself 
for a tongue-lashing from her the likes of which he'd 
never known… Vannor grinned. He'd let her have her 
say, and then hug the breath from her before she could 
scold him any further. 
His eyes twinkling in anticipation, the rebel leader turned 
to Parric, who had elected to ride next to him, insisting 
on sticking to Vannor's vulnerable right side. "It's a pity 
that you missed all this before, through going south. 
What do you think of the forest, then?" 
The cavalrymaster scowled darkly. "Frankly, I don't like 
it one little bit," he retorted, to Vannor's great surprise. "I 
hate these bloody trees—they make my flesh creep. Trees 
should stick in one place if you ask me—not go roaming 
about dropping branches on people, no matter that it did 
save our skins back there. Who is behind all this—have 
you ever wondered? And how can we be sure they'll stay 
on our side?" 
"Oh, come on, Parric," Vannor protested. "Of course the 
forest is on our side—it always has been, since first I 

brought the rebels here, and the wolves and trees killed 
Angos and his mercenaries." 
"Well, even if they are," the cavalrymaster argued 
stubbornly, "there's no guarantee that they can protect us 
against Eliseth. If you don't believe me, why don't you 
look behind you?" 
Obediently, Vannor glanced back over his shoulder. Far 
away on the eastern borders, a thick, black column of 
smoke was rising, to mingle with the brooding skies. 
"Thara's curse upon her! What is that bitch Eliseth doing 
to my poor, poor Valley?" In the unearthly realm of the 
Phaerie, Eilin sat in the Forest Lord's strange palace, with 
her face pressed to the mysterious window that looked 
out upon the Mortal world. Her attention was torn away 
from the dreadful events that were taking place in the 
forest by the sound of hasty footfalls behind her. 
"You sent for me, Lady?" Hellorin's voice held a faint 
edge of irritation. Doubtless, he was not accustomed to 
being so peremptorily summoned in his own land. Eilin, 
however, was not impressed—for as a Mage, she was 
endowed with a temper hasty enough to match the worst 
of his rages. Running to take his arm, she all but dragged 
him up the steps toward the great circular window. 
"Look at that!" she demanded, her voice breaking with 
anger and grief. "Just look at what is happening out 
there! After all my years of labor to make the Valley 

fruitful again, Eliseth is destroying the forest. Oh, hear 
the trees screaming! I heard their cries of agony in my 
very dreams, and when I woke and came to look… And 
where is D'arvan? Why is he letting her do this? My 
Lord, she must be stopped!" 
"Courage, Lady." Hellorin's fingers closed on her 
shoulder. There was a grim edge to the Forest Lord's 
voice. "There is nothing that we can do to stop her. We 
Phaerie are imprisoned here, helpless—unless…" 
Suddenly a strange, wild light kindled within the 
fathomless depths of his eyes. "Why is the renegade 
Magewoman attacking the forest? My Lady— have you 
thought to search for your daughter?" 
"Aurian? Here?" Eilin cried, whirling back toward the 
window. She concentrated her will upon the thought of 
her daughter, and the image of the buring forest wavered 
and vanished in mist. When it cleared, the window 
showed her… "Dear gods—she is! She's heading for my 
island, with Anvar and a lot of strangers…" 
Suddenly Eilin was roughly thrust aside as the Forest 
Lord flattened his face to the crystal panes and gave a 
roar of delight. "The horses! O Phaerie; in this glad hour, 
our horses have returned!" He turned to the Magewoman, 
his eyes gleaming in a face alight with excitement and a 
savage joy. "Eilin—this can only mean one thing! Your 
daughter has come to claim the Sword of Flame, as was 
foretold—and when she takes it, at long last the Phaerie 

will be free!" 
"Ifshe can take it, you mean," Eilin murmured, in a voice 
too low for him to hear. She turned away from Hellorin 
so that he would not see her frown. She was thinking, not 
about the Phaerie but about those poor Horsefolk out 
there who would suddenly turn back to simple beasts if 
Aurian claimed the Sword—but more than that, she was 
worrying about D'arvan, under attack in the beleagured 
forest. Had Hellorin forgotten that his only son was out 
there, under attack? And what of Maya, who must fight 
her daughter, though the women were the closest of 
friends? But most of all, her heart was filled with fear for 
Aurian, who must undertake the perilous task of claiming 
the Sword of Flame. Shutting her ears to the glad cries of 
Phaerie voices, Eilin turned back to the window and 
began to pray. 
D'arvan ran through the storm-darkened Wildwood in the 
bottom of the bowl, toward the rising column of smoke 
upon the eastern rim of the Valley, the death screams of 
the forest ringing in his ears. But even as he ran, he knew 
he was too late. The Mage's thoughts were bitter. His 
father and the Lady Eilin had trusted him—but he had 
already failed of his guardianship. To wreak such 
destruction, Eliseth must possess a power far beyond his 
own. It seemed that Aurian had been right—the Weather- 
Mage must have somehow stolen the Caldron of Rebirth 

from Miathan. And what can I do, he thought wildly, to 
counter one of the ancient Artifacts of the High Magic? 
Suddenly he knew he could do nothing. His only hope 
must lie in Aurian claiming the Sword of Flame. He must 
go back to the island at once—where he should have 
gone in the first place. It seemed that he was under an 
evil star today, for all his choices were turning out to be 
wrong. Cursing, he took one last, despairing look at the 
blazing rim of the Vale before turning back toward the 
lake—and froze, with a cry of horror on his lips. The 
conflagration had finally reached the upper edge of the 
cliffs, where he had counted on it to be stopped by the 
steep stone walls—but even as he watched, the burning 
trees began to topple, crashing over the precipice like 
comets trailing tails of flame. New smoke rose up to 
darken the skies as the trees below began to catch—but 
now another horror intruded itself upon D'arvan's 
ravaged consciousness, for the Valley itself was home 
and haven to many creatures of the wild. 
The very air groaned beneath the burden of a host of 
birds who had taken abruptly to the skies, swooping and 
piping piteously, and colliding with one another in 
confusion. The undergrowth began to stir and rustle as 
mouse and vole scampered for safety, and snakes shot 
out into the open, their forked tongues flicking in and out 
to taste the smoke. Squirrels swung shrieking though the 
branches overhead. The first terrified animals began to 

stream past the Mage, fleeing for their lives from the 
spreading fire. Wild-eyed deer leapt past him down the 
forest trails, their white tails flagged high in alarm. 
Wolves streamed after them like a gray mist curling 
through the trees. Sleepy badgers, confused by this newmade 
night, blundered through the bushes. Hare and 
rabbit bounded between the trees in perfect safety, for 
their enemies—the sinuous stoat and weasel and the 
elegant bold-brushed fox—were also occupied in fleeing 
for their lives. D'arvan gathered his scattered wits and 
called to all the terrified creatures. "Head for the lake, O 
forest-dwellers! Seek out the water—there is safety 
there!" 
He was turning hastily to follow his own advice when he 
heard a pitiful whimper coming from the nearby bushes. 
D'arvan ran forward into the thickening smoke, following 
the tiny thread of sound. Plunging his hand into a tangle 
of briars without a thought for his own skin, he groped, 
touched fur— and brought out a young wolf-cub, little 
more than two moons old. It seemed to have been in the 
fire already, for patches of its dark-gray fur were singed 
darker from smoldering sparks. "How did you get there?" 
D'arvan muttered in surprise. "Did your parents get 
frightened by the fire and forget you?" But there was no 
time to wonder. Thrusting the squirming wolf-child into 
the pocket of his robe, he fled toward the lake. 

As Aurian and her companions picked their cautious way 
down to the floor of the crater, events seemed to have 
come full circle in the Mage's life, and she was 
transported back to the time when, as a tangle-haired and 
grubby-kneed urchin, she had first guided Forral down 
into the Valley. She seemed to feel him very near her, on 
this dark day. 
Impatiently, Aurian shook her head. If he was here, she 
thought to herself, the first thing he'd tell you is to stop 
this woolgathering! There was too much at stake now for 
that. Aurian glanced worriedly behind her, toward the 
eastern border of the Vale, and the pall of smoke that 
hung over it. "Hurry!" she urged the others in low voices. 
"It looks as though Eliseth is gaining on us!" 
Willingly, Schiannath quickened his pace—but there was 
no clear trail through the tangled forest, and the 
undergrowth and twining roots were too thickly entwined 
for the horses to gallop. Aurian swore. It seemed that the 
trees were too perturbed now to open up a proper path for 
the companions. Thinking quickly, she laid a hand on the 
Staff of Earth and reached out her will toward the 
Wildwood. 
No sooner had she touched the Staff when the Mage was 
almost knocked from Schiannath's back as the full rage 
and agony of the trees came blasting into her mind. The 
valley itself was burning! Frantically, she put forth her 
powers to soothe the forest, begging the trees to open up 

a path and let her through. "Don't fight the Evil One," she 
told them. "Protect yourselves. If you flee from your 
burning brethren and surround them with a barren, open 
space, the fire will claim no more of you. Let Eliseth 
come to the lake if she must. Open up a path for her, by 
all means—but let it be a long one…" 
Suddenly, Aurian grinned to herself. "She does not know 
the Valley. Lead her around by circuitous routes, and 
delay her as long as you can—but as soon as she 
becomes impatient, let her through to the lake, and I will 
deal with her. Many of you were my childhood 
companions. I played among you and you sheltered me 
with your branches. I would lose no more of you today." 
From the trees came a rustling murmur of assent, like a 
soft breeze in the branches. The Mage heard her 
companions gasp as a broad avenue opened up before 
them. As Aurian rode into it at the head of her little 
column, the trees of the Valley bowed down their 
branches, in homage and in thanks. "Follow!" Aurian 
cried. "To the lake!" Schiannath neighed shrilly and 
reared, then broke into a bounding gallop as they raced 
toward the center of the Vale. 
The rebel camp was in chaos and utter turmoil as its 
inhabitants raced about, packing up their slender goods 
and preparing to flee the burning Valley. Dulsina seemed 
to be needed everywhere at once: to calm, to help, to 

organize and advise. Fional and Hargorn were assisting 
her in the evacuation—or at least the young archer was 
doing his best, but he seemed to be best at getting under 
her feet, she thought impatiently. Hargorn's battle-trained 
bellow, however, was proving extremely useful, and she 
was glad that the veteran had left the Nightrunners as 
soon as his wound had healed, leading back the group of 
Nexian fugitives who had elected to join the rebels. He 
had been a tower of strength to her since word had 
reached the camp of Vannor's murder at the hands of the 
Magefolk. 
Once again, pain stopped her dead in her tracks, like a 
fist clenched around her heart. Try as she might, Dulsina 
still could not come to terms with the news of Vannor's 
death. It had taken all her courage to get through the days 
knowing that little Zanna was missing, but she had forced 
herself to carry on and be strong for the sake of the rebels 
under her care—until the stranger Bern's ghastly tidings 
had almost brought the stalwart woman to her knees. For 
all his faults— and over the years his patient housekeeper 
had become well acquainted with every last one of 
them—Dulsina's fondness for the blunt, outspoken 
merchant had matured into a steady, abiding love that 
had been neither challenged nor changed by her close 
friendship with his first wife. The practical housekeeper 
had too much sense to be romantic. Even though his 
marriage to Sara had put paid to any notion that he might 

one day return her feelings, Dulsina had always known 
that she was indispensable to Vannor, and with that she 
had been content—until his untimely death had even 
robbed her of that comfort. 
"Damn you, you stubborn old fool—why did you have to 
go and get yourself killed?" Dulsina muttered. "If I'm not 
around to take care of you, you can't do anything right!" 
Then, chiding herself for standing around moping when 
she was needed, she shook herself, wiped her eyes on her 
sleeve, and went to take care of her rebels. Despite her 
best efforts to shut him out, however, Vannor went with 
her in her thoughts. 
Vannor heard the shouted orders in the distance as he 
hurried through the trees at the head of his Xandim 
warriors. "Why, I know that voice," he exclaimed. 
"It's—" 
"It's Hargorn!" Parric yelled delightedly, attempting to 
spur his mount to greater speed before remembering, 
belatedly, that he was riding one of the Xandim. "Sorry," 
he apologized hastily. The horse whinnied and shook its 
head in irritation, but obligingly picked up its pace. 
When they reached the edge of the trees, they found that 
the clearing of the rebel encampment was filled with a 
mass of panic-stricken folk who were running, lifting, 
shoving, tripping, and generally trying to do everything 
at once. It seemed impossible that he could pick one 

figure out of the seething mass—but Vannor's eyes went 
unerringly to the tall, dark-haired figure of Dulsina. 
"Dulsina!" he bellowed, his face breaking into a grin. 
"I'm back!" 
The result was not what he had expected. Utter silence 
descended on the clearing as everyone turned to stare at 
him, openmouthed. And Dulsina—his brave, 
levelheaded, sensible housekeeper—whirled to look at 
him, her face stark white and blank with shock. 
"Vannor!" she whispered—and crumpled to the ground 
in a dead faint. 
"Don't just stand there!" Vannor roared. "Somebody help 
her!" Leaping down from his horse, he ran to her side, 
with Parric close behind him. When he reached her, she 
was already opening her eyes, with Hargorn helping her 
struggle into a sitting position. But the veteran was 
looking not at Dulsina, but at Vannor, and his eyes were 
suspiciously bright. "They told us you were dead," he 
gasped. "Bern said that the Magefolk had killed you." 
"You thoughtless, boneheaded idiot," Dulsina interrupted 
furiously, her eyes sparkling with her anger. "Did you 
ever find Zanna? Where in all perdition have you been 
these last few months? Didn't you care about the anguish 
you were putting us through?" 
Abruptly, Vannor decided to forgo the tongue-lashing 
after all. Throwing his arms around Dulsina, he hugged 
her tightly until she squeaked in protest. "Yes, I found the 

lass," he told her, "or she found me, at any rate. She's safe 
with your sister now." 
Letting go of her reluctantly, he turned to the waiting 
rebels. "Come on," he told them. "Explanations will have 
to wait—we've got to get to the lake as quickly as 
possible. Just take all the weapons you can come by and 
leave the rest of this stuff where it is. Fetch the 
horses—those who don't have mounts will ride double 
with the rest of us. Don't stand there gaping—move!" 
As they scurried to obey him, something that Hargorn 
had said nudged its way into Vannor's memory. He 
grabbed the veteran by the arm, detaining him. 
"Hargorn—who the blazes is this Bern who told you I 
was dead?" 
Hargorn shrugged. "Just some fugitive from Nexis who 
came to us a while ago. He said you'd sent him with a 
message—but before he could escape, they had killed 
you…" His brows knitted in a scowl as he realized how 
badly the rebels had been duped. 
"Come to think of it," Dulsina added, her voice sharp 
with anger, "I haven't seen him since the fire started." 
"It's not surprising," Vannor replied—but he had an 
uneasy feeling that whoever this Bern might be, they 
hadn't seen the last of him. 
Beside the bridge the unicorn waited. For those with eyes 
to see her, she shone more brightly than the evenstar 

itself, in the shadowed murk of the beleaguered Vale. But 
no one could see her beauty save D'arvan, and she sensed 
that he was far away, though returning to her swiftly. But 
still more swiftly came another—the One with whose 
fate she was so closely entwined. The unicorn pricked up 
her ears and turned her lovely head toward the east with a 
toss of her silver mane. In the distance, far around the 
lakeside, she could see a group of riders emerging from 
the trees. Two figures rode together at their head, both 
blazing bright with power. Maya would have recognized 
them, but the unicorn saw them only as invaders, 
trespassing on forbidden ground that she must defend. 
But—and she pawed at the ground in puzzlement, 
scattering sunbursts from her gleaming hooves—there 
shouldn't be two powers. Which of them was the One 
who, in claiming the Sword, could set her free at last—or 
send her to her death? Until she could find out, she would 
have to fight them both. 
Aurian's heart twisted within her as she emerged from the 
forest onto the open turf of the lakeside and saw that the 
island was bare now of the tower where she had spent her 
early years with her mother and Forral. She turned to 
Anvar, who was riding by her side. "The tower!" she 
cried. "It's gone! Why didn't Chiamh warn me when he 
performed his seeing?" She knew she was being 
irrational, but felt as though someone had wrenched her 

childhood away from her. Though she had rarely visited 
the tower in recent years, she had always felt secure in 
the knowledge that it was there. 
Anvar glanced back at the Windeye, who was in his 
human form and was riding Iscalda, who had refused to 
be parted from her brother. "How could he have warned 
you, when he didn't know there was a tower here in the 
first place?" he asked her reasonably. "Hellorin told me, 
but I forgot," he added in apology. "It was destroyed 
when Davorshan came here to kill your mother. The 
Lady Eilin knows about it," he added, trying to comfort 
her. "She didn't seem upset." 
Aurian made no reply. She was still looking—staring, in 
fact—at the little isle, denuded of its dwelling. "I don't 
see any sign of the Sword," she muttered worriedly. As 
they rode closer, however, her eyes widened, her gaze 
becoming intense. "Anvar," she whispered, her voice 
rising with excitement. "It is there… Chiamh was 
right—the Sword is on the island! Can't you feel it?" 
"I can't feel anything," Anvar answered, frowning. 
"Perhaps only you can sense its presence, because you're 
the One for whom it was created." 
While they had talked, they had rounded the lakeshore, 
and at last the slender wooden bridge came into sight. 
"I'm glad the bridge survived, at any rate," Aurian said, 
suddenly practical again. "We'd have had problems 
getting across without it—the lake is very deep there…" 

Her words were drowned in a thunder of approaching 
hoofbeats, but—and she looked around wildly—there 
was no one there! But the hoofbeats kept coming, 
growing louder and louder… "Ware!" Aurian shouted, 
pulling the Staff of Earth from her belt—but it was too 
late. Suddenly Schiannath stumbled, as though pushed 
aside by some unseen force. Aurian threw her weight 
back to help him regain his footing—and as he 
recovered, she heard the sound of screaming: a horse in 
mortal torment. Esselnath, the Xandim who had carried 
Anvar, was rolling in agony on the ground, his gleaming 
chestnut coat dyed with the deeper red of his blood, the 
loops of his gut bulging out of a long wound in his belly 
that looked as though it had been ripped open by a sword. 
Anvar, who had rolled clear of the thrashing mount, was 
just picking himself up as the sound of the hoofbeats bore 
down on them again. "Schiannath!" Aurian screamed, 
and the great horse wheeled and sped toward her 
soulmate. She grabbed Anvar's wrist and yanked him up 
behind her as some unseen thing whistled past them, 
blowing her hair back with the wind of its speed. 
Aurian glanced over her shoulder, hardly daring to look, 
but Anvar was safe on Schiannath's back behind her, 
gaping at the ragged rent that had appeared in his sleeve. 
"Gods!" he cried. "What is it?" 
Whatever it was, it was heading back toward them. The 
remaining Xandim scattered in all directions. One of 

them fell, pierced through the chest, and its rider did not 
get up again. Shia leapt toward the sound of the 
hoofbeats and was hurled backward, yowling. Khanu ran 
to her side, snarling fiercely, as the great cat staggered to 
her feet. Again, the sound of the hoofbeats veered, 
heading for Schiannath once more, who now carried both 
the Mages on his back. 
Confused by his own blurred impressions of the battle, 
Chiamh galloped toward the Magefolk on Iscalda's back. 
He had put down his inability to perceive their assailant 
to his defective vision, but though he could neither see 
nor understand what was attacking them, he knew that 
the Magefolk were in deadly peril. He knew he must help 
them, even at the risk of his own life—and Iscalda was 
desperate to go to the assistance of her brother. In 
desperation, the Windeye changed to his Othersight. 
Maybe it would help him to see more clearly. The 
blurred shapes took on the form of the glowing 
phantasms that, to his Othersight, were the shapes of 
living creatures… 
Even as Chiamh approached the battle, Schiannath was 
attacked once more. Hearing the pounding of hooves 
grow louder, the Herdlord had waited until the very last 
second and wrenched himself aside—but the weight of 
two riders slowed him, and he squealed as a thin red line 
of blood sprang out of nowhere across his shouder. As 

Iscalda raced to the side of her stricken brother, the 
hoofbeats hesitated, and veered toward the Windeye and 
his mount. Chiamh squinted, putting the whole force of 
his will behind his Othersight. What in the name of the 
Goddess was attacking them? And why couldn't he see 
it? Yet even as Iscalda turned to run, he was sure he 
could make out something—a slight ripple in the light, a 
disturbance in the swirling passage of the wind that, as it 
came closer, began to take on definition and shape—a 
shape he had seen once before, in a vision… 
"I see it!" Chiamh yelled. "I see it—it's a unicorn!" 
Thinking fast, he reached out his mind to link with 
Aurian, to embrace her in his Othersight that she might 
see as he did. 
"What the bloody blazes—" He caught the Mage's 
fleeting, startled thought, and then… 
And then suddenly there were no more hoofbeats. Only 
the slender, leather-clad figure of a dark-haired woman, 
standing dazed upon the grass. 
Chiamh whirled, staggering, as Aurian broke the linkage 
abruptly. She let out a whoop and hurled herself from 
Schiannath's back. "Maya!" she yelled. By the look of 
delight on the Mage's face, this must be an old friend. 
"Wait!" Anvar reached down to grab her arm. "It might 
be some kind of trick!" 
"It's not a trick…" To Chiamh, the woman Maya seemed 
unsure of her own voice. "I was the guardian…" Her 

brow creased with the effort to remember. "In the shape 
of the unicorn, I didn't recognize you." 
"But why a unicorn? What in the name of all perdition 
happened to you?" Aurian demanded. 
Maya looked regretfully at the bodies of the Xandim in 
the grass, and at Shia, who looked up from licking her 
bruised side to glare at her. "I'm so very sorry about all 
this—but I couldn't help it. I had no choice but to attack 
you. Hellorin turned me into an invisible unicorn and told 
me I was to defend the Sword, but if I became visible to 
anyone save D'arvan, my guardianship would end, and I 
could return to human form. He said that the One would 
find a way to see me…" She turned to Chiamh. "Are you 
the One?" 
"Certainly not," said the Windeye decisively. "Aurian 
is—the Dragon told her so. I was only the means that she 
used to see you." 
"But how did you see me?" Maya demanded. "No one 
could!" 
"I've been wondering much the same thing," Aurian put 
in dryly. 
"Oh, I can see all sorts of things with my Othersight," 
said the Windeye cheerfully. "If I can perceive the wind 
itself, then a unicorn made up of light shouldn't present 
too much of a problem. If only I wasn't so nearsighted, I 
would have seen you sooner, and saved a lot of trouble." 
He sighed wistfully. "I'm sorry the others couldn't see 

you, though. You were so very beautiful…" 
"Meaning that I'm not now, I suppose," snapped Maya. 
"Well, things are certainly back to normal." She held out 
her hands to Aurian. "I'm so very glad to see you, 
though." 
And Chiamh smiled, as Aurian ran to embrace her friend. 
"Just how far is it to this blasted lake?" Eliseth muttered 
irritably. Having once gained entry, she seemed to have 
been wandering around in this benighted forest forever. 
Her stupid escort seemed to have lost themselves, 
too—but that didn't matter now. They had served their 
purpose, and after her victory over the Wildwood the 
Weather-Mage felt quite invincible. With the refashioned 
Caldron she had such power at her command… 
Eliseth pulled the tarnished chalice from the pocket of 
her robe and looked at it thoughtfully, feeling it grow 
warm and vibrate with resentment against her skin. Who 
would have thought that so small a thing could hold so 
much power? And now something was calling it, pulling 
it toward the lake… Could another of the Artifacts be 
hidden there? It would certainly explain how that 
wretched Eilin had gained enough power to murder 
Davorshan. Eliseth scowled. Well, soon she would see 
for herself. She had taken one of the Artifacts from its 
rightful owner—it shouldn't be difficult to steal 
another— especially not from Eilin. At least it wouldn't if 

she could only find that accursed lake… 
She had ridden only a little farther down the narrow, 
twisting trail, when she heard the cries for help. Spurring 
her lathered horse to greater speed, she rounded a corner 
to see a familiar figure, suspended and writhing in the 
branches of a tree that seemed to be tightening around 
him… 
"Bern!" snapped the Weather-Mage. "What the blazes are 
you doing here? You were told to stick with the rebels!" 
"I did," Bern wailed. "But when they saw the fire, they 
started to move camp—and when I saw it, I knew it must 
be you, and came to warn you. Please get me down, 
Lady. Please …" 
"You should have gone with them, you fool," said 
Eliseth. "Now how will I know where they were 
heading?" Nonetheless, she turned to face the tree and 
lifted her hand in a threatening gesture. "Let him down," 
she snarled, "or—" 
There was a thud as Bern fell to the ground, almost 
weeping with relief. "Oh, thank you, Lady!" He picked 
himself up, wincing, then seemed suddenly at a loss. 
"What shall we do now?" 
"Well," I am going to the lake, you wretched Mortal," 
Eliseth told him. "If you want to come with me, you'll 
have to keep up—I'm not waiting for you. I've had 
enough of wandering around this accursed forest." She 
scowled. "If the trees don't let me through, I'll burn them, 

as I did the others." 
"But you don't need to, Lady," Bern protested. "Look— 
the track's right there." 
The Weather-Mage turned to follow his pointing 
finger— and cursed vilely. "That wasn't there before! Are 
you sure it's the right trail?" 
"It's heading in the right direction, Lady. If you follow 
me, I'll set you right…" 
Eliseth shrugged. Well, it was better than wandering 
round in circles, as she seemed to have been doing. 
"Go on, then," she told Bern, "and hurry up about it. And 
remember—if you lead me wrongly, I'll make you sorry 
you were ever born." 
"Don't worry, Lady—I know the way." And off he went, 
scrambling ahead of her along the forest trail. Eliseth 
shrugged again, and followed. 
Aurian was walking slowly across the bridge, her 
footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden planks. 
D'arvan saw her from the lakeshore, where he had set the 
little wolf-cub safely down a moment ago, and his heart 
leapt in relief to also see, among the knot of people 
gathered at the mainland end of the bridge, his Maya, 
safe and sound—and human again. So far, then, Aurian 
had succeeded. He might have guessed she would. But 
the next part—the winning of the Sword itself— would 

prove more difficult. Anxiously, he hurried off to join the 
others—and suddenly remembered that they should be 
able to see him now. Gods—it had been so long… 
Stifling a cry of joy, he broke into a run, forgetting all 
about the cub, who had wandered off into the bushes. 
Cygnus soared over the lake—and suddenly caught sight 
of the little group of watchers by the bridge. There was 
Aurian, crossing to the island on her own—and there was 
Anvar, standing a little apart from the others at the very 
edge of the wooden span, his eyes fixed on the retreating 
figure of the Mage. He was alone now, and distracted… 
Cygnus smiled to himself. His chance had come at last, 
to seize the Harp of Winds! Banking into a steep turn, the 
winged man swooped toward his unsuspecting victim. 
Vannor led his rebels out of the forest and saw the 
tableau by the bridge, around the curving sweep of the 
lake. What in the world were the Magefolk doing? Was 
the Sword hidden somewhere on the island? Then Parric 
nudged him sharply in the ribs. "Vannor—look over 
there!" 
The merchant looked across the lake and saw Eliseth, 
emerging from the trees on the opposite side. She seemed 
about equally as far from the bridge as he was. Vannor 
cursed. There was no sense in shouting a warning—they 

probably wouldn't hear him from this distance, and, 
besides, at this point, it might be fatal to interrupt 
Aurian's concentration. "Come on—we've got to warn 
Anvar," he told the Xandim he was riding, and it took off 
at a gallop, with the rest of the rebels following. Eliseth, 
on the other side of the lake, had seen them now, and had 
also spurred her horse into a run. But which of them 
would get there first? 
As Aurian crossed the bridge, she was oblivious to the 
dramas that were going on around her. The Sword of 
Flame was calling to her now; holding all her attention in 
thrall. But she knew that winning it would not be so easy. 
There was bound to be some kind of test or trial—there 
had been with the other Artifacts. Suddenly, she was glad 
she had made Anvar stay behind, despite his protests. 
This could get dangerous, and she would need all her 
concentration on the task ahead… 
Stepping off the bridge, Aurian caught sight of a great 
gray boulder, where the tower had once stood. She 
frowned. Now where had that come from? It had 
certainly not been there before! Its granite was a different 
stone entirely from the black basalt of the Valley, from 
which the base of Eilin's tower had been constructed. The 
Mage approached it cautiously, as the warsong of the 
Sword rang louder in her mind. Carefully, she put a hand 
out to touch the masive rock—and it changed under her 

fingers to a giant crystal that pulsed with a light that was 
the crimson of new blood. Within the dully glowing 
facets of the gem, she could discern the gleaming outline 
of a Sword, created for her hand alone, that called out to 
her in its harsh, metallic voice to free it from its prison. 
Aurian grinned to herself—but a warning voice was 
sounding in the back of her mind. Surely it couldn't be 
this easy. The winning of the Staff had been so 
difficult… 
Nonetheless, the Mage reached out and laid her hands 
upon the crystal, searching with her Healer's senses for 
any weakness within the crystal lattice of the stone, as 
she had done once, long ago, in the tunnels beneath 
Dhiammara. Swiftly she found the spot and jabbed at it 
with all her powers, shattering the crystalline structure. 
With a sighing whisper, the great gem crumbled away to 
sparkling dust—and the Sword of Flame leapt out into 
Aurian's hand. 
Aurian sank to her knees as a surge of fiery power 
consumed her in agonizing ecstasy. The world faded into 
a pulsing crimson haze as the song of the Sword rang in 
her mind… 
"You are the One, as was foretold, and you have found 
me— but in order for you to wield my powers, I must 
first be claimed, as you claimed the Staff of Earth. There 
must be a bloodbond between us, Warrior—a sacrifice. 
The first blood I drink must be the lifeblood of someone 

you love—and then, and only then, will I be yours to 
command. …" 
The world returned to Aurian with a jolt as she recoiled 
in horror. "What?" she snapped reflexively. "I'll do no 
such thing!" The warning of the Leviathan came flooding 
back to her. "How can I use you for good," she 
demanded, "if I begin my ownership with such an 
unspeakable act?" 
"Then I am forfeit—and you have failed. …" 
And, suddenly, everything began to go wrong at once. 
With the sound of a thunderclap, the ranks of the Phaerie 
appeared to throng the lakeshore, led by the towering 
figure of Hellorin, the Forest Lord. "Free," he cried. 
"After all these long ages, we are free at last! The One 
has failed to claim the Sword, therefore we no longer 
need to pledge allegiance to her! Come, my 
followers—we must ride!" 
Eilin cried out in protest at his side, but he ignored her. 
As Aurian looked on in horror, the Xandim who had 
followed her so faithfully changed into their equine 
shapes, their screams of anguish ringing in her ears. One 
by one, the Phaerie seized them—all but Schiannath and 
the Windeye, who were closest to the bridge, with Anvar. 
With a cry, the Mage sprang onto Schiannath's back and 
flung up a hasty magical shield to guard both horses. 
They galloped at breakneck speed across the wooden 
span, knowing that across the waters of Ellin's Lake, they 

would be safe from the powers of the Phaerie Lord. 
Hellorin gave a howl of thwarted rage—then swung upon 
Iscalda, who seemed to have grown to giant proportions 
to match his own. "We ride!"he shouted. "Let the world 
tremble—for the Phaerie ride at last!" And then they 
were gone, racing up into the looming clouds, leaving 
only the sound of Eilin's weeping. 
Even as Anvar dismounted, Cygnus came hurtling from 
the skies and fell upon the Mage, knocking him to the 
ground and slicing at the thongs that held the Harp in 
place. The Xandim horses, already losing their human 
minds, were too stricken by terror at their ordeal to assist 
him. Aurian cried out in anger and ran to her soul mate's 
aid, lifting the Sword to smite the winged man—and 
dropping it in horror as she realized what she had almost 
done. Drawing her own blade, she struck at the whitewinged 
figure, and he fell away from his victim, writhing 
in agony with his lifeblood staining the grass around the 
Harp of Winds. 
Aurian reached out to Anvar, who lay unconscious on the 
ground, an ugly bruise darkening his forehead—but 
suddenly Eliseth was there before her, the Sword of 
Flame clutched triumphantly in her hand, clinging to it 
grimly though her fingers were black and smoking, and 
her face was twisted into a rictus of agony. "I may not 
wield it," she screamed—"but neither will you!" 
The blaze of the Sword's power drove Aurian back. 

Standing over Anvar, Eliseth took out the grail that was 
the Caldron and brought the two Great Weapons together 
with a resounding crash. "Slay her, O Powers," she 
shrieked—but she had scant control over either of the 
Artifacts, and the result was not what she had expected. 
Aurian caught a glimpse of her face, twisted with horror 
as, with a soundless explosion, a great rent ripped open in 
the fabric of time itself, as though the world had been 
painted on a sheet of fabric that had been suddenly rent 
asunder. Shrieking, Eliseth was sucked into the gap—and 
Anvar with her. 
With a cry of anguish, Aurian snatched up the Harp of 
Winds, and hurled herself into the closing rent, with the 
great cats leaping at her heels. Neighing shrilly, 
Schiannath and Chiamh followed. Maya and D'arvan 
came out of their frozen horror and exchanged a single 
glance. Clasping hands, they ran toward the narrowing 
gap in time—and disappeared as it snapped shut behind 
them. 
Vannor and Parric, having lost their Xandim 
companions, came panting to a halt beside Yazour, who 
had been too late to follow, and the horrified Eilin. For a 
time they stood in silence, aghast at the enormity of what 
had taken place. "Well," said the merchant finally, "at 
least she didn't go alone." 
"What good will that serve?" Eilin flared. "We don't even 

know if they survived to emerge into another time." 
"Aurian will survive," said Vannor firmly. "I'll lay money 
on it. And since we'd have certainly known about it if she 
had gone into the past, that can only mean she'll be 
turning up again in the future." 
Smiling wryly, he looked at the place from which Aurian 
had disappeared. "I only hope I'm still alive to see it." 
Index of Characters 
m ABUZ: Overseer of galley slaves on Corsair ship. 
m ADRINA: Earth-Mage. Mother of D'arvan and 
Davorshan. 
m AGUILA: One of the Skyfolk. Captain of the Royal 
Guard. 
m ANGOS: Mercenary. Commander of the garrison 
after Forral. 
m ANTOR: Son of Vannor. 
m ANVAR: Mage. Half-breed son of Miathan and Ria. 
m AURIAN: Mage. Daughter of Eilin and Geraint. 
m AVITHAN: One of the ancient Magefolk. Known in 
legend as Father of the Gods. 
m BARODH: Hound belonging to Hellorin. 
m BASILEUS: A Moldan (giant Earth-spirit). 

m BAVORDRAN: Water-Mage. Father of Davorshan. 
m BENZIORN: Physician in Nexis. 
m BERN: Anvar's half brother. 
m BLACKTALON: High Priest of the Winged Folk. 
m BOHAN: A eunuch. Former servant of Harihn. 
m BRAGAR: Fire-Mage. 
m (THE) CAILLEACH: A Guardian of the High 
Magic. Also known as Lady of the Mists. 
m CHATHAK: God of Fire. Patron deity of warriors. 
m CHIAMH: The Windeye (Seer) of the Xandim. 
m CHIANNALA: Ancient Magewoman. With 
Incondor, she instigated the Cataclysm. 
m CORIELLE: Vannor's eldest daughter. 
m CYGNUS: A young physician-priest of the Skyfolk. 
m D'ARVAN: Half Mage, half Phaerie. Son of Hellorin 
and Adrina. Half brother to Davorshan. 
m DAVORSHAN: Water-Mage. Son of Adrina and 
Bavordran and half brother to D'arvan. 
m DULSINA: Vannor's housekeeper. Sister to Remana. 
m EILIN: Earth-Mage and mother of Aurian. Also 
known as the Lady of the Lake. 
m ELEWIN: Chief steward of the Academy. 
m ELIIZAR: Swordmaster of the Khazalim Arena. 
Husband to Nereni. 
m ELISETH: Weather-Mage. 

m ELSTER: Skyfolk master physician. 
m EMMIE: Young woman in Nexis, assistant to Jarvas 
and Benziorn. 
m ESSELNATH: Warrior of the Xandim. 
m FINBARR: A Mage. Archivist at the Academy. 
Soulmate to Meiriel. 
m FINCH: One of the Skyfolk, companion of Eliizar 
and Nereni. 
m FIONAL: Trooper at garrison, a skilled archer. 
m FLAMEWING: Queen of the Skyfolk. Mother of 
Raven. 
m FORRAL: The world's greatest swordsman. 
Commander of the Nexis Garrison and Aurian's 
lover. 
m GALDRUS: Xandim warrior. 
m GELDA: Sara's maid. 
m GERAINT: Fire-Mage. Soulmate of Eilin and father 
of Aurian. 
m GEVAN: A smuggler. 
m GHABAL: A mad Moldan whose spirit was 
imprisoned beneath Nexis by the ancient Magefolk. 
m GRANDPA: Anvar's grandfather. A carpenter. 
m GRINCE: Young son of the streetwalker Tilda. 
m GRISTHEENA: First Female (leader) of the great 
cats. 

m HARAG: Overseer of galley slaves on Corsair ship. 
m HARGORN: Veteran trooper at Nexis Garrison. 
m HARIHN: Prince of the Khazalim. Son of Xiang. 
m HARKAS: A pig-keeper. Brother to Jarvas. 
m HARZ: A Khazalim villager. 
m HEBBA: Vannor's cook. 
m HELLORIN: Lord of the Phaerie and father of 
D'arvan. Also known as the Forest Lord. 
m HREEZA: Elderly great cat. Friend to Shia. 
m IBIS: One of the Skyfolk who accompanied Aurian 
to the Xandim lands. Mate of Kestrel. 
m IDRIS: Captain of a Nightrunner ship. 
m INCONDOR: One of the ancient Winged Folk. With 
Chiannala, he instigated the Cataclysm. 
m INELLA: Maidservant at the Academy. 
m IONOR THE WISE: A god. Known to the Khazalim 
as the Reaper of Souls. 
m IRIANA: A goddess. Known as Iriana of the Beasts. 
m ISCALDA: Sister of Schiannath of the Xandim. 
m ITHALASA: A whale, one of the ancient Magefolk 
race of Leviathan. 
m JANOK: Head cook at the Academy. 
m JARD: A miller from Nexis. Sara's father. 
m JARVAS: Brother of Harkas. Founder of a refuge for 
the poor in Nexis 

m JHARAV: Soldier in Harihn's troop. 
m JURDAG: Captain of pirate ship. 
m KARLEK: Siege engineer at the garrison. 
m KESTREL: Female warrior of Skyfolk who 
accompanied Aurian to the Xandim lands. Mate of 
Ibis. 
m KHANU: Young male great cat. Friend to Shia. 
m LARK: Skyfolk child. 
m LAZY: Old horse belonging to Anvar's father. 
m LINNET: Skyfolk child. 
m LEYNARD: Former leader of the Nightrunners. 
Husband of Remana and father of Yanis. 
m LOUETTE: Winged woman, mother of Lark and 
Linnet. 
m MAYA: A warrior. Second-in-command at the 
garrison. 
m MEIRIEL: Magefolk Healer. Soulmate of Finbarr. 
m MELIANNE: Phaerie woman. 
m MELISANDA: Goddess of Healing. Known as 
Melisanda of the Healing Hands. 
m MIATHAN: The Archmage. Father of Anvar. 
m NARVISH: Official Recorder for the Ruling Council 
of Nexis. 
m NERENI: A Khazalim woman. Wife of Eliizar. 
m PARRIC: Cavalrymaster at the garrison. 

m PENDRAL: A corrupt and greedy merchant. 
m PETREL: Skyfolk warrior. Companion of Eliizar and 
Nereni. 
m PHALIHAS: Herdlord of the Xandim. 
m PIPER: Zanna's horse. 
m RAVEN: Princess of the Skyfolk. Daughter of 
Flamewing. 
m REMANA: Wife of Leynard, the former Nightrunner 
leader. Mother of Yanis. Sister to Dulsina. 
m RIA: Wife of Tori and mother of Anvar and Bern. 
m RIOCH: Garrison commander before Forral. 
m SANGRA: A warrior. Trooper at the garrison. 
m SARA: Daughter of Jard the miller. Anvar's 
childhood sweetheart and Vannor's wife. 
Subsequently, Queen of the Xandim. 
m SCHIANNATH: Xandim outlaw. Brother to Iscalda. 
m SHIA: Great cat. Friend to Aurian and Anvar. 
m SKUA: Priest of the Skyfolk. 
m STORM: Emmie's white dog. 
m SUNFEATHER: Skyfolk warrior, Wingmarshal of 
the Syntagma, the Winged Folk military elite. 
m TAHEERA: Elderly great cat. 
m TARNAL: A young Nightrunner. Friend to Zanna. 
m THARA: A goddess. Known as Thara of the Fields. 
m TILDA: A Nexis streetwalker. Mother of Grince. 

m TORL: A baker in Nexis. Husband of Ria and father 
of Bern. Anvar's stepfather. 
m USTILA: Khazalim girl, one of Eliizar's settlers. 
m VANNOR: Head of the Nexis Merchants' Guild. 
Husband of Sara and father of Zanna. 
m VERLA: Wife of Jard the miller and mother of Sara. 
m WARRIOR: Grince's white dog. 
m WOLF: Son of Aurian and Forral. 
m XIANG: King of the Khazalim. Father of Harihn. 
m YAMS: Leader of the Nightrunners. Son of Leynard 
and Remana. 
m YAZOUR: Captain of Harihn's guard. 
m YINZE: A god. Known as Yinze of the Sky. 
m YSALLA: Head of the Xandim Council of Elders. 
m ZAHN: Khazalim slave-dealer. 
m ZALID: Procurer of women for Xiang's harem. 
m ZANDAR: Archmage before Miathan. Father of 
Adrina. 
m ZANNA: Youngest daughter of Vannor. 
m ZATHBAR: Ancient Khazalim hero. Known as 
Zathbar Wizard-Bane.